917) Computers and How to Survive them 26.2.93 "Computers and how to survive them" is the title of a new book by therapist Dr Richard Stybber and comedian David "Python" Hartleese, and is a sequel to "Families and how to survive them," "Life and how to survive it" and "Vunderpac coffee and how to survive it." In their new book Stybber and Hartleese tackle one of the major causes of stress in modern life -- computers. As on previous occasions we are happy to be able to print extracts from the book in advance of its publication. (We got into a bit of bother when we did this for the Director's Christmas Broadcast, but it was settled amicably and my bandages will be off soon.) David: So tell me, Richard, what is it about computers that leads to so much stress? Richard: Well it can be a number of things. For example students preparing their theses now become perfectionists and feel they have to reprint whole chapters of their work because the full stop is in Times Roman font when they wanted Geneva. Before computers came along they'd have been quite happy if the full-stop key was working at all. David: Too right, old sage. When we were writing the famous "Dead Eagle" scheduler the type-writer ribbon dried up and so we abandoned it half way through. But nobody cared and we thought it was, by and large, good enough. Richard: Then another cause of stress is UNIX. David: Oh yes. What exactly do you medicoes mean when you talk about the UNIX syndrome? Richard: Well it's something we see quite regularly. Users getting used to a nice friendly system (sometimes they have even made suggestions for its improvement and seen them implemented); then some power-crazed maniac inflicts UNIX on them. David: So does UNIX have a SUGGEST facility? Richard: To tell the truth, nobody knows. If it did, it would be called something silly like SGLOP, sorry, sglop, and nobody would ever find it. And of course Bell Labs say that UNIX is, by and large, good enough, and anyway Alexander Graham Bell is dead now and unable to make any more changes to UNIX. David: I suppose the SUGGEST facility is a natural outlet for aggression? Richard: That's right. People who live frustrated boring lives can use it as a natural way of releasing tensions. And that's just the staff of course. The users also find it therapeutic. David: In my comedy series "Hartley Towers" I played an aggressive bad-tempered person struggling with a UNIX Manuel. Richard: Good point, David. David: Anyway, tell me squire, what other tensions do computers cause? Richard: Well of course they have led to a whole generation of social misfits, whose life is influenced by video games, TV, computers and so forth. In the old days young people would have been encouraged to read books, but nowadays most of them are illiterate. As a result we see large numbers of people with psychopathic tendencies on the streets. David: Are these what, in layman's terms, would be called "Compscis"? Richard: Well I was thinking of the government, actually, but of course there are different forms of this malaise. David: Too right, doc. Anyway perhaps we could move on now to the problems suffered by Computing Service staff who feel unloved... 907) Mother EAGLE Nursery rhymes 2.12.92 Oh the grand old DFH, He had ten thousand staff; He took them off to the Eagle pub And bought them each a half. And when they stood up, they stood up, And when they fell down, they fell down And when they were writing schedulers They were neither up nor down. Hartley Dartley sat on the fence. Hartley Dartley didn't make sense: So said the users and so said the staff Whenever they looked at the XEAGLE graph. Sing a song of sixpence*: A plastic cup of coke. Four-and-twenty users Trying not to choke. When the Phoenix started The users all sent MAIL: Wasn't that a hopeless task And guaranteed to fail? * Evidently an old song, as the price is rather more these days. Ten green weasels, sitting at a Mac, Ten green weasels, sitting at a Mac, And if one green weasel should accidentally hack, There'd be nine green weasels, sitting at a Mac. (etc.) 886) As you don't like it 16.6.92 All the world's a User Area, And all the men and women merely users: They have their LOGONs and their LOGOFFs; And one man in his time runs many jobs, His life having seven stages. At first the naive weasel, Asking silly questions about E, Losing files he never did back up. Then the crazy hacker, up all night, With Rabbit Job and Trojan Horse His only company. Then the research student, Writing endless thesis, deadline over-run, Using TeX to do what e'er he can. Then the systems programmer, Ever short of manpower, Sitting on committees, finding ways To leave undone those things the users want, And do those things which never were desired. Then comes the chemist, burning CPU, With FORTRAN jobs he seeks that ancient Stone Of the philosophers, that bringeth gold, Paid in the form of massive research grants: And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts to the mighty professor, Lord over an army of researchers, Unaware that TITAN's long since gone, Ignorant that card readers nevermore will read. Last scene of all, the aged don, Telling tales of Wilkes and Alan Turing, And how he gave them all their best ideas, And, after a lifetime of Vendecoffee, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 875) With apologies to A.A. Milne 27.4.92 Dave Dave, Frankenstein Frankenstein, Vunderpac Fred Hart-lee Took great care of his users, Though he was eighty-three: Dave Dave said to his users, "Users," he said, said he, "You must NEVER make jobs run in numerous mobs If you don't check first with me." Dave Dave's naughtiest user Ran a few jobs one night; Dave Dave's naughtiest user Didn't quite get things right. Dave Dave's naughtiest user Said to himself, said he: "I can make a few jobs run in _reasonable_ mobs, Kill them off, and then have tea." B.L. put up a notice: "Phoenix seems to have died. Dave Dave's naughtiest user Very soon will be fried. (Eagle's glutted on rabbits Quite of its own accord.) He tried to make jobs run in numerous mobs -- He'll get his just reward!" Dave Dave, Frankenstein Frankenstein, (Commonly known as "Boss"). Saw the state of his Phoenix, Said it was a great loss. Dave Dave said to his users, "Users," he said, said he, "You must NEVER make jobs run in numerous mobs Without consulting me." B.L. said he was sorry, And so did the other staff. Ever since it was written, Eagle had made them laugh. B.L. (somebody told me) Said to a man he knew, "If people make jobs run in numerous mobs, Well what can ANYONE do?" Dave Dave, Frankenstein Frankenstein, Vunderpac Fred Hart-lee Took great care of his users, Though he was eighty-three: Dave Dave said to his users, "Users," he said, said he, "You must NEVER make jobs run in numerous mobs If you don't check first with me." *** You are the Director of the Computing Service, facing a hostile user community at a URC meeting. You must give your Director's report. *** The following entries were received: Tommy Cooper: Ha ha ha ha. Right. Computing Service Director's Report. Easy. Nothing up my sleeve, see? MAIL, yes MAIL. Ha ha ha ha. I shall now make it work the way users want it to. Just like that! Ha ha ha. Shazam Shazoo! See? The wishlist's suddenly vanished! All the problems gone! MAIL's working, just like that! Ha ha ha! <<>> Oh dear, it's fallen out of my sleeve again. Oh well... let's make EAGLE work instead... Frankie Howerd: Oooh yes, EAGLE. Poor thing. No, don't mock. It's cruel to mock a poor bug-ridden piece of software. It can't help it, poor thing. What's a fundamentally incorrect algorithm between friends? 'Course EAGLE does by-and-large work, you know. It's very good when the machine's down. No really. Titter ye not! Oh suit yourselves... Ken Dodd: Hello! What a lovely day it is! Yes, what a lovely day for taking UNIX and scrutinising its infelicities! He he he, have you ever had your infelicities scrutinised, Missus? Eh? Can I just say how tickled I am, how tickled I am to be presenting my Director's Report to you today? What a tattifalarious system it is, isn't it? And what a lovely day it is for throwing away the IBM and replacing it with a SUN workstation. Now the diddy men are going sing a little song about UNIX, which they've been busy developing... There was also a joint application from The Goons: Milligan: Hello dere! (Sings) I talk to the trees, that's why they made me Director. Ying tong iddle I po! And there's more where that came from! Time for me to eat this chocolate-flavoured wishlist. Secombe: As the Director burbled quietly to himself, I had an idea how we might improve DFHSM. By the light of a passing Vunderpac, I saw beside me a boy scout carrying a cardboard PC. Sellers: Yes, it is I -- Bluebottle, head of software development and chairman of the IBM fan club. Waits for applause -- not a sausage. Secombe: Now, Bluebottle, here is a machine code listing of DFHSM. I want you to type it in, and run it. (F/X Very quick typing followed by explosion.) Sellers: Ooh! You have deaded me! You dirty rotten swine! I do not like this game! I wanted to work for Micro Support. Milligan: Well that concludes my Report. Needle nardle noo. Finally, it was suggested that the entire CS should have been recruited from the cast of Dad's Army. Mainwaring: Now, staff, we're up against a formidable task here. We're going to sell UNIX to the users. Wilson: Do you think that's wise, sir? Mainwaring: Look here, Wilson, we don't want any of that defeatist talk here. That's the sort that could lose us the entire war against the users. Some of you may think UNIX is rubbish, but it's the new standard, and so we're going to make it work. Fraser: Och, the users will never stand for it. We're doomed, do you hear me, doomed. Pike: My Mum says that all our programs are going to stop working, doesn't she, Uncle Arthur? Wilson: Well they don't really work now, do they? Jones: Don't panic! Don't panic! Our programs don't work! Don't panic! Mainwaring: Don't be silly, Corporal Jones. It's our job to convince the users that they want UNIX. Jones: Can I use my bayonet, Captain Mainwaring? I'll keep the users under control at the URC meeting. They don't like it up 'em, you know. Fraser: Ye great loon, that won't help. Ye've got to show them that UNIX can do everything ye need. Mainwaring: Fraser's right. What we'll do is write a UNIX version of EAGLE. What do you want, Godfrey? Godfrey: I wonder if I might be excused, Captain Mainwaring. I made the mistake of drinking a cup of Vendecoffee this morning. Mainwaring: Oh all right, but you should know better at your age. Oh, Hodges. What do YOU want? Hodges (who has just entered): Come on, Napoleon, let's have your report then. They're all waiting outside... 830) A nightmare 22.7.91 (This song is more-or-less accurate. We DID have a fire...) In my office I sit, sometimes thinking a bit, when I hear a loud noise from the fire bell: It's a practice I feel -- No! It can't be for real! But I make my way out via the stairwell. Then I notice the smoke, so it's either a joke, and they're making it too realistic, Or there's really a fire, or a funeral pyre, which would be quite a curious statistic. Well two fire engines come, and we're all feeling glum, as we see that the building is smoking, So the firemen go in, and come out, do not grin, for it seems to be acrid and choking. Well they put the fire out, and there goes up a shout, that we each can re-enter our office, Then they send us outside, which we cannot abide, for there's not even time for our coffees. Next they tell us the cause, which now gives us to pause, for the origin of these infernoes Was a man in Earth Science, who has shown great defiance, by clearly attempting to burn us. For some rubber he heats, which he clearly mistreats, though inside a fume cupboard he bakes it, For it bursts into flames, puts an end to his games, and so almost at once he forsakes it. The extinguisher fails: 'It is empty!' he wails, and the fume cupboard then catches fire, So he flees from the spot, his experiment NOT quite designed with an outcome so dire. Now the building has vents, which no doubt makes some sense, when fresh air they are trying to give us, But when smoke is around, nasty toxins abound, which dissolve all our hearts, lungs and livers. For there's mercury there, fifteen pounds gone somewhere, says the law (Conservation of Matter): I have breathed in the stuff, though perhaps not enough, that will make me as mad a hatter: If the weather gets hot, I'll expand (not a lot), and if cold, I'll contract -- my predicament Is not nearly as bad as the damage we've had to our priceless computer equipment... For the heat of the fire has burnt many a wire -- from my office I can't talk to JANET, So if Phoenix I need, I must walk far indeed, and log on from a neighbouring planet. Then my Mac's got to go, to be spring-cleaned (oh woe!) since the smoke went no doubt on the hard disc, So with pencil and paper I'm left -- curse this vapour! And my files will end up on a charred disc. And the Pad that I use (when I try) will refuse to survive half an hour without crashing, But it's patience I need, for there's no use indeed, in destroying my teeth with this gnashing. And what's more, in my office, I cannot drink coffees, because the whole room is polluted, And the toilets are shut, there's no water (tut tut!), though the reason is widely disputed. And some day they will say, we must all go away, so the place can be thoroughly dusted, But we do not know when -- is it two days, or ten? And in short we're fed up and disgusted... The department's a wreck, and we can't do our TeX, And no wonder we curse, for it daily gets worse, And we're perfectly sure there is dirt on the floor, And there's plastic around, on the ceiling and ground, And the lines are still down, though we sob, moan and frown, And I've smoke in my lung, as I've already sung, And a tiredness intense, and so, since I've some sense, Yes, on Sunday I'm going to Dover... For it's holiday time, and I'm fleeing the grime, And the mess will last long, ditto ditto the pong... So I'm going to France till it's over! 804) Boswell's Life of Someone 22.12.90 On Monday afternoon I came to Dr Johnson, according to my usual custom. There had been an affray amongst the common people on account of a mishap with some discs, whereby much valuable knowledge had been forever lost to the world. I discussed with him the disturbance, which had led almost to violence against his own person, for he had agreed to the purchase of these inferior discs. "Sir," he replied. "Disc drives are like students. They hardly ever work, and none but a fool would put his trust in them. There's the end to't, and I'll tell them so at the U.R.C. sir, aye, every man jack of them." Thus I could see that his faculties were by no means abated as a result of his advanced years. Later that day I commented that I had been reading a passage in his famous dictionary, wherein a "scheduler" was defined as "that which uses a fundamentally incorrect algorithm to solve a fundamentally insoluble problem." Did he not think that this misrepresented the lasting achievements of man? JOHNSON: You refer to the notorious Eagle, Sir? BOSWELL: Indeed, Sir. Do they not say that the authors of Mail have shown their admiration by copying some of the phrases used by those responsible for Eagle? JOHNSON: Mere obfuscation, Sir. They claim that the knapsack problem is insoluble, therefore they cannot store text efficiently. But the merest infant knows that a mail file is not a knapsack. BOSWELL: What think you of their wishlists? JOHNSON: A pox on their wishlists. Sir, when a man offers you a wishlist, be sure that he is planning roguery. Give me no more of it. I had discovered that he had given orders for the User Area to be closed over Christmas, starting on November 12th and continuing until February 19th, when the Easter holidays were to start. I told him that I had heard from a friend at Leeds that their own User Area was to remain open throughout the Christmas holiday, so that the users might work while the staff idled. "I care not a button for your Northern habits," he replied. "Mark you this, Sir. A computing service worker is no mere drudge, nay, he is an academic. Therefore his habits should be the habits of academics." I remonstrated with him, saying that maybe the staff should cut their cloth to fit the academic life, rather than the other way round, but he was not to be swayed from his view. "Sir," he said. "I designed BCPL on the back of an envelope whilst waiting in the queue for an omnibus, and lo, it is now regarded as the father of all programming languages. A man who cannot think without a computer, cannot think at all." At that I fell silent, for the truth of his words had struck me. 599) An apocryphal fragment of Genesis 28.7.89 1. And God said, Of all the fruit in this garden ye may eat, save only of the Tree of Knowledge, that ye may not eat, lest ye discover the most Sacred Passwords of Life, and surely perish. 2. And Adam said, I obey your will, Oh Lord. But tell me, oh Lord, what is that great tree with blue pears on it? 3. And God said, Er, that tree is still being beta-tested, it is not available to users at present. Verily, it is a banana tree, but some of the options are still to be decided on. 4. And Eve said, well never mind. I fancy one of those black-and-white apple things yonder, with the prickles. What are they called? 5. And God said, Currants. Alas, the algorithm by which they were created is fundamentally incorrect, as it is written in the book of the ANGEL.CURRANT.STATUS. 6. So Adam and Eve walked a while in the garden. And Lo, there was a mighty rumble and there came forth thunder, and fire from Heaven. And God spake and said "*** Garden closing in five minutes. Please go forth and multiply." 7. And Adam said, Lo, Surely a mighty thing hath happened, that this amazingly expensive garden be closed for the afternoon. Tell us thy servants, Oh Lord, what hath befallen this place? 8. And God said, Yeah Verily. It is the Angels' Sports Day today. For it is written that six days shalt thou labour, except when it is hot, and on the seventh day shalt thou be unattended. Yeah! and your children, and your maidservants, and your cattle, also shall they be unattended. 9. And Eve said, Lo, the Air Conditioning leaketh, for the rain it droppeth from Heaven. Methinks there is more fun to be had talking to serpents. Let us depart from this place. And thus went they forth. Cargoes ... by John Misfiled (17.7.89) Trolley of Sainsbury's, from distant Coldham's, Tacking up St Andrew's in the peak hour rush, With a cargo of Jaffa Cakes, Baked Beans, Pizzas, Eggs, Milk, Sausages and Orange Crush. Vunderpac of Hartley, massive and metallic, In the User Area, and on the blink, With a cargo of Coffee, Orange, Chocolate, Tea and Soup in Plastic Cups to drink. Dirty white CS van, in the New Museums Site, Parking awkwardly to block the way, With a cargo of Paper, Floppy discs, Mag. Tapes, Old gin bottles and CS staff pay. --------------------------------------------------------------- 562) The final frontier 16.5.89 Captain's Log, IBMdate 89136. We are proceeding towards the hostile planet of MS/DOS, in order to combat an epidemic of viruses. Mr Stibb, our Vulcan Science Officer, announces some curious readings... Stibb: Vunderpac malfunction, Captain. Starboard processor refusing to produce anything but tribble soup. (There is a CRASH, and the crew run around in all directions, bouncing off walls, etc.) Stibb (calmly): Fascinating. That was the other Vunderpac exploding. Gallons of corrosive liquid are now gushing out of it. Kirk: You mean that the Port's gone too? Stibb: Analysis suggests Cola, Captain. Mopping party on its way, with special breathing apparatus. Kirk: Well, let me know if there's any change. Stibb: It would appear not, Captain. Change machines are out all over the ship. Some sort of malfunction. Kirk: How are the warp drives, Crofty? Crofty: Och aye, the discs are being warped just fine, Cap'n. Ah canna get to the engine room, though -- the wee lift doors are a mite temperamental just now. Officer Redshirt has been terribly mangled, the poor laddie. McLaren: We must get help urgently, Jim. The chocolate dispenser's out, and I've got 30 cases of vitamin C++ deficiency in Sick Bay. Kirk: O.K., "Moans". We'll do what we can. Stuhuart, make a priority call to the Syndicate. Stuhuart: Er, telephones are out on all frequencies, Captain. Kirk: Can we E-mail them, Mr Choaklov? Choaklov: Is on vish list, Keptin. Stibb: Romulo-Nimbus spacecraft approaching with hostile intent, Captain. It appears that we have a 99.7% chance of total destruction. Remarkable. McLaren: Is that all you can say, you Vulcan weirdo? Stibb: It would certainly be illogical to panic at this stage, Doctor. Besides, this has already been discussed. Kirk: Right. Mr Omotanu -- sit down at the console and take evasive action. Omotanu: Er, the seats have all disappeared, Captain. Moreover the ship's computer is running unattended until Monday. Kirk: There's nothing left for it -- fire all Phazels! Stibb: Phazels not available, Captain. I think this requires a major rethink of the design philosophy. Clearly the situation may have changed since this was last discussed in 2073... Are our heroes doomed? Will an interim HELP facility arrive? Tune in next week... --------------------------------------------------------------- (With apologies to Lewis Carroll.) 13.3.89 The spray was spraying on the tapes, Spraying with all its might; It did its very best to make The fire burn less bright; And this was odd because in fact There was no fire in sight. The Hartley and the Maggie Carr Were ready and alert: They wept like anything to see The tapes all sprayed with dirt. "If only this were cleared away," They said, "It wouldn't hurt!" "If seven maids with seven mops Cleaned them for half a year, Do you suppose," the Hartley said, "That they could get them clear?" "I doubt it," said the Maggie Carr, And shed a bitter tear. "Oh users, come and walk with us," The Hartley did implore. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Of C.P.U. and core. You cannot run your tape jobs now, So come and have a tour." "The time has come," the Hartley said, "To talk of many things: Of BBCs and Vunderpacs Of viruses and Rings; And why the tape store's full of mud And Phoenixes have wings." "I weep for you," the Hartley said. "I deeply sympathise." With sobs and tears he cancelled users Of the largest size, Explaining in great detail why The Eagle told such lies. "Oh users," said the Maggie Carr, "We've had a pleasant tour. Shall we be logging on again?" -- But their response was poor; And this was scarcely odd because They'd cancelled all but four. ---------------------------------------------------------------- The tale of Lord Eagle who made too many excuses and suffered a terrible fate, by Hilaire Cobell. 7.1.89. Lord Eagle when the merest child Drove both his doting parents wild: They'd say "My boy, put on your shoes!" To which Lord Eagle made excuse: "My feet work roughly as designed, Your strange suggestion is declined. The manpower that for this we'd need Is wanted elsewhere. Yes, indeed!" And Eagle's parents sighed in gloom To see their son dash from the room. And when they said "Son, wash your face." Their son replied "It is the case, That we agreed three years ago All facial washing to forgo." Then when they said "Eat up your sprouts!" The boy replied "I have my doubts On whether to eat sprouts or 'taters -- See INFO EAGLE CURRENT STATUS!" (This was a large and muddled tome Lord Eagle kept around the home -- A book he kept in constant use Recording every lame excuse.) Despite his parents' pleas, their son Could guarantee that naught was done. Lord Eagle grew as years went past, To Cambridge he was sent at last, A good degree they hoped he'd take So that a fortune he could make By selling stocks and buying shares And understanding Bulls and Bears. Because he was so nobly-bred Computer Science Lord Eagle read: He managed to upset his tutor By never using a computer. Instead Lord Eagle wrote a note And said "I just cannot devote My so-scarce manpower. Kindly wait Until, say, nineteen ninety-eight." Exams came round: his parents wailed, On noting that Lord Eagle FAILED To turn up on the destined day, But sent a letter in to say: "I've certain urgent things in hand, Which obviously are rather grand, Although I'd rather not discuss Just what they are, so do not fuss." Lord Eagle's aged father came And said "My son, you've brought us shame. We'd wanted you to bring us wealth: Instead -- be Minister of Health! Tell old age pensioners to knit, Warn them off eggs, and calmly sit In Westminster and make excuse... The fact is: You're no earthly use! Moral: Young children's Pa's and maters Should not put up with "CURRENT STATUS". ---------------------------------------------------------------- A Christmas Carol 22.12.88 The fire in Scrooge's office flickered dimly and a pale figure was seen standing in the doorway, a figure that resembled an elderly, but very muscular, lady. It gave a frown and pointed an icy finger at the quavering Scrooge. "Who... who are you?" shuddered Scrooge. "I am the ghost of Christmas past," said the lady in stentorian tones. "Watch and I shall show you a Users' Christmas of a few years ago." As Scrooge watched, a vision appeared before his eyes. A vision of laughing, happy users. Of the Vunderpac machine giving out roast chestnuts, of urchins throwing snowballs in the Mond room, of a jolly Director going "Ho ho ho!" as he emptied his sack and gave out shares to all and sundry. Of a snowman in the User Area, dripping all over the Newbury terminals. Of comfortable chairs, and weary users dozing by a log fire. Then the lady faded away and a figure in a faded blue uniform stood before him. "Beware!" he said. "I am the ghost of Christmas present." The second vision was more austere. Gone were the comfortable chairs and the laughing users. In the Adviser's office a few paupers in rags shivered as they put another copy of INFO.EAGLE.CURRENT.STATUS onto their meagre fire. In an office in the Phoenix building there was a hoard of confiscated food -- of soggy chocolate bars and congealed coffee. In the User Area were bare tables, labelled "We intend to put some more equipment here in time for Christmas 1995." An air-conditioner dripped slimy water down the walls, and rats -- or at least mice -- infested the Apple Macintoshes. "Tell me, spectre," said Scrooge nervously. "Will these users live?" The ghost said nothing, but faded away, absent-mindedly abstracting a cup of coffee off Scrooge's sideboard as it did so. Then appeared the third and final vision, an elderly man in a dark suit. This was the ghost of Christmas To Come, newly-arrived from his own Office of the Future. The third ghost unrolled a large chart. "Let me show you the network of the future," it said. "As you can see we can link up the entire city using only University land, provided that we don't worry too much about connecting the cow sheds on the University Farm to Hughes Hall Bar." Scrooge saw a vision of the User Area of the Future, a ghost town inhabited only by those too poor to go elsewhere. Disease (mainly bugs, viruses and hacking coughs) roamed the land, and many perished. Chain gangs were employed digging up the streets, and those who refused to dig were denied access to the gleaming computer. "This must not be!" shuddered Scrooge. "Stop it!" "Only you can stop it," said the third ghost, rolling up his chart again. "The choice is yours." Dawn was arriving as the third vision ended, and Scrooge heard the merry chime of the bells announcing Christmas day. But where were the Users? Why was everything unattended? Then Scrooge remembered, and sent out for wine, stuffed eagles, and the hugest Vendepudding you ever did see; then he put on his coat and made his way round the colleges, giving out gifts of food and drink to all he met. It was the merriest Christmas the users had ever known. --------------------------------------------------------------- The Wind in the Willows ... an excerpt 12.8.88 "Do you know," said the Mole, blissfully watching his jobs as they ran in the sunshine. "I've never used a computer terminal before today?" "Really?" said the Rat solemnly. "To my mind there is nothing at all so worthwhile as hacking about with computers." "What a day I'm having, Ratty," continued the Mole with a sigh of full contentment. What's in the picnic basket?" "There's Fruit and Nut," replied the Rat briefly. "Fruitandnut dairycrunchcoffeewhitewithsugarsoupvegetableflavourcocacolatea blackwithoutsugar..." "Oh stop, stop!" cried the Mole in ecstasies. "This is too much! What a feast, Ratty!" They presently happened upon the Badger, who was logged on as usual in the depths of the Wild Phoenix Building -- a dark place full of mysterious warrens, from which strange little faces would peep out at intervals to say things like "No, I'm a shortage of manpower until 1993," "No admission without means of identification," and "You want a new facility in MAIL? Ha ha ha ha ha!" "You know Toad's got a new computer?" said the Rat to the Badger once the Mole had been introduced. "An IBM 3084Q this time. He crashed the old 3081D model." "I know," said the Badger gloomily. "One of these days he'll get locked up, for sure. I've heard that the weasels are just waiting to over-run Mond Hall as soon as his back's turned. Then they'll run a Fortran for Low Temperature Theologians course." "Why don't you stop him?" asked the Mole. "You don't understand," explained the Rat. "Nobody stops Toad. It always has to be something new. One day it's an Office of the Future he wants, the next day he wants to dig up the countryside and put in fibre-optic cables." From somewhere close by came a distant whirring sound, which gradually rose to a crescendo. Then there was a mighty crash, and the Toad came flying head-first over the hedge, to land in a nearby ditch. As the animals hurried over looking very concerned, the Toad extracted his head from the mud: lying in the ditch with a contented smile on his face, he sighed and muttered to himself: "O bliss! Oh my! ... Abend-Abend! ... Job aborted. ... Urgent system shut-down ... >>> CRASH!!! <<<" -------------------------------------------------------------- Lord of the Drinks -- a deleted fragment by J.R.P. Tolkien Deep in the land of Mondor, the Dark Lord Securon continued to plot his evil deeds, ever watchful of the stumbling progress of all that remained of the Fellowship of the Drink. The two halflings, Stibbo Boozins and his loyal servant Sam Maggee, struggled painfully across the bleak mountains. It was now left to Stibbo, as Drink-bearer, to defy the Dark Lord's power -- this could only be done by dropping the Drink into the mighty Beebs of Mondor. Of their companions, the two dwarves, Hahtli and Baili, had fled from a band of URCs and were now far away, exploring the tortuous tunnels of Grantor, looking for a secret underground route into Mondor. Moreover, Landalf the White, the mighty wizard, he who had vanished after their encounters in the mines of Useraria, and had later been recovered from the dumps of Hsm, had ridden off on the great horse Shadow-Phx. "We're done for, Sam," gasped Stibbo. "We haven't had a drink for over an hour." "Now don't you worry, Mr Stibbo," said Maggee reassuringly. "Landalf wouldn't wish us to give up now. We'll come out of this all right. You'll see." "If only Maclaragorn were here to guide us," muttered Stibbo listlessly. "He should have stayed with us." Maclaragorn -- the king who was to come -- had also been forced to desert the hobbits. He had ridden off with the palantir of Vendorthanc, in order to bring help to Eomertani. The two were on their own, constantly on the lookout for the dreaded drink-wraiths, or Haz-ul, that could freeze their development at a glance. Behind the two halflings a small black figure crawled. Known as Smeagle, this scrawny creature was condemned always to lie and deceive. Smeagle's current status was never in doubt. He was ready to kill or run as necessary, ----------------------------------------------------------------- An extract from "Thirty Eighty-Four" by George Ogcal 4.5.88 Winston Smith sat at his telescreen in the User Area, a zone in which particularly awkward citizens were kept under close surveillance. Manfully he struggled to comprehend SPEC.DOUBLE.SPEAK, the specification of the new communications package which had been released that day and instantly superseded the old version (ODOUBLESPEAK). Nearby a user fell asleep, and was immediately seized by the patrolling Thought Police and dragged off to the Phoendish Building, a labyrinth of corridors and bright lights from which very few users ever returned. Winston suppressed a yawn which would have drawn him suspicious glances from the patrols and carried on reading. At 11 a.m. precisely came the daily Hate-in. The system message of the day read "*** All users to participate in a coffee break at 11 a.m." and the ritual began promptly. The huge monitor screens carried the picture of a man drinking coffee -- Vunderpac was his name and he was known to have been Big Brother's arch-enemy. "Down with coffee!! Death to all coffee-drinkers!! We hate caffeine!! Make bombs, not cups!! Liquidate the Tea pushers!! Death to Vunderpac!!" came the cry, and then, the coffee break over, all users returned to their daily work. No further talking was allowed in the User Area except in the direst emergencies. Winston found himself daydreaming of the days before coffee had been banned in User Area 1. He licked his lips as he mused over his memories of the taste of the forbidden fluids. On the wall the Party Slogans were written for all to see: COFFEE IS DEATH. THOSE WHO DRINK COFFEE ARE INSANE. BIG BROTHER CARES FOR YOUR HEALTH. SEE INFO.COFFEE.MISUSE. At that moment, a blue-uniformed figure came up. "Winston Smith, WS184," he barked. "Your production of GCODE is below quota for the week. You will come with me to P14." P14. A room in the remotest part of the Phoendish building, where all manner of unspeakable things were rumoured to take place. Called "User Services" in the Doublespeak of the day, it was dreaded by innocent and guilty alike. Nobody ever escaped from User Services with their identifier intact. Sometimes they would mysteriously vanish for months and return with no memory of their past, sometimes they were never seen again. Winston screamed. ---------------------------------------------------------------- I met a programmer on an antique Beeb Who said: Two vast and formless lumps of tin Stand near Reception. Near them, on a seat Half dead, a shattered user lies, whose grin And wrinkled lip, and face like rotting meat Tell that the user well those manuals read Which yet survive, issued by I.B.M., But stopped and went and had a drink instead. And on the drinks machine these words appear: 'My name is VUNDERPAC: coffee, tea and coke. Drink of my cups ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, A trail of plastic cups leads far away. (With apologies to Shelley) ---------------------------------------------------------------- With apologies to a well-known song 28.7.87 I'm a Phoenix hack and I'm O.K. I work all night and I sleep all day. Chorus: He's a Phoenix hack and he's O.K. He works all night and he sleeps all day. I edit files, I run some jobs, I play with the Apple Mac. At midnight I get thirsty and drink from the Vunderpac. Chorus: He edits files, he runs some jobs, he plays with the Apple Mac. At midnight he gets thirsty and drinks from the Vunderpac. He's a Phoenix hack etc. I edit files, I send out Mail, I hide when staff walk by. I keep a list of passwords for when Demand is high. Chorus: He edits files, he sends out Mail, he hides when staff walk by. He keeps a list of passwords for when Demand is high. (???) He's a Phoenix hack etc. I edit files, re-program chips, and plant them near and far. I wish I'd been a burglar, just like my dear Papa! Chorus: He edits files, he WHAT? Disgraceful etc. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Solomon Grundy 7.7.87 Solomon Grundy Logged on on Monday, Used HELP on Tuesday, Ran jobs on Wednesday; Tried hacking on Thursday, Caught on Friday, Tried on Saturday, Executed on Sunday, And that was the end of Solomon Grundy. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Monty Python's C.S. Inquisition Sketch 12.4.87 For the benefit of any users who were unable to see the recent documentary produced on BBC1 which featured Computing Service staff (under the title "Monty Python's Flying Circus") we have decided to publish a copy of the script, since it gives an insight into how C.S. staff work. Scene: The User Area. Two users (Messrs Chapman & Cleveland). Chapman: Trouble at Mond. Cleveland: Oh no - what kind of trouble? Ch: One on't cross chains gone owt askew on printer. Cl: Pardon? Ch: One on't cross chains gone owt askew on printer. Cl: I don't understand what you're saying. Ch (slightly irritatedly and with exaggeratedly clear accent): One of the cross chains has gone out askew on the printer. Cl: Well what on earth does that mean? Ch: _I_ don't know - Mr Stibbs just told me to come in here and say that there was trouble at the Mond, that's all - I didn't expect a kind of C.S. Inquisition. JARRING CHORD (The door flies open and Officer Ximinez of Securicup (Palin) enters flanked by two junior officers. Officer Biggles (Jones) has goggles pushed over his forehead. Officer Fang (Gilliam) is just Officer Fang) Palin: Nobody expects the C.S. Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise - surprise and fear ... fear and surprise ... our two weapons are fear and surprise - and ruthless scheduling ... our _three_ weapons are fear and surprise and ruthless scheduling and an almost fanatical devotion to the Director ... our _four_ ... no ... _Amongst_ our weapons - amongst our weaponry - are such elements as fear, surprise ... I'll come in again. (Exit and exeunt) Ch: I didn't expect a kind of C.S. Inquisition. JARRING CHORD (The officers burst in) Pa: Nobody expects the C.S. Inquisition! Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless scheduling, an almost fanatical devotion to the Director, and nice blue uniforms - Oh damn! (To Officer Biggles) I can't say it - you'll have to say it. Jones: What? Pa: You'll have to say the bit about 'Our chief weapons are ...' Jo (rather horrified): I couldn't do that... (Ximinez bundles the officers outside again) Ch: I didn't expect a kind of C.S. Inquisition. JARRING CHORD (The officers enter) Jo: Er ... Nobody ... um ... Pa: Expects ... Jo: Expects ... Nobody expects the ... um ... the C.S. ... um ... Pa: Inquisition. Jo: I know, I know ... Nobody expects the C.S. Inquisition. In fact, those who do expect - Pa: Our chief weapons are ... Jo: Our chief weapons are ... um ... er ... Pa: Surprise ... Jo: Surprise and - Pa: O.K., stop. Stop. Stop there - stop there. Stop. Phew! Ah! ... Our chief weapons are surprise - blah blah blah ... Officer - read the charges. Gilliam: You are hereby charged that you did on diverse dates commit heresy against the C.S. Regulations. Jo: Now, how do you plead? Cl: We're innocent. Pa: Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Caption: 'DIABOLICAL LAUGHTER') Jo: We'll soon change your mind about that! (Caption: 'DIABOLICAL ACTING') Pa: Fear, surprise, and a most ruthless ... (controls himself with a supreme effort) Ooooh! Now, Officer - produce the chip! (Biggles produces a fried potato chip. Ximinez looks at it and clenches his teeth in an effort not to lose control. He hums heavily to cover his anger) Pa: You ... Right! Install it in her terminal. (Fang and Biggles make a pathetic attempt to fit the chip into the BBC micro) Pa: Right! How do you plead? Cl: Innocent. Pa: Ha! Right! Officer - load the chip - (oh dear) - load the chip and show her the illicit program inside. (Officer Biggles stands there awkwardly and shrugs) Jo: I ... Pa (gritting his teeth): I _know_, I know you can't. I didn't want to say anything. I just wanted to try and ignore your crass mistake. Jo: I ... Pa: It makes it all seem so stupid. Jo: Shall I ...? Pa: No, just pretend for God's sake. Ha! Ha! Ha! (Biggles pushes a few buttons on the BBC micro) Pa: Now - you are accused of heresy on three counts - heresy by hacking, heresy by cross-memory TPUT, heresy by Trojan Horse, and heresy by drinking at your terminal - _four_ counts. Do you confess? Jo: I confess! Pa: Not you! ----------------------------------------------------------------- Four Short Stories 18.3.87 "Eh bien, Monsieur le Directeur!" said Poirot. "Since you have called me in to investigate this mystery des chevaux Troyens, we must use our little grey cells. You say that this device has also been found in Sainsbury's College? Alors, you are looking at this mystery the wrong way round. We must interrogate all those who were in Sainsbury's during its 'Unattended Selling' period. But first, a Sirop from the Vunderpac, if you would be so kind..." "Philip Marlowe?" said the dame on the phone. "Come to the User Area Night Club as soon as you can. We've got this problem with Trojan horses." I drove over to the User Area, and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so I palmed my gun and burst from the elevator. The man lying on the floor was definitely dead, but it was the dame standing over him who caught my eye. She had curves in all the right places, as well as some of the wrong ones, but this didn't stop me from noticing the micro-chip in her hand, in time to push her to one side as the device exploded in a sheet of flame... "Bunter! A cup of the '86 Cola for Inspector Parker," exclaimed Lord Peter Wimsey, laying aside a First Edition of the MVS/XA manual (in the original Greek) that he had been perusing. "No, thank you, My Lord," said Parker hastily. "I never drink on duty: it damages the terminals (and my stomach). What do you make of this?" Wimsey took the proffered chip cautiously, and scrutinised it through his monocle. "There appears to be a Greek inscription on it," he commented. "A quotation from Homer to do with fish, if I am not mistaken. But one that only appears in certain editions of the Iliad..." "I perceive by the mark on your tie that you have been using TeX recently," said Holmes. "Also your pet goldfish has been ill this week." "Enough of that nonsense!" said our client testily, interrupting my cry of "Amazing, Holmes!" "I want you to come down to Cambridge Moor to investigate a problem connected with the legend of the phantom Horse of the Terminilles." "Come, Watson!" said Holmes. "The game is afoot! You may tell me about the problem in the train, your Grace." He hastily took down a battered copy of Bradshaw, then fired his revolver into a picture of Queen Victoria on the wall (this being his usual way of summoning Mrs Hudson)... ----------------------------------------------------------------- The Eagle, after Edgar Allan Poe (EAP10) 1.3.87 Once upon a midnight dreary, I computed, weak and weary On a quaint and curious problem needing lots of time and store. While I Zedded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping, As of someone gently tapping (Public Console Twenty-Four). "'Tis another person," said I, "user or Securicor, Only this and nothing more." Hurriedly I hid my Cola, horrid drink which rots each molar, From the gaze of any stroller, I concealed it on the floor. So continued I to edit, though my project short of credit, When completed I'd have fed it to its rightful place in core, In the job queue to be got through by the thirty-eighty-four, Waiting there for evermore. As my editing I ended, suddenly I was offended By a squawking that portended System Crash (or perhaps a war?) I looked up on that occasion, seeking for an explanation; Though I made close observation, neither man nor bird I saw: Not a soul beside me toiling, of this fact I made quite sure. VDUs and nothing more. "What art thou?" I said. "A spectre? Of some Deputy Director, Long since dead and sipping nectar on the far celestial shore? Or perhaps some user hacking, one who's due to be sent packing, But continues his attacking, logging in from Baltimore? Knowledge of thy name is lacking, tell me it, I thee implore! Tell me this, if nothing more." "Is perchance some bird displaying, phoenix, say, or eagle preying, Or, indeed some wren that's staying out of sight behind the door? Tell me who thou art, and quickly, for my project is but sickly, And the job queue's packed too thickly, clogged by chemists by the score. I've a job to do this evening, need results by half past four: Turnround Now or Nevermore." Then my heart it beat much faster: perched behind me on a Master Stood the Eagle, known forecaster, who alone the future saw. Quickly I my job submitted; in the queue it was admitted Though the place where it was fitted was among the lowly poor. I asked my companion bravely, just what turnround it foresaw. Quoth the Eagle: "Nevermore!" -------------------------------------------------------------- Alice meets the Phoenix and the Eagle 4.11.86 Alice stood outside the lift, wondering where to go next. She read the sign. 'First Floor - Applied Biology - Toads, Snakes and Scorpions. Second Floor - Competing Service - Eagle, Phoenix and Wren. Third Floor - Applied Biology - Wombats, Tigers and Gerbils.' "Well I suppose I'd better try the second floor," she said. "The other monsters sound much fiercer." She stepped out of the lift, just in time to see an exotic bird flap round her head and crash into the wall. "Oh, you poor thing," she said. "You've crashed. Let me help you. My name's Alice." "I'm called Phoenix," said the bird. "I'm quite used to crashing. It's all the fault of the Data Net. I keep having to swerve - it gets in my way." The Phoenix got to its feet, and said, impressively: "Welcome to the Competing Service. This is the Loser Area, where all the losers go. We also have some Loser-printers." At that moment another large bird fluttered up. "Sorry I'm late." it apologised. "I never was much good at judging time. It's all the Mad Hatter's fault. He put butter in my internal clock. I'm the Eagle. Who are you?" "Hello, Eagle. I'm Alice. If this is the Loser Area, where do the winners go?" "There aren't many winners in the Competing Service. It's a mystery why. The losers all say it's because no-one cares, and call it a 'Care Mystery!'" "Oh yes," said Alice. "I've visited the Care-Mystery department. That's where the Duchess was making soup. But she kept adding so many trace elements that it was horrible." "I think that was my fault," said the Phoenix. "She gave me the job of simulating the soup and it tasted much better in the simulation than the real thing. Probably a misplaced decimal point somewhere." "Let's show her round," said the Eagle, and the two birds began to escort Alice round the Loser Area. "What's this thing making a chunk-chunk-chunk noise?" asked Alice. "Some kind of printer?" "Oh no," said the Phoenix. "That's a CST student reading a printout to himself. He's quite harmless." "Oh, really? What's CS tea?" enquired Alice. "A drink?" "Well it CAN be a drink," explained the Eagle. "But usually it's a subject of study. It stands for Cambridge Simplified Tripos. It's for people who like playing games with machines." "Quite harmless," commented the Phoenix. "They only come out at night usually. But don't get too near in case it bites." "This thing here's a Vunderpac," continued the Eagle. "A fund park?" asked Alice. "You mean a piggy bank?" "More or less," said the Eagle. "The idea is that you put money in its mouth and then after a while a white plastic thing falls out of it and spills dirty liquid all over you." "Would you like a Beeb?" said the Phoenix, waving its wings airily at a row of large square objects. "Oh, no." said Alice. "I'm too grown-up for a bib nowadays. Anyway, I wasn't going to DRINK the dirty liquid." "Best not to," agreed the Eagle. "Most of the people round here just spill it onto the keyboards. Makes them fizz." "Shall we take her to meet the Programming Adviser?" asked the Phoenix. "He's always very kind to strangers." "Yes, indeed," agreed the Eagle. "Let's hope he's awake." The programming adviser's door bore a large notice explaining that the adviser was not liable for any damage to losers or equipment caused by incorrect advice. Alice was about to knock when the door flew open and a sheep rushed out, baaing piteously. "And don't come back until you've read SPEC.MAIL, SPEC.PHX3, SPEC.GCAL, SPEC.MKINIT, SPEC.EAGLE and SPEC.Vunderpac!" shouted an angry voice, as the door slammed behind the sheep. "I thought my request was reasonable," moaned the sheep. "All I wanted was to find out how to read my MAIL messages when I log on, GCAL them automatically in a job, and print them out in italics on the bottom of my coffee cup. You'd think that it was the sort of thing people were always wanting to know." It wandered away, looking glum. "Ah! 3 p.m. - time for me to crash again!" said the Phoenix suddenly, looking at his watch. He flapped his wings vainly. "No, too late. I can't move at all at this time of day." "The young lady should give us a poem" said the Eagle. "She's recited one for everyone else. Let's have ''Tis the voice of the sluggard.'" Alice hesitated and began: "'Tis the voice of the Phoenix, I heard him declare, 'My macros have bugs in and no-one knows where. Whenever you're swapped out your session will stick No wonder the losers are feeling so sick.' -- No, I'm sure that's not right." "Well, some of it is slightly incorrect" said the Eagle kindly. "When I find myself producing nonsense like that I put it down to 'teething troubles'. Nothing to worry about. You obviously haven't the manpower to fix it now." "It's time you were getting along." said the Phoenix. "You should go and see the Mond room now. It's full of weasels trying to print HELLO using FORTRAN." "Oh I can print HELLO." said Alice. "I've been able to do that since I was about five. Do you really need a huge machine to do this?" "Oh, they do other things." said the Phoenix. "In the advanced course they add 2 and 2 together. They even get the right answer sometimes." Alice left the Loser Area and ran off happily down the stairs. "Another satisfied customer," said the Phoenix to the Eagle. Let's go and crash out somewhere." ----------------------------------------------------------------- 303) From "The Secret Computer's other Processor" 17.10.86 The following conversation, overheard in the Programming Advisor's Office, was not written by that famous author Monty Python, but is claimed to be 'Python-compatible'. User: Hello, Ms? Advisor: What do you mean, Ms? U: I'm sorry I have a cold. I wish to register a bug. A: Yes, well we're just closing for some routine emergency disc maintenance. U: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to register a bug, to do with this Phoenix, which you sold me, not half an hour ago. A: Ah yes, the Phoenix three. Beautiful syntax. What's wrong with it? U: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's crashed, that's what's wrong with it. A: No, it's pining for IBM. U: Pining for IBM? What kind of talk is that? This Phoenix is dead. A: It's not dead, it's er, waiting for input. U: Waiting for input? Then why did it go ***ATTN IGNORED when I hit BREAK? A: The Phoenix three likes ignoring things. Beautiful syntax. U: The syntax don't enter into it. It's demised. O.K., if it's waiting for input, we'd better give it some. HELLO, PHOENIX! WAKE UP PHOENIX! I'VE GOT A NICE PROGRAM FOR YOU TO RUN IF YOU WAKE UP. . Now, that's what I call a dead Phoenix. A: No, it's spending some time swapped out. You caused it to swap out, just as it was about to tell you something. U: Swapped out? Look here, sonny. When I tried this Phoenix earlier you told me that its inactivity was owing to its being tired and shagged out after doing some stuff for the Chemistry department. Later you assured me that its total lack of response was because some crumbs and drips had been using the terminal. When I got it home I noticed that the words "Phoenix 3 (23X) entered" on my terminal had been daubed on in chalk. A: If we hadn't done that, it would have produced screenfuls of stuff, VOOMPH, just like that, and you'd have missed the Phoenix banner entirely. U: Look here, this Phoenix wouldn't VOOMPH if you wired it in to the Vunderpac itself. See? This Phoenix is crashed; it's dead; bereft of life, it waits for an IPL. It is no more. It has gone to meet its author. By now it should be undergoing a rewrite. This is an ex-Phoenix. A: Well I'd better replace it then. U: If you want the CS to do anything these days you have to complain until you're blue in the face! A: Er, I just looked. We're clean out of Phoenixes. I've got a TSO. U: Does it do anything useful? A: Not really. It's an IBM product. U: Then it's scarcely a replacement then, is it? I do not wish to pursue my enquiries further, as I think this is getting too silly... ---------------------------------------------------------------- THE NIGHTMARE SONG (ADAPTED) When you try to get work from the Data Net-work, and you're tapping the keys with impatience, It will say it's congested, your code stays untested, all users are waiting for sessions. For with C.I.P. errors and similar terrors the C.U.D.N. tries to thwart you And you hit RETURN thrice and ask friends for advice - for again the new system has caught you, As your password is typed out before it is wiped out (by hitting the button marked CLEAR SCREEN), And you hit CONTROL/P C and try to get busy at trying to conquer the machine! Then the system expires and you pull out the wires and you find that the VDU's broken, Get another one near, then walk out with a jeer for by now it won't let any folk on! Well at last it permits you to log on and hits you, you join all the users in weeping, For your session's such pain, and there's so little gain that you'd very much better be sleeping! For you find you're UPDATEing a file, and you're waiting five minutes for ZED to acknowledge, While the user next door throws a fit on the floor and runs screaming back home to his college; And you're typing ahead as you're waiting for ZED, then refile to a file that is GUARDed, But forgot to say YES and you're now in a mess, as you think the result's been discarded; Then you try to use RUN and it's really no fun, for the scheduler's not very clever, And you're job's in queue D and you really can't see if it's likely to run now, or ever. Well you try once again and it runs right as rain, so you have a quick look with COLLECTREAD: The results of your look - "Standard Fixup" was took - IBM's guess not what you expect/need! Fortran IV you reject, as you're program's all wrecked, so you dump all your files TLS-wise, But the filename's too long, ARCHIVE always goes wrong, and you're finding it's too much now, stress-wise! So at INFO.NEW you look, feeling quite blue, and you find that the CS has faltered: All the keywords changed round, and you don't like the sound for the language is terribly altered: For it's IBM-ese, wasn't written to please, though amuses the people who wrote it, Each command a long word, of the like never heard, some anomalies that you've just noted. From your work you now rest, see INFO.SUGGEST, which no-body has looked at for ages, So you try SUGGEST-FILE, and ironically smile, which is better than yielding to rages! Now with PRINTOUT you fail, it is lost in the mail, and your hair you are frantically tearing, POST and ROUTE get ignored, once again you've been floored! You log off with a shudder despairing... You are worn out and tired, feel the chief should be fired, For he won't sympathise, to use PHX never tries, And you're angry and cross, with the time that is loss, With a pain in you brain, swear "no more!" (all in vain!) For your session's a waste, never more should be faced, And you're nerves are all frayed, and your output's mislayed, You can't fix it today, the adviser's away, And you haven't been lying in clover: But the session is past, and it's teatime at last, And the torment's been long, ditto ditto my song, And thank goodness they're both of them over! ---------------------------------------------------------------- When I was a lad I served a term As office boy in a computer firm. I cleared the bugs out, and I got to grips With polishing the silicon on all their chips. [With polishing the silicon on all their chips.] I polished up that silicon so carefully That now I am responsible for Phoenix 3. [He polished up that silicon so carefully That now he is responsible for Phoenix 3.] At cleaning chips I made such a name That a drinks pro-grammer I soon became: I mixed soup, cola and some fizzy tea, And when the program ran it cost 8p. [And when...] The users so enjoyed this Most Vile Tea That now I am responsible for Phoenix 3. [The users...] At making drinks I acquired such a knack That at operatorship I had a crack: I did the crossword, read about foot-ball And never tried unloading Printer 3 at all. [And never...] I tore off output sheets so carelessly That now I am responsible for Phoenix 3. [He tore...] The users often saw me every day, So I took on the job of a P.A. I told the beginners of GCAL and ZED, Or phoned up experts for their views instead. [Or phoned...] I passed the buck along so frequently That now I am responsible for Phoenix 3. [He passed...] I worked so hard that I required a rest, And so they got me dealing with SUGGEST: I took three months off, turned the users sour By claiming that I was a shortage of manpower. [By claiming...] Then, being clever, did the C.S.T. So now I know enough to work on Phoenix 3. [He took...] At user-friendliness I'd made such a mess, They got me working hard on MVS: I made commands obscure and twice as long, And changed the syntax so most jobs went wrong. [And changed...] I made such trouble they upgraded me By making me responsible for Phoenix 3. [He made...] Now hackers all, whoever you may be, If you want to do things faster than Queue D, If your eyes are forever glued to VDUs, Then leave the rat race and its four job queues: [Then leave...] Keep clear of machines, IBM or BBC, And you may be responsible of Phoenix 3! [Keep clear...]