And now, at last, the blog is here for you:
It’s feet are light, and look! It’s rhyming, too.
Continue reading Iambic Pentameter
It’s Saturday, 15 February as I write this, sitting in Loudon’s Cafe. I’m listening to early Billy Bragg, when — and he’s doing it again recently — his fascist-killing guitar machine did the job of all four members of The Clash. And this is from a John Peel session, so it’s got that fab “Billy live” sound.
Continue reading Valentine’s Day Is Over
Have you had enough time to recover from the last sex-themed post? Do you want some more? OK…. A couple of weeks ago, apoplectic.me contributed to the tsunami of sexual content on the internet, in a fairly G-rated (or U-rated, depending on your location) post. Well, maybe not a tsunami. It’s not like sexual content has suddenly burst onto the interwebz like a firehose, spraying effluvia all over your laptop. No, it’s more like the Great Pacific garbage patch — an endless build-up of material that’s probably in excess of 5,800,000 sq mi.
[The environmentally-conscious recycling of that metaphor reminds me —
there are exciting times ahead at apoplectic.me.
Sign up for the tinyletter and don’t miss any special events or bonus materials!]
Continue reading After The Refractory Period
Long-time readers of the blog may remember the meditative trilogy of posts (1, 2, 3) from this past summer, sparked by Alan Spence’s imagining of the life of the Zen Master Hakuin in his novel Night Boat. Others of you may recall my more recent discussion of empathetic imagination. This week, those threads resurfaced and wove themselves into this post.
Mrs Stroke Bloke just walked in and asked what I was up to. It probably looked like I was idly eying a Joan Didion essay on self-respect. But I was hard at work. Honest. I’d already read articles on A Formula For Happiness, Why Some People Dislike Everything and Seven Thoughts That Are Bad For You.
— I gotta tell you: I’m going for something big here, but I think my reach is going to exceed my grasp on this one.
— Why not just do something goofy?
Continue reading Search Engine Optimization
With a title like this, I feel like I should be writing about Kraftwerk.
Or Neu! or Can. Maybe I should have called this post Motorik. Or Krautrock. But probably Motorik. Not familiar with the terms? Do yourself a favour. But this post ain’t about them things. Though it is about a German. Continue reading Vorsprung Durch Technik
Last week on apoplectic.me, in episodes 1 and 2 of the sixth Digesta Plaga, I wrote about the latest developments in blood pressure guidelines, and the news in cyber assistance for stroke patients and survivors of traumatic injuries. In the dramatic conclusion of part one, we left real world creator of the Cybermen, medical scientist Dr Kit Pedler, discussing the nature of life with his wife over the dinner table.
Continue reading Digesta Plaga #6, Part Two — Is There Life On Earth?
As we pass the winter solstice and Big Ben prepares to stroke 2013 out (GEDDIT??!!!), it’s time to fit in a last stroke news digest for this year.
[Y’know, if you haven’t signed up for apoplectic tiny letter email alerts,
you’ve missed Stroke Bloke’s Saturnalia Sending to the Apopostles.
Don’t miss another one. Sign up here: https://tinyletter.com/apoplectic_me]
As is the tradition over the festive period, I’m going to blow the budget of the sixth Digesta Plaga; it’s going to be such a blockbuster that I’m going to have to split it into two parts. Five bucks quid says you can’t guess how it’s gonna finish when we get to the end of part one…. Continue reading Digesta Plaga #6, Part One — Thermal Death Point
Welcome to the new, all-singing, all-dancing apoplectic.me. (Disclaimer: May still not sing or dance.) Please get in touch if you have any thoughts on the new design , and particularly if there are any features you think should be added.
Continue reading I Wanna Tell You A Story…
I remember sitting with my pal, John, on the sofa here in my parents’ house on the morning of 31 August, 1997. Well, I couldn’t have told you the exact date — I had to look that up. But, it was the end of a short visit to Scotland, so we had made a point of having the sort of good night that occasions a good breakfast. Nevertheless, it began to percolate through from the radio in the kitchen that something newsworthy was going on. A Mercedes had smashed into the 13th pillar of the Alma tunnel in Paris, and Henri Paul, Dodi Al Fayed and Diana, Princess of Wales, had each died.
Continue reading The Stroke Bloke AKA