The Bastard Operator From Hell
Trains, planes and the dreaded laptop spotter - the BOFH brings the anoraks back to earth. ...
It's trade show time again, and this time it's off to the east coast of the US for a week of seeing what's new in the land of wire wiggling. Of course, I read clippings from the computer press from time to time but it's far better to see an ATM switch in the flesh than on the page.
Actually, it's even more essential to see the inside of a posh hotel bar than to see an ATM switch in the flesh; one must get one's priorities right, and hey, if I wanted to look at flashing lights I could do it in my own air-con comms room instead of a sweaty exhibition hall.
Life is sweet as we cruise over the Atlantic. The canapes are splendid, though the smoked salmon has perhaps been a little over-chilled. We're talking first class, naturally - my turn-left-at-economy-and-it's-by-the-bog seat was mysteriously exchanged for that of a Mrs E. Windsor ... well, it's a pretentious name anyway. I think there must be someone important down the back also, as there are lots of men in dark suits arguing with stewardesses over seats and reservations and stuff; I must complain to the airline about the lousy soundproofing on the first class section - it's very noisy.
"Excuse me, what processor does that have?"
My five-star-brandy-induced trance of peaceful smugness is broken.
"What processor does your laptop run? Mine's a 133 meg Pentium."
Great. Even worse than the nutter on the bus, I get the computer bore on the plane. At least on the number 2 Routemaster you can push them off the open platform on the Edgeware Road.
"It's a 437 meg SPARC Ultra." Only a slight exaggeration - I like to start gently.
"Really? I didn't know Windows ran on a SPARC."
"So what are you running?"
"Hey, wow! You must be a serious user."
"Yeah. Something like that." Which makes you a serious luser. "You running Windows 95?"
"Hey, wow. You must be a serious sad bastard."
He smiles uncertainly, trying to convince himself that I'm jesting. Time to sort that misapprehension out for him.
"Did you know that you can speed up that model with a simple hardware mod?"
"Hey, no! Really? How do you do it?"
"Well, I shouldn't really say, as there's a slight risk involved - it will invalidate your warranty."
"That's OK, I'm happy to try it as long as it's pretty certain to work. What do you do?"
"Right. Have you got a paper clip? Actually, any smallish bit of metal wire will do."
"Yes, here you are. What do I do with it?"
"You're going to crank up the speed of the SCSI bus by increasing the power a little. Turn the machine round so the back's facing you, and connect that pin there in the SCSI connector to the earphone plug."
He fiddles about, and manages to lodge the paper-clip appropriately. No blue smoke ...yet.
"Okay, now what?"
"Now you have a machine that you can selectively make faster when you need to. You don't want to just crank it up permanently as that'll eat battery life, so it's best to just speed things up when you really need to."
"So how do I speed it up when I need to?"
"Just play a music disc on the CD. That will cause the voltage in the earphone socket to go up, and so the bus will be energised. Don't play it too loud, though, or you could damage something; something like Dark Side of the Moon should be OK, but watch out for the alarm clocks."
"Hmmm...I don't have any audio CDs here. Can I use the microphone instead?"
"Sure - just set it to 'play through' mode and shout in the mike when you need the speed. Careful not to shout too loud, though."
Fifteen minutes goes by, and I'm beginning to regret what I've done. My friend has discovered that whistling into the mike is the easiest way to make a loudish noise, and it would seem that his particular make of laptop is far more resilient than those I've come across before. Fortunately, help is at hand in the shape of a flustered gentleman who advances rather angrily.
"WILL YOU PACK THAT BLOODY WHISTLING IN!" he screams. At that moment the paper clip does its worst.
Interestingly, Boeing's air conditioning is particulalry well-attuned to the smell of smoke - a fire alarm goes off in the distance.
"I think that's a £1,000 fine," I smile sweetly as the stewardesses move to break up the fight breaking out between my geeky companion and the flustered gentleman. Soon, the parties involved are rapidly strapped to their seats with a burly looking steward in attendance. Once again all is calm.
"Sorry for the disturbance, sir. Can I get you another brandy?"
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