Alan Turing, a genius

or

You don't know me at all

As everyone knows, this year is the anniversary of Alan Turing's birth.  It's been hard to avoid the worldwide celebrations, the code-breaking competitions, the endless analysis of his life and achievements and a campaign for a full pardon.  Then again, it is possible that not everyone is reading the same websites as me!

e.g. of Turing machine, from my college notes, '92

Turing was first and foremost a mathematician, but like Newton before him, made significant breakthroughs in a number of different fields (did you know that Newton, apart from his three laws of motion, also contributed significantly to the development of calculus, wrote a teatise on Optics and still managed to find time to be master of the mint in the UK?).  Turing's greatest contribution was the Turing machine, a conceptual device (although it has since been created in lego) which tests where or not something is computables and was fundamental to the development of the computer.

He also set the standard for judging artificial intelligence - the Turing test, which states that if you cannot figure out whether you are having a conversation with a human or machine, the machine can be said to be intelligent.  I personally think he was slightly flawed in his philosophical approach to AI, but that's a subject for a whole different type of blog.

His other achievements include cracking the German Enigma code during the second world war and describing how patterns e.g. giraffe markings, occur in nature.  He also happened to be homosexual and was convicted for this offence which resulted in him being chemically castrated a few short years before he took his own life.  His alleged suicide was also a nod to Newton.  A half-eaten apple was found by his bedside, assumed to be contaminated with cyanide, a substance he was using in his experiments.

I recently read his biography, by his mother, written over fifty years ago and republished to mark the centenary of his birth.  What struck me was how clueless and shallow his mother was.  She said she knew him best as she was his mother, but she was largely absent from his life, living in India for much of the year while Alan and his brother remained in England.  She clearly did not understand him at all.  She was also very critical of his slovenly ways and lack of reform to society's norms.  He was unconventional, certainly, but seemed to get on well with people and was willing to help out others.  Also, some of his actions, which distressed the hoi polloi seem eminently sensible to me, such as wearing his gas mask outdoors during the war, to ward off hayfever.

Alan's brother adds his own chapter at the end of this edition.  He too seems to have little understanding of his brother and judges his homosexuality to be a psychological problem resulting from his upbringing and abandonment issues due to his parents' long absenses.  In one respect, this attitude was a product of the time it was written, but what it must have been like for Alan to have a brother who so disapproved of him!

It was an interesting book, by all means, but mainly because of the insights we gain into his mother and brother's psyche.  It goes to show that the people society judges you to be closest to really don't have a clue what you're about.

Anyway, if you haven't already, check Alan Turing out - a great man!

I recommend following @AlanTuringYear on twitter for all things Alan related

Remembering Karen

or

The Summer Gig Season

Ah, the summer concert season! The long, lazy days of sitting in the sun, having a smoke and a beer, finding a good spot and waiting for the main event.

6th Year School Sport's Day

 My first major gig was in the RDS in 1988, age 15 - Hothouse Flowers.  I remember the ticket price was an exorbitant £12.50 and part of me couldn't believe that my mother not only let me go, but funded it as well!  I went with my friend Karen Bearpark (RIP) and her little brother Timmy and we took turns sitting on each others' shoulders to get a better view.

Deacon Blue, Tracy Chapman,  Hothouse Flowers - we knew all the words of all the songs.  It was an awakening, a first tentative step into independence, debauchery and adulthood.  Tracy Chapman was the biggest disappointment of that day.  She's just not that great live although her songs were great you've got a fast car...  During her set, most people were distracted by the human pyramids spontaneously appearing throughtout the crowds.

You never see that at concerts anymore.  On Tuesday night at the fab Bruce Springsteen concert (first time I've seen him - great night!) there were no pyramids, no sitting on shoulders, apart from the adorable 6-year-old on her father's shoulders which the Boss plucked from the crowd.  Maybe it's the health and safety culture we now live in, ruining our fun, or maybe the crowd was older than the Liam Ó Maonlaí fans of '88 and more worried about the ageing, deteriorating backs.

One thing that hasn't changed is that you always meet people you know at events.  On Tuesday I was standing beside a guy who was in UCD with me and who I haven't seen since graduating in '94.  In 1988, our small threesome soon swelled into a gang of about 20 as we bumped into neighbours, gaeltacht room-mates, friends of friends.

In my memories, these events are always sunny.  I know it lashed rain on Tuesday after the gig - my clothes were still soaked on Wednesday when I finally dragged myself out of bed - and I know it rained at the Iron Maiden/Marilyn Manson gig in the same venue in 2005 because we wondered if the t-shirt stand sold raincoats and umbrellas and then laughed at how old, uncool and non metal-head we'd become.   Yet somehow you remember the sun, the good times, the music and all the gigs merge into one conglomerate of happiness.

Last day at school

But I'll never forget that first gig in the RDS.  The excitement beforehand, the sun, the music, the friends and most of all Karen.  She was so kind, so generous, so trusting.  While easily embarrassed, she was honest and never worried about making a fool of herself.  Not that she was a fool, far from it, she was just free of the posturing most teenages adopt.  She was so much more than she realised.  When she got into Physio in UCD she was amazed that she'd got enough points for it, while the rest of us were delighted for her but not surprised.  We shared the cost of a locker in our 1st year in UCD while she was still based in Belfield but then we slowly drifted apart as I drifted apart from all my MacDara's friends.

The that 'phone call from Brian McMahon years later while I was at work.  Karen was dead, the funeral the next day, St Jude's Church.  I'm embarrased to say I don't even know when it was.  It was too much to take in.  I know it was sometime between 1998 and 2000 because I remember the leather jacket, the jeans the t-shirt, the docs I wore that day and I remember having my Starlet and for some reason I'm fairly sure Brian was driving a Mitsubishi Colt.  Strange the things that you remember and also the things that elude you.

But, it's summer concert season again and time for long, lazy days sitting in the sun with a smoke and a beer.  And while I bop around, no longer knowing all the words but singing along all the same, a part of me remembers that first major gig, the beautiful, kind, lovable friend I once had and the innocent, tortured, but most of all fun, days of my teenage years.

Karen at the debs

Following the Herd

or

Sheep are Cool!

I live beside The Curragh, a land of sheep, shite and soldiers, as Martin McDonough describes in his book of the same name. It can be uplifting in early morning on the way to work to see the sheep grazing and the thoroughbreds being worked on the gallops.

Sheep are often regarded as stupid creatures. They follow each other blindly and one tends to come across the odd deaf one on the road. I think they're just fooling us all. The ones that get killed are the kamikaze division, probably ailing anyway, who conspire with their owner to get some compensation.

When the rest of them march along in single file, I like to think they're they're organizing a rally somewhere, perhaps a protest demanding better grass to munch on or more access to the Camp now that it has been fenced off to them. On the other hand, maybe I spend too much time watching Shaun The Sheep, an excellent programme right up there with Top Cat.

This all came into my head due to a recent holiday. As luck would have it, I got a seat in row 3 of the aeroplane with extra leg room. There were two rows of seats (no row 1) on my side of the 'plane to match three on the other. Then, as we disembarked, the people in the row ahead of me had other family members further down the aeroplane and so hung back to wait on them. This meant that I ended up being leader of the pack.

The funny thing about homosapiens is that while we laugh at sheep following each other blindly, we exhibit exactly the same behaviour. I set off, with no idea where to go, with my newly formed herd behind me. Now I'm quite good at finding my way around unfamiliar surroundings so I was fairly confident I wouldn't get lost but there was one wee problem. Those of you who know me, well don't need to be told that I'm a bit of a cripple. I need a walking stick to get around, can't move quickly and the more I walk the slower I get.

I found it particularly hilarious that not one of my acquired posse passed me out! There were even some murmurings about the speed we were going and why we didn't go faster but, I repeat, NOT ONE person took the initiative to go ahead. Passport control was a doddle. I just breezed through and again, because I was on my own and didn't have to wait for anyone, I was first on the bus!

This whole incident put me in mind of the great, late Douglas Adams and Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (I think that's the book anyway). Dirk believes you should navigate by picking a car at random and following them. As he says (I'm paraphrasing here), he may not get where he intended to but he always ended up somewhere interesting (on second thought, may he said he always ended up where he needed to, but you get my drift). Maybe we should stop laughing at the sheep and start admiring them for their philosophical outlook on life...

Remembering Joxer

or

I made pie!

Society seems to be obsessed with food, weight and nutrition these days.  We're constantly told to exercise, cut out junk food and eat our 5 a day.  It's a creed I'm not too enthusiasitc about.  I don't really like fruit and vegetables and strongly suspect that those who claim to be are lacking in taste buds.


However, I don't avoid the good stuff completely.  Carrots and peas, in particular, feature frequently in my dinners as evidenced in the 'Patriot Pie' I made for myself on Sunday (chicken, peas and carrots in an onion, mushroom and port white sauce, topped with mashed potato).  Most of my dinners follow this colour scheme.

Recent weeks have seen a plethora of nationalism across the country.  Flags were bought, bunting was hung, wing mirrors got new jackets and green jerseys were dusted off and worn with pride.  For those of us over a certain age, it brought back memories of '88 and Ray Houghton's infamous goal and all it meant to the country.  We united, then as now, to support our football team.  This year, the Irish supporters got a special award for our attitude and participation in the finals.

Ninety years ago, it was a different story.  The civil war was just beginning, the start of it marked by the bombing of the Four Courts on 28th June.  The war lasted less than a year but its ramifications can still be felt today.  Not only do the two parties which have dominated Irish politics since the formation of the state trace their origins to this turbulent time, the public records office was also affected destroying our heritage.  It always amazes me when watching programmes such as "Who Do You Think You Are" how far back they can trace their family.

Tracing your family roots and thinking about  your origins is a luxury.  For many people today, they are far more concerned with the daily struggle of paying the bills, putting food on the table and explaining to their children that they can no longer maintain the lifestyle of recent times.  How much worse must it have been during the civil war when the country was divided.  It was classmates against classmates, friends against friends, brothers against sisters.  The phrase 'atrocities of the civil war' is a familiar one.  And the poverty we find ourselves in today is incomparable to the poverty in Ireland 50 years ago, never mind 90 years ago.  There wasn't an obesity problem then.  People didn't count their calories or make sure they had their five-a-day.  The 1926 census showed that 800,000 people were living in overcrowded conditions.  No wonder Captain Boyle pronounced Th' whole worl's in a terrible state o' chassis in Juno and The Paycock, set in those turbulent times.

Ninety years on, the country is still divided, but the England soccer team has played in Croke Park, the Queen of England was invited over for a couple of days, and a Sinn Féin man has shaken hands with her.  A spokesperson from the Orange Order has spoken to the Seanad.  It makes you think, don't it?