Porsche’s Panamera will be up against some stiff competition when hits the dealers in April 2009, namely Maserati’s Quattroporte (above) and Aston Martin’s Rapide (below). There is also competition from Mercedes who know all about building luxury cars with slick engines, and their CLS Class is very popular among those with big enough bank balances. Audi are also hoping to muscle in on the action with a rumoured A7, and of course BMW have been slapping M badges on their range for years. And if Lamborghini build the Estoque, the market for millionaire motorheads with little darlings will be blown open.

The article in Top Gear praised the Panamera considerably, and included a side panel to the piece which mentioned Aston Martin’s and Lamborghini’s efforts. However, the failure to mention Maserati’s only served to get my neurons sparking. You see, while the Panamera looks like a Porsche, and the Rapide looks like an Aston, the Quattroporte looks like a Maserati and the Estoque looks outrageous (and therefore, like a Lamborghini), the latter three are also suitably different from the standard machines the company’s build. Porsche’s effort looks like, well, it just looks like a Porsche.

This is a problem Porsche have, and it needs addressing if the company are to continue against the increasing competition from their rivals. On the left is a 1969 Porsche 911E, and on the right is 2002 996 Carrera 4. Almost 40 years of development, and it looks the same. Undoubtedly, what has happened under the skin cannot be measured, but from the outside, Porsche have resolutely remained in the sixties.

They say if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it, but looking at the Panamera (above), I’d say something is certainly in need of a fix. While Porsche may be sitting on its laurels though, having sold many thousands of cars over the years, they aren’t pushing any new envelopes when it comes to design and aesthetics. They are just riding a wave of brand popularity, but doing little to move the industry forward. Aston Martin, Maserati and Lamborghini are challenging people’s views though, by building attractive, yet striking cars. And this sums up the major difference between the manufacturers.

If you buy a Porsche, you will undoubtedly be buying superb engineering, but you will also buying into an idea from the 1960’s. An idea of no news is good news. And while design should perhaps come second to the actual workings of the machine, it shouldn’t be left on the shelf for 40 years untouched. When I redesigned BlogF1 back in the first quarter of 2008, some people said the design had damaged the site, caused it to run slower and hindered the navigation. While I disagree with the navigation points, I knew it was running considerably slower than previously. But at least I’m not a Porsche, I kept saying to myself. At least I’m not a Porsche.

Porsche 911E photo licensed under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.0 License.

The pint is very much a tradition in the UK, the words “I’ll have a pint, please Landlord” being uttered right now as I write this article. But it isn’t just the way we speak, it’s the way our minds work and the way most of us have been brought up. Allow me to explain…

I’m British, 27, and went to school from age 4 to 16. After school, I went to college and then university, but these two institutions do not come into this because by the time I was 16, my mind was already programmed into it’s current set of workings. I was primarily taught a mixture of imperial and metric. Which pretty much sums up the majority of this nation. When we’re asked the temperature on a cold day, we usually respond in Celsius. On a warm day, Fahrenheit is used. “It’s cold today, at least a couple below”, or “It’s sweltering, must be in the 90s at least!”

The measuring of distance (and therefore speed) though is different. We are very much fixed in imperial. Our dashboards have mph in large type, the metric equivalent in smaller type on the inside of the dial. Our road signs give miles instead of kilometres. The speed limit on the motorway is 70mph, not 112.65408kmh. Travel 30 miles (or 48.28032km) over the English Channel though, and everything is different. Europe has embraced the metric system, and who can blame them. It’s easier. That 500ml bottle of water your holding weighs 0.5kg, or thereabouts. Every part of the countries are the same, there is no mish-mash of two systems being used, be it in the mind or physically in the form of signs or language.

I don’t think Britons would mind too much if all of a sudden we had to stick to 110kmh as opposed to 70mph. I don’t think we would be too upset if our dials subtly changed on our cars, or distances on signs were altered. But mess with our pint, the routine of language in the pub? That’s going too far, apparently. Even though bottles and cans of beverages have long been 330ml, 500ml etc…, you can’t go changing how much goes in a pint glass.

Which, for the record, is absolutely ridiculous.

However, when I read about this on the BBC site, one comment stood out from the page and almost made me angry. The level of naivety in the comment made by one patron of a pub was just ludicrous.

I worked in Spain where you get smaller servings and you could better regulate what you’ve had and check how drunk you are.

Using millilitres might encourage more people to drink less. Binge drinking is less common in Europe.

The young lady who spoke those words is quite correct; there is less binge drinking in continental Europe, but it has more to do with their drinking culture and less to do with the size of the glass. Do you think I could really regulate how drunk I am after consuming 20 European glasses of lager? Irregardless of the size of the vessel, I think my judgment would be impaired. Using millilitres will not discourage binge drinking; it will just mean more trips to the bar. I’m sad to say our nation’s drinking habits run deeper than the size of the glass.

So despite thinking that Britain is crazy not to adopt and embrace the metric system in its entirety, I do understand. It’s (unfortunately) the British culture.

Now, there are a couple of points I should make here before I get onto the real point of this post; I am staying in Italy - a country whose history can be traced back many hundreds of years, and therefore it’s buildings are fairly old. Of course, this is the very reason why some people visit the country in the first place.

The second point I should make is that I’m a relatively healthy 27 year old who is not averse to a bit of exercise should the need arise. With a flight change in Paris, I will have to run across Charles De Gaulle airport in order to make a connection; a quick dash which from experience seems like a few miles with a ~12kg rucksack on my back. But a bit of effort from my body and mind really isn’t considered a chore to me. So anyway, on with the observation…

Some travel review sites I visited just required a couple of lines generally summing up the experience the guest had while staying there, and other sites required positive and negative points to be made. Some people just said “very homely with attentive staff” as a positive, and “I really cannot think of anything” as the ‘negative’ point. These kind of reviews were among the majority for many of the hotels I was looking at.

However, one particular comment stood out from the screen as I was scanning down the page. As a negative point, one reviewer noted “room was on third floor, and there was no elevator. Is it really that hard to get an elevator installed!?” My immediate reaction was “is it really that hard to walk up three flights of stairs?” Anyway, I dismissed it as a review from someone who complains about anything and everything. The reviewer also listed themselves as an American, which while I try not to judge, didn’t surprise me.

I continued scanning for a while trying to see if anyone had actually made an informing point about the hotel, when lo-and-behold, another grumble about lifts, this time from a Briton. “I can’t believe Italians live without lifts”. Sitting back in my chair, I was a little gobsmacked. I mean, it’s not like there weren’t any stairs! It isn’t as though the hotel staff harnessed you up, padded your hands with chalk a gestured you to climb up the outside of the building to get to your room.

I found about five comments along these lines for one particular hotel, and decided I had spent enough time looking at this place and should check out another. The only negative point I could ascertain from the reviews was that a few lazy people had stayed there previously.

Another hotel I was interested in was quite plush and the official blurb made it seem like one of those hotels I might feel awkward in because I’m not rich nor famous. But, the price was right as it is currently out of season, so I thought I’d have a gander anyway. And not a word of a lie…

Review 1. Do not stay here! My room was on the top floor and the building does not have an elevator. I should just point out, from the exterior photo, the hotel looks to be three stories high.

Review 6. When I asked the front desk where the elevator was, I was gestured towards the staircase. Have Venetions [sic] not heard of elevators?

Review 7. No lift and two flights of stairs with heavy luggage is not exactly what I imagined our holiday to be like. You mean, you carried your bags up and down the stairs every day of your stay? Are you crazy or something?

Review 11. Yada yada yada…

The reviews continued like this for a while, mixed mainly between British and American visitors, and ultimately left me open-mouthed staring at my monitor. What were these people expecting from their 19th Century building propped up from the lagoon and requiring serious maintenance work every five or so years to prevent it from sinking? Seriously!? If I stayed at a hotel that was 20 stories high and was built in the last 30 years or so, a lift would be very handy. However, to stay in a hotel which is older than some countries, and one that is only a couple of flights of stairs high, it really isn’t that much of a problem to lift one foot in front of the other.

And before it is mentioned, I have of course considered those who need help with walking, be it from a cane, frame or chair. But if you are in a position where stairs are going to cause genuine disruption to your holiday, you’re going to check beforehand, aren’t you? You’re going to ask for a ground floor room; you’re going to research the place to make sure it is wheelchair friendly; you’re not going to just presume.

For those people who are perfectly capable of walking up and down a flight of stairs, I have just two or three questions…

Am I really living in a world where people are too lazy to walk up a staircase? When did this happen? How do people cope with this affliction of laziness? My mind is currently boggled.

Rejigging The (Other) Blog

The homepage redesign is coming along nicely. It is more of a small update and rejigging of stuff rather than a redesign - 99% of it is remaining exactly as it is right now, but I hope to add some more stuff to the homepage without crowding or suffocating it. And speaking of computing…

The Wonderful Izzard Of Yemen

Eddie Izzard’s new show - Stripped - was a tremendously great way to spend an evening. The self-titled Executive Transvestite performed at the Lyric Theatre, although his attire was much more manly, dressed in jeans and a tuxedo jacket complete with tails. One joke that stood out involved Macs, which coincidentally ties in with a question Tom recently pondered on Flickr: “maybe one day I’ll figure out what’s so great about Macs…” Izzard had the answer, which he so wonderfully pointed out to the audience - Mac users get shagged more.

Aside from Apple jokes and iPhone fun, Izzard’s show was more about religion and its absurdities, the evolution of mankind through the stone and ice ages and how Spartan sheep shear themselves with rusty razors to fend off wolves. Jazz chickens and Mr and Mrs Wikipedia also made the bill, somehow. And as there is no tenuous link to the final part of this random post, I’ll just add the image…

Reflective Coffee

Me this morning, fed up with instant coffee and making a cuppa with the Moka. Mmmm, sweet nutritious coffee…

So anyway, as I slowly moved around my flat this gloomy November morn, waiting for my senses to awaken, I wondered why I hadn’t tried the variety of board that skims across snow? They both carve their chosen surfaces as they go, one tearing up the white stuff as it thunders down a mountain, the other ripping water about without care as a turn is made. They’re both huge amounts of fun, employ similar techniques and can be quite extreme if due care and attention is not made to the mind.

Despite never having been on a snowboard though, I’ve always wondered about snowboarding - you have to admit, it does look cool. The kind of cool that ultimately leads to crazy-cool, or maybe even scary-cool. My brother is a keen skier and is often hopping over to the Alps with his friends for a long weekend on the slopes, so you might think I would have had ample opportunity to have a go at this particular sport. And with my natural sense of balance on something flat, thin and long, there is little reason to be as hesitant as I seem to be.

And then it dawned on me. The caffeine kicked in, the eyes opened and the brain entered overdrive. Morning had broken and I knew why I hadn’t tried snowboarding before. I’m not too keen on heights…

Allow me to attempt to sum up the major differences between these two closely related sports.

I believe the two sports also have their very own cultures and traditions, although again there are some similarities. But the type of people who tend to take up either snowboarding or surfing are probably somewhere in their twenties and have an outgoing and positive personality; I’m yet to meet a depressed surfer, but maybe that’s more to do with surfing’s spiritual side which I’m not sure exists within snowboarding.

What I also find interesting is that snowboarding is an Olympic sport (in the Winter Games), whereas surfing is not. This is despite the fact that snowboarding is a derivative of surfing, once called snurfing [I presume] according to Wikipedia who describe the first snowboard as a Snurfer. Let’s just say it’s good that a different term became more popular, although I’m sure surfing sounded strange to people when they first heard it.

Of course, to include surfing in the Olympics would be difficult, as Fernando Aguerre points out in his article for Surfer’s Path magazine. Location is pretty important and while you could argue the same for sailing, wind is easier to come by than a decent swell combined with a good incline on the seabed or reef.

The one thing I know very little about (with both sports) is what has been coined surf-rage. It does exist in surfing and can include gang-based rivalry between groups of locals and groups of visitors. Given how similar the sports are, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of snowers cutting in on others while flying down a slope, or getting very territorial over a particular run or spot. But I’ve never heard of snow-rage - to maybe coin the term - although my ignorance is perhaps based on exposure and lack thereof.

And to finish up with, I’ll leave you with one more thought: If surfboarders are called surfers, and skateboarders are called skaters, why aren’t snowboarders called snowers?

Photograph licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

You plunge into the hardened water, pulses of pain shock their way through your body. The silence is beautiful and if it wasn’t for the limitations now placed on the very life you were trying to enjoy, paradise could be summed up by the environment you now find yourself in. As you try to orientate yourself, thrashing your arms and kicking your legs, you feel the one comfort you have; the leash. Attached at one end to your ankle, you hope the other is still connected with your board. The mind figures out which way to go, and uncontrollably you begin to propel yourself through the thickening wall of water.

With every two or three kicks of the legs, the sense of progress is met with morale-sapping heartache and anguish. The leash is being pulled as the board is washed ever further away from you, desperate to prevent you from reaching the safety of it’s buoyancy. It isn’t your faithful friend’s fault though, for the blame lies with force you challenged and tried to conquer. And as you near the surface, felt by the thinning of the water, added blows from all regions knock the spirit from your soul. As waves crash and currents rip, your body becomes the doll in the mouth of a raging dog.

Each time your lips emerge from the darkness, a gasp of air is taken before you are sucked down again, seemingly forever to be embroiled in the war of energy. The peaceful silence has dissipated; the ear-shattering rage from the battleground above pummels your mind and steals your thoughts.

After a minute or two of fighting with all your might, giving as best you can against the mighty warrior, you sight your board as it arcs around you; out of reach, but never out of mind. A new goal is decided upon, but not by you, for instinct took over your body a long time ago. The attention of the life-support becomes the aim and the beaten corpse of your weary body summons the energy from the depths within. With a new sense of purpose the pain erodes away; no longer are you a mannequin at mercy to only the sea.

The rhythmic tug of the leg stirs you around to the world of the conscious. You are face down. You are wet. You are cold. The shattered spirit only able to deduce the simplest of reasoning’s, the realisation that the pulling of the ankle is your board, still trapped by the forces it was designed to prevent. Only the forces have lessened, for terrafirma is your new environment. And with each crashing wave on the shore line, the energy to heal increases.

As you turn your crushed body over and sit up to admire the victor of the battle, a small lift of a cheek offers respect and understanding. The ocean has no prejudice, it bears no grudge. If it did, you wouldn’t already be paddling out again.

Each and every year that has passed through the database of BlogF1 has been met with more posts, more comments and more exposure. This is good, you’d think, and honestly, it really is. There is little more enjoyment from a blogger’s perspective than more feedback, more praise and more constructive criticism. To write, and to write well, to see something grow and develop… it really is something special.

That something special though nearly always turns into the dreaded thought of what will happen next year. For me, that moment is now. The off-season may only be a day or two old, but already I’m filled with thoughts on how I can top 2008. So far this year, BlogF1 has seen 585 posts, 3259 comments and more and more visitors. I’m seeing new names in the comments all the time, and 2008 has welcomed so many new regulars I have lost count.

I felt, giving my personal issues some consideration as well, that I was pretty much maxed out this year. As I was speeding along faster than my brain could cope, I couldn’t see how I could do any more. But then, I always think like that. I always presume I’m at top speed, in top gear and the throttle really can’t open any more, no matter how hard I push on the pedal. But as each season passes, I excel. I beat my previous. The site grows and I become ever more impressed with my new-found ability to juggle everything that is happening.

Last year, I posted 424 articles to BlogF1 (up from 225 in 2006), 2008 will likely see somewhere around the 650 mark. Comments for 2007 totalled 978; quite the step up to 3259 so far for this year. And while these numbers are great and fill me with joy - they really, honestly do - I cannot help but think about 2009 and worry. I shouldn’t, of course, but I do, because that’s simply me. I always find a way of improving something, bettering something or just becoming better at what I do. The thought of doing that yet again though adds pressure to the shoulders. It fills me with the feeling of impending apprehension.

So please excuse me while I move my chair in front of a blank wall, put my feet up, and just stare for a while.

Compare Indesit’s or Hotpoint’s latest offering to Apple’s iPod Nano (2nd generation), for example. Apple have produced a gadget that will play music with only a few simple touches of the thumb or finger. It can randomly play tracks from it’s memory and features other functions like games and calendars. You can use it in conjunction with your laptop and even download podcasts to one. It is a simple design with very few obstacles for the common user. Aside from the hold switch, it has a static circular control that is clickable at certain points, and one more button positioned in the middle of the circle. It is relatively straight forward.

The common washing machine on the other hand is an entirely different beast. In order to effectively wash my clothes, I have to know what they’re made of, how old they are, whether or not they are ‘worn in’ or ‘colour-fast’, what they’re being washed with, how heavy the load is and whether or not I want a variety of different types of ’spin’. On top of that, there is the temperature to consider, along with the time factor and the cleaning agent used. Powder, liquid, tabs, conditioner (which apparently goes in partway through)…

Honestly, why is washing clothes so bloody hard? I’m sure it doesn’t have to be this complex.

My television, a rather smart 28 inch LCD that is about 3 years old has very basic controls on the set itself. Admittedly, the remote has more buttons than I’m sure is necessary, but it will do a lot of things with very few clicks. It will also remember my favourite settings making its use even more straight forward. My washing machine on the other hand does not. Each time I want to do the washing, I have to consider everything from scratch - a lot of brain power goes into making these decisions and one small error could lead to shrunken or discoloured clothes.

My father used to ask my elder brother how to program the VCR when they first become a regular household item, and I used to mock him for it. But now, having grown up myself, I understand why some technology is just ridiculously complex. The symbols on the washing machine’s dials are unfathomable and the instruction manual is no better.

What I need is an iWasher. A device that has very few controls. A machine that will tell me how it thinks my clothes should be washed, and will remember certain presets for the future. The controls need to be in plain English and simple enough to not warrant a phone call to the manufacturers helpline, or an hours read through the manual. I mean honestly, have you ever read the instructions to you iPod!?

…1997 was a great year for British music. Radiohead were on a high with OK Computer, a delayed follow-on from The Bends - one of the greatest albums ever written. What was expected, but believed to be impossible though, was that in its own way, OK Computer equalled if not bettered the success of its predecessor. It elevated one of Britain’s most popular groups into the stratosphere and once again set the precedent for the rest of the world to follow. Also that year, when BritPop was in full swing again, came The Verve’s hauntingly brilliant Urban Hymns. It was tough being a Verve fan, as I will explain in a moment, but needless-to-say, 1997 is and forever will be etched in my mind as one of those summers.

I remember the weather that year being surprisingly warm until late-summer and my friends and myself were riding the wave of finishing school, starting college and reaching that age when independence comes one step closer to realisation. Sixteen was certainly a sweet age for me. I can’t remember where I first heard the bowed opening to Bitter Sweet Symphony, but I remember stopping what I was doing and listening. Nothing else, just listening. Of course, I would later come to learn that the piece wasn’t entirely of The Verve’s doing, but in that moment, that first listen, it didn’t matter. In fact, it still doesn’t to this day.

Bitter Sweet Symphony was listened to over and over throughout the warmth of July and August; it became the soundtrack to a happy moment in my life. Although I was an anguished teenager desperately trying to rid myself of the parental tethers, the track and later the album allowed me to escape to a different world. Just for an hour at a time, I could close my eyes, open my ears and feel pleasure creep through my veins.

In comparison and almost juxtaposition, OK Computer took me longer to understand. There was no initial click of fondness, but instead a growing appreciation that started low, but untimately finished very high. OK Computer was praised throughout the entire latter half of ‘97, but when Urban Hymns was released in late-September, some of the hype, discussion and likely sales switched allegiance. And from that October to now, the present day, that small round disc has become one of my most valued treasures.

The Verve are one those bands that test their fans to almost destruction. Within the group, both old and new, is talent that can ride the highest wave. Their ability to mix a variety of sounds and textures to produce mesmeric harmonies with heart-touching lyrics is supreme, and while they aren’t attractive to every listener, they are certainly favourable among those who appreciate something that is a little different. Gaunt and hypnotic may be a better words.

It seems though, that with the skill of being able to produce such wonderful songs comes the anguish, tension and bitterness between the very creators. The Verve have split and reformed more times than I care to remember, and among my friends at school and college, it almost became a running joke. After each album the band would split, reform, then produce another stunning collection of tracks. Rinse and repeat a few times and you’ll understand why the observation became a popular talking point.

It has been eleven years since that last rinse, but given that a follow-up to Urban Hymns should have been released a year or two later, The Verve are just a little late to the cashing-in-on-success party. They have however, been busy this summer attending festivals up and down the country. The reforming of the group appears to be another success to add to the previous. And although Forth has garnered some criticism, it has also attracted many comments of praise, and perhaps more importantly, many new fans.

Perhaps someone out there is celebrating their transition between school and college. Perhaps they’ve taken a gamble and brought themselves a copy of Forth. Perhaps someone out there is experiencing my summer of ‘97. Who knows? What I do know is, it won’t be long until the rinse-and-repeat cycle continues. It’s almost guaranteed.

When I previously wrote at Knee High To A Grasshopper, I had no rules. I had no guidelines or aim. It was just a site that I wrote whatever on. Occasionally I would happen upon something great; sometimes my mind was in just the right place and the words flowed with rhythm and melodic succulence that even I cannot believe. But this was very rare, and most of what was published was, to be perfectly blunt, crap.

So after I stopped writing at Knee High and concentrated on BlogF1 (my other home) I decided that the site should close. Removing Knee High was difficult, simply because it had sentimental value, but the words contained, although an interesting diary of myself, were utter bullshit. It is no longer available except one piece I particularly enjoyed writing. This is the very first post on Prodrivel and I copied it over when I was sorting out this place.

After about six months post-extermination though, I noticed that my writing at BlogF1 had become a little more personal. In many posts that were meant to be ‘professional’, I found myself adding in more opinion, more thought and more dodgy language. While this, I later realised, was certainly no bad thing, it did make me realise that I was obviously missing personal blogging.

But with the desire to start a new personal website came the anguishing sense of, well, crap. I didn’t want a repeat of the feelings I went through in early-2008; I couldn’t bear that guilt again. So to avoid publishing utter worthless nonsense, I created a set of rules for Prodrivel. Of course, I am not the only judge of what is and what isn’t crap on the Internet, but the decision to post or not comes from me, and I am the only judge on this. And hopefully, my list of criteria to check before I hit that magic button will ensure I can develop, improve and learn as a writer.

And this is why, fellow followers on Twitter, I have been recently describing Prodrivel as difficult. Prodrivel is meant to be hard for me. It is meant to challenge me. If it doesn’t, I will not publish. A perfect example of this (aside from publishing these rules) is something I mentioned yesterday. Although I’m on holiday, I felt the need to go into work. Given the circumstances, I absolutely had to go in.

Yesterday evening, I decided the events (that are still unfolding) will be published on this site once a conclusion has been realised; needless to say, I believe I am about to be massively challenged in my professional role. Of course, details in the post will be severly lacking, but my emotions, thoughts and feelings will not. And if it helps to explain, retro-futro-spectively speaking, this is why I was happy for yesterday’s post-work online distraction.

So enough with the twoddle, here are my rules (in no particular order because there is no particular order)…

Rule One
Do not talk about Fight Club.

Rule Two
Do not talk about Fight Club.

Rule Three
If you fight, fight with 100% of your might. If you can’t, refer to rules one and two.

Rule Four
100% honesty, 100% of the time.

Rule Five
If necessary, re-work. Document changes as per rule four.

Rule Six
If it doesn’t challenge, do not write.

Rule Seven
Passion is key. Follow the heart; the mind will catch you up.

Rule Eight
Pleasure, passion, enjoyment, satisfaction. Without these elements in place, refer to rules one and two.

Which brings me neatly to my first question on Prodrivel: Should I add any rules my list of eight…?

Correction made to rule 8: I was reading from an old version of my rules at the time. Fun was changed to passion as fun is included in enjoyment.