The Tightly-Furled Umbrella

I say! The story behind screamers, and other literary curiosities...

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Mon, 02 Feb 2026 03:00:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar explores some of the stuff we take for granted in literature every day...

"We all know what exclamation marks are for!" smirked Julian.

"I didn't ask you what they're for," retorted Gabby, "I asked if you know where they come from, not what they're for or where they go."

Julian shuffled on his knees to the door of the tree hut, then turned. "You're a girly swot, Gabby. I'm not playing!" And with that he exited the structure, and - forgetting the ladder had been hauled up - fell immediately to his death.

The End.

Okay, not your average Enid Blyton snippet, but, y'know, lol! It's just to grab your attention.

Because, while I was reading a novel the other day (Mick Herron's latest Slow Horses book, Clown Town, since you ask), I suddenly wondered where exclamation marks came from.

No reflection on Mr. Herron's writing - I am easily distracted - but when he relates that one of his characters says something 'in italics' - that got me pondering the origins of italics too. There is a link between exclamation marks and italics, and it's called Italy. The clue, obviously, is in the word italics itself. Jackson Lamb and his clowns had to wait while I investigated.

So let's start with - yes let's! - exclamation marks, because I have done the legwork for you.

"Guarda! Posso mettere più parole sulla pagina!"

Turns out we must travel back to the 13th or 14th centuries (the jury is still out), where, stepping from the Tardis, we discover that monks, toiling away on their tomes, would use a particular way of spelling 'joy' ('io') in Latin, which was to put the 'i' directly above the 'o'.

Over time, the 'o' became more of a dot, and the word eventually ceased to be a word and became the exclamation mark we all know today. Does that bring you joy?

If it does, you'll also be delighted to know that io is pronounced 'ee-oh', or even 'yo'. So when someone in your 'hood calls out, 'Yo!' you know they are really shouting joy to you. Either that or they're about to mug you.

But here I am being flippant again. Straight face, let's continue.

The man himself

For evidence, while we're in bygone Italy, we can meet Coluccio Salutati, where in one of his manuscripts we find the very first example of io written as an i above an o.

However, he wasn't the one to popularise it; fast forward just a few decades - still in Italy - and we find printers such as Venetian Aldus Manutius standardizing the i above the dot to express and emphasise strong emotion. The rest really is history.

(As an aside, printers later called the exclamation mark the 'bang,' 'screamer,' and even the 'shriek'!)

Italics

As mentioned, the word italics provides a glaringly obvious clue to its origin, and once again it's printer Aldus Manutius who is the prime suspect. And we don't even have to get back in the Tardis.

Just a year or so after he discovered and popularised the joy of the exclamation mark, he got his assistant to craft a more cursive script for an edition of the Epistole of St. Catherine of Siena

Italics in action

. There followed rapid adoption of the slanting italic script by Manutius, but not, I must emphasise, for emphasis.

No; instead, the smaller slanting cursive script was used because it took up less space than more traditional typeface, enabling the publishing of more compact pocket books, in, for example, octavo format.

Not that cursive script was new - scholars and other scribes in the 14th century had often written in italics, but it was Manutius who began using it in print, and he in fact modestly named the type 'Aldino.'

We don't call it Aldino today, because, very soon after Manutius claimed ownership (which, by the way, received papal approval three times, bless), competitors outside Venice also adopted it (some say counterfeited it), but called the script 'italics' as a way of giving Italy as a country ownership, rather than just one man. (I'm surprised they didn't call exclamation marks 'exclamitali' ©Mike Bodnar).

Just my type

Italics have a special place in my heart because when I was about ten or eleven years old, I was given a brand new typewriter, an Olympia 33 portable. I didn't think twice that it actually had italic type hammers, and that everything I typed was strongly emphasised. Writing a letter, I'd begin with, 'Dear Shaun,' except it would of course come out as an imperative Dear Shaun, and finish with an emphatic 'Your friend, Mike.'

My school assignments likewise were presented in urgent typeface, though not, it has to be said, always in a timely manner.

But I learned to type on that machine, and it was my trusty workhorse for at least the next ten years.

Ellipses...

And so, at least in this article, to the final item of punctuative interest: dot, dot, dot - the ellipsis. Ellipses have, of recent times, become somewhat controversial. But first, some more time travelling. Follow me.

Terence, Andria, translated by Maurice Kyffin:
London, 1588
(The British Library Board, C.13.a.6 sig. Iiiiir)

The use of dots to show a pause or a tailing off in speech can be seen in an early Roman play, Andria, in a 1588 English translation of previous Greek versions. Here, it seems, the translator has taken the liberty to introduce a pause or tailing off in speech using a series of dots. In this case (see pic) there are four, and they are more dashes than dots, but their purpose is the same: they demonstrate a deliberate absence of words.

Literary academic Dr. Anne Toner, in a paper on the origins and use of ellipses, has this to say...

But an absence of words usually signals a heightening of emotion or action ... The ellipsis acts therefore as a form of stage direction. As such, it has proved to be a powerful and extremely useful dramatic resource. In speaking aloud, pausing is, after all, a vital aspect of the delivery of meaning: a slight hesitation speaks volumes. As Toner says: “...not saying something often says it better."

Which makes me want to leave the rest of this article blank, just so you can marvel at the creativity that isn't actually here...

'Jack sweeps Rose up in his arms
and takes her into the bedroom...'

But you don't get rid of me that easily. I agree with Dr. Toner that something unsaid can also be something revealed. I feel, for example, that ellipses are the equivalent of the slow mix between scenes in a movie, something that suggests time passing, or a 'meanwhile moment.'

Also in movie terms, ellipses are like the fade-to-black at the end of a scene, where no more needs to be said. For example, 'Jack sweeps Rose up in his arms and takes her into the bedroom...'

You could adopt this in a practical sense at home. For example, tomorrow evening, when it's approaching bedtime, try saying to your partner, 'D'you fancy a bit of dot dot dot?' and see what happens. Don't blame me if you get a black eye.

'Boomer ellipses'

So, to the controversy. Ellipses, when employed in a messaging or texting context, have taken on a tone of aggression in today's internet-based communication. Apparently. But - it must be stressed - this interpretation is entirely the domain of... young people. (See what I did there?)

Ooh, sarcasm!

People my age - and let's not say anything about that other than I was a teenager when Apollo 11 landed on the moon - and 'boomers' in general, have been accused by Gen Z and millennials of not understanding ellipses, or at the very least, misusing them.

Seriously; they even call them 'Boomer ellipses,' because, duh, they're so old fashioned? (The question mark is so that in your head this sounds like a young person speaking.)

A Gen Z or millennial today will typically use ellipses in their phone messages to indicate sarcasm, displeasure, hesitation or annoyance, whereas we boomers continue to employ and interpret ellipses as they have been understood for over 500 years. In short, we have a generational divide; we employ ellipses as they were originally intended - to show a continuation, a pause, or a passage of time, while Gen Z and millennials have reinterpreted them as the bad guys - the Three Dots of the Apocalypse.

It's just one indication of how language usage is evolving at an increasingly rapid pace. But at least, for now anyway, bangers, screamers, shrieks and exclamitali (© Mike Bodnar) are safe.

But, one wonders, for how long...

(Cue dramatic music. Fade to black.)

Epilogue

Julian didn't really die after falling from the tree. No characters were harmed in the writing of this article, although some Gen Z and millennial egos may have suffered mild bruising.

Double-Oh Really??

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Tue, 06 Jan 2026 22:48:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar breaks cover to reveal that he's been of interest to the Hungarian intelligence service, and that spying is in the family...

Secret meetings must have taken place
during Hungary's communist era...

Surreptitiously checking our surroundings, I mutter: "The roses attract handbags early this year." To which you respond, "Fish swim backwards when the moon is full."

And with the security protocol satisfied, we can continue our conversation, comrade. It's good to know who's on your side.

However - and before you swivel the lamp in my face - I have to declare I am not a spy, and never have been. Okay, stick needles under my fingernails if you must, but my story will stay the same.

I do love spy books and movies though, so when, in 1964 I found myself in the lounge of a posh Hungarian hotel room in Budapest, with my father checking the chandelier for microphones, I was enthralled. Yes, even at the age of double-oh nine-and-three-quarters, I'm fairly certain I had already seen Dr. No, From Russia With Love, and maybe Goldfinger, so I was well-educated in the world of secret agents, foreign powers, and hidden listening devices.

My father tapped the lamp shade and mimed someone listening with headphones pulling them off their ears in annoyance. I thought it was funny.

Listening to Double-oh-nine and three-quarters
and his parents

Spoiler alert: he didn't find any listening devices, but that's not to say there weren't some in the bedside lamps, or the telephone. Because it turns out my father, André, was of interest to the Hungarian intelligence service - then under communist rule - and three years later he would be recruited by them as a spy.

How do I know this top secret information? Because I have been party to some declassified Hungarian state files. Of which, more later. But first, a bit of context...

My father - André Balint Bodnár (Codename Franz. No seriously...) - was born in Hungary in 1922. Despite Hungary being land-locked, he became a seafarer in the merchant navy, rising eventually to captain. His travels by ship took him to many foreign ports, including Liverpool, England. It was here he met, wooed, and married my mother. I was born after an appropriate interval in 1954, but four years later my parents divorced. Wasn't me, your honour.

Who's that man?

So I grew up without a father most of the time, although he did have legal 'access' to me, and when in port he would come and visit, and treat me well, buying me new clothes, taking us into town in a taxi, and once even building me a train set that was so big it had to be hung on hinges from a wall. But for all that, he was a stranger. I remember whispering to my mum one day during an early visit, 'Who's that man?'

Fast forward to 1964, and suddenly (at least it seemed to me) my mother and I were travelling to Hungary, where we were to meet my father for a two-week holiday, which is how we came to be in the Duna Hotel in Budapest looking for microphones.

1964, in Tiszalök, Hungary.
L to R: my half-brother Endré, my Hungarian
grandmother, me, and
spy-in-waiting, André, my father

Over two weeks we travelled around Hungary's hotspots, including to the village of Tiszalök, where André's mother and her husband lived. My half-brother Endré was there as well, at least for our visit. There were no microphones in Tiszalök either, but who knows who the chickens in the garden were reporting to?

Within the 111 pages of declassified file material, recently received by my Budapest-based nephew Csaba (pronounced 'cha-ba'), I am mentioned multiple times, including, erroneously, that at the age of nine I learned to speak Hungarian. If you use the needles on me, I will confess (quite rapidly) to learning how to say good morning, thank you, and cherry lemonade in Hungarian, but that's about it. I could never have passed on information on troop deployment, tank movements or the daily habits of the local Bolshevik command. But I could have quietly informed you where to find the best thermal baths, and wiener schnitzel - hardly intelligence that MI6 would value. Of more interest is that the majority of the 111-page documents focus much on my father.

Image: Public Domain, httpscommons.wiki

While I make light of needles under fingernails, for many Hungarians in the 1960s and throughout its communist rule, the prospect of being interrogated was very real. In Budapest today, there is evidence of that, at 60 Andrássy Avenue, the Terror Haza - The House of Terror Museum.

Director-General of the museum, Dr. Mária Scmidt, explains: "The House of Terror Museum is a building which commemorates two tragic eras in Hungarian history. From 1944 to 1990, our nation was robbed of its independence and freedom - first by Arrow Cross thugs supported by German Nazis, and then by communists backed by the Soviet Union. We have since recovered both our independence and freedom, to become free citizens of an independent Hungary. Because we Hungarians are a people of freedom!"

Crest of the
State Protection Authority

The Terror Museum - which is in the old headquarters of the State Protection Authority - celebrates escaping the oppressive fascist and communist regimes, while also reminding Hungarians and other visitors of the cruelty and fear of those two particular eras. In the basement there is a cellar dedicated to the torture of suspects and prisoners, of which there were so many that those in charge - the political police - had to take over the basements of other nearby buildings, creating a terrifying maze of cells and torture rooms.

About now you're probably keen to attach bits of me to a car battery and interrogate me about how my father became a spy for the communists. Well, put down the electrodes because I will sing like a canary.

Nephew Csaba, who has the declassified files (which are all in Hungarian), tells me that my father was recruited as a spy in 1967. His 'operational area' was the Middle East, and as mentioned, he was codenamed Franz.

A Dilmun tanker being guided by a tug towards
McDermott's Oil Storage on Deiraside of
Dubai Creek. Image: dubaiasitusedtobe.net

I'm not too surprised that he was recruited, because, as a captain, he was commander of a small oil tanker for the Dilmun Navigation shipping company, and was based in Bahrain.

At that time, despite being oil-rich, the area was devoid of the infrastructure necessary for the transport of oil and fuel locally. Rail and road networks were poor or non-existent, so fuel delivery around the Gulf depended on a fleet of 'small ships', owned and operated by Dilmun Navigation. This included the delivery of aviation fuel to a jetty near Dubai Airport, from where it was pumped via underground pipes to the airport itself. The ships became a familiar sight around Dubai Creek and Port Rashid.

A page from The Franz Files

It was on one of these vessels that my father was captain, and with oil wealth expanding in the Middle East, it is hardly surprising that the Hungarian intelligence authority saw him as an easy and convenient local source of information, an agent already-in-place. Our Man in the Middle East.

However, despite this sounding like a good premise for a John Le Carré novel, Franz, it seems, turned out not to be good covert operative material. Csaba tells me, "I think he wasn’t a good spy, because the file was closed one year later."

Which is a bit disappointing to me as Double-Oh-Seventy-One now. He had plenty of other talents - he was a cartoonist and artist, and spoke multiple languages - but spying seemingly wasn't one of them.

The files show he had been monitored as a potential English spy for years, which is possibly why Hungarian counterintelligence recruited him. Maybe they thought it was better to 'keep your enemies closer.'

Csaba says he doesn't see any big surprises in the files, despite their length. "What I see is that he was very naïve," he concludes, and that he had accepted the role "for money and patriotism."

Which sounds about right. He was a charmer, probably fancied himself as James Bond, loved to spend money (when he had it), but later in life I always thought of him as what we call in English 'a wide boy.' Wikipedia has it in a nutshell: Wide boy is a British term for a man who lives by his wits, wheeling and dealing. According to the Oxford English Dictionary it is synonymous with spiv.

"Or... he was really an English spy," adds Csaba at the end of one of his messages, given to me on a microdot hidden in a newspaper and surreptitiously handed to me in a brush-pass one foggy night in London. (Actually by Facebook Messenger, but the London bit sounds better).

One day I hope to see copies of the intelligence files on my father, even if they're in Hungarian. I won't understand a word of them, unless there's a reference to cherry lemonade.

So for now, case file closed.

Fifty-five Million Reasons to Change the Lottery System

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Wed, 12 Nov 2025 23:21:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar wants more people to win lotteries...

As I write this, the New Zealand lottery has 'jackpotted' to NZ$55 million. Even if I don't buy a
ticket for the next draw, there's one thing I will bet on: many, many more people will do just that. Because greed. Or desperation. Or because they've just been pulled back off the road by a stranger who saved them from stepping in front of a bus, and the hero says, 'Think you'd better buy a lottery ticket, mate.'

Whatever, everyone, it seems, wants to be super wealthy. For this we can perhaps blame Bezos, Musk, Thiel and all the other multi-billionaires around the world - along with the wealthy celebs (I'm lookin' at you, Taylor Swift) - who are able to indulge in their every whim regardless of cost. Musk et al don't even have to book first class, because, of course, they have their own jets. They certainly wouldn't ever wonder how they were going to pay the next winter energy bill. Why would you when you could just buy the energy company?

I mean, imagine having an income of US$1 trillion annually (which Musk is in line for after 75% of his shareholders voted in favour of the obscene 'salary.' Seriously.); that's over $83 billion a month, or $19 billion per week, or - imagine it - $2.7 billion per day. Nobody, I repeat, nobody can spend that kind of money on a daily basis. They could give it away of course, but do they? By and large, no.

To scale that down a bit, someone in Aotearoa/New Zealand could, this week, win NZ$55 million, which, even without investing it, would mean a daily income of over $150,000 dollars. Even this relatively miniscule amount (compared to the billionaires and trillionaires) would be almost impossible to spend. It would, however, be easier to give away, but there's no guarantee that a winner will automatically be a philanthropist. Probably just the -pist bit.

However, if the winner took it all (there's a song in that...) and did spend at that rate, they
would have a zero bank balance in about 12 months. So, some investment would be prudent, along with judicious spending and ongoing fund management. I could help with that.

I would, though, argue that nobody in Aotearoa/New Zealand needs $55 million. Nobody. Unless - and it's a big unless - they really are of a philanthropic nature and wish to set up educational trusts for example, say in multi-disciplinary areas for the less advantaged. There's no shortage of need. But - to use an appropriate analogy - what are the odds?

Speaking of need however, there are almost certainly 55 people in the country who could absolutely do with 'just' a million dollars, and many, many more who would be very happy with, say, a quarter of that - to pay off the mortgage maybe, help the kids get on the property ladder, or pay off student loans. Or yes, go on a cruise or buy a new car. I know this because I'm one of them. And because, well, wealth.

You can see where I'm going with this; $55 million is an obscene amount of money for one person to win. Nobody needs that amount, so I propose that the Lotteries Commission caps each jackpot at - ooh, let's think for a moment - $10 million, and, when it reaches that, they guarantee ten winners of $1 million each. The jackpot never gets to be more than $10 million, and each time it does reach that, well, there are ten massive parties in different parts of the country to gate-crash. Just listen for the pop of champagne corks. And form an orderly queue, behind me.

I mean, if this week's draw were to guarantee 55 winners of $1 million each, that would create 55 new millionaires in New Zealand. Look what that might do for local economies. Plus - while there's still the potential for family squabbling over the spoils - $1 million is a far more manageable amount than $55 million. Life-enhancing perhaps, rather than totally life-changing.

I'd also wager that knowing there are going to be 55 guaranteed millionaires after

This time next week...

Saturday's draw (the biggest to date btw), more people would be inclined to buy tickets for it. Which means the odds of you winning decrease. At least, that's how it seems to me, but I'm no statistician.

And yes, I know, creating more millionaire potential opens up a whole new debate about the dangers of encouraging more gambling - the increased mental salivation that goes with a greater chance of winning, but I'm sticking with the proposal of a more equitable distribution of the lottery winnings here. There are already mechanisms in place to monitor and restrict gambling amounts, though the efficacy of them is a debate for different forum.

Anyway, rant over. You know what I'm going to do now, don't you? Of course you do. And of course I am. But if I win the full amount you can look forward to the establishment of the Mike Bodnar Foundation for Students of All Ages Who Want a Degree in Anything They Can't Currently Afford. Or something like that. Sure, I'll certainly be -pist, but I will also be a philanthropist.

Wish me luck.

AI For Real?

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Mon, 27 Oct 2025 01:41:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar contemplates detecting authenticity in a digital world of AI slop...

The foundation of a functional democracy and an informed society rests upon a shared understanding of factual reality. Yet, in the modern digital landscape, this foundation is rapidly eroding, to our detriment.

The rise of sophisticated generative Artificial Intelligence (AI) has introduced an unprecedented challenge: the swift, scalable, and increasingly seamless creation of fabricated news stories, images, and videos. Unlike the crude hoaxes of the past, AI-generated content can now mimic authentic journalism with such precision that distinguishing real news from engineered disinformation has become a profound cognitive and technical hurdle.

The current crisis stems from the democratisation of content-generation tools. Large Language Models (LLMs) can produce text that mirrors the tone, style, and structure of professional journalism, often faster than a human can type (certainly faster than me!). This capability has fuelled the rapid proliferation of "news" websites that are entirely AI-generated, churning out massive volumes of stories, often with politically motivated or financially exploitative agendas. In short, AI slop. And for most of us, slop conjours up pictures of bland food served with total disinterest, or shoddiness in workmanship. Both are appropriate analogies in this case.

The speed and volume are the key differentiators from previous eras of misinformation. A single actor can now deploy thousands of highly convincing fake articles across numerous platforms in minutes. This speed of spread, coupled with the algorithmic amplification inherent in social media platforms, means a falsehood can achieve global saturation long before human fact-checkers can even begin to debunk it.

The difficulty in recognition of such material lies not only in the text's fluency, but also in its capacity to incorporate seemingly legitimate, though often hallucinated, sources and data, creating a façade of authenticity that is deeply persuasive.

The Visual and Auditory Assault: Deepfakes and the Disintegration of Trust

While deceptive text is problematic, the ability of AI to generate hyper-realistic images and videos — known as deepfakes — constitutes an even more fundamental assault on shared reality, effectively destroying the maxim that "seeing is believing."

Deepfakes are synthesized or manipulated media that replace one person’s likeness with another's in existing footage, or which create entirely new, non-existent scenes and events. The old demand, 'pics or it didn't happen' doesn't work any more.

But these fabrications are so convincing, they have already had tangible real-world consequences, profoundly impacting financial markets and political stability.

In one notable 2023 incident, a deepfake image depicting an explosion near the Pentagon in Washington D.C. briefly circulated online, causing a swift dip in the U.S. stock market before the image could be officially debunked as generated by AI.

Another pervasive example involves the use of deepfake audio and video to impersonate figures of authority for financial fraud, such as the case of a finance worker being tricked into approving a multi-million-dollar transaction after participating in a video call with convincing AI clones of his company's Chief Financial Officer and other executives.

In the political arena, deepfakes have shown their power to sow chaos and distrust. During conflicts, deepfake videos have surfaced showing high-profile political figures seemingly issuing false surrender orders or making inflammatory statements, deliberately designed to undermine national morale and military resolve.

Perhaps one of the most viral, non-malicious-but-illustrative, deepfakes was an image of Pope Francis wearing a ridiculously stylish white puffer coat, an image so perfectly rendered and aesthetically humorous that it fooled millions, demonstrating the sheer power of AI to create believable, if slightly absurd, reality. Don't be surprised to see Jesus walking on water sometime soon.

The inherent problem with deepfakes is not just that they exist, but that they can be created and deployed so easily, ensuring that every piece of video evidence must now be treated with an initial - and essential - layer of scepticism.

A History of Human Deception: Roots of the Current Crisis

While the technology is new, the human impulse to fabricate narratives for influence or gain is ancient. Understanding this history is crucial, as it illustrates that the threat is not AI itself, but rather our own tendency to believe what is sensational or what confirms existing biases.

In ancient Rome, Emperor Octavian waged a sophisticated propaganda campaign against his rival, Mark Antony, using pamphlets and slogans etched onto coins to smear Antony’s reputation, portraying him as a corrupted puppet of Cleopatra. This early political misinformation played a critical role in Octavian’s ascent to power.

Scoot forward 1400 years or so and the invention of the Gutenberg printing press dramatically lowered the barrier to mass communication, leading to the rise of printed, sensationalised “canards” (baseless rumours) and politically-motivated pamphlets.

In the realm of visual hoaxes, the infamous “Great Moon Hoax” of 1835 serves as a stark precedent. The New York Sun newspaper published a series of six articles, falsely attributed to the famous astronomer Sir John Herschel, claiming that life — including bat-winged humanoids and unicorns — had been discovered on the Moon.

This sensational (and fabricated) journalism temporarily made the Sun shine as one of the most widely read newspapers in the United States, proving that narrative excitement often trumps factual accuracy.

In art, deception has a long history, too, with countless forged works throughout the centuries, such as the Venus de Brizet, an 18th-century statue buried and then "discovered" by an artist to boost his fame, fooling experts who declared it an ancient Roman artefact.

Perhaps the most famous example of mass media-driven panic was the 1938 radio broadcast of War of the Worlds by Orson Welles. Presented as a series of realistic breaking news bulletins, the dramatisation of an alien invasion caused widespread panic among listeners who missed the disclaimers, demonstrating the explosive potential of content engineered to mimic authentic reporting. These historical events confirm that the vulnerability to deception is a persistent feature of human psychology; AI has simply upgraded the tools of the deceivers.

And don't get me started on clickbait. Oh okay then...

Clickbait

People don't believe how easy it is to fall for clickbait, and everyone is saying the same thing about headlines...

Clickbait is the insidious gateway drug to online content, a psychological tool designed not to inform, but to guarantee engagement. Its primary function is to exploit the "curiosity gap" — the cognitive space between what a reader knows and what they desperately want to know. By using hyper-emotional language, superlatives, and vague, tantalizing promises ("You Won't Believe What Happens Next!"), clickbait triggers an intense, often subconscious, need for resolution.

This technique bypasses critical thinking entirely, substituting logic with raw emotional manipulation. Headlines frequently lean on feelings of outrage, astonishment, or urgency, ensuring an immediate, visceral reaction (which is why tabloids love 'em). For content publishers, clickbait is a highly effective monetisation model; more clicks translate directly into higher ad revenue, regardless of the story's actual quality or factual basis.

The profound consequence is twofold: it devalues legitimate journalism, forcing quality content to compete with sensationalism, and it actively conditions us to associate engagement with emotional arousal, rather than reliable information. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle that prioritises traffic over truth.

A Guide to Information Self-Defence in the Age of AI

So what can we do?

The fight against AI-generated misinformation cannot be won by technology alone; it requires a renewed commitment to critical thinking and verification by every individual. Since AI detection tools are often unreliable and easily bypassed, we must rely on our own analytical skills and a combination of technical checks.

1. Scrutinise the Source and Context

The first and most important step is to question the origin of the information. Ask: Is this story coming from a reputable news organization with a history of fact-checking? Or is it from an unfamiliar blog, an unverified social media account, or a website that mimics a known publication? Reverse-search the article's core claim to see if it is reported by multiple, diverse, and credible sources. If a story is sensational but only appears on one unknown site, treat it with extreme caution.

2. Look for Technical "Tells" in Visual Media

While deepfakes are improving, current AI still struggles with certain details, which can serve as vital clues:

Hands and Fingers: In AI-generated images, look for anomalies in hands — too many or too few fingers, unnatural angles, or objects being gripped incorrectly.

Faces and Symmetry: Unnaturally symmetrical or overly smooth skin texture, or distorted or misaligned ears, glasses, and jewellery can be giveaways.

Text and Backgrounds: Text within AI images is often jumbled, misspelled, or nonsensical. Similarly, backgrounds may exhibit "warping" effects or impossible physics, such as objects blending into one another.

Video Inconsistencies: In deepfake videos, look for unnatural eye-blinking (too little or too much), poor synchronisation between lip movements and audio, and inconsistent shadows or lighting across a scene.

Basically, AI slop can be often recognised by, well, sloppiness.

3. Analyse the Tone and Language

AI-generated text can often be spotted by its lack of genuine human voice, original analysis, or specific, idiosyncratic details. Look for:

Repetitive or Formal Language: A dry, overly matter-of-fact tone, excessive use of buzzwords, or repetitive sentence structures can indicate AI authorship. A dry, overly matter-of-fact tone, excessive use of buzzwords, or repetitive sentence structures can indicate AI authorship.

Lack of Context: If the writing makes sweeping claims but lacks appropriate contextual depth, or if it cites sources that are vaguely referenced or appear fake upon a quick search, it is highly suspect.

4. Employ Verification Tools

TinEye

Use tools like reverse image search (Google Lens, TinEye, etc.) to trace the origin of a questionable image or video. If an image is claimed to be from a recent event but surfaces years earlier on a stock photo site, it is likely being repurposed falsely. While AI detection software is imperfect, reverse image search remains a powerful and foundational journalistic technique for verifying content.

So where does that leave us?

The age of generative AI has created a sophisticated new challenge to information authenticity.

By combining historical awareness of our own gullibility with modern vigilance toward technical imperfections, and by prioritising critical thinking over sensationalism, we can - admittedly with some effort - navigate the treacherous currents of the modern information ecosystem.

The battle for factual reality is not about censorship; it is about media literacy, and cultivating a healthy, informed scepticism towards the content that floods our digital lives.

So, now you know. From here on, whenever you see a tantalizing headline, or an image or video that seems almost too perfect (or in which, sloppily, a person has six fingers!), question it, research it, evaluate it. Maintain your hold on reality!

A final note...

Oh and one last thing, apart from about half a dozen sentences - and a few of my own interjections (as well as me altering American spelling to proper English) - this article was written by Microsoft Copilot. Images were generated by Google Gemini in most cases.

It seemed only appropriate to get AI to tell us how to recognise AI...

Off the Top of my Head

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Sat, 18 Oct 2025 05:08:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar gets philosophical about haircuts…

No, not busy, or doing
anything on the weekend

I am guilty of leaving it too long between haircuts. There, I’ve said it. But, if it pleases the court, I can explain, m’lud…

Two – possibly three – things contribute to my tidy-up tardiness, my hesitation in haircuts, my slowdown of the scissors. The first is that I have little patience for the standard hairdresser questions, such as: Busy day? Any plans for the weekend? Been anywhere nice recently? And so on. The answers to each of these are no, nah, and nope. I should just get them tattooed on my forehead, to save us both time.

Oh how I long to have my tresses treated by a philosopher, or a polymath, anyone with an ounce of something interesting to say or talk about. Unfortunately, high street barbers tend to be Turkish rather than Greek, which is not to say that Türkiye hasn’t produced some good philosophers or orators. I mean, I’d be happy to have my hair done by Heraclitus, or any of the other 43 notable philosophers from Türkiye listed by Google. Exactly, who knew?

None of these learned thinkers apparently had anything wise to say about being busy, about weekends, or holidays, but had I gone for a trim by Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi in the 13^th century, he at least could have opened a discussion on universal love, inner searching, and the longing for union with the divine. Alas my locks are not long enough for a haircut or conversation of that length, if you see what I mean. And anyway, I’ve missed an appointment with him by about 800 years.

"The unexamined life is not
worth living"
said no barber, ever

No, what I need is a present-day socratic barber, one who, like Rumi, could ask searching and meaningful questions while snipping away. ‘So, sir, what are your thoughts on religious and atheistic existentialism?’ ‘Planning on writing a treatise on death, freedom, isolation, and the search for meaning over the weekend, are we sir?’ or, ‘I’ve often wondered, as I’m sure you have sir, about the conflict between humanity's tendency to seek inherent value and meaning in life, and the human inability to find any in a purposeless, chaotic universe. Have you reached any conclusions yourself about that lately sir?’

If only. But no. Back in 2013, a week away from my wife and I moving overseas for an extended period, I had my follicles fussed over by a woman (my coiffure at the time), and in between snips she asked (predictably), ‘Got anything planned for the weekend?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I’m moving to France to live on a boat.’ She then, without a moment’s pause, proceeded to tell me about a holiday she’d just had in Sydney. Cracker. Bewdy.

The second thing that has me procrastinating over going to the barbers is the spooky, as-yet-unexplainable but absolutely certain link between me having a haircut, and unpleasant meteorological events.

I am to blame...

In short, whenever I get a haircut, the local weather turns cold and windy. Take for example, my visit to Mohammed F yesterday. He’s not Turkish but Fijian Indian, however his conversational repertoire is still confined to the calendar. But I digress; It was quite a nice day – the sun shone, temperature not too shabby, a slight breeze – but what’s this? Gales and showers and sometimes heavy rain for the next three days, followed by another three days of unsettled weather. As I write this, trees are leaning sideways, trampolines are taking flight, and people struggle along leaning at 45 degrees downtown (although some of them might just be drunk).

I am to blame. I know this, because it happens far too often to be coincidence. I have a mind to call the Meteorological Service of New Zealand about a week before each haircut, just so they can re-evaluate their seven-day forecast in light of what’s coming. I probably should announce my hair appointments on social media too, especially with summer just around the corner here in Aotearoa, to enable people to make informed decisions about whether to go ahead with that planned barbecue or not. (Not, I’d suggest).

Personally, I know for sure that whatever I’m wearing when I go for a haircut I will need a beanie and a scarf for afterwards. It’s a given. Socrates would probably have some thoughts on it.

Nothing to see here...

And lastly, the final thing that procrastinates my pompadour, is the sheer lack of raw material that I bring to the salon.

You’ll know what I’m talking about. You only have to look at the photographs on the barber-shop walls, of men with immaculate hair, thick and luscious, gleaming, and often of course linked to a full hipster beard. Hirsuteness personified. Oh, and of course they’re good-looking too, naturally.

Even more challenging for one such as me – where wispy overtook wavy many years ago – is seeing such an ape in the barber’s chair while I wait, and watching the barber asking detailed questions about the style, the trim, the fade, whether the customer would prefer to shape the sideburns, or have the number of his favourite football player razored onto his scalp. Makes me sick.

About the only advantage for me is that my haircuts take approximately five minutes. I have even been known to apologise to the hairdresser for the lack of raw material to work with – my attempt at humour, but of course it doesn’t draw a smile, only a grimace. A grimace of agreement.

Anyway, as I say, I had mine cut yesterday. So that’s me done for another six weeks at least. Maybe even two months, which will take us into December, and hopefully the start of a lovely warm summer here in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Just don’t plan any barbecues.

Your Bike in the Frame

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Sun, 14 Sep 2025 03:47:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar provides some hints and tips for taking better pics of your motorcycle…

Pretty much perfection (Image: Facebook Marketplace)

I have to declare up front that I am not a professional photographer. A keen amateur, yes, and I’ve been taking pictures for over sixty years, a few of them even award-winning, but professional? No.

So, what I’m sharing with you today is purely based on my experience; it is not the Definitive Guide to Taking Perfect Motorcycle Images. That said, I hope you get something from it.

I also need to be upfront and apologise to anyone whose motorcycle photo I've copied from Facebook Marketplace, Trade Me, or other sales sites. I use them here only to illustrate, not to offend.

An article like this could run into tens of pages, if not hundreds - it could easily be book-length - so I’m going to keep it simple by splitting the subject into just four key segments: Composition, Background, Lighting - and, for the enthusiasts - a little bit about Editing.

Composition

This is quite simply about how you want your bike to look. Motorcycles, by their shape, beg to be shot in landscape rather than portrait mode. So, if you’re using your phone and want to take an image of your bike side-on, hold the phone sideways, not straight up and down. Unless – and there is an exception – you want to capture your bike in a three-quarter profile shot.

Image from Trade Me. Too much grass
in the foreground, too much foliage behind,
and the succulent plant looks like it's growing
out of the bike...

Try and get all of the motorcycle in the frame. Take note that on many bikes it’s the mirrors that are the highest point of the bike, so try and keep them in shot. Likewise, cutting off the wheels at the bottom will result in a flat-tyre look, so avoid this also.

Consider how much of the frame the bike takes up. If you’re standing too far back you will almost certainly have space in the foreground, off to each side, and above, so take some time to position the bike without including any wasted space. I have seen so many images of motorcycles where a third, sometimes half of the image is taken up with road surface in the foreground. If that happens, you can always crop it out (see Editing later).

The exception to this is where you want a photo of your bike in a particular landscape, showing, for example, that you’ve been to the coast, or a mountain-top, or somewhere with an alpine view. In that case you’re showing the context of the ride, rather than just the bike, and that’s fine. Add it to your travel blog and watch the likes roll in.

No distractions...

If you’re going to shoot it portrait because you want to capture, say, more of the front of the bike, position yourself in front of it, but still slightly off to one side, so that we can see some detail down the side of the machine. See sample pic (left).

And finally from a composition point of view - and if your knees will take it - get down to the bike’s level rather than taking the photo from your usual eye-level. Looking down on your machine from head-height will make it look smaller, so if you can get down on one knee, or even pull up a chair if it’s available, go for it. If you’re really athletic and want a unique view, lie on the ground and take the photo looking up!

(PS: On the other hand, you might want to drag the stepladder out from the garage and stand on that for a higher angle shot. Don't be afraid to experiment!)

Background

Background is too busy. Image from Trade Me

Motorcycles can be visually complex, especially where they don’t have fairings, and most of our bike don’t these days. So it's advisable to avoid ‘busy’ backgrounds, such as picket fences, vegetation, a cluttered garage, or anything that compromises the look of the bike.

If you were engaging a professional photographer with a studio, they would likely pose your machine against an infinity backdrop – basically a sheet of material or even paper – that covers the floor and curves up behind the bike, giving a pure and uninterrupted background with no lines or distractions. The bike is the star of the show, and nothing else matters. The infinity background ensures your eye won't be carried off somewhere else.

Studio shoot: out of reach for most of us.
Image: Neve Studios

Most of us can’t afford a professional studio, so we need to find backgrounds that are at least plain.

You could always simply hang up a bed sheet behind the bike - perhaps on the good old Kiwi washing line, or pinned to the carport roof beam.

A rendered concrete wall is another option, as long as it’s painted in a neutral colour. If your bike is blue and the wall is orange, it’s probably not going to work.

Cheaper option: find a neutral background.
(Image: Trade Me)

You can - if you want to be more of a pro photographer and if space allows - position your bike a long way from a busy background so that when you take the photo the bike is in focus and the background slightly blurred. If you’re using a proper camera rather than a phone, and you have a zoom lens, try positioning the bike away from the background, and then position yourself further away from the bike. Zoom in and take the shot. That way you stand a good chance of the background being even more out of focus, and even if it’s a slightly busy one it won’t matter as much. Pro photographers call this sort of out-of-focus background 'bokeh.'

And lastly, your concrete driveway might be exactly the background you're looking for - but you'll need to get the stepladder out and shoot from a high angle.

Lighting

It may come as a surprise – when, as fair-weather motorcyclists, we usually choose sunny days to go for a ride – that cloudy, ‘flat-light’ days make for better motorcycle images. This is because there are no harsh shadows, no areas of contrasting bright and dark, and the details of the bike can be seen more clearly.

Harsh light, along with bike too tight in the frame.
Michael could try harder.

So while you might be tempted to take the ultimate image of your pride and joy when the sun’s shining, think twice.

A pro photographer would, in such circumstances, perhaps shoot the shaded side of the bike, but use a light reflector – a circular sheet of white (and on the reverse side, foil) material which can ‘bounce’ sunlight onto the bike to help even-out the lighting. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have one – you can use anything large and white, like a sheet, or a big piece of white card. As long as it bounces the sunlight it should work.

Multiple things wrong here
(apologies to owner!):bottom half of picture
irrelevant (and photographer's shadow
in shot),bike too small in the frame
with cluttered background, and wasted
space showing the driveway and paddock...

And speaking of sunshine, watch for your own shadow in shot! I have seen so many photos taken by owners of their bikes on a gorgeous sunny day, only for their own shadow to drape across the bike like a dark wraith. This is another good reason for getting down on one knee for the shot.

Alternatively, if you can find somewhere shaded, use that, but not – and I can’t emphasise this enough – not where the shade is comprised of multiple tree branches, or a fence of railings. What you need is smooth, even shade, the sort you’d get under a carport with a semi-opaque roof.

The time of day you choose is important also, especially if the sun is actually shining and you want to use it. There’s a time that photographers call ‘the golden hour,’ which is not long after dawn, and, at the other end of the day, just before sunset. At both times the sun is low in the sky, and your bike’s paintwork will glow accordingly. Especially towards sunset, you might need to move the bike around a bit until you get the sunset reflected in the paintwork. It can be physically strenuous, but worth it.

Golden hour

If the sun has just set, but there’s still light in the sky, consider illuminating your bike a bit using a torch, and maybe turning on your bike’s headlamp to add some extra interest. If you want to get really professional, use some lighting behind the bike, or even under it, to help augment the scene. There are plenty of usb-chargeable lights available online for this sort of thing, and they’re not expensive. Experimenting with lighting is both fun and rewarding - try it!

Editing

Finally, what can we do to enhance our images after we’ve shot them? Or make some of our older shots - perhaps of bikes we no longer own - better? The answer is: plenty, but let’s start with the simplest: cropping.

Cropping is just re-framing the image to exclude superfluous space around the bike. Most phone cameras come equipped with cropping capability, so if you have inadvertently included way too much foreground, simply crop it out and save the new image.

This is the photo from earlier in the article, cropped and with
the background blurred. It literally took about 10 minutes,
and now all our attention is focused on the bike.

You really don’t have to spend any money on fancy editing software like Lightroom or Photoshop – there are many free apps you can download that are easy to use. If you use Google Photos to store your images, for example, simply opening any of the pics will present you with multiple editing options, from changing the brightness, contrast and shadows, to increasing the warmth, making the image ‘pop,’ or adding a vignette round the edges. And of course, you can crop away to your heart’s content.

Of the options in Google Photos for example, I mostly use the cropping, brightness, saturation, warmth, and – frequently – vignette tools. The vignette in particular adds a faint black halo around the edge of the image, which helps emphasise the importance of what is in the centre of the frame – in this case, your motorcycle.

I urge you to play with these tools and see what they can do for your images. You can always undo something if you don’t like it.

As I mentioned at the start, a subject like this could easily run to the length of a book, but even if you consider just the basics of composition, background, and lighting, you can easily turn your snapshots into artworks. And don't forget, with digital photography, take as many images as you like till you get it right - it doesn't cost anything!

POSTSCRIPT UPDATE!

Since I wrote this article, Google's Gemini AI generator has suddenly risen to great prominence, and has been promoting how much it can help turn photos into masterpieces in a matter of seconds.

Believe me, it can, and it can make a very ordinary image of your motorcycle into a work of art. Try it and see for yourself.

What will help achieve something remarkable is to make your prompt - that is, what you tell the AI to do to your image - as clear as possible.

Before, and...

For example, here's a before and after example of my bike. I asked Gemini to make the background look like a stormy sky, with clouds lit from behind by lightning. I asked it to also put some pools of water around the bike, with wisps of steam rising here and there. It took less than a minute, and I love the outcome.

At the moment Google Gemini Flash 2.5 is free, and maybe it will stay that way, I don't know. But the point is it costs nothing to play with it, and you can tell it to refine your images as many times as you like until you're happy. Let me know in the comments how you get on.

If you want to see some of my images – none of them of motorbikes or AI-generated! – visit my Flickr portfolio here: Mike Bodnar | Flickr

Flight of (not-so) Fancy

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Tue, 02 Sep 2025 03:37:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar rues his inability to travel in style, but discovers other hidden benefits to long-haul flying...

I recently returned from a month on the other side of the world.

Well of course you didn't know; I didn't want to make a fuss. Or face abuse for adding to the world's climate woes. Because I didn't go by bicycle, or kayak, and I didn't walk. Train? Tchah! None of those are options when you live in Aotearoa/New Zealand and need to get to the UK, formerly known as Great Britain.

I flew. Obviously not personally - I don't wear tights and a cape - but circumstances dictated that I get there quickly, get some things done, and get back again.

But let me get one thing straight from the start: I don't like flying. Not because I'm terrified of the aircraft falling out of the sky (I am), or because the carbon footprint of a long-haul flight is damaging to the increasingly-fragile global ecosystem (I know it is, but I refuse to paddle 24,000 miles); No, it's because I can't afford to travel Business Class.

No, seriously, I can't. Not even so-called Premium Economy (which is like like travelling economy but with a marginally less surly attitude from the flight attendants).

Heading for third class check-in

In the end, this is what we pay for when flying internationally: acknowledgement of our social status, with treatment befitting. The more we pay, the nicer we are treated; the less we fork out, the more bottom-feeders we are. The clue is in the tiers: First Class, Business Class, Premium Economy, and - sad wah-wah trumpet FX here - Economy. It's simply, and literally, a class system. Yes, it all ends in tiers. Thank you, I'm here all week.

So, why did I have to go? In a nutshell, we have a property in Surrey that we couldn't sell two years ago due to an incredibly brief and inept tenure by a now-forgotten Tory prime minister called Liz Truss, who within her less-than 50-days in power, managed to crash the British economy. Mortgages suddenly became almost non-existent, lending criteria were tightened, and the property market tanked, taking our chances of selling with it. Instead we had to rent the property out.

Okay, this might seem like a First World Problem, but the truth is, having moved back to New Zealand, we can't afford to buy a property here until our house in England sells. So not only were we paying a mortgage over there, we were forking out for rent here in NZ as well. Something had to be done.

Our property was let without too much trouble, but now the UK tenancy was coming to an end, and it was patently obvious from photos and reports that the tenants had neglected the place for the full twenty months they'd been there. It was not in saleable condition. I needed to go over and fix it up.

Peace of mind

Yes, I can hear you! You're wondering why didn't we just engage tradespeople in England to do the required painting and decorating, the gardening, the general tidying and fixing of things. Because, after some research, it was obviously going to be cheaper for me to go and do it than to pay for workers over there. There's also that intangible: peace of mind - the comfort in knowing a job's been done and done well.

So I got online looking for the cheapest possible flights. If you've ever done this, you'll know how disheartening it can be. Firstly, the nearer you are to when you want to travel, the more expensive the flights are. This is called dynamic pricing (or surge pricing, or demand-based pricing), and is based on a combination of demand and/or desperation. It is basically blackmail. 'Oh, you want to travel next week sir? That'll be twice or three times as much as if you'd booked two months ago. Thank you. Ka-ching!'

Luckily, I did book about two months in advance. Another important thing to consider is how flexible you can be with your travel dates. The more set-in-concrete your plans are, the more it's likely to cost. Some flight search sites show you useful calendars indicating when the cheapest flight options are (I used Webjet, but please note I am not endorsing them as the only or even preferred one).

Then comes the airline you choose. As soon as you go for one of the majors - Air New Zealand, Cathay Pacific, Singapore, Emirates, and so forth (this of course depends where you're flying from/to) - you're paying a premium. I was looking for cheapest, not best or award-winning.

I make no apologies...

And, crucially, I also wanted to avoid travelling via the United States. This was because I have posted anti-Trump memes on social media, and I didn't want to be held by ICE, or turned away during a transit stopover just because I might have offended The Orange One. My options were becoming increasingly limited, especially since I didn't want to spend 56 hours getting to the UK. Oh yes, you can find cheap flights, as long as you're prepared to camp out at three or more airports during lengthy stopovers en route.

But all was not lost. I found what I believed to be a reasonably-priced option with a Chinese airline I'd never heard of: Hainan. For the equivalent of £980 return (approx. NZ$2180) - third class of course - I could fly over, be there for a month, and fly back.

I was tempted, but first I needed to research what other travellers thought of Hainan Airlines. One man said the service was appalling, and he was allowed just one beer on a 10-hour flight, because, as he was told, 'otherwise you might be drunk.' Others said the food was terrible, and that everything came with rice. This didn't put me off particularly; it was a Chinese airline after all, but one alcoholic drink in 10 hours was something of a worry. But others said it was fine, and nearly everyone rated it five stars for cleanliness. There's nothing quite like knowing your plane is spotless as it plunges to earth.

No, not real; just my imagination on fire...

Despite having never heard of the airline, and fearing their planes would be refurbished Tiger Moths, I booked. I also updated my last will and testament, and sent a Photoshopped image of a Chinese plane on fire to friends and family, just to manage their expectations (see pic).

As it happened, I needn't have worried. Everything went according to plan, even smoothly, although the hours spent in transit in China - along with having to fill in visa forms and be processed by immigration (yes, even for transit), was a pain. Because one of the big downsides of some cheap air travel is stopovers and layovers.

China immigration. Image: Global Times

Hainan Airlines fly from New Zealand to London Heathrow with two stops en route; the first is at their hub on the island of Haikou (for a few hours), followed by an internal flight to Changsha in mainland China (another few hours' stop). At Haikou we all had to collect our baggage and check it in again before continuing - another pain. But this is the price you pay for booking cheap tickets - you have to put up with some inconvenience.

But there was an upside: it turned out there were about forty or fifty of us who were either New Zealanders or Brits, travelling the whole way to London, so naturally we gravitated together at the check-in queues. Two or three of this cohort had done the trip before, so their knowledge and experience was much appreciated, as the airline itself told us very little about what was going on. And even when I was given information, it turned out to be wrong.

The flight from Haikou to Changsha was internal, so it was, technically, a domestic flight, even though it was part of the international journey I'd booked. So, after checking in I was told to go round the corner to the domestic departure gate and security screening area, which I did, only to be turned away and told to go to international departures because I was travelling to London. Off upstairs I trundled, to international departures, only to be turned away again and be told to go back downstairs to domestic. It was turning into a game of Chinese Checkins, only I was losing.

Haikou Meilan International, Terminal 2 Departures. It was a seething mass of humanity when I was there

I found an airport official, a young lady who listened politely and carefully to my dilemma, checked my boarding pass, then engaged Google translate on her phone to tell me to go to international departures. I still had at least three hours before departure so I wasn't losing my cool yet. I equally politely told her phone my story again, and she said I was to follow her. I followed, relieved at last that I was in official hands.

But no. After being given more incorrect information at two other counters, we finally ended up at the first class check-in, and my hopes soared as I thought maybe that she was going to arrange an upgrade by way of compensation for all the messing about. Alas no. It was just that the first class check-in guy wasn't doing anything, and seemed like a prime target. He told us to go to where I was first sent: Domestic Departures. This time though I had my Chinese escort, and she smoothed my passage through the gate with no problems at all.

I had learned three ways of saying 'thank you' in Chinese, one basic, one more polite, and one that is used only in circumstances of extreme gratitude. This was the one I used now, giving an awkward bow at the same time. 'Fēicháng gǎnxiè nín,' I said, haltingly. I don't know which of us blushed more, but she smiled, hopefully understanding what I'd said. On the other hand, I might have just intimated that I'd like to go home and meet her sister, so I figured I should beat a retreat through security as quickly as possible.

The train to London; my only first class experience

Fast forward, and a month later, having successfully achieved all I wanted to do in England, I headed back to Heathrow, firstly taking a train from Liverpool to London Euston. This turned out to be the highlight of my trip, partly because I treated myself to a first class ticket, and secondly - because the journey was delayed by an hour and twenty minutes - I received a full refund on the fare. Score! So that was the journey, plus lunch with wine(s), for free. Not complaining, and I still made it to Heathrow with two hours to spare.

So then I was back on Hainan Airlines doing the reverse journey. Once again there was a cohort of about forty English and Kiwis, and once again some of them (I can say 'us' now that I'd done the journey one way at least), were able to provide valuable knowledge of what to expect. But a bonus for me was making the acquaintance of a thirty-something hipster from England called Jack. We shared a row of seats from London to China, then were split up for the remaining flights, but at Changsha and Haikou we also shared the endurance of waiting in airports in the early hours of the morning, with nothing open and the temperature at 31 degrees Celsius. We'd have killed for a cold lager.

Jack was headed to New Zealand for a campervan holiday (in winter, I know!), so I did what I could to help him plan his journey, and to manage his expectations. And no, at no stage did I shout 'Hi Jack!' during the flight.

With Jack at 2.30 in the morning, at Haikou,
looking far happier than we should be

I enjoyed his company though, and I'm always pleased to help anyone who's visiting Aotearoa/New Zealand.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. I'm not going to review the airline particularly, they're all much of a muchness unless you're flying business or first class. Ultimately, in third class it really is just a test of endurance, especially on long-haul flights of eleven hours or more. They should include it in Iron Man challenges: running, cycling, and sitting on a plane for 12 hours.

Travelling via China was a bit of a mission, but at least I didn't get arrested by US Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers for having anti-Trump memes on my phone. It was worth the journey to avoid that. Oh, and they did give me more than one beer, so 'Fēicháng gǎnxiè nín' Hainan Airlines!

Let's Twist Again...

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 29 Aug 2025 01:37:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar chooses a lesser-travelled road for a solo ride on his Royal Enfield motorcycle...

A 'buttock-clencher' approaches...

There might have been a slight frost overnight, but now, where the sun has touched it, much of the narrow winding road is dry. Except for some of the dark corners, overgrown on both sides with pines, tree ferns, or other natives, where sunbeams have yet to penetrate. Here the surface is damp, and I throttle down, changing from third gear to second, with an ever-so-slight touch on the rear brake pedal. There are some corners I take a little too fast - buttock-clenchers I call them. This is not a road for cavalier riding, so I slow down even more. There's no rush.

I'm on the Akatarawa Road in the lower North Island of New Zealand. My bike is a 2019 Royal Enfield Classic 500cc, the lineage of which can be traced back to 1901, in Redditch, England, but whose modern pedigree is based in India. It's a story as long and twisty as the road I'm on, but if we take a shortcut we can just say that after Royal Enfield Motorcycles ceased operations in England in 1970, production continued in Madras (now Chennai), India, as India had been assembling Royal Enfield motorcycles there since 1962.

It's a great success story, and today Indian-made Royal Enfields are exported around the globe, and have gathered an almost-cult status due to many of the models looking pretty much as they did in the 1960s. It's often confusing for onlookers who see the bikes outside cafés or in car parks; one of the most common questions is, 'How long did it take to restore?', or comments such as, 'Beautiful bike, looks almost like new.'

The bike: 2019 with a 1960s look - always draws attention

So here I am, worming my way along the Akatarawa Road, on my Classic 500cc single-thumper, which at first glance does indeed look like it's 60 years old. But apart from me there's nobody to look at it, as on this sunny Tuesday morning I have the road pretty much to myself. At the western end of the road, where I joined it, there's a cautionary sign advising that the route is unsuitable for long vehicles, to turn around now, and if you are continuing, not to trust GPS instructions. Consequently I see only three vehicles in the whole 25 kilometres (15.5 miles), but of course you never know what's round the next buttock-clencher, so I'm riding carefully. In my favour, the road is sealed and in overall good condition.

The road borders the Akatarawa Forest, and is lined for much of the route with lush vegetation, which, in places, overhangs the road. Appropriately, Akatarawa means 'trailing vines.' The proximity to the forest is no accident, as the road itself originally provided access for logging. In early days there were bush mills, and even a few industrial tramways to service them, though there's little or no evidence of these now.

An Akatarawa tramway in 1903

In the 1870s the route was briefly considered for a railway line, which would have linked the Hutt Valley in the east with the coastal settlements to the west, however a different route was settled on and nothing ever came of the rail venture. There is, however, as I ride through the twists and turns, a chugging noise - the sound my single-cylinder bike makes as I occasionally accelerate on those bits of road where I can see a reasonable distance ahead. The thump of a big single is one of the aspects of these bikes that endear them to their riders. It's a sound that provides more smiles per gallon.

I glance frequently at my speedo, though not to check my speed; I have another reason for taking note of my progress, and we'll come to that a little further into the ride. But speaking of numbers, the Akatarawa district itself is sparsely populated - there are only 2.1 people per square kilometre, so my chances of finding someone on the road round a corner are slim. I do wonder what 0.1 of a person might look like though.

The roadside bush hides farms and dwellings very effectively. There's the occasional giveaway fence, or a driveway tucked away in the trees, but you could be forgiven thinking that nobody lives here. And yet they must, because, well, the road: there has to be a reason for the road. I ponder what it must be like to live out here in the middle of nowhere, getting home from your fortnightly trip to the supermarket only to realise that you forgot to buy milk. I suspect those who do live here 'in the sticks' are resilient, and somewhat self-contained. Unfairly, the duelling banjos theme to Deliverance enters my head as I turn yet another leafy corner.

Not a place to forget the milk

Slowly the road begins to become a bit wider, the curves less tight, and I'm able to use third
and fourth gear more; the Akatarawa River becomes visible to my right, and I know I'm coming to the end of the valley road. Suddenly I'm in a suburb called Brown Owl, and it's time to join State Highway 2. I turn left, glance again at my speedo, do a quick mental calculation, and realise that I have to abandon my plan to head over the Remutaka Hill to Wairarapa. Instead, with a rumble in my tummy to rival the thumping from the bike, I'm reminded it's time for lunch.

I don't particularly like riding on state highways. My Enfield's top speed is not much more than 120kph (about 75 mph), and while that's not bad, it's not really what the Classic 500 is built for. However, most of New Zealand's open road speed limit is 100kph (62mph), and I don't have any trouble maintaining that - it's just that it's nowhere near as pleasurable as burbling and weaving along country roads at a more sedate pace. But I know of a place for lunch just up ahead, so that's where I'm headed.

Aston-Norwood formal gardens, my lunchtime view

Aston-Norwood is mainly a function and wedding venue, but with a pleasant café, and I find a seat in the sun overlooking the well-tended garden. Here I do some more calculations, check Google Maps, and decide on my next destination, which, of necessity, cannot be more than 15 kilometres away. Not because I'm running out of fuel, or time - I am on a mission. Which is, to be riding in an area where it's easy and convenient for me to pull over when my odometer ticks over to read 123456. Yes, a once-in-a-lifetime event is about to happen, and I want to take a photo to document the occasion. Which is why I've abandoned my planned journey over the Remutaka Hill - it would be too dangerous - if not impossible - to pull over on the side of that hilly, twisty road to take a picture.

A simple thing, but nice

So after a filling lunch of loaded fries and a drink, I find myself retracing my journey by nine kilometres, turning left at Te Marua, and heading out through a rural area called Maymorn.

Here the roads are flat, largely straight, and clear - perfect for what I want to do. My head nods up and down as I ride, which is me frequently checking my odometer reading, and looking ahead to gauge where the Big Event will happen. Silly, I know, but sometimes it's the simplest things in life that give the most pleasure. And then I have no more than two-tenths of a kilometre to go and I'm approaching a corner with no idea what's round it, so I decide to turn around and slowly go back so that I'll be on a straight stretch for the final click-over. And then it happens, conveniently at a quiet driveway to a rural building complex. I whip out my phone, select the camera app, and shoot at least six pictures of my lovely odometer, smiling the whole time.

As I'm in the rural area north of Upper Hutt I choose to take a country detour to get back to State Highway 2, and prolong my merging with the busy road. Instead I ride mainly flat and clear rural roads, through Whiteman's Valley, and along the more twisty Blue Mountains road, which eventually winds its way smoothly down, twisting and turning, to join the main highway.

And so I head home, the late afternoon sun on my right, the harbour of Whanganui-a-Tara to my left, its blue waters barely ruffling in the light breeze. I'm finally riding top-gear territory, and feel it's almost the equivalent of giving a horse free rein after having it compete in a tight and demanding gymkhana.

We are very lucky in Aotearoa/New Zealand that motorcycling can be a year-round activity, unlike, say, the UK where many (most?) motorbikes get tucked up by their owners from November through to April while winter does its worst, and the road crews spread salt and grit on the icy roads. The temperature for today's ride has been about 14 degrees Celsius, with ups and downs to that on the Akatarawa Road. Some dark corners the temperature would suddenly drop, reminding me that it's technically still winter, and yet on the sunny bits the warmth was palatable. Spring is coming.

It must be over 25 years since I last rode the Akatarawa Road, and I certainly won't leave it that long again (I mean, I am 71, so if I did I'd have to still be riding at 96!). If you'd like to do the trip yourself, here's a Google Earth 3D map (above), along with one (right) showing my full journey on the day.

Those who know the region will see that I've done my best to avoid State Highway 1 and Transmission Gully. Coffee was in the sun at Pauatahanui.

Maybe I'll do the Akatarawa trip again when my speedo's about to read 234567.

Go Home, Tommy! Go Home! (A personal account of the D-Day landings)

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Mon, 21 Apr 2025 04:17:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar talks to a survivor of the Normandy Landings on D-Day, 6 June 1944, and discovers that not everyone in France was pleased to see the allies arrive...

Private Bill Broad, No.10582516

Fresh-faced Bill Broad was just 21 years of age when he set sail on an American ship from Portsmouth in the dead of night on 6 June, 1944. His destination: France. His mission: land on the coast at a location codenamed Gold Beach, at Arromanches in Normandy, and, along with almost 160,000 other troops, help drive the Germans back inland. It was time for the allied forces to fight back.

Originally from Folkestone, England, Bill was a private in the army back then. He'd been drafted on his 18th birthday, after already having been in the fire service - his voluntary contribution to the war effort while he waited for conscription. Little did he know at the time he joined up that he would later play a part in D-Day, one of the greatest military manoeuvres in history... and would go on to capture a German.

I met Bill in 2015, in Auckland, New Zealand. He had (obviously) survived the D-Day landing at Normandy, and I took the opportunity of his being at his daughter's house - where I too was staying briefly - to chat to him about his part in the invasion.

It's a fact that old soldiers sometimes sanitise their role in a conflict, for any number of reasons. These include: wanting to avoid remembering the trauma of war, the sharp memories of their actions and the battles they fought in having become less focused over time, an unconscious purging of the sheer horror of certain moments, and of course, modesty - that their role played little importance in the overall outcome. Many do not like to be thought of as heroes.

I don't know which, if any, affected Bill's retelling of D-Day and the weeks and months that followed as World War 2 drew to a close, but that day in the kitchen of his daughter's house he was very unassuming and casual in his recounting. 'It filled in a few years I suppose,' he smiles, summarising his active service from 1941 through to the end of hostilities and the mopping-up operations in Germany.

Plan of attack. Image: BBC History Magazine

Go home Tommy!

Bill says there was no sense of excitement while crossing the English Channel, and little appreciation that they were taking part in something historic. He recalls that he and those around him treated it as 'just another exercise,' a phrase he uses a few times.

His retelling of the arrival at Gold Beach, around 0400 hours, is more pragmatic than emotional, despite the carnage he witnessed after getting ashore.

A landing craft approaching Omaha Beach. Image: Wikipedia

'We were pretty quiet [on the boat] going over... we weren't upset or excited about it really, y'know, we just took it in our stride as though it was an exercise... anyway, we landed, and there was quite a lot of opposition, and the battleships were firing shells over us, bullets flying everywhere, and bodies... there were quite a few bodies around the place...'

Having survived the initial drama of the landings, Bill and his fellow troops headed up the beach and on up a slope, 'Quite a decent slope, probably a small cliff you'd call it,' he recalls. 'And when we got near to the top there were quite a few bodies, mostly our guys, lying around, and there was this lady, pointing out to sea, and she was saying, "Go home Tommy! Go home Tommy!"'

Bill believes she was old enough to have seen a lot of war, possibly even the First World War, and Operation Overlord (as the D-Day invasion was codenamed) with its massive strategic bombardment of the land behind the coast, the tens of thousands of troops swarming up the beaches firing their weapons, the thick smoke, the explosions, and the British, American and other aircraft roaring overhead, was, he says, too much for the French woman. 'She'd had enough.'

The harsh reality. Image: Britannica

In fact, he recalls, as they made their way through France the woman's standpoint was to haunt them, and far from being hailed as liberators, the allies were treated with a degree of contempt. 'We had about six weeks when [the French] wouldn't even talk to us...'

Training

Growing up on the south coast of England, Bill and his parents had been regularly exposed to the air raids and bombs of the Luftwaffe during the previous five years, so he was no stranger to the chaos of war.

He says that where his family lived in Folkestone was very close to a tall industrial chimney, and Folkestone - thanks to its being a close and easy target on the south coast - earned it the nickname 'Hellfire Corner.'

Folkestone bomb damage. Image: Folkestone Museum

'It was only twenty miles from France... and there was always something going on there, especially when the sun was in the right position. Fighter bombers would come down, and we had a big chimney stack... they probably used that as a target. We had all our windows blown out. I felt sorry for my parents that they had to put up with all that.'

On the other hand, it was an introduction - a baptism by bombing, if you will - to some of the mayhem he would later face on D-Day.

The planning for Overlord began in 1943, and it wasn't long before Bill was sent up to Scotland where training for the Normandy invasion was centred (as well as at a beach in Devon). In Scotland, Bill's detachment practised landings on the Isle of Arran off the west coast, and he recalls training with the commandos, who would be among the first ashore.

Live ordnance in training for D-Day. Image: Wikipedia

Private Broad and his 10-OBD (Ordnance Beach Detachment) of sixty troops were tasked with logistical support: supplying the forward troops with all the necessary supplies and equipment they would need - including ammunition - as the allied forces pushed north following the Normandy landings.

Despite the supportive nature of their role, 10-OBD were put through all the same training as the forward troops, including practising the invasion under live ammunition. It was not for the faint-hearted.

'When we were exercising we used real bullets. You had bullets flying over your head all the time, so that you got used to them.'

Rations and Food

'We were lucky, we got through,' he says of the days and weeks that followed the landings, 'and everything seemed to move very well, y'know... we never had any real problems. The worst problems were the vehicles breaking down.'

But even having successfully dodged bullets and explosions, Bill says there was no real celebration of having made it into France. 'We were lucky to get our heads down and have five minutes' sleep. All you had was a blanket, and you had to find a place to sleep if you could, y'know. In the sand somewhere perhaps. But you got used to that sort of life though.'

Food - of varying quality and quantity - was something else 10-OBD had to get used to.

A D-Day ration pack. Image: The Keep Military Museum

'All our food came in special packs. We had what they called "the fourteen-man pack" - that was food for fourteen men for one day... there were nice things in some of them and not so nice things in others,' he laughs. 'The ones we used to go for were the ones with the steak and kidney puddings! They were in tins, and you just opened the tin up and that was it.'

There were also, Bill recalls, something called 'emergency packs,' which don't sound at all appetising. 'You could scrape this stuff and make it into a sort of porridge if you put some water with it. And you had biscuits, hard-packed biscuits for emergencies.

'You really didn't bother much about food I don't think; you mainly [needed] to get on with the job and get it done.'

On the other hand, I learned much later that Bill had told his son Ralph about how he and his mates had found - and consumed - cigars and champagne in a French chateau, so for one day at least it wasn't just dreary rations, and it could be argued that they finally did get around to celebrating their successful landing at Normandy.

Tea, of course, has long been the staple of the British, whether in a theatre of war or at the kitchen table at home, and where there's some tea leaves, a container, water and a fire, tea will be made...

'We used to get an old biscuit tin, light a fire underneath it, put some water in it, a handful of tea leaves - what they called "army tea" y'know - and a tin of evaporated milk, Carnation.'

And having a brew whenever you could was essential, both for the stomach and for morale. 'You'd only get one good meal a day, you wouldn't get many more.'

Bill Captures a German

The advance into Hamburg, may 1945.
Image: QRH Museum

Private Broad and his fellow troops carried on north in their three-ton trucks, through Belgium. It was here that Bill once again forgot to tell me of some drama that he'd previously told his son Ralph: a truck carrying his team and equipment rolled after driving into a shell crater, injuring everyone on board.

After being patched up overnight by the locals, 10-OBD had insult added to injury when they discovered next morning that their lorry, when they returned to it, had been stripped of all its goods . No doubt the locals felt they deserved some compensation.

And so they continued through Holland (where some of the detachment consumed rather too much potato schnapps on one occasion, allegedly just to keep warm on a bitterly cold night, though apparently some would later have no memory of this!) eventually crossing the border into Germany.

As in France, the allies received a less-than-warm welcome; like the woman on the cliff at Arromanches, many of the German population must have had enough of war. But only in some areas; in others their arrival was celebrated.

For Bill though, it soon became time to take off his helmet, put down his rifle, and pick up... a clipboard.

'When I got to Hanover, the war ended... they didn't really know what to do with us because we'd been specially trained for that one job.'

However, salvation was at hand - in the need for uniforms. Officers, Bill says, had nowhere to buy their outfits, but of course one still had to look the part, what? So Bill suddenly found himself manager of his own haberdashery business. It was a stitch in time.

Civilians in Berlin watch the Allies arrive.
Image: Imperial War Museums

'So [the military brass] thought that us guys could set up shops for them... we put one in Hamburg, one in Hanover, and Berlin I think had one. When the shops were set up and the goods were ready to be sold, we had to find some ladies to serve these officers.'

The newly-created clothing enterprise advertised the vacancies, knowing they would draw a good response, but not because the German women particularly wanted to work for the British. 'If the German people didn't work, they didn't eat, so jobs were in great demand.'

Thirty women were employed, which is when Bill captured his one and only German. 'I ran the office side, and she was there, and I noticed [her], and I said, "I'm going to marry that girl," and they said, "Oh no you're not!" so they posted me two hundred miles away!'

On the other hand, Bill was promoted to staff sergeant, and his forced exile and posting in charge of a warehouse didn't stop him thinking about the young woman he'd met while recruiting help for the stores. He pursued what avenues were available to get her an official clearance. This meant she had to undertake completion of the Fragebogen.

Page 1 of the Fragebogen.
Image: GHDI

Entrance Exam

'That girl' was Christa. She had spent the war working as a Red Cross nurse, tending to injured soldiers, even playing the accordion for them on occasion to lift their spirits.

'She wasn't a bad Nazi or anything like that, and I knew that' Bill says. But of course the British and Americans, now in command, didn't know it, which is where the Fragebogen came in.

The Fragebogen was a bit like an exam paper, but one aimed at eliciting answers from Germans as to the roles they had played during the war: their backgrounds, allegiances, memberships of political parties, and so on, so that their status on returning to civilian life could be determined (or guilt, of course). It was a necessary filter.

Like so many other Germans, Christa therefore had to fill out the six pages - 131 questions - of the document, which probed her life in great detail. It was a controversial questionnaire; many Germans felt it targeted 'the little people' - the ordinary civilians - while many of the bigger fish escaped, and apparently there was some truth in that.

It's difficult for those of us who never took part in the war to appreciate how surprising, how disarming it must have been for those who'd fought so fiercely over borders and territories, to discover that love knows no boundaries, while all around people were still simmering in resentment, suspicion, heartache, and horror, at what had happened over the previous six years.

But they do say that love conquers all, and it won this battle too; Christa passed the Fragebogen, and her status as a non-threatening and not-guilty German was rubber-stamped. She and Bill were free to marry (which they finally did, in Germany in 1948. Christa's wedding dress was made from parachute silk).

Tommy Goes Home

So the war was over, and Bill Broad finally did as the French woman at Gold Beach had implored: he went home. Now back in England, he was given the requisite 'demob' suit, but even though he was out of uniform he still faced some battles.

An ex-soldier gets measured up for his 'demob suit.'
Image: Ministry of Information

'I came home about a year after that, and Christa knocked at the door of my house - my parents had been suffering all this stuff in the south-east of England, y'know, bombs falling - and my mother wasn't all that excited about it. My father was all right, he was fairly reasonable.'

But Christa was accepted. And Bill managed to secure a flat in the attic of a friend's house. That was the good news. The bad news was that after the war, jobs were scarce in the UK.

'All you really got out of the army was three months' pay I think it was, and then you were on your own again...

'There was no work in Folkestone, but there was a Marks and Spencers (department store), and the only job I could get was in the store there. I was a staff sergeant in the army, and all I could do was sweep the floor with a broom. Hard going, but you've got to do what you've got to do.'

Bill later went on to find more rewarding employment with a cable manufacturing company, putting his maths skills to use designing submarine cables. And still later, he and Christa emigrated to New Zealand to start a new life, which is how I came, many, many years later, to be chatting to him in a kitchen in Auckland about his wartime experiences.

Don't Meddle!

A Victoria Cross, valued on the
BBC's Antiques Roadshow programme

As lunch was almost ready, and our conversation was drawing to a close, Bill wanted to finish on two things that concerned him: one was the tendency for people to sell medals that their parents or grandparents had won, and the other was the rising tide of opinion against the New Zealand flag, and recent moves to change it.

'There are shows on the TV, antiques-type of shows, [people] come along and, "they were my grandad's" or whatever... terrible that they could even stoop [that] low. That's the lowest form of life as far as I'm concerned: people that sell other people's medals.'

For decades there has been debate about whether it's time for New Zealand's national flag to be changed, driven by a variety of emotions. Some claim the existing flag is confusingly similar to the Australian flag, while others want to see the inclusion of the UK's Union Flag dropped from the corner, partly due to a perceived decreased relevance of the UK to New Zealand, and partly because of its connotations of colonialism.

It was at this point that Bill's own emotions came through, the one and only time in our almost hour-long conversation.

'When I think of all those guys, those New Zealanders, that died under that flag,' he chokes, 'I don't think [then prime minister] Mr. Key's got the right to touch that flag at all really. That's the way I feel about it... I always think, "We shall remember them," y'know, and if you're going to remember them, don't bugger about with the flag.'

Remembering Staff Sergeant Bill Broad

Bill's part in the Normandy landings and the push north in the months after, was formally recognised by France in 2016, when he - along with the other surviving members of D-Day - was awarded the Légion d'honneur, France's highest award for military and civilian service.

Bill died in 2020, aged 97.

This blog, and the ANZAC Day podcast I made of the interview with Bill, are in his memory.

My thanks to his children, Julia and Ralph, for helping make this possible.

(You can listen to edited highlights of Bill's story on Spotify Podcasts here)

One in 4.3 Million

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 21 Mar 2025 00:54:00 +0000

A 'rejuvenated' broadcaster

Mike Bodnar looks back on a year of podcasting, and reflects on the value of speaking out loud...

There's no shortage of opportunities to get yourself heard these days - social media, as we all know (sometimes to our despair), is rife with gossip, news, opinions, thoughts, anger and, sadly, hate.

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Trolls used to be fairy-tale beings living under Scandi bridges; today they are vile ranters who yell, swear, and promise fire and brimstone on those they disagree with - those who have dared to post something contrary to their way of thinking. They still live under bridges though: the protective cover that social media gives them in the form of noms-de-plume - behind which they remain safely anonymous. They like to think of themselves as heroes, standard-bearers for those others who share their skewed perspectives. They like to think they, above all others, are right. And they are - usually far right.

So it could be argued that the Internet - and social media in particular - is to be avoided if you want to be heard dispassionately, or at least taken seriously. Not entirely true, because this doesn't take into account the power - and increasing popularity of - podcasts.

Listen when you like

Over the past decade, podcasts have experienced remarkable growth, transforming from a niche format into a mainstream media powerhouse. Advances in technology and the ubiquity of smartphones have played a pivotal role in this evolution. People now have easy access to a vast library of podcasts on a huge range of topics, from true crime and comedy to science and self-improvement. Streaming platforms such as Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and Google Podcasts have made discovery and listening seamless, contributing significantly to the medium's growth.

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Unlike other forms of media, podcasts are ideal for multitasking - they can be consumed during commutes, workouts, or household chores. This convenience has made them a staple for millions. Moreover, podcasts have given creators an opportunity to connect intimately with their audiences. The conversational tone of podcasts often fosters a sense of community, which keeps listeners coming back for more.

This has given rise to a New Age of broadcasters, and the low barrier to entry means anyone can start a podcast - become a broadcaster (or perhaps a better term for most would be narrowcaster) - leading to a surge in diverse voices and perspectives. As a result, podcasting has truly become a dynamic and influential medium in today's media landscape. But it's not the first.

Back to the Future

The opportunity afforded to diverse voices and perspectives is nothing new, at least not here in Aotearoa/New Zealand.

As early as 1981, a medium aimed at giving a platform to diverse voices on a wide range of

subjects began in Wellington, New Zealand's capital. It was called Access Radio, and operated on an AM frequency, reaching a small and clearly defined local population. Sure, it wasn't the Internet - that was still over the horizon anyway - but in the 1980s, radio, especially community radio, was still strong, still popular. The arrival of Access Radio however, heralded the emergence of a non-commercial station, one which was by, for, and about its own local community. It wasn't about edgy breakfast shows, or drivetime commute music, or even news and weather on the hour; it was about people.

Image: Deviantart

Leap into your DeLorean and race forward 44 years, and today there are a dozen such Access stations throughout the country, but some things have changed. The stations still broadcast, but now on FM frequencies. More than that though, each station has its own Internet presence, its own website, through which absolutely anyone can listen regardless of distance from the station. So even if you live in Manchester, England, or Little Rock, Arkansas, you can easily listen to any Access Radio programme from New Zealand.

And it doesn't have to be live, because all Access programmes can be streamed as podcasts, joining an estimated 4.3 million podcasts available worldwide, and can be found on accessmedia.co.nz, a site that acts as a collective for the Access network.

As someone who worked in radio many years ago (decades, let's be frank, Ed.) it suddenly dawned on me that there was nothing stopping me from getting back behind the microphone. People had always said I had a great face for radio - here was the opportunity to do it again.

Walking the Talk

So a year ago, I joined Wellington Access Radio and began making my own programme. Better late then never.

Many Access programmes are ethnic, culture-driven productions, or religion-specific, maybe

niche music-oriented (bluegrass fans rejoice!), while some are topic-centric (climate change, current affairs, local politics, etc). The one thing they have in common is that they are all 'by, for, and about' their communities - a requirement for the Access stations to qualify for funding support from the government agency New Zealand on Air. The viability of the stations is also bolstered through small broadcasting and membership fees (of which, more later), grants and donations, and sponsorship.

So, if, for example, you visit the Wellington Access 'Shows & Podcasts' page online, you'll find over a hundred things to listen to. Including (promo time here) my own show, 'Mike On...'

At the age of mumbledy-something - let's just say 'a certain age' - I decided to make a fortnightly programme for a more mature audience, but in both senses of the word. Because of course, some people can be old beyond their years, so in my intro to the programme I emphasise that even though it's for listeners 'of a certain age,' it doesn't matter whether you're 16 or 96.

I decided on a chat-show format, and apart from two episodes, each programme has featured a guest who specialises in a certain field, or has a personal story to relate, or has some new and interesting research to share. I have deliberately avoided each episode being about something older age-related though; because while we might be in our (insert age group here) it doesn't mean we want to listen only to programmes about older folk. So, in the past 12 months I have had guests talking about a wide range of topics, from the value of volunteering, to how the native tuatara (a reptile) survived the asteroid impact, through classic motor vehicle collecting, why New Zealanders avoid the news more than any other nation, to understanding the slang, acronyms and abbreviations of Gen. Z today. For that programme my guests were two 16-year-old high school students.

Image: Flickr

When my 24th episode hits the airwaves on Thursday 24 April (it's an ANZAC Day special featuring an interview with a D-Day veteran), 'Mike On...' will be celebrating its first full year on air. Happy birthday to me. And at my age, one candle is about all I can blow out anyway!

Measuring success

I could, of course, have done all this from my own home, like so many other podcasters, but Wellington Access Radio - along with all the other stations in the network - offers a focal point, a place where I can go and use professional equipment in a proper studio to record (or broadcast live if required) my programmes. I can mingle with other programme makers, and chat to (and get technical and marketing help from) the station staff.

It's not free, but it doesn't cost much, and there's a scale of fees appropriate to your own situation. I can tell you now that it costs me about NZ$52 per month. I could seek sponsorship if I wanted, but I'm trying to avoid a commercial tie-in situation.

So how has it been going?

Measuring the audience. Image: Wikimedia

Let's put it this way: making a programme/podcast like this is the broadcast equivalent of self-publishing; I have created something, and I'm paying to get it 'out there,' just like an author might.

Also like a self-published author, it's largely up to me to market my product. An author, for example publishing through Amazon's KDP platform, can spend as little or as much as they like on promoting their book.

With me, it's the same, but as with my two self-published books (to date), I can't afford to pay for promotion. What I do do, is share my programmes via Spotify Podcasts, iHeart radio Podcasts, and Apple Podcasts, in the hope of reaching as wide an audience as possible. I promote new programmes on social media, but I don't have many followers.

A benefit of using Spotify Podcasts is that I can see immediate and up-to-date analytics on my 'dashboard' showing exactly how many people have streamed my programmes. It's not many, I confess.

Access Radio does not get funding to cover annual or twice-yearly listener surveys such as commercial stations might be able to afford (and with which they can attract advertisers), so I have little way of knowing who, or how many people, listen. I need to be self-reliant in that respect; I need to be my own 'fan base.' Because to date I have directly received only one piece of unsought feedback. Just one. So let's talk some more on the subject of self-reliance.

The Role of Ego

There has been many a time in the past year when I've thought, why bother? What's the point of putting all this effort - and $52 a month - into making programmes that hardly anyone listens to?

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The answer is pride. I am - I have to be - proud of my product. I have to be independent of external acknowledgement and tell myself, it's okay, this is good. I learned about production values when I worked full-time in broadcasting, so I know what makes a good programme, and I apply that knowledge when making mine.

But because nobody else admires the programmes - at least not overtly - I have to do that myself. I have to constantly remind myself that these programmes could go on mainstream radio and not be out of place. (And along with the lack of feedback, I have, importantly, received no criticism either. I know... it could be argued that that just means nobody's listening!). But as I said at the start of this blog, ranters and trolls are always waiting in the wings to shoot you down. The fact that they haven't is at least a positive.

It's obvious from now having made over 20 programmes that the ones that attract the most listeners are those in which the person I've interviewed also promotes the programme to their own networks. For example, last September I broadcast an episode on assisted dying, based on an interview with a man who had been given less than six months to live and who had chosen to legally end his life.

A New Zealand assisted dying support organisation promoted the programme to their network, and hey presto: listeners! Not many, just 90 on Spotify, (although my blog on this blogsite on the same subject was read by over 650 people), and there's an unknown number who might have listened on Access Radio either live or as a podcast.

Ego is a double-edged sword; in the wrong hands, applied at an inappropriate time, it can earn you a reputation for being a big-head. But privately, when I just tell myself that my programmes are good quality, it does the job.

One in 4.3 million

As I mentioned, it's estimated that there are 4.3 million podcasts available globally, and that number will only rise. I have a lot of competition, and I'm not the only one making a chat show. There are even plenty of other podcasts called 'Mike On', dammit. But there are over 500 million podcast listeners, which is a healthy ratio, so I just need to attract some of them.

But now that I'm approaching my programme's first anniversary I can look back on 24 programmes well-made to a high standard. I can be satisfied that I've done it, I've proved to myself that it could be done, and I will carry on.

I know I'm just one programme/podcast in 4.3 million, but 'Mike On...' is damn good.

Have a listen sometime, and let me know what you think.

UFOs, Aliens, and The Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Wed, 08 Jan 2025 00:27:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar takes a rational look at aliens and UFO sightings, and asks, are they evidence of aliens, or is the truth still out there?

(Note: This blog is also available as a podcast on my radio programme 'Mike On...', on Spotify Podcasts)

No, not real; AI-generated

In this blog I’m going to look at the possibility of alien life existing, both in the wider context of the universe and, closer to home, here on Earth.

It’s a controversial subject that, despite all the science we have at our disposal, still comes down to belief: whether you believe alien life exists elsewhere in the universe or not, because, as of right now we have no proof that it does.

And, equally controversially, we’ll discuss whether aliens have visited, or are indeed visiting, us here on Earth.

So, don your tin-foil hat, strap in and come along for the ride…

UFOs AND UAPs: WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

UFO:

The acronym UFO stands for "unidentified flying object" and originated in 1952 when Captain Edward J. Ruppelt of the United States Air Force used it to be more general than the term "flying saucer", which was popularly employed to describe mysterious objects in the sky after a 1947 sighting.

In June of that year, pilot Kenneth Arnold reported seeing "shiny, unidentifiable objects flying in the sky" near Mt. Rainier in Washington. His claim garnered a lot of media coverage and led to a craze about flying discs and saucers. The public lapped it up. At last! Aliens!

UAP:

The term "unidentified aerial phenomena" was first used in 1987, when it featured in an article about an "International Symposium on Unidentified Aerial Phenomena". However, the move from using UFO to UAP in mainstream media and debate really began in 2020, when the Pentagon established a Navy-led "UAP Task Force" to investigate reports of unexplained aerial phenomena.

Today, UAP is used to describe events in the air, sea, space, and, since 2022 - bizarrely - land, that cannot be immediately identified as aircraft or natural phenomena. The acronym UAP is now preferred over UFO because it's intended to avoid the assumptions and stigma associated with UFOs, such as alien visitors, and of course the attendant conspiracy theories. But that doesn't stop millions of people reporting having seen a 'UFO.'

THE PROBLEM WITH THE TERMINOLOGY

Greetings Earthlings! (Pinterest)

For decades, people have conflated the term UFO – and more recently UAPs – with alien lifeforms visiting earth.

When someone witnesses an unidentified flying object, that’s just what it is: something that appears to be flying or hovering in the air that isn’t immediately apparent as anything we know, and therefore can't immediately be explained. The same applies to UAPs.

But people, especially those with a leaning towards believing in aliens, like to leap to the conclusion that what they’ve seen is ‘evidence’ of aliens. It’s not, because despite all analysis and interpretation, it remains unidentified, and therefore is nothing more than mysterious.

People erroneously ask, 'Do you believe in UFOs?' There can only be one answer to that: Yes! Because there are, unquestionably, objects which have been seen in the air which are unidentified. No question. Whether they're alien spacecraft, well, that's a different question.

THE ONGOING ISSUE

But here’s the ongoing issue: despite all the decades of UFO and UAP reports, despite all the investigations, despite the thousands of videos and photos of these phenomena, despite so-called eye-witness reports from people claiming to have been abducted by aliens, despite all of these, we do not have a shred of evidence that we have been, or are being visited, by aliens.

Well, that settles it (Oak Bay News)

For example, the number of videos and photos of UFOs/UAPs has dramatically increased in
the last 20 or more years because now everyone carries a camera with them, in the form of a mobile phone. And yet we still don’t have any top quality definitive footage or photos; instead we see blurry, out-of-focus things in the sky, with camera shake and much zooming in and out, often with no context (e.g. buildings, trees, skylines), and no solid definition.

Sure, some images and footage are better than others, and some look quite convincing, but absolutely nothing to date is proof that what we’re looking at is an alien craft. Ever since 1947, people have been throwing hubcaps into the sky and photographing them, claiming they've captured a flying saucer. If something becomes fashionable, a hoax is sure to follow.

But wouldn’t you think, with everyone carrying a camera, that by now someone, someone, would have captured some really decent images or footage? Well, no.

And the arrival of Artificial Intelligence in creating images and video now just compounds the issue, because we have to be extra vigilant to determine what’s real and what’s AI-generated. The days of throwing hubcaps are over. The days of fake news are still here.

THE PENTAGON

(Image: Wikipedia)

There was great excitement just a few years ago when the Pentagon released an official report on Unidentified Aerial Phenomena.

However, the nine-page preliminary report basically said what I’ve just said: that despite all the so-called evidence, no conclusions about alien visitations can be reached. Of more concern, it says, is that there are unexplained phenomena in the skies which could pose a threat to the US simply by their unknowable nature.

Deputy Secretary of Defence, Kathleen Hicks, issued a memo following the report's release, saying that it highlights the problem of flight hazards near military training ranges. Also the report highlighted dangers to military pilots, so in that respect it’s more of a health and safety document than a definitive conclusive treatise on alien spacecraft.

So again, despite official investigation, we still have nothing conclusive to say aliens are behind the phenomena of UAPs.

Which, of course, gives rise to conspiracy theories, where people claim that aliens have been on Earth for decades but that governments are covering up their existence.

THE BIG COVER-UP

So let’s look at that. Why would governments hide such a momentous discovery? Why, if alien technology was available to us, have we not adopted it or adapted to our advantage? Where, for example, are our own flying saucers, and why do NASA and other space agencies spend billions of dollars in their efforts to get things to orbit or to the moon if we actually have the technology to fly there almost instantaneously?

Big firework. (Image: Daily Pioneer)

Because, let’s face it, if aliens have come here then it’s likely from far beyond our own solar system, which means they presumably have conquered faster-than-light travel. Which also means they must be incredibly advanced. And yet, we’re still lighting the touch-paper on rockets and standing back to watch them burn clumsily into space.

There could be an argument that announcing the existence of aliens would have a huge and negative impact on religion - that people’s belief systems and faith could be shattered, knowing that God must have created other beings elsewhere. That maybe Adam and Eve weren’t the only ones to kickstart life on Earth. It would certainly be a blow to the church, and a massive test of faith for billions of people. So yes, maybe that’s one reason for keeping aliens quiet.

But let’s say, just for a moment, that aliens have come here, or are here. We have to ask why, and what is their purpose?

THE PRIME DIRECTIVE

If you’re a Star Trek fan you’ll know that the Prime Directive of Star Fleet is basically that if you encounter an alien civilization, you don’t interfere with it or even announce your presence, unless that civilization has also reached a technological level whereby it is capable of and fully understands space travel and the existence of other civilizations in the universe. It could be argued we’re not there yet because, as I mentioned earlier, we’re still launching solid fuel rockets, which technologically is not much beyond letting off fireworks.

Alien nudist (Image: Dreamstime)

The Prime Directive is science fiction, but an advanced alien race would, presumably, have deep wisdom central to its missions. Wisely, an alien race who discovered Earth was inhabited, would keep at a distance while gathering and analysing all it could, and it could do this of course by monitoring all our radio and TV broadcasts (poor things!) and browsing the Internet.

The prospect of aliens having to sit through episodes of Neighbours or American Idol doesn’t bear thinking about though.

But they wouldn’t have to fly mysteriously through our skies, or create fuzzy flashing lights in the night sky, or appear at 3 a.m. at the end of your bed waving a threatening probing finger at you.

Nor would they necessarily appear as big-eyed little green or silver men, usually without spacesuits or even clothing, which seems to be the norm from alien encounter reports!

I mean, seriously, do you really think an advanced alien race is going to explore the galaxy stark naked? I don’t think so.

And, if they are here, would they even be humanoid in form?

BODY OF EVIDENCE

So here’s the thing: ever since science fiction became a literary genre, followed by sci-fi films and television, many - if not most - of the aliens have been humanoid. A head, torso, two arms, two legs. In cinematic terms we can understand this because it enables the studio wardrobe department to simply make a costume into which an actor steps or is zipped up in. Look at early, even current, Dr. Who episodes, featuring the cybermen, the Ood, the Autons, the Slitheen, the Sontarans, and so on. Star Trek is just as guilty, and so are many others (Lost in Space, the original TV series, I'm looking at you...).

But most of the so-called real-life alien encounters have also been with humanoids: little green

A Dr. Who alien. (Image: BBC)

men, skeletal tall figures, and so on.

The thing is, there’s nothing to say that aliens will, if they exist (and we’ll come to the chances of that in a moment), should look anything like us. In fact, they could be in a form we don’t even recognise, and could – as some conspiracy theorists believe - be among us right now.

How (you’re asking)? Seriously? Surely we’d know if the Lizard People walked among us? Well, I’m not talking about people. One of my favourite alien types are the Eldil. They featured in C. S. Lewis’s sci-fi novel Out of the Silent Planet, and, according to Wikipedia, 'they are made of exotic matter and appear as faint light that humans can barely see.' In fact, you have to look away from them to see them, where they appear in your peripheral vision.

But again, that’s science fiction. Let’s look at a real race of beings that can be everywhere all the time, yet invisible. It’s true. They exist... and we are they.

LIFE JIM, BUT NOT AS WE KNOW IT

Submitted for your approval (cue Twilight Zone theme tune), one human race and one sub-set of that, a race of pygmies in an isolated jungle. These pygmies have never had contact with civilization, have never met another human being, and yet evidence of our existence is all around them every minute of every day. Our existence passes through their jungle village constantly, yet they cannot see or hear us, because, they do not have the technology to pick up radio waves or TV signals, or Wi-Fi. If they did they could abandon their dugout canoes and sit in their huts watching Grand Designs or the Great British Bake-Off.

But they don’t have the technology. They don’t even know the technology exists!

So what’s to say that we humans, we so-called civilized humans, also don’t have the technology to identify evidence of an alien race, simply because we can’t pick up their signals? That we just don’t know how to?

We're listening... (Image: Wikipedia)

It’s not for lack of trying; for decades we’ve been attempting to find signals from outer space, something regular, something meaningful that indicates a sentient source, or even sends us a message. Despite all the radio telescopes and the efforts, we haven’t. Sure, there have been strange noises, the odd 'Wow! moment, but most it turns out are made by stars, or colliding galaxies, or other astronomical events far distant. Or nearby microwave ovens.

So maybe we’re not listening with the right equipment. Maybe we haven’t even thought of it yet. So we could be those pygmies, here on Earth, living in a relative galactic stone age.

I recently read Andy Weir’s sci-fi novel Project Hail Mary, in which he proposes an alien race of microbes, and another of a sort of arachnids-slash-slaters who are basically blind, yet have developed space travel. Weir is more famous for having written The Martian, which was made into a movie starring Matt Damon as an astronaut stranded on Mars, but I liked the aliens in Hail Mary for being different.

Yet here we are, overflowing with reports of UFOs or UAPs and aliens in humanoid form, usually intergalactic nudists. We need to stretch our imaginations a bit more.

SO WHERE IS EVERYBODY?

Finally, let’s come to the crux of the matter (that’s an astronomical pun only southern hemisphere stargazers will get): If aliens exist, where are they?

This question is called The Fermi Paradox: The Fermi Paradox is 'the discrepancy between the lack of conclusive evidence of advanced extraterrestrial life and the apparently high likelihood of its existence.'

Where is everybody? (Image: Pinterest)

That’s from Wikipedia, which goes on to say: 'Those affirming the paradox generally conclude
that if the conditions required for life to arise from non-living matter are as permissive as the available evidence on Earth indicates, then extraterrestrial life would be sufficiently common such that it would be implausible for it not to have been detected yet.'

In short, if what we’ve witnessed about the emergence and development of life on Earth is typical, then given the estimated large number of so-called habitable planets in the universe, where the hell is everybody? The Italian-American physicist Enrico Fermi asked this in 1950, and it hasn’t been answered yet.

But almost every week another star with planets orbiting it is discovered by astronomers as our technology gets better and better, so the evidence is mounting that many, many such planets exist. In fact they're quite common. But there is however absolutely no evidence that any advanced alien races exist.

Wikipeida sums up the contradiction thus:

'The following are some of the facts and hypotheses that together serve to highlight the apparent contradiction:

There are billions of stars in the Milky Way similar to the Sun.
With high probability, some of these stars have Earth-like planets in a circumstellar habitable zone.
Many of these stars, and hence their planets, are much older than the Sun. If Earth-like planets are typical, some may have developed intelligent life long ago.
Some of these civilizations may have developed interstellar travel, a step that humans are investigating now.
Even at the slow pace of currently envisioned interstellar travel, the Milky Way galaxy could be completely traversed in a few million years.
Since many of the Sun-like stars are billions of years older than the Sun, the Earth should have already been visited by extraterrestrial civilizations, or at least their probes.

· However, there is no convincing evidence that this has happened.'

I WANT TO BELIEVE…

So where does that leave us? It leaves us right where we started: despite all the research, the reports and the analysis, there’s not a shred of evidence that an advanced alien race exists anywhere, or has visited us, or is here now.

But, as I said, maybe we just don’t know how to look for them yet. I believe we should keep trying.

When I was around ages 12, 13 and 14, I desperately wanted aliens to exist, partly because I was a science fiction fan already, but also because I’d had my own UFO sighting.

(Mulder and Scully, The X-Files (Image: New Republic)

It was in the night sky above Liverpool, my home city, and I was out with my mum walking the dog. Suddenly, in the sky to the west I saw a V-formation of lights. I can’t remember now how many, but you need at least three for a v-formation, and I think there might have been five. They were moving together at a steady pace and eventually went out of sight.

Indeed, there were reports in the paper from others who had seen them, and an official excuse from the air force followed, saying that it was nothing more than an aircraft refuelling exercise.

Seriously? A refuelling exercise over a major city? I don’t think so. But, I never discovered anything more.

Another, spookier encounter I had, was about 16 or maybe even 20 years ago here in New Zealand. I was out in the garden on a starry night, looking at the sky, when suddenly a dark shape, and I mean a pitch black shape, passed across the stars at a steady and measured pace. So black it was like a void, or something that consumed light.

There were no navigation lights, no sound, just a shadow obscuring the stars as it passed across the sky. I have no idea how high it was.

Yes, it obviously could have been a bird, though there appeared to be no flapping.

All I can say is, I’d like a copy of the poster that used to hang in Mulder’s basement office in the X-Files, the one with a flying saucer and the words, I Want To Believe.

And I do want to believe, it’s just that I also want the evidence, and I haven’t seen it yet, which for me, after over 60 years of keeping my fingers crossed, watching the skies, and reading and looking at reports of unexplained phenomena, is disappointing.

I do believe the truth is out there. It’s just not here. Yet.

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Ninety Seconds to Midnight

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Sun, 22 Sep 2024 02:37:00 +0000

Is New Zealand really safe from a northern hemisphere nuclear war? Mike Bodnar has his finger on the button. (Caution: some content my disturb)

The unthinkable...

The Doomsday Clock is still appallingly close to midnight - just 90 seconds away as I write this. And with every slow blink of Putin's dead eyes, every threat he makes about destroying the West, the nearer to midnight we get. Tick...tick...

Of course, the clock is just a metaphor, but it's one scientists have employed since 1947, and it's an ever-present reminder that the end of the world really is nigh. And getting nigher.

So it should come as no surprise that some billionaires - or if not billionaires, then at least people wealthy enough anyway - have, over the years, been buying properties in New Zealand, seeing it as a safe haven in the event that conflicts in the northern hemisphere turn to actual nuclear custard. They don't always admit that of course.

Some of them have bought existing homesteads, others land with the declared aim of developing their own golf courses (i.e. bunkers) - either way, places to flee to and hunker down in, in the event of Armageddon up north.

Those people who already live in New Zealand - a smidgen over five million, including me - already know that our country is far removed from a devastating conflict in the northern hemisphere. In fact the country is virtually as far away as you can get, barring maybe Tierra del Fuego or the various outposts in Antarctica. In every practical sense, Aotearoa/New Zealand is the most distant from Doomsday. And therefore, many believe, safe, secure, and an ideal haven to escape to in 'the event.'

Plenty for everyone, except vegetarians...

I mean look: New Zealand could probably be self-sufficient as far as food is concerned - there are currently 4.6 sheep per person, and fertile land a-plenty to grow crops and vegetables. The country is ever-so slightly bigger than the UK, so there's plenty of room. Britain for example supports a population of about 68 million.

But looking at food this way is naïve; dairy and beef farming require all manner of management, and, importantly, veterinary supplies. Some of these are imported, so the supply of veterinary medicines from overseas would likely dry up overnight should Putin push the nuclear button. Or any other world leader with nuclear capability for that matter.

End of the road for vehicles

And the distribution of food - even if abattoirs could remain functioning - would also be an issue. At any one moment, New Zealand's fuel supplies would last only a few weeks if imports of petroleum products were to cease - which they would in the event of a nuclear holocaust. New Zealand is not self-sufficient in this respect. Therefore, trucks, rail transport, air freight, all would grind to a halt after a short time. The daily milk tankers would no longer visit the farms. The abattoirs - even assuming electricity to power them continued - could not distribute the meat they produced, and anyway, the stock trucks that bring the cattle and sheep to the abattoirs would also stop running when the fuel ran out. So how many sheep we have is irrelevant.

On the plus side, New Zealanders have a reputation for being creative, partly based on the fact that for the first 140 or so years of European settlement, many farms were by nature rural, isolated, so if something mechanical went wrong it would often be the farmer who would have to fix it, until (hopefully) parts could be obtained. The saying was that a Kiwi farmer could metaphorically fix anything with a piece of 'number eight fencing wire,' and there's some truth in that. In the first half of the 20th century, vehicle imports were expensive and rare, so a tractor or other farm vehicle was kept running for as long as possible, and often long after the manufacturer designed it for. Such resourcefulness would be needed again, by the digger-load.

The 1987 report

A report released in 1987, called New Zealand After Nuclear War (Wren Green et al), commissioned by the New Zealand Planning Council, delved into the impacts on the country of a largely northern hemisphere nuclear conflict. It does not make for pleasant reading.

In short, the report says that people would likely panic about radiation reaching New Zealand, causing radiation sickness, cancers and so on. But the chances of that happening, the findings reveal, are slim, and a minor increase in radiation would have hardly any impact. The biggest challenge would be people not getting up-to-date information on the issue, and therefore suffering needlessly from radiation anxiety.

Because, of course, communication would suffer. The report investigates at some length the impacts of an EMP - an electromagnetic pulse - where a nuclear device is triggered much higher up in the atmosphere causing widespread failure of electronics below, and over a very wide area. An EMP exploded over Sydney, Australia, for example could well have an impact on New Zealand's communication infrastructure also, particularly radio and television.

When the report was released - 1987 - the Internet was hardly a blip on the technological radar, so in the study, the effects of an EMP do not cover our reliance today on the Internet: texts, mobile phones, bluetooth, Wi-Fi, banking, and so on. It's safe to assume, however, that these would all be compromised in the event of an EMP. If an electromagnetic pulse did not affect us, then perhaps the nation's communications would remain operative, and would enable central and local governments to issue relevant information, warnings, and advice. Until technology such as cellphone towers started to fail and could not be repaired due to lack of parts.

Geothermal power in New Zealand

As for energy, well, New Zealand might just get away with it, as the country is approximately 74% self-sufficient, and is lucky enough to have hydro, geothermal, solar, wind, and coal-fired power available. It's likely that power would have to be rationed in some way, and blackouts could be an issue. Again, as with communication, once the generation technology began to fail (e.g. wind turbines failing, hydro generators ditto), would New Zealand have the wherewithal to fix things? Would a piece of number eight fence wire rescue the national grid?

The 1987 report looks into the effects of a nuclear winter on the country. Smoke in the northern hemisphere atmosphere (from potentially thousands of fires caused by hundreds of nuclear bomb explosions) would, for the large part, stay in the northern hemisphere, although some could drift south. Even a minor reduction in sunlight though would have an effect on Kiwi crops, especially those most sensitive to cold, so the supply of vegetables, grain crops and so on could be compromised, at least for a couple of years. Again, rationing might be necessary.

Possible crop failure

How are our American billionaires faring in their bunkers now? They can't stockpile everything they need, no matter how many You Tube prepper videos they've watched. Without fuel they can't go anywhere. Without deliveries they can't receive any supplies. And unless their bunkers are powered by wind and/or solar, their electricity won't last forever. In short, they are not much better off than the rest of us. And their wealth is meaningless.

The 1987 New Zealand After Nuclear War report needs a new edition in light of today's technologies and our reliance on them in particular, but also there needs to be a much deeper dive into the impacts on us as a society cut off from the rest of the world, and the national angst, despair and helplessness that many are likely to feel.

While the report does touch on the prospect of societal distress, it also predicts the impacts of refugees arriving on our shores and the diseases they might bring with them. The country would likely not have the ability to quarantine new arrivals for testing, even if the appropriate test kits were available. But in any case, would refugees be welcome while the population is in meltdown?

New Zealand society would be in great danger of breaking down in the event of a northern hemisphere nuclear war. It's likely that the consensus would be that we would have enough problems of our own, let alone coping with those who somehow managed to flee the conflicts. They wouldn't be turned away, but offers of help and compassion could be thin on the ground with our own society in disarray.

Cash would be king again

For example, if we were to suffer the effects of an EMP, our banking system would likely
collapse. Cash would become king again, and those who stored actual dollars under their mattresses might well be the new wealthy. But there might also be a new definition of currency and of wealth; suddenly, the value of certain items would shoot up, while others would be rendered worthless. Vehicles, for example, would be useless without fuel; no matter whether it's a Rolls Royce or an old Morris Minor, they'd be worth the same: nothing.

Bicycles and horses on the other hand? Well, they'd be worth their weight in gold (except gold might not be worth much either...). Horse riding equipment - saddles especially, reins and so on, would become very valuable. The same would apply to carts and other wheeled things that could be pulled by horses. Boats, especially yachts which rely only on the wind for propulsion, would be priceless. Fishing equipment - rods, reels, lines, hooks, nets... all worth a fortune in terms of survival.

And, sadly, weapons would become a must-have for many people, especially those wishing to defend their properties and possessions against raiders.

Rural properties become very desirable

Raiders? Certainly. The 1987 report briefly notes that it would be rural properties - those with land for growing their own vegetables, perhaps running chickens, maybe with goats for milk, perhaps wind and solar for power - that would be the most desirable. Anyone currently living off-grid will know this. So (although the report doesn't mention this) once food starts to run out in the cities and towns, people would begin to seek alternative sources of food. It's not inconceivable that raiding parties might be organised by certain groups, who would set out to find these country havens of self-sufficiency, with the aim of taking them over for themselves. There could even be a mass migration of people out to rural areas, simply because the supply systems within cities and towns would have broken down. Therefore, rural property owners who were not prepared to accommodate refugees from the urban areas would need to be ready to defend themselves. With what?

Crossbow: a weapon of choice

Guns, yes, but they would be useful only as long as you had ammunition. Crossbows on the other hand, where a bolt could be retrieved from a fallen target and used again and again, would be a weapon of choice for many. Slingshots ditto, because there would be stones aplenty for ammo. Pitchforks, machetes and knives for close-quarter fighting. Battery acid in squirtable containers. It's all horrifying to contemplate, but it's something we should be thinking about - and it's likely something the billionaires have not considered. You can't hide behind a bank balance.

My research does not show up anything that suggests New Zealand is officially prepared for survival in the event of a northern hemisphere nuclear war. There appears to be a lack of policy in this respect, and any contingency planning for disasters is geared far more (and some would argue rightly so) towards natural hazards such as earthquakes, flooding, volcanoes, and tsunamis. We have alert systems in place for these, and contingency planning for all of them. We are prepared for natural disasters.

Goodnight Vienna (and everywhere else...)

My own belief is that New Zealand society would undergo a huge upheaval if the Doomsday Clock ticked through to midnight and the northern hemisphere experienced a major nuclear conflict, but that it would, after a while, self-level.

Kiwis would rise to the occasion. Yes there would be segments of society that would seize the opportunity to divide into clans, to try and gain the upper hand, to simply take what was not theirs, but they would be defeated. Ultimately, good would prevail, although the chances of life returning to the 'normal' we have become used to would be unlikely. We would, however, survive, and eventually, grow.

But if you're a billionaire reading this, you might want to think about a Plan B instead of just fleeing to New Zealand. Because your wealth and status would likely have little relevance in Aotearoa's New World. Ask yourself, what could you do with a piece of number eight fencing wire?

Dying Words - A Personal Account of New Zealand's 'Assisted Dying' Legislation

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Sun, 08 Sep 2024 00:48:00 +0000

By Mike Bodnar

Paul Weaver

In November 2021, New Zealand enacted legislation allowing assisted dying as an option for the terminally ill. This followed a referendum a couple of years previously, in which 65% of those who took part favoured the introduction of the option.

New Zealand isn't the first country to have such legislation - Canada, the Netherlands, Germany, Belgium, some US states, Australia, France and Japan all offer it, usually for people diagnosed as terminally ill or who are in a state of unbearable suffering. In Switzerland, assisted dying is available to anyone who wants it regardless of their state of health, as long as it's not 'for selfish reasons.'

But New Zealand's End of Life Choice Act is tightly controlled, and has a strict set of criteria that must be satisfied before a person can qualify for the procedure. Paul Weaver, who lived near Wellington, New Zealand's capital, was one of those who qualified.

Paul had suffered from emphysema for seven years, and his prognosis was not good. But then a pair of lungs became available through a donor, and in June 2022 he underwent a double lung transplant operation. It was successful, at least initially. Eighty percent of lung transplant recipients survive to the one-year mark, while 60% reach the five-year mark, so Paul was told by medical professionals that this could only ever be viewed as a life-extending procedure rather than a life-saving one. Unfortunately it did not extend his life by very long.

Surgeons at work (stock image)

After less than a year the medication he had to take to battle his body's rejection of the new lungs compromised his health, and slowly but surely the new lungs began to fail. He knew it was a terminal situation. He knew also that he didn't want his last days to be a trial, not just for himself but for his family and friends. Paul had watched his wife Bernadette die in an undignified way from a cancer in 2012.

'Her exit was pretty unattractive,' he recalled. 'Her particular combination of things meant she wasn't getting enough oxygen to her brain, that caused her body to fit for quite some period, and so you had the family, and myself, and my daughter who was only 15 at the time, watching her mum fit her way to dying, and while the medical folk were apparently giving her drugs to help her, that's not the way it seemed from where we were.'

And so Paul, at 61 years of age, knowing he had less than six months to live, investigated assisted dying. He found he ticked all the boxes, which state that a person needs to:

be 18 years or over;
be a New Zealand citizen or permanent resident;
have an illness that’s likely to end their life within six months;
be in an advanced state of irreversible decline in physical health;
have unbearable suffering that can’t be relieved in a way the patient finds tolerable;
be able to make an informed decision about assisted dying.

So the End of Life Choice Act is not an option for you if you're living in another country and reading this - you can't just hop on a plane and come to New Zealand on a one-way ticket with a plan to end your life. Possibly Switzerland would be an option, but it requires some careful research first.

Dignitas Clinic in Switzerland (stock image)

For example, earlier this year a British woman chose to go to Switzerland to end her life. Her plans were discovered by a PhD student who was doing research in this area and who not only made contact with the woman but gained her approval to accompany her on her journey to the clinic in Switzerland.

On returning to England the student was arrested by police, because she had allegedly 'assisted' the woman to carry out her own death. Assisted dying in the UK is illegal, and is viewed either as murder or manslaughter. So, if you're considering assisted dying as an option you need to fully investigate its status in your own country first, along with, as required, the regulations of any country you might be planning to travel to for the procedure.

But back to New Zealand. One of the key aspects of assisted dying in Aotearoa is that medical professionals cannot recommend it to a patient, even if the patient is terminally ill and suffering. The onus is on the patient to ask about assisted dying. Once that's done, a GP or other medical professional can discuss the option in detail.

General practitioners are not, however, bound to provide assisted dying advice or to carry out the procedure; they are allowed to stand down if they do not personally agree with assisted dying or are uncomfortable with it, but if asked about it they must pass their patient on to another medical professional who will discuss it.

GPs cannot bring up the subject
of assisted dying (stock image)

Paul Weaver knew this, but found that he was easily able to discuss the option with his own doctor. In fact, he said he could see the relief on his doctor's face when he, Paul, brought up the subject of assisted dying.

Before a patient can take up the assisted dying option though, a second doctor must examine them and concur that they fully qualify - and especially that they are in a sound mental state to make the decision.

Critics of the New Zealand legislation say it is too restrictive - that it doesn't apply to people who are severely disabled for example, and others whose quality of life might be extremely hard. It doesn't apply, for example, to those suffering from advanced dementia. ACT party leader David Seymour says that the six month terminally-ill timeframe should be scrapped. 'It's a shame that some of the people who suffer the worst are still unable to access the law.'

In support of relaxing the criteria, the chief executive of Totara Hospice, Tina McCafferty, told media she would '...at best like to see that timeframe removed, or extended to twelve months.'

At the other end of the scale, there are many who believe the End of Life Choice Act is just wrong, and has no place in a society where palliative and end-of-life care is of a relatively high standard. In the lead-up to the second reading of the Act in 2019, a coalition of 1000 doctors presented a petition against the introduction of assisted dying legislation, telling media that it believed, 'physician-assisted suicide and euthanasia are unethical, even if they were made legal.'

Anti-abortion movement Right to Life also took up the call against the legislation, with secretary Ken Orr arguing that voluntary euthanasia is both suicide and murder, while Hospice New Zealand declared that they would provide care up to the point of end of life, but would not accommodate the procedure within hospices. CEO Wayne Naylor said, 'The actual act [assisted dying] itself is not a thing that hospices do as it is not part of hospice care.'

However, the End of Life Choice Act was passed and became law on 7 November 2021.

The legislation is up for review soon (late 2024), although this will still only result in recommendations rather than any guaranteed changes, so any law amendments will probably rely on the tabling of a private member's bill. It could be two or three years before any changes, if any, are effected.

But for Paul Weaver the legislation as it stands did work. His primary aim in choosing it, as mentioned, was that his family and friends did not have to go through the anguish and pain of watching him die over a protracted period as his lungs deteriorated. He succeeded in that. In a final email to me just days before the procedure he said, 'my body is broken and other exits could get pretty ugly.'

Paul Weaver left us voluntarily on 1 September 2024.

POSTSCRIPT

In July this year, after having qualified for assisted dying, Paul agreed to be interviewed about his decision for my Access Radio programme 'Mike On...' and in that half-hour chat he clearly sets out the background for choosing to use the option of assisted dying and the implications of it. It's a poignant and reflective story, and it underlines one of the key motivations behind the legislation: that a person can bypass unbearable suffering at the end of their life, and save their nearest and dearest from the pain and anguish of watching them in their final decline. I believe it's worth a listen.

The programme aired on Wellington Access Radio on Thursday 12 September. Anyone can still listen to it via the station's website, on the 'Mike On...' podcast page. It is also be available on Spotify Podcasts, Apple Podcasts and iHeartRadio.

The programme was broadcast in memory of, and is dedicated to, Paul Weaver.

If you want to know more about assisted dying in New Zealand, or would like to speak to a counsellor, here are some options:

Some organisations and departments associated with assisted dying:

NZ Ministry of Health

Te Whatu Ora

Voluntary Euthanasia Society New Zealand

End-of-Life Choice Society NZ

For counselling in New Zealand:

Lifeline NZ, phone 0800 543 354 or text 4357

To speak or text to a counsellor dial 1737

This page was updated on 9 September to correct a date error.

Sole Searching

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Tue, 23 Jan 2024 03:34:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar pounds the pavements in search of fulfilment

It's blowing a northerly gale and I don't want to go out running in it.

Actually, it could be the most perfect day on earth and I wouldn't want to go running. But the problem is I have signed up for a 10 kilometre 'fun run' (I use the term 'fun' here loosely), and I have just 26 days until the Big Event. I have only myself to blame.

For those stuck in an imperial past, 10 kms is 6.2 miles, so basically just under a quarter of a marathon. Unlike the original Marathon Man, I would therefore never have made it to Athens to deliver the news that the Greeks had trounced the Persians, but then I wouldn't have died as a result either. No news is good news in this case.

So why am I doing this? Let's add some context. This year I turn 70 - hard to believe I know, but there you are. I have a certificate to prove it. It's called a Birth Certificate. And I haven't run for anything other than a train or a bus in about 20 years, so I am not to be seen pounding the pavements or anything like it on a regular basis. Nor am I a gym bunny. My idea of exercise is leaping to conclusions.

But, as with most years, my wife Liz and I are trying to do 'Dry January', where we give up drinking alcohol for the whole month, 1) to allow our livers to recover from the festive season pounding, and 2) to prove to ourselves we can do it - and hopefully feel the better for it. But for me, oh no, that wasn't enough, was it? No, I had to go further.

I happened to stumble across an item online announcing that this year's Round The Bays Fun Run is to be held on 18th of February, and foolishly I thought, well, why not add a bit of exercise to the non-drinking thing and see what happens? At the worst I won't be able to run that distance, but I do like walking, and walking the 10kms is an option if the running doesn't work out. So I paid the registration fee.

Am I mad or what? (Hold off answering please until you've read a bit more)

No, not entirely loopy. I ran a couple of half-marathons back in the 1980s and did so in quite reasonable times. In those days I would run for enjoyment (I know, right?), and I did actually sometimes reach that 'zone' that runners talk about, where you achieve a certain physical and mental satisfaction - if not a kick - simply from running a decent distance. It's a buzz, a fix.

1987 half-marathon, that's me in the middle, post-run

But as I said earlier, running for a bus is about all I've done in recent years, although I am at least blessed with legs, hips and knees that still work okay, and walking, even long distances, isn't a problem.

One doesn't, however, at the age of 69 just slip on some running shoes and head out the door for a five kilometre jog; that would be foolish and possibly even dangerous. No, one is supposed to build up both distance and stamina over time, and so there are schedules available online showing how far to run each day (or even if to run - there are rest days), and how to increase your distance gradually over time. Which is what I've been doing.

It's been going okay, but I have to be honest, I really don't want to do it. Yesterday for example was my weekly 'rest day', i.e. no running at all. Lovely. It was also 29 degrees Celsius (84 F) so I shouldn't have been running in heat like that anyway. Instead I lay on the sun lounger and drank zero-alcohol beer.

Today though I'm supposed to be out for another training run, and I just don't want to go. It's very windy, and that seems like a good excuse. The Clash is singing in my head right now: Should I stay or should I go? Followed by the lines: If you run it is a slog... So stay at home and write a blog. Which is exactly what I'm doing.

It's a delaying tactic. I'm good at those. I should write a self-help book on delaying tactics, and maybe I will. One day. Maybe.

But I will run today. I know I will, because in the past three weeks I've gone from not being able to jog even a kilometre, to now running 4.42 kms non-stop. Plus I've lost around 3 kgs (6.6 lbs) in weight, although given that I'm not drinking alcohol it's likely to be a combination of that plus the exercise that's doing it. I needed to lose weight anyway as I was developing what's known as a roof over the tool shed.

It's helped that at weekends my son comes running with me and is gracious enough to shuffle along at my pace rather than his more lengthy lope. I suspect he also knows how to make sure he stays in my will. It's good to have a running buddy though and I look forward to our runs together. But because he works Monday to Friday I find myself having to train alone during the weekdays, which makes it harder. As does Wellington's wind today. Oh the reasons not to go running are mounting up!

The training advice online says that if you are in pain from running then you should stop, particularly at my age. I do actually have a bit of a twinge behind my knees, another excuse to stay home, but if I'm honest it's not really bad, and I know that when I start running I won't notice it.

And then there's the people, the crowds. I had planned to run today along the waterfront, and now it's lunchtime which means there'll be lots of people promenading, getting in the way, blocking my path. Yes, I should just stay home. There's always tomorrow, or the next day. Maybe I'll just do some sit-ups and push-ups, a few stretching exercises. The deck is sheltered and the sun lounger is calling to me. There's a cold 0% alcohol beer in the fridge.

Oh sod it. I'm going for a run. See you later.

The Book of the Year! Success for Unity!

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Tue, 02 Jan 2024 20:28:00 +0000

Actually, my apologies, I think I’ve transposed the headline; maybe it should be The Year of the Book, since 2023 was when I completed and published my first spy novel, Unity. Thank you, thanks. Wonderful. No really, there’s no need. Oh all right, keep going… (takes a bow, accepts flowers)

Was Unity a success? Well, that's a good question, but it might not be the best way to ask it. I’m reminded of when Bilbo wishes the wizard Gandalf good morning: Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat. “What do you mean?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

I’m no wizard (and some might argue no author), but whether my novel has been a success depends on the perspective. So, at the top level we could perhaps argue that for a novel to be successful it must have become a best-seller, perhaps with the film rights bought by a production company. Unity has sold fewer than 150 copies in a year (pass me the tissues…) and nobody has beaten a path to my door for the rights to it, so in that respect it has been a miserable failure.

Another benchmark would be that an established publisher picked it up and is now promoting it to booksellers and libraries throughout the land, with a generous advance to me to write a sequel. The publisher has organized a number of launches and signings, and I am in demand by all the literary supplements for interviews and profile pieces. Spoiler alert: I don’t have a publisher. I self-published, so no speaking tour or interviews, and no profile pieces. And I can’t afford any paid promotion. Success? Nope.

It’s about here that Gandalf, his bushy eyebrows arching together, would ask: “Or do you mean it’s successful because those who’ve read it have enjoyed it?” Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. By all accounts – and I mean verifiable feedback: reviews and ratings on both Amazon and Goodreads, along with direct emails and feedback to me personally – Unity has been successful. Those who’ve read it have enjoyed it (or for some reason been too scared to tell me they haven’t).

Ah yes, you ask, but are we talking hundreds of reviews and ratings? Because that would be a measure of success surely. Er, no. At time of writing there are 14 ratings and ten reviews on Amazon (but averaging 4.8 out of 5), and nine ratings with five reviews on Goodreads (all five stars). In terms of the quality of feedback then, yes Unity is a successful novel. In respect of the quantity? No, still struggling.

But what about peer endorsements? Established novelists usually have another famous author endorsing their books on the front cover, which gives confidence to the potential reader. If Ian Rankin says of Mick Herron’s Spook Street that it’s “A terrific spy novel” (which he does) then for Ian Rankin fans that’s all they need to check out Herron’s works. Did Unity receive any famous endorsements?

Well, actually, yes. Veteran actor Derren Nesbitt (Where Eagles Dare, The Prisoner, Special Branch, etc.) liked it and said I was “a very fine writer.” (Some may know that Unity has a tie-in to the enigmatic ’60s British TV series The Prisoner and Nesbitt was one of the guest stars). And David Pinner, author of Ritual on which the cult film The Wicker Man is based, calls Unity “a fine thriller.”

Successful endorsements? Yes and no. If Unity was widely available in bookshops and people saw those endorsements on the cover they might well be encouraged to purchase. But it’s not. So, lovely though the endorsements are, it’s like shouting them into the darkness and not even hearing an echo. But I’ve got them, so at least that’s something.

But about now Gandalf would be going, “Hrumph,” and snapping the reins to get his horse and cart moving along with some haste.

Am I despondent? Do I feel writing Unity was all a waste of time? Am I giving up writing altogether? You’d be entitled to ask given that so few copies have sold and considering all the energy I put into it. But for those of you with a bad case of schadenfreude, bad luck; no I’m not giving up, and here’s why…

I learned a lot about writing when I authored Unity. I unashamedly mimicked some of my favourite authors, emulating their writing styles and being inspired by their use of language. Not for a moment is this plagiarism; I am talking about being inspired by other authors, not pinching story lines, paragraphs or whole pages from them. I believe the quality of my writing improved as a result. That’s a success, and I enjoyed writing the book. Yay, high-fives all round.

When the book was in its final draft form I managed to cobble together a ‘focus group’ of 12 pre-readers who agreed to read it and provide me feedback, both in terms of the story and the grammar, spelling etc. As a result, I was able to tweak the narrative appropriately before release and fix most of the errors; any remaining are entirely my fault. How is that a success? Well, I didn’t have to pay for an editor (which I couldn’t afford anyway) and it helped confirm for me that the story was actually okay; independent readers told me so.

And finally, I successfully self-published Unity using Amazon KDP – Kindle Direct Publishing – a platform for authors to get their works published and available globally at virtually no cost. I designed and created my own cover, uploaded and formatted the manuscript, and proofed everything before hitting the “Publish” button. Hey presto, the book was born.

There are no vast stocks of Unity sitting in a warehouse somewhere, costing me storage fees; Amazon KDP makes the eBook version available for instant download, while the paperback and hardback versions are available on a print-on-demand basis, something that still gobsmacks me to this day. I recently ordered ten copies and they arrived within seven days. I don’t know how they do it.

I know of authors who can’t negotiate the mechanics of publishing with KDP and who pay “experts” a lot of money to do it for them. In that respect, I regard having done it by myself an achievement.

But beyond all of that, I wrote a spy novel. It might not win the Booker, it might not be a best-seller, and it might not even be in the shops. The thing is: I did it.

Success.

(Find out more about Unity: Peace for All, Freedom for None at www.unitystory.com)

The Jewel in the Crown?

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 04 Aug 2023 17:21:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar ponders the frustrations of gaining an endorsement for his debut novel while facing the big problem of all self-publishers...

Caution: Analogy Ahead!

I have been given a valuable jewel, a shining faceted trinket, worth - in certain circumstances - a great deal, and yet also possibly worth nothing. I am in a dilemma. But let's do a quick recap first so you can better understand where I'm coming from...

I self-published my first novel (through Amazon KDP) in April this year. It's a spy thriller in the classic Cold War genre. I may have made a mistake tying it into a popular 1960s British TV series that even today, 55 years after it first screened, enjoys cult status. The series is called The Prisoner. Why a mistake? Read on...

My book - Unity: Peace for All, Freedom for None - takes the flipside of the television series and aims to give a fictional yet plausible behind-the-scenes story to make sense of the enigmatic offering on screen. Problem is, I don't own the rights to the series, and ITV (who do) won't enter into negotiations with me. So, it's published, sadly, as a work of what's called 'fan fiction' (a term I loathe, and a major mistake).

Being a self-publisher I don't have a marketing budget (and because the work is fan fiction I'm not allowed to profit from it, so there's another mistake). Therefore my marketing to date has been limited to a book launch, and lots of social media posts. But I have tried to get endorsements from other well-known authors in the hope their encouraging words might help people decide to purchase.

Fishing for compliments

I have had limited success. Robert Harris's publisher returned the book with a polite no, sorry. Most others didn't even respond. But I did get a lovely endorsement from one of the few remaining actors who starred in The Prisoner, Derren Nesbitt (also of Where Eagles Dare fame, and more), and although he described me as 'very talented', and a 'fine writer', he felt I'd made a mistake tying the book to the TV programme (biggest mistake endorsed by famous actor!)

I have, more recently however, received a glowing testimony from an author rather than an actor, one David Pinner, who wrote the novel Ritual that was turned into a film called The Wicker Man (also a cult classic). His full summation of Unity was thus:

"Unity is very well-written and shows good political nous. A fine thriller: it is also a work of sharp prose and great economy. ‘Art is the gift of saying the most with the least’ and Mike Bodnar knows this.’ "

Author David Pinner

Lovely. From that I have chosen 'A fine thriller' as the key takeaway, and it now adorns the cover of all versions: the eBook, paperback and hardcover. (And before you ask, yes it does pay to 'know people'. One of my oldest friends just happens to be acquainted with Pinner, so he acted as a go-between for me and cleared the way for Mr. P to read the book and comment on it. I am lucky.)

My main problem however remains: I still don't have a marketing budget, nor a publisher with a distribution network, nor any major literary platform on which to showcase Unity. Yes I now have a wonderful endorsement, but all I can afford to do is continue to bombard my (very) limited following on social media with it.

I do have a few other ideas up my literary promotional sleeve: I plan to send a copy of the book to ITV with both the endorsements in the hope they'll consider Unity as a potential screenplay. (It is in fact written very much in a filmic style). On the other hand they might just take me to court on some basis of copyright infringement, but let them try; the publicity could be invaluable!

Another is to send it to mainstream book reviewers (ditto the endorsements) in the hope that David Pinner's support makes them at least take notice rather than bin it outright. Guardian, The Times et al, you have been warned.

Reviews for the asking (and paying)

Whenever I post on X (the platform formerly known as Twitter) I get inundated with offers from soi disant reviewers saying they will review my book for their 10k, 100k, 250k followers in return for a certain amount of money - so far anywhere between US$30 and $45 plus cost of the book. Well no thanks; I don't hold with the ethics of paying for reviews which, to my mind, renders them worthless.

One thing I can hope for perhaps is that when I've finished writing my next novel (12k words so far but slow progress) which is not tied to any TV programme I can approach mainstream publishers with the endorsements I got for Unity as evidence that I at least know how to write. It might help.

But in the meantime I need to find a cheap (read: free) way of capitalising on David Pinner's wonderful words. I've done virtually everything I can using social media including even trying to give the book away for free (no takers, go figure). It's like finding a dropped diamond after a robbery of the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London: it's worth a fortune but you can't do anything with it.

Any literary gemologists out there?

Chasing the Zeitgeist

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Tue, 18 Jul 2023 16:43:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar reveals how his research into 1967 Britain delayed finishing his book by a year...

An organic thing

I started writing my spy thriller Unity in February 2021. The date is etched in my memory - all authors remember when they started a work, and what it was like to get those first few words on the page, knowing that the other 200 to 300 pages to come were still blank. Emptiness stretched before me; it was literary high-diving into the unknown.

But while every author starts with a blank page or screen, authors en groupe do not share a common way of working. Some plan and map out their novels in extreme detail, knowing chapter by chapter what they will be writing about. Others draw diagrams, with circles, boxes and arrows linking characters, plot and sub-plots, with dramatic high points highlighted.

Still others, like me, just start writing, with only a notion inside their head as to where their story is going. That's fine though; each to their own. But this latter leap-of-faith writing-as-it-comes approach is the way it works for me. I guess in today's parlance I write organically.

London, 1967

However, once I'd started writing Unity I soon found that I was easily distracted, because as my novel is set in 1967 Britain - almost 60 years ago - I realised as I wrote that I needed to confirm the memories that I had of those days. And let's be clear, in 1967 I was but 13 years old, so I didn't have adult memories to draw on, only the acne-ridden recollections of a broken-voiced youth who was more interested in science fiction than current affairs.

Which is how I found myself interrupting my writing to do research. Let me give you an example from the book: Chapter 2 - Virgil Street Garage, London. Here I was just about 100 words into the story and I needed to find a real street in which to site the 'government garage.' So off I went into Google Maps, checking out satellite and street views, and found Virgil Street, not far from Waterloo Station and also not too distant from MI6 headquarters, Century House.

I wanted a real street so that I could actually see it (I did even go and visit) and write about it factually. There is no garage there, but there's a decent space where one could have been 60 years ago.

Century House today

Century House too caused me to detour onto the Internet; I needed to confirm where the headquarters of MI6 were located in 1967, and it turned out to be at 100 Westminster Bridge Road, a tower block that today is re-clad and refurbished as apartments. Almost 60 years ago it was London's worst-kept secret, and any cabbie could take you there or show you where it was if you asked.

Geographical locations aside, I also wanted to establish the zeitgeist of 1967 by correctly referencing such common objects as telephone kiosks (I do remember how pongy they smelt inside, of tobacco smoke and worse), and the motor vehicles of the time: Rovers, Austins, Ford Cortinas and so on. I even researched the factory colours for the Ford Cortina used by Russian undercover agent Lillian Grimes and her partner Dmitri.

When MI6 Director General Stone lunches with Foreign Secretary George Brown (for it was he) at the Savoy Grill, Brown is so distracted by news of a top intelligence operative resigning that he fails to read the menu, and instead says to the waiter, 'Tell Silvino I'll have whatever he feels would go best with the '55 Cheval Blanc.'

Silvino was the name of the head chef at the Savoy at that time, should you care to research it for yourself. And yes, 1955 Chateau Cheval Blanc was indeed a fine Bordeaux vintage.

My point is that I thoroughly enjoyed chasing information down rabbit holes on the Internet, and I learned more than a few interesting things about the people, places and politics of 1967 Britain. I also became quite knowledgeable about the Browning Hi-Power .9mm pistol, how many rounds it could hold (13) and what its pedigree was (It was also the standard issue firearm to members of the SOE, the Special Operations Executive).

A Browning Hi-Power .9mm

In fact, I often got so absorbed doing the research that almost a whole day would go by with hardly a single page of Unity written, and I have a feeling that had I just concentrated on writing the book instead of going off at tangents it would have been ready for publication a whole year before it was in fact released.

So, what difference does it make whether such details are accurate? Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but there are pernickety readers out there who would delight in finding inconsistencies or historical inaccuracies in a novel, and more than a few reviewers who would use those as ammunition to shoot down self-published novels as being sloppy or lazy. I didn't want to give anyone the opportunity for such schadenfreude, but equally I wanted the story to ring true to anyone who read it, critic or not.

Above all, I wanted to believe in what I was writing myself; the research helped me visualise my characters, how they spoke and acted, whether they smoked, drank bitter or vermouth, wore a hat, or how they determined distance on a map without the aid of Google or the UK Distance Calculator app.

Foreign Secretary George Brown,
'tired and emotional'

The melange of real people - especially the politicians of the day such as George Brown, Alec Douglas-Home, and Prime Minister Harold Wilson - adds weight to the story too, and I as an author felt safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't end up in court for using them: you can't, as a writer, defame the dead. Anyway, Foreign Secretary George Brown really did have a drinking problem, and there were rumours within the intelligence community that there was a plot to oust Harold Wilson.

My reward for spending so much time on the research comes in the form of feedback and reviews. One perceptive comment, by a doctor of literature no less, notes, 'It's sharply honed thriller-writing, comparable with the very best in the field. Amongst the reading pleasures are the clever and devastating links to 60s political figures and what I call the 'faction' effect: you find yourself wondering: 'Is this actually fiction or has the author got the lowdown on what actually happened?'

Another says, 'I'm staggered with the quality of the writing and the attention to detail.'

Actor Derren Nesbitt

Perhaps the highest compliment comes from veteran actor Derren Nesbitt (star of The Prisoner, Where Eagles Dare, Special Branch and, more recently, the acclaimed movie Tucked) who emailed to tell me that he thinks I am 'a very fine writer... very talented' after he'd read Unity.

I seriously doubt many readers ever bother to investigate whether certain events in novels actually happened (I mean, they are novels after all, works of fiction), or whether some of the characters were real, but in the case of Unity I don't mind if they do check. I did deliberately include extra background information at the end of the book highlighting some of the realities, such as biological warfare experiments undertaken on the British public without their knowledge, details about the British intermediate range ballistic missile the Blue Streak, and Section VII, a division of MI6 which, during World War 2, trained young people as saboteurs, resistance fighters and even killers. That end section is designed to make you go, 'Wow! Really?'

I have started on my next novel and already I'm delving in-depth into the Internet, this time for the zeitgeist of 1970 Northern Ireland, and the beginning of what came to be known as 'The Troubles.' Alec Douglas-Home will be making an appearance again, this time as foreign secretary, and Edward Heath is the prime minister. There will be Ford Transit vans, and I can tell you even now that yes, in 1970, you could hire a car from the Dublin airport branch of Avis Rent-a-Car.

Please excuse me, I have much research to do...

Mike's next book The Liscannor Intercept should be out before Christmas 2023 (but might not be!)

There And Back Again - A Visit to Hobbiton

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Thu, 13 Apr 2023 11:04:00 +0000

Like Tolkien's diminutive hero Bilbo Baggins, Mike Bodnar goes on an adventure - to Middle Earth...

Hobbiton, Middle Earth, New Zealand

It's a well-known fact that New Zealand provided the backdrops for Peter Jackson's epic Tolkien movie trilogy The Lord of the Rings, and later The Hobbit. Aotearoa take a bow.

Nothing is more testament to this starring role than the influx of tourists New Zealand experienced once the first films were released; people from all over our own earth were desperate to see Middle Earth for themselves. Wikipedia notes in reference to the LOTR movies: The annual tourist influx to New Zealand grew 40%, from 1.7 million in 2000 to 2.4 million in 2006, which some have attributed to be to a large degree due [sic] to The Lord of the Rings phenomenon.

This tree above Bag End is completely fake

It's also a fact, however, that most film sets are ephemeral, and usually built of materials such as polystyrene, timber, fibreglass, plaster, and so on, so it should come as no surprise to tourists that even if they do make the pilgrimage to Aotearoa in search of Middle Earth, they are going to be out of luck if they want to actually see Rivendell, Minas Tirith or Helm's Deep. The sets were torn down after filming, often because they were on public land, and their destruction and disposal was part of the filming arrangements.

Rivendell is a good example. The verdant location for the Elven dwelling was in Kaitoke Regional Park, north of the capital, Wellington. The park is operated by Greater Wellington Regional Council, and although Jackson and his crew had access to the area for many months, and erected various walls, 'stone' steps, plazas, rooms, even a fake bubbling stream, there is now nothing to see of any of it. (That said, it's such a pretty part of Wellington it deserves a visit in its own right, and local LOTR tours will show you exactly where certain scenes were shot).

The site for Hobbiton, overlooking the water

But there is one location that does exist, and it's perhaps the most relevant and Mecca-like of all: Bilbo and Frodo's home settlement of Hobbiton, in The Shire.

Jackson chose the North Island location for its relative ease of access, its similarity in part to
English countryside, and the fact that it had a hill overlooking a body of water, as described by Tolkien in his books. It was - and is - on a working farm, so as with all the other sets, Hobbiton's Hobbit homes, gardens, bridges, even the Green Dragon pub, were all temporary structures.

The farm is owned by the Alexander family, and to their credit - and no doubt financial benefit - they reached a partnership agreement with Jackson's lot to recreate Hobbiton and to rebuild it in accordance with modern construction codes, so that visitors could enjoy it today. The result is something to strike joy into the heart of the coldest Orc in the land.

Where it all starts: the Shire's Rest Cafe

Needless to say it is hugely popular. On a recent trip to New Zealand we had booked a month or so in advance, critical in summer when most people visit, though it is open all year round except Christmas Day.

Two things impress: one is the attention to detail throughout Hobbiton, and the other is how well-run the operation is. Let's start and dispense with the operational stuff.

Of necessity, and because Hobbiton is on a working farm (a couple of hours' drive south of Auckland for reference), you can't just turn up and wander round unaccompanied. The attraction is extremely popular, so tours assemble and depart from The Shire's Rest Café, which is beside the road that passes the Alexander's farm. There's a Gondor-sized car park and a check-in reception. Plenty of seating indoors and outdoors, and the food and drink options are commendable. And loads of toilets!

The tour begins...

The tours are staggered so that you're not tripping over each other, but you can check the
details (and make bookings) on the Hobbiton Movie Set tours site. I encourage you to do so; but I'd rather use this blog to reminisce about the experience. In a word: wizard!

Each tour group of approximately 30 people is taken by bus through the farm to where the Hobbiton set is. A video along the way means that both Sir Peter and Mr Alexander welcome you to the experience, which is all very jolly, but of course you spend your time looking out of the bus windows in the hope of a glimpse of Middle Earth (which you do get).

Me with Peter Jackson on the set of Rivendell,
circa 2000. Polystyrene, timber, fake stone,
even fake lichen!

There are rules, as the guide explains. No wandering off, stick to the paths, keep together, and that's about it. Our guide, a Welsh lass called Louise, was very good at explaining some of the cinematic techniques used during filming, highlighting details of the set, testing our LOTR knowledge, and she always seemed ready to answer questions or discuss things. I bored her with my story of how I chatted with Peter Jackson at Rivendell when he was shooting scenes there. She was very polite.

But oh my, what a lovely place. Hobbiton has been perfectly recreated, with all the essence of the settlement captured in perfect and extreme detail. You walk along winding paths through gorgeous scenery, past numerous 'Hobbit holes', their front doors all painted a different colour, their front gardens personalised with flowers, stalls of honey or cheese, even Hobbit-sized waistcoats and breeches hanging on washing lines.

There are over 40 Hobbit holes

If, like me, you've been a fan of both The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings stories for years, then you'll be transported back to the books. There's no sign of Hobbits of course (although smoke curls teasingly from at least one chimney) but I have to say I actually felt somewhat emotional, almost overwhelmed by what I was seeing.

As an 11-year-old, immersed in the Lord of the Rings books for the first time, I yearned to live in Middle Earth. My real earth wasn't all that good - I'd just started senior school and hated it. I escaped into the Rings books as often as possible and went journeying with Frodo and Sam; they took me away from the harsh realities of daily school life. Give me a Nazgûl over our demonic headmaster any day.

So for me, visiting this Kiwi Hobbiton was like arriving at a place I'd known about for decades, a place with which I was totally familiar, and yet one which by definition of its being fictional, didn't exist. And yet here it was. And it was perfect. Almost as though Hobbiton had really existed, and Tolkien had been there and written about it. Written about this place. I felt he would have been proud, had he been able to join our tour.

Nearly all the Hobbit homes are facades built into the hillsides, so most of the doors don't open and you can't duck in for a cup of tea, a puff of rough shag, or a pint of Rosie's cider, but that doesn't matter. I could empathise, because when we lived in New Zealand we built our own Hobbit hole façade, our own Bag End in fact, on a hillside at the back of our house. Unfortunately we sold the property before the

Our own 'Bag End' which became
a condition of purchase

grass could properly establish over it (see pic), but on the other hand the new owners - the husband worked for Weta Workshop and was involved in the special effects for Jackson's films - made it a condition of purchase that we left our Bag End in situ. We were happy to oblige (but I plan to make another one one day!).

The 'real' Bag End

Some in our tour group (myself included) wanted photographs of course, and here's the challenge: getting a shot of a Hobbit dwelling (and Bilbo's home 'Bag End' in particular) without other tour members in shot. The trick, I discovered, is to be the last in the group, so that everyone has moved on just far enough that you're left with a people-free photo opportunity. The downside of this is that you're likely to

miss out on what your guide at the front is saying, or that she'll turn the Eye of Sauron on you and burn you to ashes for dawdling. That's a risk I was willing to take. I'm still here.

As you can see from some of the images included here, my tactic worked, even to the point of getting Bag End without one of those large pesky men-folk in shot.

A detail that particularly impressed me about this reconstructed movie set was that in any gateway, or fence, or door or signpost, I did not see a single Philips screw or alloy nut and bolt. No stainless steel fittings, no MDF board. Everything was as it would have been in Middle Earth, and rightly so. Nothing looked new either; there was a quaint rustic charm and patina to everything, an appropriate lived-in look.

The bridge past the Mill leading to The Green Dragon

The tours, although well controlled, are not rushed. It takes about an hour to amble through the leafy byways, and to gaze in wonder at the to-scale Hobbit homes and gardens, and there's a bonus, my precious: the tour concludes at the quaint thatched Green Dragon pub with a free pint of cider, beer or soft drink. The Green Dragon, you'll be pleased to know, is human-sized, so there's no ducking down to get in or banging your head on the beamed ceilings.

The Green Dragon, complete with Hobbit

And because it was a nice day for our tour, most people took their drinks outside, which enabled me to get a shot of the interior without any people in it. Except for one child sitting at a table, and charmingly he actually was Hobbit-sized so fits into the scene perfectly.

A visit to Hobbiton is (obviously) something I'd recommend. Of course it helps if you've read the books or seen the films, but the place is so pretty, so perfect anyway, that even if you don't know a Hobbit from an Orc or a warg from a cave troll, you'd almost certainly still enjoy it.

If you do go, and your tour guide sears you to ashes for loitering to take photos at the back of the group, you can blame me. But remember to tell them that you're there because I recommended it. As I said earlier, it's wizard.

A Prisoner of Fan Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 30 Dec 2022 12:00:00 +0000

Writer Mike Bodnar has published his first novel, Unity, knowing that no matter how popular it becomes he will not make a penny from it...

I've recently finished writing my first novel. Thank you; a hat will be passed round shortly.

Image of Patrick McGoohan courtesy of Cultbox

However, to be clear, I had a springboard to leap from, and I can't lay claim to the original idea on which Unity is based. That, dear reader, is all down to one Patrick McGoohan (see pic), and if the name rings a bell it's because in the 1960s he was famous for playing agent John Drake in the British TV series Danger Man (Secret Agent in the United States), and, in 1967-68, as the unnamed eponymous lead in The Prisoner. It's this latter enigmatic series from which my novel takes its inspiration.

Why? Because The Prisoner has, for the past 55 years, confused, bewildered and beguiled audiences around the world, and still to this day people ask, what was it all about? What happened in the end? Did he ever really escape? And, just generally, WTF?

Prisoner fans re-enact the human chess game
from the episode 'Checkmate' during a convention.
(Image courtesy Welsh Holiday News)

There are multiple fan clubs and associations devoted to scrutinising The Prisoner's story arc(s) and quirks in minute detail. If you add up the memberships of those groups on Facebook alone you'll find almost 30,000 devotees. And there are multiple websites which attract membership from around the globe. There are even cosplay-style annual conventions. In short, The Prisoner very quickly acquired cult status, and shows little sign of slowing down.

As a result, there are many, many books that have been written about The Prisoner, some factual, others speculative, along with many novels and novellas. The - excuse the pun - captive audience laps them up, so I knew before starting out on my writing venture that there was a market out there hungry for more. I hope so; I'm banking on it.

Initial trial print run

Or rather, I'm not banking on it. Because I can't. I cannot - in fact am not allowed to - profit
from this work because I do not own the rights to the original work itself, the TV series. That is now held by television company ITV. And before you ask, yes I have tried to buy the rights, but have met with a blank refusal, along with a warning to 'seek independent legal advice.' But I will not be pushed, stamped, filed, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered, to quote The Prisoner himself, and am determined to see the drooling audience satiated. I am resigned to not making any money from it though.

So why bother? I hear you ask. Because, although not a rabid fan or cult follower, I have been intrigued by The Prisoner since first being enthralled by it as a 13-year-old, and have enjoyed watching the odd re-run over the years since. I have also now had over fifty years to ponder what McGoohan was trying to say with the series, and - thanks to the Prisonerverse - I've been able to view numerous documentaries, interviews and other random material, all of which have also tried to answer the same questions. There is no shortage of analysis, and I thank all those who have done all that research for me.

Portmeirion, the charming yet menacing 'village'
where The Prisoner was held captive
(Image: Mike Bodnar)

But that doesn't answer your question. For a long time I've had oblique thoughts about the obverse side of The Prisoner's story. If he'd resigned and was then captured and interrogated as to why, then what was it that made him resign? Why did he need to be caught and incarcerated? What threat was he? And who held him prisoner?

With those thoughts tumbling around in my head for a few years it was no surprise to me when they finally coalesced into a plausible storyline, told from the side of his captors. This - unlike so many of the other tie-in stories - doesn't aim to continue the story after The Prisoner TV series ends; mine is instead a contemporaneous narrative, paralleling what happens in The Prisoner from episode one to the final bewildering act. Although, if I were to base my story on all seventeen episodes it would be pushing 200,000 words and likely be a trilogy, and given that there's no financial reward to be had I was not about to embark on such an epic adventure.

Be seeing you

Instead I have taken what many regard as the seven 'essential' episodes of the series and written a 1967-based spy thriller that sits alongside those stories and, hopefully, makes sense of them, or at least provides a viable explanation as to WTAF is going on. It is a more palatable 80,000 words, or just over 300 pages in paperback form. As stated in my foreword, the book aims purely to entertain, not to swell any coffers, and if there is inadvertent profit it will go to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, the RNLI.

I self-published the book as, to be honest, I couldn't be arsed sending it to publishers or agents who these days don't bother reading anything and don't respond anyway. Also, as a tie-in novel they're unlikely to be interested. So the sale price of Unity will be to cover production/publishing costs.

I'm officially launching the book during the 2023 Prisoner convention (21-23 April). Called Portmeiricon, it's being held at 'The Village' itself in North Wales, and the organisers have very kindly given me an hour's slot in Hercules Hall at 7pm on the Saturday (22nd) for the launch. Copies of Unity will be available. I'll even sign one for you!

(However, would you like to be one of the first to read it? You can get Unity on Amazon right now!)

But where, then, do I get my reward? Well, I have thoroughly enjoyed writing Unity over the past two years, and that in itself is profit of sorts. If readers actually like it then that also is a bonus, as any favourable reviews will be. But there's more; while I openly admit to having used the basic storyline of The Prisoner as my muse, I have in the process created a raft of original characters within the zeitgeist of 1967 London and the British intelligence community.

The author pretending to work

I've grown to like these characters, and as I wrote the last few pages of the book it dawned on me that I could craft a sequel, only this time using my own dramatis personae, and a story not related to the TV series; in fact having no reference to The Prisoner at all. This makes the next book a stand-alone intellectual property of mine, and one which, fingers crossed, I can make as much money from as people will throw at me. Form an orderly queue.

All I can tell you at this stage is that it's set in Britain and the island of Ireland in 1970, and is called (working title) The Liscannor Intercept. Yes it's another spy thriller, and yes I have started writing it. But obviously, it's classified, and if I told you more I'd have to shoot you.

Update, at 25 October, 2025:

The new cover on the second edition

Here I am almost three years on from when I first published this blog, and I have recently released the second edition of Unity. Content-wise there's not much that's changed; I dropped links and references to the book's website which, alas, no longer exists as it became prohibitively expensive to renew the site. I also dropped the crowdfunding link because, well, nobody was funding me, so that didn't work. Never mind.

Reviews for Unity on both Amazon and Goodreads have been fantastic (including, importantly, from Prisoner fans), and it gets a five star rating on both sites, so if nothing else that tells me not to mess with it too much!

The biggest change for the second edition is a new - and I think more dramatic - cover, and I present it here for your consideration. The book remains available in three formats: paperback, hardcover, (in the UK) and as a Kindle eBook. Sales haven't been great, and I'm still waiting for a film deal. I have, however, dropped the Kindle price to a very reasonable 99p (in UK money), so now is your chance to check out Unity. Thank you.

Following the Arrows

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Thu, 12 May 2022 15:12:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar adds another string to his bow and spends a day with some Surrey archers…

Katniss Everdeen on target in The Hunger Games.
Image: fencing.net

Archery is something most of us know about only from films and television. John Rambo,
Katniss Everdeen, William Tell or Robin Hood, they’ve all pulled a bowstring for our entertainment, and maybe to save the world while they were at it – or in the case of the elf Legolas, Middle Earth.

As a result we know only that arrows are deadly, are shot from a bow or crossbow, and either find their target accurately or rain terrifyingly down in their hundreds from the skies above.

From these brief but exciting small- and big-screen encounters we are therefore aware of the basic principles of the bow and arrow, but there are aspects of filmic archery that are nearly always wrong, as I learned from spending a day with some members of Surrey’s Longbow Heritage archery club recently.

Gerry May (aka 'Lord Raven'). Image: Mike Bodnar

‘The one thing they always get wrong in films,’ says veteran archer Gerry May with a chuckle, ‘is that they [the characters] always walk around with a strung bow,’ which, he says, would never have happened.

The bows, he explains, were only as good as their strength when bent, so real archers would always carry them unstrung.

‘They’d string their bows when they were ready to shoot, but not before,’ he explains. 'Whereas if you keep it strung it will stay bent, and then you lose power.’

And that’s another thing he tells me: arrows are always shot. ‘You fire a gun but shoot an arrow.’ I have a lot to learn, but I am building up my archery knowledge in perhaps the most pleasant way possible – by strolling through some gorgeous deep-Surrey woodland on a perfect late spring day with the sun shafting through the trees lighting up the bluebells, and occasionally spotlighting an animal target.

A rubbery fox. Image: Mike Bodnar

Because what Gerry and I are doing – along with novice archer Steve James who’s joined us to get some tips – is following a laid-out trail of eighteen targets ranging from hares and foxes through to a lynx, a bear and even a dragon. There are about twenty club members taking part today in this ‘friendly’ as it’s called.

It’s not so jolly for the targets however. Known as 3-D field archery targets, most of them are quite convincing (although I can’t vouch for the dragon) but are actually made of a durable rubbery compound.

Each target point is identified by a number staked in the ground, so in a way it’s rather like playing a round of golf except that you’re permanently in the rough. And, unlike golfing greens which are usually out in the open, these targets have been cunningly placed deep in the wood and, occasionally, even behind foliage. But even though they can be almost hidden, finding the next target point is quite easy since the trail is marked – appropriately – with arrows.

Not just for Merry Men; Jurga Artse shows her skills.
About one in three archers is female.
Image: Mike Bodnar

It’s not just a matter of hitting your target once you’ve found it though. Each animal has a rough bull’s-eye carved into it - called the 'kill' - so you get points according to where your arrows hit. Miss and you get nothing. (And in case you do miss there’s a ‘backstop’ behind each animal – a big black square of substance that is there to stop your arrows disappearing into the forest).

As we approach the first target point Gerry tells me how the scoring works. ‘You get to shoot three arrows per target. In the ground, at different distances from the target there are pegs: a red one, white one and a blue one. The red is always furthest from the target, the white a bit closer, and the blue closest of all.’

Which means that if all your arrows hit home while your foot is against the red peg you can score maximum points, but the scoring decreases the closer you get to the target. If your first arrow misses then you must move to the white peg, and again if you don’t find the target you move to the blue peg.

Gerry gives novice Steve some tips.
Image: Mike Bodnar

There’s also the matter of health and safety. Obviously a bow can be a deadly weapon, so it’s vital not to load your arrow before you’re ready to shoot.

‘It’s called “nocking,”’ Gerry says. ‘When you put the notch onto the bow string your arrow is nocked.’ He reminds Steve not to do this before placing his foot against the peg.

The fact that an arrow could seriously injure or even kill someone is the reason I’m not having a go myself; the club rules simply don’t allow it. Even a novice archer has to first be signed-off by a club senior that they can shoot straight before being allowed to compete, hence I am purely an observer for the day.

As we meander through the wood – Gerry and his Merry Men – I realise that there’s quite a science to designing a course like this. For one thing- as later confirmed by club secretary Carol Pearce who laid out the course – when shooting at a target you shouldn’t be facing any other target point or the trail, so that should an arrow somehow ‘go bush’ there is little chance of it finding a human target.

Also, the 70-member club uses the wood by private arrangement with a local landowner; it‘s not open to the public or ramblers, so the chances of strangers wandering into the kill zone are minimal.

The Longbow Heritage club house. Image: Mike Bodnar

As mentioned, not all the targets are in full view, and more than once Gerry and Steve have to shoot over or even through small trees or foliage. Some of the targets live: those where the arrows don’t find their mark. Gerry admits he’s not having a particularly good day, although when the arrows do find their target there’s a very satisfying and solid ‘thunk’ as they hit.

Disgruntled with his score (Steve was happier with his), Gerry leads us back to the ‘clubhouse’ – a small converted farm shed on the edge of a paddock – for lunch. Club members sit around in the sunshine and talk archery (naturally), compare bows, discuss arrows, and so on. It’s all very genial. Secretary Carol busies herself in the tiny kitchen making bacon and sausage butties. Nearby there is a practice target in the field which is put to good use by those not venturing into the woods.

A quiver of arrows
Image: Mike Bodnar

I ask Gerry what it would cost to kit-up as a beginner. ‘Oh you could probably get away with between £250 and £300,’ he says, and shows me a second-hand bow he is trialling for his son John. It still has the price sticker on it: just £25. But of course you could pay a lot more.

'There are a number of different bows,' Gerry says, 'from the traditional longbow that's shot instinctively with wooden arrows - and no sights - up to a compound that has sights and are a lot faster as they're shot with the aid of pulley wheels and use carbon or metal arrows.' These top-of-the-range feats of engineering can cost £2,000 just for the bow. As well of course you also need arrows, a quiver, an arm guard or brace, and on top of that there are club fees (but Longbow Heritage charges a very reasonable £15 per year) plus competition fees should you wish to compete. I am tempted, but only at the lower end.

So was novice Steve James, but initially only because he saw a second-hand bow advertised for sale. He tells me however that after buying it he discovered it wasn’t any good. ‘I took it to Carol and showed her and she said it was rubbish, get rid of it!’ With her expert advice he found a more suitable weapon.

As Steve heads back into the wood for some more target shooting Gerry gives me one last instruction. ‘Go and find an apple and stand it on your head,’ he said. ‘I need some target practice…’

Mike Bodnar was a guest of Longbow Heritage. Check out their club page on Facebook

When The Hammer Falls

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 11 Mar 2022 18:18:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar reflects on a couple of years of online auction hunting - the bargains and the booby prizes - and shares some top buying tips...

Image: The Drinks Business

We all had to fill in our lockdown time somehow didn't we? Yes, I drank more than I should have (still am TBH), binge-watched many a TV series, and - like so many others - started writing a novel. I'm still only half-way through; watch this space and form an orderly queue. But I also started going to auctions, at least virtually.

To go all historical for a moment, I'm not entirely new to the auction game. Back in the 80s (that's the 1980s, just to be clear) I could regularly be found downtown at the local auction house bidding for either general and household stuff or occasionally antiques and collectibles. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase - consider me a Lovejoy loveable-rogue type - but I also learned some valuable lessons.

One of those was the golden rule of setting your limit on an item and not exceeding it. The aforementioned thrill of the chase, as bidding becomes frantic, has seen many a punter pay way over the odds for a lot and bitterly regret it afterwards. Don't let that person be you.

A second major tip, if you're attending an auction in person, is to always stand at the back of the room so that you can see who you're bidding against. The good thing about this is that you

See who your competition is. Image: Lending Expert

can gauge how enthusiastic or otherwise your competition is; if they're increasingly hesitant as they bid higher then it's likely they're close to their limit. Of course this doesn't apply to online bidding where everyone's invisible.

And while we're on the intricacies, let's explode a myth about auctions. Just because the auctioneer is taking bids and you inadvertently cough, sneeze or swat at a passing fly, it's most unlikely that you'll find yourself accidentally buying a £5 million Banksy artwork. Auctioneers are very astute when it comes to recognising genuine bids over nasal irritations or pest control.

Anyway, that was the '80s. There followed a bit

Not all auctioneers are good photographers...

of a gap in my auction-going, and by the time I'd renewed my interest Covid had come along and put a stop to all manner of public gatherings in confined spaces. Unlike the hospitality sector though, where restaurants, bars and theatres suffered hugely, the auction game carried on online instead, with bidders registering with a particular auction and able to bid from the comfort of home. The only downside was the inability to go and view the lots on sale; instead we were left scrutinising photos on our computer screens or phones, and I can tell you that while most auctioneers know their business backwards, they're not all good photographers. So there was increased risk in online bidding due simply to the fact that you couldn't pop down to the auction house and inspect the goods.

My third tip tip therefore is: do your homework. All auctioneers are on the end of the phone and will be happy to give you more detail about a lot, and maybe even post more detailed images, so if in doubt, ask. Your homework should also however include some online research, particularly to help identify the likely value of a lot.

Image: chards.co,uk

The beauty of the Internet is that you only have to type in, say, 1965 Winston Churchill crown and you will quickly find that - spoiler alert - it's sadly not worth anything more than the five shillings it represented at the time of minting. Which is a bit of a bugger as I've got one. On the other hand you might stumble across a George III rosewood tea caddy in an auction and discover that an exact same box is for sale through an antiques dealer for almost £600, while the estimate the auctioneer has placed on it might be somewhere between £80 and £120. But that brings us to another important tip: don't get too excited about the estimates!

Auctioneers often put estimates on lots to manage your expectations (or even just possibly to inflate the value of an item? Maybe?). Sometimes a lot will have a reserve - a minimum amount agreed with the seller which determines the lowest amount it will be sold for. But the upper end of the price could be anything and is usually determined by how fierce the competition is among the bidders. So, your research should help you decide what you personally will be prepared to pay for something at auction, the actual value being somewhere between the auctioneer's estimate and the commercial value of it if bought through a retailer. But that brings us to the reason for your bidding.

Art is a matter of personal taste. Love it? Buy it!
Image: Great Western Auctions Ltd.

If you're going to bid on an item because it's something that really appeals to you, something you've always wanted, an item say that would be absolutely perfect to fill that empty niche in your study, or a piece of art that is of something or somewhere that resonates with you, then you're bidding from the heart, which can be a dangerous thing if you bid too high. On the other hand, if you really love the object, well, maybe it's worth it.

But if, as I do occasionally, you're bidding on something with the sole aim of selling it on to make a few quid, then you owe it to yourself to accurately determine its resale value before bidding, knowing how much you're wanting to make on it, and taking into account the extra costs involved such as the auction registration fee, the buyer's premium (basically a commission payment), and any packing and delivery charges.

You can do all the research and hard work you like, but there's also a real element of luck, as I know from personal experience, so permit me to gloat for a moment or two.

Image: Anon. to save embarrassment

Not all auctioneers are equal in their abilities to accurately catalogue a lot. Some may not even know what an item is, and therefore they go for a minimal description, as happened when I saw our local auction house (name withheld to avoid excruciating embarrassment to them) auctioneer Paul (name changed etc.) describe one particular lot as 'Vintage box'. Now I like small old wooden boxes, but I recognised that this was most likely a tea caddy, apparently made of mahogany. It was included in a general auction rather than a specialist antique sale, which meant my fellow invisible online bidders were less likely to be antique experts. So it proved. When the hammer fell I found I'd bought the box for £14, (£16.80 including fees).

After getting it home and learning a lot more about it (including that it actually was a tea

caddy) I was able to do some more definitive research online. It turned out to be a George III rosewood mahogany tea caddy by Chippendale circa 1780, one of which I found for sale by an antiques dealer for £580 (see pic.). Almost more excitingly I discovered that it has a secret compartment designed to hold the tea mixing spoon, so suddenly it was becoming a real Famous Five type-of find. "I say Julian, just look at this dashed secret compartment! What luck! Timmy, come back with that box you little rascal!"

Of course my initial thought was 'Profit!!!', but we've decided it's too nice a piece to sell just to make a few bucks, so it now resides with us. It's fun challenging guests to find the secret compartment.

Image: Anon. to save embarrassment, again!

A similar thing happened when I saw what appeared to be a vintage tin-plate model biplane in an auction. This time I was able to find it online before the sale, advertised in the USA at US$189. I successfully bid £16, and once again I could hear the lovely ringing of cash registers. But to my surprise my wife Liz loves it, so now it hangs mid-air above the desk in the office in a sort of static victory fly-past.

Not everything has turned out well. I wasted a few quid on a star projector which turned out to be very cheaply made and no use at all, and four bottles of sparkling wine that turned out to have no sparkle and even worse taste, but then wine-buying is always fraught with risk. The annoying thing was not being able to drink it to forget, it was that bad. And I had a close call with a wireless touchpad keyboard which turned out to be not the qwerty English type (despite the picture on the box) but a central European qwertz keyboard. Luckily I was able to on-sell it to a European gent who seemed pleased with the deal.

My rationale for all this buying and selling is simple: I aim to make sufficient profit on those items I on-sell to offset the cost of those that I wish to keep, so ultimately - even without selling the antique tea caddy at enormous profit - I have still ended up owning a heap of stuff that's cost nothing.

To be fair I put a real effort into marketing the on-sell items to best effect, and I always try and take multiple high quality images supported by accurate and detailed descriptions to attract buyers. I haven't had any complaints. But don't get me wrong, some items prove hard to move and one has to be patient. I currently have a new Landrover Discovery power steering pump that's proving hard to sell, but then I did only pay £5 for it.

I use Facebook Marketplace to offload most items as there are no selling fees. In the past few months or so I've sold a Victorian silver plate wine funnel, a trail wildlife camera, at least three watches, a wireless microphone, two zoom camera lenses, a model Spanish galleon, and a violin.

Not a reproduction. Cost £10; value at least £150

But there is enormous pleasure in successfully bidding on something that turns out to be valuable, such as the used-but-working Citizen Eco-watch that was listed as a reproduction. I took a risk and got it for £10, then took it to a watchmaker who confirmed it was the genuine article. New they sell today for £600, and even second-hand rarely go for less than £150.

I told the auctioneer about it and he just chuckled and said, 'That's the fun of auctions I guess'. He took it well I thought. Then he told me about how he made a major error in the first few weeks of starting his auction business: 'Some bloke bought a pair of jeans from an early lost and found sale,' Paul said, 'and after he'd collected them he took them home and checked the pockets... and found $3,000 in Canadian dollars!' He chuckled again, and added, 'We don't sell lost luggage items any more - too much hassle.'

I couldn't bring myself to tell him what the 'vintage box' was worth.

Where I do my online auction buying: Easy Live Auction

Birds Count, so Let's Count the Birds

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Tue, 25 Jan 2022 18:08:00 +0000

The gardener's friend. Image: Mike Bodnar

(Note: This article was first published on 25 January 2022)

It sounds like a line from an old folk song: 'Where have all the birds gone, long time passing?' Which would be cute if it weren't for the fact that in the UK an estimated 38 million birds have disappeared over the past fifty years.

I feel somehow responsible, since it was just over fifty years ago I left England and emigrated to New Zealand. Coincidence I hope. Please don't shoot the messenger. I have a solid alibi: I wasn't here, but for me it's become something of a reversed impostor syndrome.

So when I returned to England almost ten years ago it was to find my homeland sadly quiet in the birdsong department. Government records show that all birds decreased between 1970 and 2018 by 11 percent, but it was farmland birds that suffered the most with a 57 percent decline. Woodland birds also fell silent to the tune of 27 percent in the same period. There are other stats, but those are depressing enough so let's stop there. You get the picture.

I only mention it here because my fifty-year absence dramatically magnified the scale of the decline; I was shocked, and I still am.

Some farming practices are to blame.
Image: Shaun Cooper

Look up why the bird population has declined globally and Wikipedia will tell you it's because of (surprise, surprise) human activity. This, the online font of knowledge says, comprises: '...the increased human population, destruction of habitat (through development for habitation, logging, animal and single-crop agriculture, and invasive plants), bird trafficking, egg collecting, pollution (in fertilizers impacting native plants and diversity, pesticides, herbicides directly impacting them as well as the plant and animal food birds eat, including the food for their food source further down along the food chain), and climate change and global warming. Due to the increasing human population, people seek additional space from what was once wild. This is a major contributor to extinction.'

In short, if we all left the planet tomorrow the birds would be just fine.

The Big Birdwatch makes us citizen scientists.
Image: RSPB

So, since Elon Musk isn't quite ready to transport us all to Mars yet, what can be done? Well, this weekend (from Friday 28 January through Sunday 30th) is the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds' (RSPB) annual 'Big Garden Birdwatch' event, in which people like you and me are invited to contribute data on the birds in our gardens. For a brief moment we can become citizen scientists.

In itself, sitting in the garden wrapped up in a blanket counting what's left of the birds won't bring the 38 million missing avians back, but what it can do - and hopefully does do - is help inform government policy. Data are important, if only to know that the decline is continuing, because without that data there is little but anecdotal evidence.

So I for one will be watching the garden for an hour on one of the appointed days and counting birds. It is, literally, the least I can do.

An obliging blue tit. Image: Mike Bodnar

Last year's count was a miserable affair at our place, with maybe a couple of pigeons and a blue tit or two, but in the lead-up to this latest bird count I've been pleased to note up to nine sparrows at once, multiple blue tits including one long-tailed, a blackbird, two robins, two moorhens (because we live beside water), a wren, a crow, a magpie, and of course the ubiquitous pigeons. I feel there should also be a partridge in a pear tree.

It's possible that this year's (so far) mild winter - at least where we live - has been more conducive to birdlife in the garden. This week last year it was snowing. So not only will milder weather perhaps encourage more birds, it should also result in more citizen scientists observing them; maybe this year there will be even more than the million people who took part in the Big Birdwatch in 2021.

Long-tailed tit, on the up. Image: Green Park

And it's not all bad news; the RSPB reports that since the survey began there has been an
increase in great tits by 68 percent, while in 2016 long-tailed tits increased by 44 per cent. That's not to do with an increase in people taking part; the more who join in the more robust the data.

The RSPB's Big Birdwatch is the world's largest wildlife survey and has been running since 1979. Although initially aimed just at children (it was first featured on the Blue Peter programme on television), today anyone and everyone is encouraged to join in.

So now you're wondering, how can I contribute? It's easy, and you don't need binoculars or any special equipment other than a pencil and paper. On either the 28th, 29th or 30th of January you simply:

1. Watch the birds around you for one hour;

2. Count how many of each species of bird lands on your patch;

3. Go online and tell the RSPB what you saw.

Check out the details on the RSPB's site (there's a video), get your coat, scarf, beanie and gloves ready (or you can do the observing through the window) and become a citizen scientist for an hour.

If you're wondering why you should bother, well, I can think of 38 million reasons.

DOWNLOAD THE RSPB BIRDWATCH GUIDE (pdf)

The Meteoric Rise of Space Misinformation

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 07 Jan 2022 16:13:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar highlights why some media science is just astronomically wrong...

As you can see from the headline of my opening image, someone has captured brilliant photos of Comet Leonard 'streaking' through the night sky.

And sure, it really does look like it's hurtling through space, what with that long elegant tail streaming out and all.

But I have to disabuse you of something: comets don't streak, at least not in our skies. They move infinitesimally, incrementally, night after night. (Unless, of course, you're watching Don't Look Up, in which case it's time to kiss your ass goodbye)

Sure, up in space they really are hurtling; Leonard's a fast kinda guy - barrelling along at an estimated 158,084 miles per hour (254,412 km/h or 70.67 km/second), but due to the vast distance between us and Len, we don't see that speed here on Earth.

Imagine you're in an aircraft at 35,000 feet looking down on a desert highway below. You can see a vehicle. It doesn't appear to be moving, well maybe not much. But now imagine you're a hitch-hiker standing on the side of that same road. The car approaches and suddenly zooms past you, doing, let's say, 90 miles per hour. Whoa, that's fast! It just blew the cardboard hitch-hiking sign out of your hand! And they didn't stop!

Unfortunately, the media tends to use words like 'streak,' 'zoom,' and 'shoot' when referring to comets, which - for those who've perhaps never seen a comet before - raises expectations of some sort of spectacle where the celestial object is going to put on a display you'd expect to see at a fireworks event.

Don't get me wrong - comets can definitely be spectacular, but we've had only nine significant comets - that is, comets visible to the naked eye during daytime - in the past 300 years or so.

Comet McNaught. Image: Mike Bodnar

One of the more recent was Comet McNaught, named after the Australian astronomer who discovered it, and which could be seen in 2007.

Visible mainly from the southern hemisphere, some reported they saw it in daylight, but from where I was at the time - in Wellington, New Zealand - it required a keen eye and a dark sky without light pollution just after sunset to see it at all. But I did, just - see the pic and play Spot the Comet.

Which brings us to one of astronomy's biggest enemies: light pollution. Too many journalists rave that a comet 'can be seen' in a particular part of the sky without mentioning that if you live in a city you're unlikely to see anything at all due to light pollution. Some comets are so faint you need truly dark skies, such as those in Northumbria, a designated 'dark sky area,' to see anything.

And before we leave comets, may I just touch on the tail? A comet's tail develops more as it gets closer to the sun, due to the sun's influence on the actual comet which is an icy ball of rock and dust. The tail doesn't so much streak behind the comet as demonstrate which way it's oriented. That is, the tail will always face away from the sun regardless of the comet's direction of travel, because the ice and dust being burned off streams out away from it. So it's not, for example, the same as a boat's wake in the water, which will always be behind the boat and away from the boat's direction of travel.

No. Just no.

So even when a comet has passed the sun it's tail will still point away from it. Therefore, not only is a comet's tail nothing to do with its streaking, hurtling speed, it means you will likely best see a comet either just after sunset or just before sunrise. Unless of course it's one of those once-in-a-lifetime big buggers.

Now let's come to meteors. More specifically of course, meteors come to us, but once again the media rave about meteor showers putting on a 'spectacular display,' or that they will be 'stunning.'

Before we get into why some of that hype is only partially true, let's look at the media image here, which announces that a 'stunning' meteor shower is to take place over the UK.

Firstly, the image the tabloid has used does not show meteors; it shows star trails captured in a time lapse by a camera. Never will you see this with the naked eye because we as humans don't have the ability to slow down time and observe it thus.

Don't get me wrong - it's a lovely picture, but the picture editor has been lazy and chosen something that they think looks 'stunning,' and, in their ignorance, they have once again skewed readers' expectations of what they might see.

A meteor caught on camera. Image: iNews

Meteors are basically bits of space rock that burn up as they enter Earth's atmosphere. Unlike comets they really do streak, sometimes so fast that if you blink you'll miss them.

There are two main categories of meteors (sometimes called shooting stars): we have random meteors, which arrive unexpectedly and take us by surprise, and meteor showers, which are predictable.

Meteor showers are predictable because Earth's orbit, which is also predictable, passes through various known fields of rocky space debris as it goes around the sun, but the term 'showers' itself raises expectations.

A really good meteor shower could mean that, in a nice dark sky location with no clouds, you might see on average 50 meteors an hour, obviously an average of just under one per minute. But you're most unlikely to see a whole heap of them burn up in the atmosphere at the same time like fireworks.

Seeing 50 in an hour is, in astronomy-speak, truly stunning, but to the everyday non-astronomical bystander it's almost yawn territory, and in this day and age of short attention spans, many people want spectacular or stunning to mean that they can look at the sky for five minutes with a glass of Sancerre in their hands and be amazed at the spectacle above them.

So when the media rants about how spectacular a meteor display will be, take it with a grain of salt. Also check the weather forecast, make sure you're prepared to travel to a dark sky location, and take a comfortable folding chair, a flask of coffee, warm clothing, and lots of patience. Look up and enjoy.

The spectacular Arizona Crater formed by a large meteor impact.
Remains of the meteorite can be seen in the crater's information centre. Image: Mike Bodnar

Before we leave meteors, a couple of clarifications. Firstly, when people talk about having had a meteoric rise in their careers, they're meaning it was fast. Meteors don't rise - they only fall. Secondly, when a meteor burns up completely in the atmosphere it remains a meteor. If parts of it fall to earth then they become meteorites. Just saying.

Asteroids meanwhile are rocks in space. They're a bit like comets except with little or no ice and less dust. They're the stuff of disaster movies, and famously one has been found guilty of wiping out the dinosaurs and a large portion of other life on Earth when it entered our atmosphere and struck the planet 65 million years ago.

We're all going to f***ing die!

Advances in astronomy and detection technology in recent years mean that we now know of many many asteroids, and scientists maintain vigil over their orbits and paths, especially in relation to Earth. Most pose no threat whatsoever, but in recent years the media has thrilled to the concept of an asteroid having a close encounter with Earth, using phrases such as, 'Near Miss,' Brush with Extinction,' and, last November, 'Concerning asteroid will break into Earth's orbit in a week.' Quick, duck!!!

The story originated in a tabloid and was quickly picked up by other organs for its shock-horror value. The accompanying video began with, 'A giant asteroid is heading towards Earth.' Well, if you were just a headline reader you'd be running screaming for the hills, or walking through a park a la Jennifer Lawrence in Don't Look Up telling everyone, 'You're all going to f***ing die!'

You have to read further into the article to learn that not only was the asteroid not heading for Earth, it would be about 10 times as far away as the moon at its closest approach and poses no threat whatsoever. But a headline that says, 'No Threat Posed By Asteroid' doesn't grab readers. Or terrify them. Or sell newspapers.

Oh dear.
Image: Getty Images, as used by the NY Post

And note that the headline says the rock would '...break into Earth's orbit.' Forgive me, but many people would read that and assume it meant Earth's atmosphere, which, if it were true, certainly would require Jennifer Lawrence to comment.

A good analogy would be: you're in your car and you join the M25 ring road around London at a point in the south. At the same time a petrol tanker crosses the same motorway in the north on an overpass. You are, if you like, briefly on the same orbit around London, but the chances of you crashing into that tanker and dying horribly in a roaring inferno are pretty much zero.

In short, you are more likely to suffer ill health and mental issues reading tabloid hype than you are of dying in an extinction event caused by an asteroid.

Finally, let's turn our metaphorical telescopes to the moon and the hype that's been promulgated by the media about our nearest celestial neighbour.

I'm not talking about NASA's or billionaires' plans to send people there or build lunar colonies; I'm talking about the hype surrounding all the different names given to the full moon every time one comes around, which is approximately monthly.

Lunar eclipse, or Blood Moon.
Image: Mike Bodnar

You've heard them: there's the wolf moon, the blue moon, the blood moon, the pink moon and
so on. Bollocks. In the end, the only one that will look any different would be a 'blood' moon, which actually just refers to the red colour it turns during a full lunar eclipse when the Earth's shadow passes across it, which is a rare event. All the others are names drawn from myth and legend, or, like the harvest moon, the seasons. The full moon, for the most part, whatever it's named, will just look like it always does.

That said, never pass up an opportunity to look at the moon and marvel at our nearest neighbour. Use binoculars to see craters, and the so-called 'seas,' or use a telescope for even more detail. Avoid doing this during a full moon because the whole surface is lit up uniformly by the sun; far better to view it when it's a crescent, or a half moon, when you can marvel at the craters in relief along the sunlit edge.

So, my advice about all things celestial is: don't believe all the media hype, but do always look up when you get the chance. Marvel at the night sky, not at the media headlines.

By Any Other Name

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Fri, 17 Dec 2021 21:19:00 +0000

Pedestrian and auction-goer Mike Bodnar wonders how and why tabloid journalists label people in the media...

Source: Petty Images

I am writing this as an author. But at the same time I'm also a DIY enthusiast, and I'm keen on astronomy and all things space. I read mystery thrillers and spy novels. I am an old boat owner (in both senses) and I'm a whole lot more, but for the purposes of this article I'm simply a writer. That, however, would be of little interest to journalists from the Daily Mail, the Sun or the Daily Express. It's not exciting enough.

Tabloid journalists, you see, are more interested in providing extra and sometimes-tenuous contexts to those who feature in their stories so that readers will be drawn in, gasping to know more. A mini-survey I've conducted just over the past three days revealed (another word the media loves to use; Mike Bodnar can now reveal...) that a Celtic fan, a new mum, and a widowed pensioner all had something bad happen to them. And that's not even mentioning the other footy fan or the Durham student. But I have anyway.

The point is that in many, if not most, cases, the status of the subject featured in the story has little or nothing to do with the story itself. Take for example the headline, 'Celtic fan, 36, will stand trial over Captain Sir Tom Moore tweet.'

The first thing you discover on reading the article is that the fact the man was a Celtic supporter has absolutely no relevance whatsoever to his having been charged with sending an abusive Tweet. Neither for that matter does the fact that he was 36 years old. If I were a Celtic fan I'd be fuming about the subtext of this, vis: Celtic fans are right bastards to old people, especially when in their mid-thirties.

This tendency to label people in media stories as something more than they are is presumably to increase the shock-horror and tut factors. Somehow we are likely to be more gobsmacked that a Celtic fan would dare insult the dearly departed Captain Tom than if we'd been told, 'Man on trial over abusive Tweet.' Man? Who cares? Celtic fan (36)? Tut!

Meanwhile, a 'mum' was ordered by a local council to take down a Christmas wreath from the front door of her council flat due to health and safety concerns. The story is laughable enough for its absurdity, yet the Sun newspaper (I use the term loosely) felt it necessary to add motherhood into the mix. The fact that her daughter is actually 19 has very little to do with the story, but of course we are supposed to feel increased sympathy for the (apparently) single parent. Since the headline wasn't, 'Wife told to pull down wreath' we can't tell. Maybe we should be furious she's not married. I shall write to the Pope.

That esteemed organ the Daily Mail was pleased to inform us that, 'Durham student, 21, loses court battle with aunt over mother's will.' I was so relieved that it wasn't a student from Glasgow, or Leicester. Phew. Also, so she's a student, do we care? Well yes, I guess we're supposed to have sympathy for all students due to the horrendous cost of education, but in fact the story reveals (there's that word again) that she needed the money to put a deposit on a house and to buy a polo pony. Well diddums.

But in contrast to the Durham student (21), the Daily Mail also brings us the heart-warming news that 'Father-of-two, 44, finds £100,000 medieval brooch.' I always find archaeological discoveries fascinating, and in this case the brooch could be around 800 years old, unlike the finder who, as you know, is just 44.

More frustratingly though is that the dad's two kids don't even get a mention in the story, so it's hard to see what relevance there is in telling us they exist. The dad himself is an architectural technician, but maybe that was too wordy to fit in the headline; father-of-two is easier on the eye. 'Man' might have been even better.

'Man' also wouldn't do for the Mirror's story: ' 'Extremely popular' football fan, 46, dies after being unable to get Covid jab.' Although sad, the extremely popular man (46) would have died if he'd been a train spotter, a twitcher, or an orchid grower. Being a football fan doesn't make you any more susceptible to Covid, although there is the danger of close bodily contact with like-minded sweaty fans on the terraces, so maybe the Mirror was doing us a public service.

Turns out Mr Popular was also 'quite outdoorsy' and was a keen martial arts exponent, but for some reason the Mirror hacks decided 'football fan' would be more of a headline drawcard. And seriously, there's something a bit tacky about telling us he's 46 when he's not any longer.

The Mail Online meanwhile informs us that a mechanic was beaten to a pulp outside a nightclub. Are we supposed to assume that if he'd been at work and had a hammer or wrench to hand he could have fended off his assailants? That his lack of proximity to his Snap-On toolbox put him at a disadvantage?

Of course not; it was 2.30 in the morning. So what possible context can there be in his being a mechanic (24)? None, but the media hacks desperately need something to put in the headline, and an occupation or interest will do.

Oh, and an age, of course, because we all want to know how old someone is, said the author (67) of Sunbury-on-Thames.

I'm not highlighting anything new; this sort of sloppy irrelevant so-called journalism has been around for years, as has the British tabloids' tendency to label criminals 'yobs,' 'thugs,' and 'louts.' The Court of the Tabloids is judge, jury and executioner in one.

It's just that I miss the days when reporting was balanced and neutral and we could all form our own opinions after reading an article, and go 'tut' or shake our heads and comment 'shocking' as required. Or indeed move on and form no opinion at all. But we live in an age of extremes and extremists. And terrorists. Britannica.com says that terrorism: '...seeks to create fear, not just within the direct victims but among a wide audience.'

That seems to me what the tabloids are doing with some of their stories: seeking to create or highlight fear. I'm in fear every time I read any news, and you may well blame me for doing so.

Well, let me make it clear that I certainly don't read the tabloids, but sometimes their headlines pop up uninvited in my daily feeds on Flipboard and I can't help but notice them. But instead of letting myself be unsettled by stories of yobs and louts, I instead take some pleasure out of analysing the policies and thought processes of modern journalism and the media in general, and try to work out the rationale behind the different reporting styles. I haven't reached any firm conclusions yet, other than the media sector is so competitive that the papers, radio and television news programmes will grasp at anything to make a headline.

As I said at the start, I am at this moment a writer. When I go upstairs to prepare dinner I am a husband (and chef). When I stroll round the block I'm a walker, and when I watch the International Space Station go overhead I'm a space geek. I can be a driver, a boater, a cyclist or a pedestrian at any given time, which obviously the tabloids love.

We are all different things at different times, so - I can now reveal - I've asked my wife that, should I suffer another heart attack she is to advise the media of my status accordingly so that there can be no doubt.

Putting Our Nationality Behind Us

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Bodnar) — Sun, 21 Nov 2021 18:19:00 +0000

Mike Bodnar contemplates the bumpy road ahead for drivers after leaving the EU...

The now-compulsory UK sticker

One of the consequences of leaving the European Union is that drivers of British cars, when they journey overseas, must now display a specific sticker on their rear identifying their country of residence. Not on their bums obviously, on the rear of their vehicles. Come on now, behave.

Prior to joining the EU in 1972, such stickers were common, and declared the vehicle to be from Great Britain, with the initials GB, black on a white oval background. Upon becoming part of Europe however, these stickers were no longer necessary, since registration plates were changed to include a small ‘GB’ featuring the lovely EU yellow stars. In style and presentation they matched all the other EU number plates, and signified a unity, a togetherness.

But now that Britain has left, divorced, withdrawn and retrenched, we are once again faced with having to declare our nationality on our rears, except now the stickers have been changed from ‘GB’ to ‘

.’ And we aren’t allowed to use the attractive yellow stars or the EU’s blue background.

Apparently we only learned of this through the United Nations, which issued a memo. But it wasn’t a decree from the Eurocrats – it came from Westminster. A Department for Transport spokesperson told the BBC: ‘Changing the national identifier from GB to UK symbolises our unity as a nation and is part of a wider move towards using the UK signifier across government. We notified the UN of our intention to make these changes in July, and have been working with the sector to implement the change.’

Searching for a United Kingdom

So we are no longer

Great Britain

apparently, but that much has been obvious for quite some time. There’s little that’s great about a country as torn by racism, crime, homophobia, homelessness, political incompetence, and a mishandling of a pandemic that’s been, well, plagued by ill health from the start, as we are.

Tellingly, the requirement for us to now declare ourselves as being from the UK underlines that we are not part of the Europe Club any more; instead we are on our own, against Europe, independent, maybe even adrift. But – and here I finally arrive at my point - united we are definitely not.

We have the north-south divide in England, Scotland seeks independence, there’s an almost equal split between those Brits who wanted to leave Europe and those who wanted to remain in the EU, an increasing political chasm between the Tories, Labour and any of the other parties, and a general unease about how we should manage ourselves and our international reputation from here on. And I haven’t even mentioned the rich and the increasingly poor. There is little sign of unity.

However, the prospect of bumper stickers declaring us to be from the Disunited Kingdom are slim, since DK is already taken (by

Denmark

). NSGB would be appropriate, since we’re not-so-Great

Britain

now, but presents problems to those who design and print the stickers themselves. Instead of being a neat oval, the NSGB sticker would have to be more of a sausage shape. Not a German sausage note - a good old Cumbrian sausage. Or maybe a black pudding. NSUK also invites a wealth of derision. NSUK on this, etc.

Disunited Kingdom might work as DUK, but would open the way for references to dead ducks, duck for cover, and so on. So no, we’ll have no derision here thank you.

Anyway, United Kingdom? I think not. We haven’t had a kingdom since George VI, and although there’s a candidate pacing up and down in the wings as we speak (and has been for decades), we are a Queendom, and have been since 1952. One, at least, is not amused.

But mentioning the Royal Family brings up another thorn in our side, since we are increasingly divided over the relevance of the monarchy. The republican movement might well be rubbing their hands in anticipation of radical change, but the vehicle sticker designers will be holding their heads in their hands in fear of having to squeeze REPUBGB into a standard oval. We’re not talking a sausage shape here; we’re talking a whole salami. But then that’s Italian and would never do, no, no, no.

Maybe we just need to honestly declare ourselves a Free United Kingdom in Disarray.