The Last Sudoku
I never saw my sudoku addiction coming. I’ve been a recreational user since 2005 when the puzzle exploded in popularity. Pretty much all newspapers started containing a sudoku and eventually there was even an easy/medium/hard option (or no option, if you do them all). When you factor in the free daily London newspapers (Metro, London Lite, thelondonpaper) you end up with a lot of sudoku every single day. Any journey I made on public transport was solely occupied by this puzzle. I even developed a favourite number in ’4′ and a nemesis in ’7′.
The scope of the problem became apparent during the summer, when I purchased a sudoku book, as an afterthought, whilst in a newsagent’s shop. It came with a free pen which turned out to have a significantly shortened ink cartridge inside the standard length casing. A minor let down more than made up for by the “Sudoku Pen” inscription on the barrel. I was now professional. Despite keeping this habit hidden when in company, it was patently obvious I’d been rumbled when my then girlfriend bought me a novelty toilet-roll plastered in sudoku.
Everything came to a head last week. I was on an empty tube train having just started a ‘hard’ sudoku when a stunning girl got on at Chalk Farm and sat opposite me. She couldn’t see the page I was writing on entirely, but she could certainly tell I’d just started a sudoku and that I was probably in the ‘hard’ section, given the proportion of pages either side of my current position in the book. In hindsight, she probably didn’t notice this fact at all or even think for very long about my sudoku skills. But at the time, that is what I thought to myself. Then a rare and terrible event occurred.
I’d started on a beast. One of those puzzles that while I’m sure very manageable to some people, just didn’t compliment my set of sudoku-solving skills. Every now and again I get one in the morning and always curse the fact that starting the day with a feeling of inadequacy can only result in an inadequate day. But this was different. I was being judged. She was definitely watching me and my pen wasn’t moving. A few minutes passed. Still nothing. I might have been able to find something in there if I didn’t feel like I was watching my performance from the third person. My own flailing performance.
What could I do? I couldn’t just sit there, pen poised, not moving, hoping it would come naturally. Yet I couldn’t just close the book and put it away; that would be even worse. I mean, if I was doing a newspaper sudoku then I could quite easily shift my interest onto a crossword or perhaps even a ‘spider sudoku’ (blasphemy, by the way). But I had a sudoku book! And a bloody sudoku pen!! I clearly thought I was numerically superior and was immodest enough to shout it from the rooftops.
And then I did something so hideous that I haven’t done a sudoku since and won’t ever again. I actually tilted the page away from her that few degrees more. Just enough to make it impossible for her to check the validity of my entries. Then I started filling in the numbers erroneously. It had come to this. I didn’t fill in the grid in too fast as to provoke suspicion but, on one hand, as I was already cheating why not throw caution to the wind and really show off? On the other hand though, I felt dirty enough already. I didn’t deserve a sub three minute hard sudoku. Even when cheating.
The puzzle that ended it all.
The girl got off the tube without me even giving her the famous eyebrows. There was no way I could have made any sort of move after that anyway. I just wanted to get home, get in the shower and really get involved with the exfoliating body scrub.
I’m happier now without it. I can really listen to my music and sometimes I take a book to read. Best of all I appreciate the world going by. On my travels I scan buildings and landmarks knowing that while numbers helped construct them, they mean more than just their measurements and statistics. I won’t pretend I don’t miss the understated simpleness of number ’4′. It’s a solid and genuine number. But then I don’t have to stare at the cold, unforgiving edge of number ’7′ any more. And that’s a relief.
It’s Over Derren, I’m Back With David Now
Me: You lied to me Derren.
Derren: He lies to you too!
David: But Zack knows I’m lying, you try to pretend you’re something better…
Me: Yeah! Something honest.
Derren: Don’t go Zack! He’s mad! Remember GMTV? With that eye drawn on his hand!?
Me: David never sat me down and lied to me for a whole hour. To my face!!
David: Let’s go Zack. I know this nice little place overlooking the Thames. Great views…
Derren: Please! Don’t go! I can predict randomness. I really can!
Me: Bye Derren…
This heartbreaking internal showdown happened late last Friday after watching Derren Brown: How To Win The Lottery. I used to like Derren Brown. I thought he was different. He never before claimed to be psychic or supernatural. He even mocked those who did, instead having me believe that he was simply gifted at using “magic, suggestion, psychology, misdirection and showmanship”. But then he had to go and spoil it all by spending a whole hour telling me that he could predict randomness using “the wisdom of the crowd”, “automatic writing” and “deep maths”. Now I’m a proud sceptic, but would sooner believe in god, ghouls or ghosts than I would in predicting randomness. God, ghouls and ghosts could, conceivably, exist. But random is random. If you could predict it, it wouldn’t be random. That is a universal truth.
There are a number of ways in which he could have done his lottery trick, but I’d bet on him using on overlay over part of his live broadcast. It’s easy to do. Now I know magic, by definition, uses trickery. But I don’t expect someone I love to lie about the fundamentals of his trick. Frankly, I was heartbroken. Until that is an old flame came to my rescue…
I fell out with David Blaine some years back when he got a little big for his boots. His close-proximity ‘street magic’, which I loved him for, was overshadowed by blocks of ice, tanks of water and that infamous GMTV appearance. But I thought I’d give him another go. Immediately after Derren’s lies I watched David Blaine: What Is Magic?. Well I’ll tell you what’s magic David. It’s you. The reactions of your participants, of course, is what gives your showmanship it’s power. Your format is punchy. It’s direct. Oh yeah, and you even did a trick involving a lottery ticket which far outdid Derren’s. In two minutes. Who said romance is dead?
But this isn’t the end of the story. I still pine for Derren. So tomorrow night at 9pm I’m gonna test the courage of my convictions. Derrren is, apparently, going to air a film which glues me to my sofa, making it impossible for me to get up. Well at 8:55pm I’m going to fill my grill-tray with oil and turn the grill up to full. This way, either I’m right about Derren and can live happily ever after with David. Or I’m wrong. And I die. Either way, I will have my ending. I will have my closure.
Poll: Are You Reading These Words?
A Daily Mail poll was recently hijacked by ‘liberal, internet-savvy elitists’ when it asked it’s readers “Should the NHS allow gypsies to jump the queue?“, skewing the result to 96% in favour. Needless to say, the Mail had the last laugh by pulling the poll from their site. It was an unfair stunt, given the care the author of the question had obviously taken to ensure unquestionable objectivity…
The episode highlighted the ridiculousness of poll questions which are worded only to reinforce what their readers already believe. They may as well have asked “After prisoners have finished their free course of shiatsu massage, should we let them out for one last sex attack?“. Pretty pointless (but I suppose it does highlight well the fact that prison is absolutely identical to Butlins).
But this pales in significance when you check out the horror that is the telephone poll results provided by The Daily Star. Click on the link; it’s a good read. All the usual fun right-wing topics are included, along with a few odd gems:
“Do you trust Sir Richard Branson?” – What with? My heart? My ETA? Well 83% of respondents don’t. Perhaps it’s his lefty beard.
“Should all beds be moved to face Mecca?” – 98% said no. This must loosely refer to something or else it’s surely been written by a computer program.
Now voting in The Daily Star’s polls are not going to make a difference to the result given the fact that nearly every percentage is over 95% or under 5%. With that in mind, the fact that people ring a premium rate number for the privilege seems mad. Irony anyone?..
Jamie Oliver Makes Everything Better
The other day I watched Jamie’s American Road Trip, a show in which the eternally-awesome, indefatigable chef/charity worker/political activist travels across the States, showing us the ‘real’ food that fuels the ‘real’ America. Now everyone already knows a fair bit about what Americans eat as, by and large, it’s not too dissimilar to what we eat. But this was different. This American food story was one from ‘off the beaten trail’, ‘unsung’, went ‘beyond the stereotypes’ and, basically, was devoid of clichés. This shit was Real and Authentic.
Except it wasn’t really about cooking. Or food. It was about Jamie being awesomely cool, friendly and Essex-like to his new ‘mates’. Which in turn meant that all the Americans liked him. Which in turn means they like the English. Which means us. And if Americans like us, we like ourselves a little more.
It worked for me. I couldn’t stop smiling throughout. This cross-cultural love was exactly what I needed. And to be fair, I did learn to cook a steak the cowboy way. No seasoning. You just heat the fucking thing up until it’s cooked.
The X Factor’s Soft Middle
I don’t hide my love for The X Factor. It’s inclusiveness makes me warm and safe. And this year’s new format, in which there’s always a live audience within 50ft of everything, satisfies the urge I had for even more emotion and even more emoting. You have to be pretty dead inside if you don’t enjoy fluffer-prompted, synchronized arm waving and should probably just go and watch the news or something.
Last weeks episode contained the lovely William Hooper. He was old. I know, I know. How sweet is that? To be honest, he couldn’t even sing in that way I thought all old people could – you know, in that voice that reminds you of little birds. But that’s irrelevant. Here’s an excerpt of his audition:
Simon: Hello sir. So what’s your name?
William: I’m 82.
Simon: Amazing. And what’s that on your head?
William: It’s a hat.
Cheryl: This is exactly what this show is all about. Congratulations, you’re through.
