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Working title: the dangers of Facebook, online dating, stranger danger and gross stupidity.

The (now defunct) Chameleons remain one of my favourite bands but were responsible for the most embarrassing night of my life.

After the band reformed, I went to their London gigs and occasionally frequented the (now defunct) Wishville forums for discussion about the band, concert reviews, banter about football, discovering new bands - all the usual stuff we did before Twitter and Last.fm came along.

In November 2002. The Chameleons played a single date in London before a German tour. As I had struck up a friendship with a like minded individual on Wishville (liked footy, liked The Chameleons, liked a laugh) and exchanged messages with him, we arranged to meet up for a drink in Camden before going on to the gig.

Mark Burgess is a City fan, so he'd arranged the gig deliberately to clash with United playing Bayer Leverkeusen in the Champions League so I'd hoped to see most of the game before going to the venue.

Anyway, we exchanged mobile phone numbers, exchanged descriptions and arranged to meet in an Irish pub (public bar) that was showing the football. I didn't tell my Mummy in case she was worried about me meeting a strange man I'd recently met on the Interweb.

Inevitably, something screwed up on the night mainly because we are blokes. I can't recall precisely what happened but someone had a flat battery, lost their phone or told their Mummy so I arrived at this hostelry and furtively tried to identify this gentleman from a (Wedding) photo he'd shown me.

To cut a long story short, I couldn't find him and he couldn't find me. Worse, the footy wasn't been shown in the Irish pub or rather, I think Arsenal was being shown instead of United, so I went elsewhere to watch the game.

After a few beers and United taking a 2-0 lead, I made my way to Dingwalls. Now, there was no way I was going to make contact with my 'Internet acquaintance' in a packed venue so I was quite prepared to enjoy the support (Brian Glancy), soak up the pre-match atmosphere, drinking overpriced lager while watching the technicians twiddle buttons on amps, place guitars on stands and say 'One Two - One Two' into microphones while waiting for The Chameleons to take the stage.

Unfortunately, as always, alcohol intervened and as I watched Glancy performing, I happened to see a young lady who was also a regular on Wishville. This young lady spent every spare minute and every spare quid on watching bands and had traipsed around Germany and the States following The Chameleons on tour.

Unfortunately, I only knew 'Cath' by reputation and only recognised her by virtue of her distinctive dyed red hair. While I enjoyed her superb gig reviews, we'd never communicated directly so I didn't know her and she certainly didn't know me.

I should have just left it well alone but for some reason I didn't and I approached a complete stranger (a female one at that) and memorably opened with: 'Hi Cath. Do you know where Joe is ?'

Cath Aubergine (for that was her rather unusual name) broke off her conversation with her mate, turned to me and replied: 'Sorry - what ? Joe who ? Who are you ?'. There may have been the odd expletive thrown in for good measure.

'Joe - I arranged to meet him here but....'

Blank stare. Her mate is also now looking at me with a similar blank stare. 27.4 seconds left before the 6'2" boyfriend returns from the bar with their drinks.

'Look - you know. Joe - Mr. Moto. Have you seen him ?'

'Oh Mister Moto - why didn't you say ? But what's your name ?'

'Andy.'

'Sorry - did you say 'Andy' ?' Another piercing, blank, suspicious stare. Times two.

'Look. I'm RomanTotaleXVII on the forums but my real name's Andy, alright'. Christ - the embarrassment levels were now excruciating as we were having to shout this conversation above the noise of Bryan Glancy's set.

'Oh so you're RomanTotaleXVII but hang on - you're not RomanTotaleXVII any more. You are now...'

'Yeah, yeah I know. I'm now FieryJack.'

'Yeah - you're the guy who names himself after The Fall characters. Well why didn't you just say so ?'

And so it came to pass - Cath Aubergine led me to the bar area and introduced me to Mr. Moto (aka Joe Donellan).

'Hey Joe - I've got someone who wants to meet you. Here he is - RomanTotaleXVII'.

Im not sure if it was Doug or Michael who first pointed me towards David Thornes 27bslash6 site but his latest exchange of correspondence with Michael Harding of the South Australian police is hilarious and had me in stitches.

I've read the article four times now and am still smiling. You can't really quote sentences in isolation to pay justice to the brilliant humour so just enjoy the full article. The guy is a truly brilliant writer.

London, near England - Thursday 18 February 2010

British Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, astounded the world today by announcing the total and immediate withdrawal of all British troops from the current areas of conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Speaking exclusively to Piers Morgan on a prime-time chat show with tears in his eye, Brown explained: 'During the course of the Chilcott Inquiry (led by that England rugby prop forward), a few facts became clear; Tony Blair misled Parliament and lied to the British public.'

'There were never any Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. We are fighting a war we can never win in Afghanistan. The time has finally come to bring 'our boys' home. We have lost over 250 young men in Afghanistan. Enough is enough and there's an election imminent.'

'A total of 12,500 troops will return home immediately from the theatres of war in the middle-east and Afghanistan. They will be fully de-briefed and given clean underpants. Then they will return home to their families for emotional reunions. Finally, the daily funerals of brave bomb disposal experts in Wootton Bassett are over. Seven TV crews and an opportunistic florist will also be recalled to London today.'

'This is not a day for trite soundbites but I can feel the hand of history on my shoulder. This day shall be a Public Holiday to be forever known as 'Honourable Draw in Iraq and Afghanistan' Day (HDIA Day).'

'On Monday, all the 12,500 members of the armed forces will all pack up their kit, say a tearful good bye and fly out to The Falklands to defend our newly found oil reserves from those pesky Argies.'

Whos there ?

Its me - Jamie.

Thinks to myself - I don't know anyone called Jamie. My son isn't called Jamie. My daughter isn't called 'Janie'. Even though the wife is visiting her parents and I have the house to myself, I don't suppose it's that bizarre, twisted fantasy featuring Jamie Lee Curtis.

I reached for a 3 iron to defend myself and finally get myself in the Daily Mail as a selfless vigilante, wrongly imprisoned for 7 years for simply defending his own property. An Englishman's home is his castle and all that.

'Oh - wait. Hang on Mister Brightside. Please put the golf club down, please. I've just come round for an Xbox controller and Norman Junior said you might be out so he gave me the keys to get in.'

And with that, I put the golf club down (Wilson Graphite Di9 Steel 4-SW) and said 'Oh that's all right then.'

Those 2010 Brit Awards in full:

• British male solo artist - Dizzee Rascal
• British female solo artist - Lilly Allen
• British breakthrough act - JLS
• British group - Kasabian
• British Album - Florence & the Machine - Lungs
• British Single - Beat Again (JLS)
• International male solo artist - Jay-Z
• International female solo artist - Lady GaGa
• International album - Lady GaGa - The Fame
• Outstanding contribution to music - Robbie Williams

...and Liam Gallagher swearing and throwing a microphone into the audience. Who said rock'n'roll is dead ? I bet Joe Strummer is turning in his grave.

One of the reasons for the reduced blogging frequency, Kenneth, is that I spend every waking hour devoting time to the thorny problem of monetizing this humble blog. Previously, I experimented with Adsense but sadly the revenue stream was insufficient to enable me to retire.

I am now pleased to announce the results of my research and contemplations.

Do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Be patient. Wait. Don't get frustrated. Just wait.

Sooner or later, you will receive an email promising you riches and wealth beyond your wildest dreams.

In return for posting a link to a Web site, I am going to receive a goodie bag containing the following:

• 2 Packs of Love Hearts
• 1 Pack of Chewits
• 1 Pack of Black Jacks
• 1 Pack of Refreshers
• 1 Millions Tube
• 1 Pack of Giant Parma Violets
• 1 Chunky Drumstick Lolly
• 3 Packets of Fizz Wiz
• 1 Marshmallow Flump
• 1 Pack of White Mice or 1 Pack of White Chocolate Buttons
• 2 Snap Crackle Chewbars
• 2 Fruity Pops
• 1 Piece of Bubbaloo cola gum
• 2 Fruit Fizzers

'The Retro Sweets Pile comes to you packaged in a clear bag.'

...which is very important as if the goods were packaged in a brown bag, people might think your were receiving sex aids through the post.

Prepare yourselves for a bunch of unobtrusive links to mindless, desperate UK based SEO agencies appearing shortly. Prepare yourself for a bunch of anecdotes about tooth decay and late onset diabetes.

Rich Manalang is taking a back seat and suspending some but not all of his online activities which is an interesting exercise I will follow as it unfolds. Or, rather I wont, because he won't be blogging about it. I suppose I could always email him at work.

I suspect Google Buzz was the final nail in his Web coffin. It certainly was for me. The privacy issues, the multiple, loud and prolonged orgasms from the Technorati, the same old avatars gradually showing up in my 'Friends' list quickly followed by the immediate same sense of 'Emperors New Clothes' and the inevitable post coital cigarette: 'How was it for you, darling ?'

Rich's decision to take a step back interests me as in the past, on at least two occasions, I have gone slightly further and committed Web 2.0 suicide. This entailed spontaneously and maliciously terminating a bunch of accounts on FriendFeed, Tumblr, LinkedIn and elsewhere. Of course, it didn't last and in due course I miraculously resurrected myself - but after slightly longer than three days.

What I find slightly odd about Rich's decision is that he will preserve 'IM and email' - I presume he means in order to work but maybe he includes personal use too - but he then goes on to include Google Reader as he finds 'GR adds order to the chaos'. I agree completely although I think the experiment would be much more interesting if he ditched GR and idle Web browsing for that matter too.

I suspect if I embarked on a similar exercise I would revert to scanning my small set of favoured Web sites. I also suspect, and it sounds slightly counter intuitive, that I would find lots more to blog about. Of course, Rich can't blog more because blogging is also suspended during this hiatus period. I also find this odd as he states outputs (5%) are much more valuable, but greatly outnumbered by, endless, mindless consumption (95%) so it would be interesting to see whether his outputs increase as a result of his self-imposed exile.

Many years ago, in a parallel universe not far from here, I worked for a small dot com Internet company.

One day, the boss walked in and proudly announced: Right - Ive bought everyone three sessions at the London Float Centre'. I thanked him but told him I wasn't interested and he could give my three sessions away to a more needy case but he was insistent and he was the boss.

So, on a Thursday lunchtime, I found myself nervously walking down to the mysteriously named 'London Float Centre' located not in sunny San Francisco but in grey, cold, dreary Clapham Common. As I nervously walked into reception, my preconceptions and prejudices were instantly reinforced when a young lady wearing a colourful, long dress with braids in her hair greeted me.

I looked around at the arty artwork on the walls and nervously mumbled: 'Err, this is, err, my first time. How does this all work ?' She replied: 'You just go to your cubicle, get undressed and enter the flotation chamber for 40 minutes. A quiet bell sounds to indicate the end of your session.'

'Undressed' - did she just say 'undressed' ? My reluctance and lack of commitment to this ludicrous idea was being severely tested already. I had packed my Hawaiian swimming trunks specially for the occasion. No-one back at the office ever mentioned getting 'undressed'. The young lady must have sensed my unease or maybe she saw my brightly coloured swim wear in my carrier bag I was holding (like Mark. E. Smith but without the broken hip). 'Of course, you don't have to get undressed. You can wear swimming trunks. It's entirely up to you.'

I was about to depart for cubicle 3, wondering what the hell I was doing here and cursing my boss when the young girl bamboozled me with a surprise, trick question: 'Do you want the music on or off ?' If I hadn't been so nervous, I would have answered 'Yes please. I'll have 'Bend Sinister' followed by 'The Sky's Gone Out' but instead I hesitated, looked blankly and replied: 'Music - how do you mean - exactly ?'

'Well - some people find the sensory experience is heightened by music playing during the session. If you don't like it, just press the button to your left to turn it off.'

'Ah OK then - yeah I'll have music. That will be nice. Thanks.' while thinking inwardly to myself '...nice to ease the boredom of being immersed in a salt water solution in a darkened room for 40 minutes.'

I made my way to cubicle 3 and assured myself that the dimensions of the flotation tanks meant they were single user only and the cubicle could be locked to ensure stray people could not wander in and mistakenly stake a claim for immersion chamber No. 3. Finally, reluctantly, I decided to embrace the full hippy, flower power, free love experience by casting aside my shorts. Plus the wife would be pleased - they wouldn't need washing.

Feeling like an idiot, I laid down in a small-ish, rectangular tank of warm water. Gradually, the concentrated salt solution managed to float my enormous bulk and I just laid there floating - in silence - with the light on - staring at the cream roof. Now what ?

I remembered the girl had told me to press another button to turn the lights off which I did.

Now I was lying bollock naked, floating around in a tank of luke warm water, staring up at nothing - in pitch black. It was dark, completely dark. I waited 40 seconds for my eyes to adjust so I could make out the reassuring lines of the walls and the ceiling but my eyes didn't readjust. It was still pitch black.

I was floating around aimlessly. I nearly had a heart attack when my shoulder bumped the side wall. I thought someone, possibly the not unattractive hippie girl with dreadlocks, had somehow unlocked the door to cubicle 3 and silently crept in unnoticed to lie alongside me.

I tried to calm myself down, to be open minded and lighten up - for 30 seconds at least - and to actually try enjoy the whole experience. I managed to master floating while remaining perfectly still. I gradually felt calmer and actually started to enjoy the silence. No longer was I looking for the solace of the walls or the ceiling or worrying whether my wallet was safe.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, like a shot to the heart, from nowhere , soft music started playing. Very quietly, very gently - whale like music. This was just like having a water birth at home - except I was a middle aged man in a flotation chamber in Clapham Common. Obviously, they didn't have anything by The Fall or Bauhaus - I must put that on the feedback form.

I laid back again and listened - nothing - apart from the strangely reassuring and apt sound of dolphins talking to each other. I strained my eyes - nothing. Again, I relaxed and forgot all about my stupid, small, minuscule, trivial worries at work. I forgot about everything. I even forgot about the prospect of falling asleep, drowning in 8 inches of water and winning third place in the 2001 Darwin Awards.

I laid back, floating. My mind became strangely blank. Completely blank. It was glorious. A glorious nothing-ness. A glorious emptiness. A glorious void. I just laid there; doing nothing, thinking of nothing.

This state of mind continued for another 25 minutes. Not once did I think of the time. Not once did I think of work. Not once did I think of United's chances of lifting the title. Not once did I think of online media recovery of an Oracle database when some of the archived redo logs were in deep in secure storage offsite and we only had a daily collection from Iron Mountain. Not once did I think of the appraisals of the four people reporting to me.

After a beautiful period of more nothing-ness, a gentle noise told me the session was now over. I lay there for a little longer and finally pressed the light switch.

The lights came on. I was back in the real world. I could see the walls. I could see the ceiling. I could see how small the flotation tank was. I could see a third button next to 'Music' and 'Lights' called 'Emergency Assistance'. Good job I hadn't noticed that earlier. The whale music CD abruptly ended as if killed by a blood soaked harpoon.

I got dressed, checked the contents of my wallet and packed away my dry swimming trunks for my summer holidays in Crete.

I walked back into reception: 'Now - how was it ?' 'Yeah - it was great. Thanks.' 'Oh good - we've had a lot of people from your company. They all seem to enjoy their sessions here.'

'Would you like a cup of tea ?' I was about to reply 'No - really I've got to be getting ba-' but I caught myself just in time. 'Yeah - that would be great. Thanks.'

So I sat down with some blackcurrant, herbal tea chatting with the receptionist about the science behind flotation chambers or isolation tanks.

Then I returned to the office. Now this is where is gets really weird.

I couldn't concentrate. I felt like I was still floating up high, looking down on everyone. I felt like I'd done some drugs. I couldn't type or read my email - well that's not true - I could type letters and read words but they didn't seem to make sense. Nothing seemed important. Nothing seemed to matter. As The Chameleons sang in 'Second Skin', I felt like 'I was floating on air'.

At 4 o'clock, I capitulated, politely made my excuses and decided to go home early.

Years later, whenever I recount this story, my wife says: 'Yeah - it was weird. When he walked in, he looked like a complete zombie. I thought he'd been made redundant or someone had died at work. Either that or someone in the office had given him space cake for a laugh.'

    AND TO_NUMBER(TO_CHAR(appt_start_dt + 9/24, YYYYMMDDHH24MISS)) <=
    TO_NUMBER(TO_CHAR((TO_DATE(:b1, DD/MM/YYYY HH24:MI:SS)),
                                     YYYYMMDDHH24MISS))`

Please can a clever Oracle person explain, in English, the precise semantics of this WHERE clause snippet in the comments below.

I realise this construct and variants thereof have probably been discussed ad infinitum on Oracle WTF but I just don't get it.

I don't know whether this SQL was written by a human being or a third party ETL tool but it doesn't matter. Currently, all ETL tools are written by humans in any case.

Why do people struggle so much with date arithmetic ?

When I was a little boy, I used to say 'Only 43 days to my birthday now, Dad'. Although I didn't know it at the time I could have written this as

    sysdate + 43 = :my_birthday

I even understand that TRUNC(SYSDATE) is midnight - it just seems fairly intuitive and logical to me.

My tiny brain can even understand the concept of date subtraction - last Wednesday was two days ago and Manchester City's last trophy was almost 34 years ago.

I understand that a date is a date is a date. I realise that a date is not an orange. I realise that a date is not a string and I only see dates in SQL Developer because that was a design decision to perform an implied conversion using the default date format and a useful user friendly feature.

I understand that if I want to display the date and be assured of the date format I need to convert it to a string using TO_CHAR with the appropriate date format mask.

I understand that Unix systems (and the next generation blogging platform, Habari) stores 'dates' internally as the number of seconds that have elapsed since the Unix epoch on 01 January 1970 00:00:00.

But look again at that code snippet. The author is obviously familiar with the Oracle functions TO_CHAR and TO_NUMBER but why in the name of God does he convert a date to a string to a number and then compare the resulting outputs ?

What is the meaning of that generated 'number' - 20100129143559 ? 'Twenty billion, one hundred thousand and and one hundred and twenty nine million, one hundred and forty three thousand and five hundred and fifty nine. Or something. Why is that a useful number ?

Why did he waste time and energy doing do all that typing ? Is he working on a top secret defence project that requires him to obfuscate the code ? Maybe he is paid by lines of code ? The author is clearly aware of some elements of date arithmetic in Oracle because he used '+ 9/24' to add 9 hours to the appointment start date.

Maybe there was a useful index defined on APPT_START_DT that he wanted to suppress for performance reasons.

I'm not sure but I have an awful suspicion that the object associated with the bind variable :B1 may already be declared as a DATE data type but hey, let's convert it to a date using TO_DATE - just to be sure, to be sure.

Why didn't he simply use

    AND appt_start_dt + 9/24 <= [TO_DATE] :B1

Why ?

This years Carling Cup Final between Aston Villa and Manchester United will take place at Wembley on Sunday 28th February 2010.Curiously, this date marks the exact 34th anniversary, to the very day, of Manchester Citys last trophy.

After United defeated Millwall 3-0 in the 2004 FA Cup Final, all the United players changed into shirts numbered '36' in a tribute to the young player, Jimmy Davis, who had recently died in a car accident.

Today I have written to the club to see whether United could do something similar to mark the anniversary of Dennis Tueart's spectacular overhead kick that beat Newcastle in the 1976 League Cup Final. My proposal is for United to sport shirts sporting a MASSIVE '34' while Dennis Tueart could be the club mascot for the day, wearing a pale blue and white retro scarf.