The Formula for Disappointment...

As a long suffering fan of the Sea Eagles I will, no doubt, be disappointed if they lose the NRL Grand Final against the Melbourne Storm this weekend. Will I shake off the loss with a shrug of the shoulders or wallow in self pity for a week? The answer to this question lays not in the result, but in my ability to manage my own expectations. I have therefore developed a mathamatical formula designed to assess the level of disappointment I am likely to suffer:

Value of Opportunity x Level of Desire = Satisfaction Factor/100 > Probability of Success :. Probability/Satisfaction = Level of Disappointment

If the Satisfaction Factor exceeds the Probablity of Success, I will be disappointed if that bunch of cheating Victorians beat my team. The degree of my disappointment can be calculated by dividing the the Probablity of Success (represented in decimal terms) by the Satisfaction Factor - the lower the negative result, the greater the pain and anguish I will suffer - so let's see how it works:

Value of Opportunity - How much is this worth to me in either emotional or material terms? Rated 1 - 10, with 10 representing the higher value to me. Level of Desire - How much do I want this? Rated 1 - 10, with 10 representing the highest level of desire.

Therefore, to calculate the Satisfaction Factor I simply have to multiply the Value of Opportunity by the Level of Desire and then divide that to create a decimal representation. Or in numerical terms (8 x 8)/100 = 0.64

The Sea Eagles have played well all year, but the Storm finished the season as Minor Premiers. Bookmakers have listed the Storm as hot favourites at $2.50 - the Probability of Success when assessing the liklihood of the Sea Eagles winning is probably 50%. So let's see how the final equations looks: (8x8)/100=0.64 > 0.50

Therefore the Level of Disappointment I will experience, should those undeserving, no-necked plodders from the South win, can be demonstrated as (0.50/0.64) = -0.22

Probably best to avoid me on Monday.....

To the Pompous Plonker...

There are two office farewell parties on this evening, and I don't know which one to go to. Should I head off to the Fight'n'Spew with the sales guys? They're always good for a laugh, but the scenario is always a little too predictable. After the copious consumption of 'Temporary Happiness Facilitator', followed by shots of flaming 'Aggressive Mannerism Promoter' the sales team tend to go on a tired and emotional bungee jump of ever diminishing coherency and responsibility - I really don't want to end up in a club of ill-repute at four in the morning with 8 drunk Account Managers arguing about who has the largest salary package.

Maybe I should wander off to the Pompous Plonker with the Training Team? The drinks are a little more expensive, but it's a far more refined crowd. Mind you, the last time the training girls held a farewell, one of them threw up all over her lap and three of them got into a fight in the ladies toilet with a group of legal secretaries from Middle Temple.

Alternatively, I could just go for a quiet drink after work at the Geek'n'Freak with the IT department........but I haven't played Halo 3 yet and would have little to contribute to the conversation.

23 degrees 27 minutes of seperation...

Is this just a cold snap we're experiencing, or is the Earth tilting a little closer to 23 degrees 27 minutes? In under a month the UK once again plunges into premature darkness with the end of British Summer Daylight Saving Time. Coincidently, the same phenomenon signals the start of the beach season in Sydney and my return to Australia.

So when I am sunning myself on the white sands of Curl Curl, I'll spare a thought for my friends in England - standing (at a 23 degree angle, some 27 minutes from seasonally adjusted declination of the sun's trajectory) white knuckled in some wet beer garden complaining about the cold - just stand a little closer to the outdoor heaters and pretend your on the Tropic of Cancer.

Burn on the flame...

Last weekend I lit a bonfire, and in the process of doing so, slipped out of my slim leather, enviro-loafers and into a pair of size 11, carbon footprint-kicking, industrial boots. Four hours of stoking embers eventually burnt away 18 months of accumulated garden waste and any greenhouse goodwill I had acrued.

With the amount of smoke that bonfire produced it won't matter how many plastic bags I recycle or how often I defer jet flight for train travel in the future - I fear that my eco-account will always remain in the red.

International 'Talk Like A Pirate' Day...

Surely there must be a regulatory body somewhere on this planet that officially allocates and performs the necessary administration for debacles like this. Apparantly, tomorrow is International Talk Like A Pirate Day:

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,22441594-2,00.html

Who do I complain to?

Mika's Everest...

He's been staring at it for nearly a year. A couple of times he has even stood at the top and looked down, but on Saturday Mika dropped in on the half-pipe at Skaterham.

Well done Mika!

Who let the dogs out...

I'm sorry, but can someone explain to me whose disco biscuits that scruffy, little dog had eaten at Josh's birthday party? When it launched itself at the hedge and tried to wrench 10 yards of shrubbery from the ground with its bare teeth, the plant shook so violently that I was half expecting it to transform into something much more sinister than screening flora. It isn't usually that hyperactive......is it? The dog didn't look that calm either.

Drive Thru...

The Chaser, an Australian satirical/comedy show, has pulled off some sensational stunts over the years. However, it sounds like they have outdone themselves when 11 of the crew were arrested yesterday for gate-crashing the APEC Summit in Sydney.

Apparantly, they attempted to welcome the leader of the free world, George Bush, to the event by driving a fake diplomatic motorcade to the event with a lookalike of Osama Bin Laden in the back of one of the limos. They did manage to pass one checkpoint before local enforcement officers noticed that Osama wasn't on the invite list.

The authorities appear not to me amused....

Check out their website at http://www.chaser.com.au

Excuse me waiter, but there is a hair in my soup...

I think it was the huge tusks of facial hair that first alerted me to the fact that this was not going to be a normal daytrip to Brighton. In fact, such was the wide variety and large volume of face craft on display, that I feared that I had inadvertently wandered onto the set of an English period-drama.

After a few inquiries, I found out that Brighton was hosting the World Beard & Moustache Championships 2007. These were the elite competitors in their specialised fields - and like prize-winning budgies they stood proudly in front of shop windows to admire their own reflections.

My sparse sideburns were but a futile gesture when compared to their hirsute exclaimation marks...

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/news/archives/2007/08/31/top_taches.html

On the darkside...

How do you tell the difference between an EMO and a Goth? My mate Ben reckons it's easy - the EMO is the one rolling on the ground being kicked by the others. Last Saturday we took the boys down to the Concorde II in Brighton for a Greenish Day gig and our boys were accused of being on the wrong side of the alternative cult genre. I think her exact words were 'Oi, EMO', in a slightly condescending manner.

Talk about the kettle calling the pot black - they all looked the same to me. However, I was reliably informed by my cultural advisor, Ben, that to the trained eye there was a significant difference between the various tribal factions that made up the orderly, but sullen queue. Sure, they all wore black. Yes, they also all seemed to have smudged their eyeliner and they all looked a little depressed, but I still couldn't confidently categorise most of them.

I thought about sneering 'Oi EMO' at the crowd, just to see who turned around, but that would have only attracted more attention to the fact that I was the only one over 40 years of age and not wearing black. If we looked a little tougher we might have been mistaken for security, but to be honest with you a lifetime of desk-work gave us away for what we really were - a middle-aged Publisher and thirty something IT Director trying to prop up the bar as their kids hit the moshpit.