Those of you who know me well will be familiar with my quest to discover new ways of working - specifically, ways of working that involve exerting minimum effort in maximum comfort for the largest pile of money I can get my hands on.

I heroically push these boundaries every day of my life, but today I feel I've made a particular breakthrough. I'm in Boston, keeping an eye on Ma and Pa Earthman while the former is in hospital. I was getting a bit sick of a 56k dialup connection and my dad talking about what we should have for next Thursday lunch while I tried to work. So I spent some time researching WiFi, which I thought would probably cost a bomb but was worth it if it would get me out the house.

You can imagine my delight when I found out that as an existing BT Broadband customer I can get 400+ minutes of WiFi time a month for just a fiver plus VAT.

The result of that discovery is that I'm now sat on a leather sofa in The Prospect, overlooking the Witham in Boston, drinking rather good coffee and enjoying the benefits of super highspeed connectivity that's about twice as fast as my business broadband. I'm aware that this makes me something of a Buddy Holly specs/skinny latte/Seattle-escapee/smug bastard cliché, but frankly I don't give a flying fuck. Another muffin please, bar person.

I'm going to be out of the loop for a couple of days - Ma Earthman has just had her hip replaced and I'm off to check all is well. She's going to be in dock for about ten days because of the complications her weird leg imposes on physio.

Anyhoo, if you were thinking of moaning at me because I haven't finished rebuilding the blog roll since the site move, please don't. It'll get done soon. A new Atom feed can be found here.

As you will have noticed, if you are cut from a wise and perceptive cloth, there have been some changes made.

First, a new URL. I was getting a bit lary about too many clients stumbling upon the blog in its current location and forming an accurate impression of what sort of person I am. So I've moved it here, out of harm's way. I can say what I want, when I want to without fear of reprisal. And, before you ask, yes I am using an offshore server. No nasty British libel laws for me, no thanks very much.

Second, a redesign. Template by the fantastic Douglas Bowman, just like old one was - comments welcome.

Third, a new name. Although displacementactivity.com was available I decided it was kind of unmemorable, vulnerable to typing errors and a bit long. Lostearthman.com sums up the brand (yes, yes, I know) and at the same time is easy to spell and remember in a straightforward, no-nonsense Anglo-Saxon kind of way.

I'm thinking about taking on some advertising, too. Right now I'm busy doing tweaks and fixes. Everything from the blogroll to feeds (RSS and Atom) should be back to normal soon.

Had a bit of a debate with the Open University last week about why I can't use my Mac for their science courses. They replied promptly and with profuse apologies - they'd love to be Mac-compatible, but they're all sweaty geeks in kipper ties who come out in a rash if they have to deal with anything remotely stylish. If it doesn't come in a beige box with LEDs on the front, it's not for them. Sorry.

Anyhow, having overcome my doubts about the dress sense of the people I may have to work with, I've signed up for a couple of OU introductory science courses - How the Universe Works and Maths for Science. I always loved science as a kid and was a bit of an astronomy geek. That enthusiasm, of course, was neatly wrung out of me my school science lessons. I've decided to return to my scientific roots on the basis that (a) I find it really interesting, and (b) if socially inept sciencey dweebs can do it, how hard can it be?

(I'd like to specifically exclude degrees in Maths and Physical Oceanography, and indeed mathematical physical oceanographers in general, from the above generalization. Such degrees, especially the ones issued by UW Bangor, are fucking hard and to get one you have to be, in the words of Ben Goldacre, a serious fuck-off academic ninja.)

Although business ticked over during the weeks following Christmas, I had quite a lot of free time. Now things are getting busier so once more Displacement Activity can fulfil its function of preventing me doing anything until the optimum moment - i.e., the last one.

The first interesting thing to report is that I've been gathering more evidence for my soon-to-be-published paper People in Richmond, North Yorks: The Rudest, Stupidest Fuckers In Britain. As you may know, every now and then I like to make a break in my working day by enjoying a pub lunch while reading a good book. This, of course, is pleasant in itself; even more pleasant, though, is reflecting on the fact that while I'm sitting in front of a nice warm fire enjoying lunch in peaceful surroundings, Dave, Furball, Telf and everybody else I used to work with are running around shoving buns into their mouths while trying to mark the work they set three months ago because some arsey, backward little shit in the third form has complained to his ugly mother.

I used to go to Wetherspoons to relish this sensation, but frankly it's a bit plasticky, and while the beer is excellent the chips have got to be the worst I've ever tasted. So I thought I'd head for the market square and give the Bishop Blaize a try. The Bishop Blaize is one of those Richmond pubs that Niall always mutters dark warnings about. In fact, I was having a drink with him in the Turf (excellent pub) just the other night when he lapsed into silence, and, after a few moments of wearing his characteristic voyaging-through-strange-seas-of-thought-alone furrowed brow, grimly pronounced that he'd heard the Bishop Blaize was getting worse.

He didn't specify in what way it was going downhill, so I thought I may as well try my luck, especially as there is a large, colourful chalkboard outside advertising the culinary delights to be enjoyed within. The interior was pleasant, and a good fire was going. Behind the counter was the requisite fat, surly barmaid of the type you find staffing every pub in town. The conversation went like this:

Me: I'll have a pint of Cameron's, please.

[Note to Dave, Furball, Telf et al: I can enjoy an alcoholic beverage with my lunch, and then go home for a nice sleep afterwards. Mmmmmm.]

Fat, Surly Barmaid:: Anything else?

Me: Yeah, I'd like to order some food, please.

FSB: We're not doing food. It's Tuesday.

Me: But there's a big sign outside saying...

FSB: But it's Tuesday.

I swear there's a bylaw in this town prohibiting the sale of certain foods on certain days. Back in 2001 three of us - me, TLMH and Rachel - were refused chips in the Black Horse '..because it's Sunday'. In neither that case, nor this, did the FSB (yes, they have one at the Black Horse, too) feel the need to offer any further explanation.

So much for the Bishop Blaize. I went back to Wetherspoons, where I had a great pint of Pedigree and a burger accompanied by a tiny number of awful, lukewarm chips - all brought to my table by a fat, surly waitress who at least had the good grace not to say anything as she thumped it down in front of me.

Apologies for the lack of posts - things have been rather busy what with tax returns (yikes!) and Mum going into hospital soon to have her new hip riveted into place.

Not much time to post, as Adam Hart-Davies is jumping up and down outside my window shouting 'fill it in, you treacherous bastard!'. However, can I draw your attention to the Faremax.com travel forums? If you want the details, check the post on my main blog time- and date-stamped about five minutes before this one. I'd be very grateful, if y'all could spare five minutes, if you could head over there, sign up and start some threads or add to old ones about your travel experiences. And please don't mention my name - I want this to grow organically.

Ta!

Yesterday's post was largely concerned with things I don't like, so today I thought I'd focus on something I do.

Wandering around Lincoln yesterday was a pleasure. When people have asked me about the place in the past I've always compared it to York. In its way, that's a good comparison, although it's nowhere near as crowded, probably because it's well off the beaten track and not within easy reach of places like Leeds the way York is.

I also think it beats York in some regards. In Lincoln, for example, the castle and the cathedral (both spectacular) are a longish climb up the accurately named Steep Hill, and a good distance from the main shopping precinct. That means you can stroll around either in the company of only those people who have made the effort to get there. Lincoln cathedral isn't full of bored chavs or lasses clattering around in heels with boutique bags, all sheltering from the rain - mind you, neither is York Minster now that the bastards charge a fiver for admission, but that's a different story.

The streets on top of the hill, centered on Bailgate, are the oldest in the city. These days they're full of small, expensive restaurants, designer shops and exclusive prep schools where the local middle classes can have their kids turned into braying pricks for three grand a term.

'Hang on Bill,' I hear you say. 'You're always telling us that Lincolnshire is a proletarian haven, a classless society insulated from the decadence and shallowness of the bourgeoisie. Prep schools don't sound very working class to me.'

Well, you're right. The fact is that the economy of the People's Republic of Greater Lincolnshire does depend on having a native chattering class, albeit a small one. We need the odd barrister or two, and the damage caused to the citizens' roads (and, occasionally, the citizens) by Yummy Mummies driving Jemima and Dominic to school in the Range Rover keeps the workers of the highways and health departments usefully employed. However, tough restrictions are in place to prevent the rest of the county being polluted by their nasty ballet-lesson-taking, Chablis-drinking habits. The middle class of Lincolnshire are only allowed on the hill in Lincoln. Their ghetto is delineated by the second lowest OS ten metre contour above the Witham. if they stray past this they're hunted down with dogs.

A couple of months ago I was on Bailgate in the pissing rain, so I dropped into a place called Café Zoot for a cup of tea. The lovely waitress brought me a lovely pot of tea with a lovely smile. Five minutes later, she brought me a lovely bill for three quid.

THREE QUID???? for a fucking cup of tea? The boss didn't seem to be around and the waitress was too lovely to argue with, so I paid. But THREE QUID? For a bag dunked in water? The place should be called Café It Zoots Us To Make A Fucking Killing By Egregiously Ripping Off Our Punters.

Apologies for the lack of posts. I thought this was going to be a couple of very quiet weeks, but the work has been pouring in. The old RSI has shown signs of flaring up and I've been trying to keep typing to a minimum. I have been using my pen tablet and handwriting recognition software, but the results can bee a bite erotic.

I'm at Mum and Dad's place right now. l had a leisurely ride down here via Lincoln, one of the most beautiful (and overlooked) cities in the country.

ln the city centre, as you might expect, the market research people and their clipboards were out in force. l used the opportunity to try my new rapid-reaction tactic for the times when one of the bastards accosts you before you have time to whip your phone out and pretend to be making an impassioned last call to your small, dying daughter. It's this: when they hit you with their first line, simply respond in a foreign language. In case they know a little French, German, Italian or whatever, make sure you use the expression for 'I'm sorry, I don't speak English'.

It's a great tactic for several reasons. First, they tend to be embarrassed, especially if you follow up your initial response with a series of questions that they plainly don't understand; second, whereas if you give a negative response in English they will often come back at you a second time, a foreign language response effectively ends the conversation; third - and this is the real beauty of this trick - even if they understand the language you've used, they'll still leave you alone. Their job is to get British people to fill in their wretched questionaires. Foreigners are useless to them.

As for the hero, hats off all round to Richard Dawkins for his effort on Channel Four tonight, The Root Of All Evil?. It was the usual Dawkins let's-get-proper-stuck-into-medieval-superstition science vs. religion gorefest, consisting of mad mullahs and fundamentalist Bible twitchers being allowed to make fools of themselves all over TV. Clearly most of the people Dawkins is addressing are either confirmed secularists or moderate Christians, Muslims and Jews, so this wasn't really an 'exploration' or an 'analysis' - it was a good honest freakshow. Dawkins' zealots weren't the Bishop of Bath and Wells or Lionel Blue; they were proper, fire and brimstone old-time religionists. Dawkins doesn't have much time for them, and the feeling's mutual.

It's not just the apocalypic nutters that don't like Dawkins though - they have the odd whining apologist on the liberal side of the fence. Madeleine Bunting, a journalist I'd rather respected until now, was moaning about him in Saturday's Guardian. But what really annoyed me about Bunting's piece didn't really concern religion at all:

It's also right for religion to concede ground to science to explain natural processes; but at the same time, science has to concede that despite its huge advances it still cannot answer questions about the nature of the universe - such as whether we are freak chances of evolution in an indifferent cosmos. [My italics]

This is such a typical, clichéd example of a media person failing to understand the basic philosophy of science that it's embarrassing.