Mac vs PC

The Mac Vs PC wars have occupied many a cameo appearance in my Youtube surfing over the years, and the animosity between these two pillars of the technological world has always been a source of wonderment. I do not mean by this that I have abstained from participating in this most ferocious battle. I have valiantly fought for the black and grey of the PC since the beginning. But why did I stick so stubbornly to the PC, whilst attending a private, Jewish school in which Macbooks are the planets around which Blackberrys and Itouches revolve?

Maybe the answer is in the question. Maybe I resented being considered technologically backward with my Dell Inspiron 560.

You see, whilst Macbooks are quite simply: very cool, I do not accept the fact that “they can even run Windows” as a convincing argument. This is akin to making a 3D movie and releasing it in the normal, two-dimensional format. Macs are the 3D film of the computing world. They’re cumbersome, functionally useless and expensive. The analogy weakens slightly when one acknowledges that they, at least, do fulfil their purpose without requiring cheap, unattractive eyewear.

Furthermore, Apple seems to encourage more thought to be directed towards the concept than towards its practicality. As a veteran of the iPhone revolution, I can conclude that whilst it is a great toy, it is a terrible phone. Missed calls, freezing for hours and a battery that doesn’t last the amount of time it takes me to eat a bowl of Coco Shreddies, I could be forgiven if I occasionally yearned for my old Nokia.

Anyway, the significant point is that Macbooks and PCs are now very much identical. Aesthetically, and in price, of course, there are differences, but in terms of hardware (I’m reliably informed, by my computer scientist brother) they are very similar. As a result, one might expect the war to be over. Apple users can admit that their computer can get viruses after all, and PC’s troops can admit that they are ugly in comparison. But judging by this latest skirmish in the Jungfernstieg section of Hamburg, Germany, it seems that the war is still very much alive.

NB: It is essential that I inform you here that the building featured in this video is destined to be an Apple store, and the completely unnecessary lengths to which these people have gone are the source of my amusement.

Finally, I must apologise here, because I am about to disappoint my thousands of avid readers. I have exams until the end of next week, so will be taking a temporary leave from the blogosphere. This post was hastily constructed, for which I duly apologise, but my exams must take precedence. With that, I wish you all goodbye, and I wish myself good luck!

Olympic Disenchantment

When it was announced that the 2012 Olympics would be held in London, I was ecstatic. 

There would be new world records, drugs tests, an influx of supporters from all over the world, and androgynous athletes being publicly humiliated by the BBC.

And I would be right in the middle of it all! I couldn't wait to be eagerly supporting Usain Bolt, insulting Dwain Chambers, and wondering if Phillips Idowu’s hair is naturally that colour.

Sadly, it was not to be.

I should have done the maths.

With around 7 million people in London, and a maximum capacity of 80,000 people in the Olympic Stadium, I guess I was foolish to expect to see everything. Indeed, between all of my immediate family, none of our applications resulted in the winning of tickets, as we discovered on Friday.

Consequently, a feeling of disenchantment hung in the air over our Friday night dinner table, with my parents feeling personally victimised by Sebastian Coe, claiming “Our taxes paid for them! And we’re not even allowed in!” My dad, an engineer at heart, spent most of the meal devising a much fairer system for ticket allocation, whilst my mum loudly resented the fact that Boris Johnson will no doubt be allowed in anyway, despite also not winning tickets through conventional means. We did our best to console her, “its okay. Nick Clegg probably won’t get in”.

I do feel a tad sorry for Mr Clegg. Whilst I concede there may be some benefit to David Cameron entertaining lots of Iranian dignitaries during the London Olympics, I feel that making the Deputy Prime Minister serve them caviar is slightly too belittling.

Regardless, we concluded over our desert that we will spend the summer of 2012 on holiday in the Caribbean. After all, it will be very peaceful: all the Jamaicans will be over here.

Britain's Got (a complete inability to recognise) Talent

The beginning of my blogging experience coincides with the final of Britain’s Got Talent 2011. Whilst I originally advocated the concept of a nationwide talent contest, I maybe should have predicted the authenticity of this competition falling foul to the beneficiaries of cheap entertainment.

The judging panel are only surpassed in their inadequacy by the general public, or rather, those of the public who consider the result to have enough influence on their lives to merit picking up the phone.

One of the most impressive acts in the semi finals was Out of the Blue, the a capella group from Oxford, who didn’t even make the final 10, despite (rumour has it) enjoying the services of a professional choreographer. The judges seemed most surprised that a group of such students they no doubt consider “elitist” were so “accessible”, an acknowledgement based on categorically unfounded presumptions. The show is also guilty of praising any disciplined and obedient dog; cute, but invariably out of tune, 7 year olds; and of ignoring necessary caution when predicting stardom in the future of prepubescent boy bands.

However, due to my yearning for lunch, I will curtail my criticism of this monstrosity, and praise Simon Cowell for inventing what is essentially a fantastic business model. After Ant and Dec ensured the viewers that votes after the lines have closed only “may be charged”, as opposed to “most definitely will be charged”, I turn my attention to other news.

Why Wayne Rooney, idolised by millions, feels the need to have a hair transplant is beyond me, unless he feels it will improve his image rights.  Funnier still, is his wife’s need to confirm on Twitter that she hadn’t forced him to have the surgery, a suggestion I hadn’t even considered until she denied it.  

As A-Levels await (and I still want lunch), I leave you to mull over how my interest in Wayne Rooney’s hairstyle increases remarkably in conjunction with the increasing proximity of my exams. Goodbye.