Thinking about unGoogleable questions and cricket

Please note: Unless you’re a complete cricket statto nerd, this post is unlikely to be of the slightest interest to you. [Updated following comments. See below].

Many years ago, I used to take pleasure in setting questions that were hard to answer via Google.

My favourite example was this: In Test cricket, we are currently playing Test numbers 2197 and 2198. In each Test, we can have up to 44 “completed innings”, if all 11 players bat twice. So we have, as of today, a maximum of 2198×44 or close to 100,000 individual “completed innings” scores. In practice the total number of completed innings is much lower, probably closer to 50,000.

The lowest possible completed innings is 0. The highest achieved so far is Brian Lara’s 400. All the other innings completed so far are somewhere between 0 and 400.

Now imagine you have a Bingo card with all the numbers from 0 to 400. Imagine every completed innings to be a number called at the bingo session.

My unGoogleable question used to be: What is the lowest unscratched number on the card? But since I’ve written about it years ago, the answer is  now easily discoverable. It’s 229. No batsman has ended a Test innings on 229 thus far.

Obviously this number moves. The last time it moved was when Herschelle Gibbs scored 228 almost exactly thirteen years ago.

When Gibbs scored 228, there were one hundred and seventeen unscratched numbers between 228 and 400.

This past year, 2015, was a bumper year for scratches. We lost 245 to Shoaib Malik, 263 to Alastair Cook, 269 to Adam Voges and 290 to Ross Taylor.

Here’s what has happened since Gibbs’ 228:

  • 2003: Hayden scratches 280
  • 2004: Tendulkar lays aside 241 and 248; Atapattu flays 249; Sehwag takes out 309; Jayasuriya removes 253; and Lara blasts 400. A record year, six scratched.
  • 2005: Gayle hammers 317
  • 2006: Jayawardene slams 374
  • 2007: A fallow year
  • 2008: Sehwag (again!) takes out 319
  • 2009: Sehwag (yet again!) demolishes 293 and Younis does the same to 313
  • 2010: Another fallow year
  • 2011: Cook (who also shone last year) erases 294
  • 2012: Fallow
  • 2013: Fallow
  • 2014: Fallow (though Sangakkara doubled up Sehwag’s 319)
  • 2015: 245 (Shoaib) 263 (Cook) 269 (Voges) 290 (Taylor) disappear

So, since Herschelle Gibbs hit his 228, we’ve seen seventeen of the unscratched go, four last year alone.

Just one hundred more to go.

Of predictions and predicaments

It’s that time of year when people write predictions for the year to come. I’ve done that, many times. If predictions for are what you’re looking for, then you’ve been brought here on false pretences. This post is about my predicament.

I’m looking for help. I’m looking for you to tell me people to go listen to, books and articles to read, places to go, things to do, anything that would help me learn more about my predicament.

Let me try and describe it as best I can.

My grandfather said something very depressing to me when I was around 12. He told me that my generation would be the one with peak longevity, that life expectancy would start to decline in years to come, probably for the first time in recorded history.

Friends of mine have been saying something else that’s very depressing. Again, for the first time in recorded history, it would appear that you have to be rich to be thin.

Longevity, health, nutrition, these are some of the ways we set out the problems of our age. Sure, every age has its problems; our ancestors had theirs; our descendants will have theirs. I shall resist the temptation to say “if we have descendants”. Suffice it to say our descendants will have theirs.

 

Each generation’s problems can appear to be unique, and perhaps they are. Our particular set comprises water, food, energy, nutrition, health and the threat of war. Perhaps they’re not that unique after all.

What’s unique about our generation is that the costs of movement and of communications have dropped precipitously, and continue to drop. Humankind’s propensity to migrate and to connect may have always been there, but that propensity has been constrained by barriers of cost and affordability.

That is less true now. Humans are able to connect, to communicate and to move in ways that our predecessors could only have dreamt of.

These two phenomena affect everything we do, and they’re both accelerating, with exponential growth in their effect. Some people call this “the second half of the chessboard”.

Everything is affected. Everything.

We can’t think of our world in isolation, it’s connected. To other objects in space, not just in our solar system but beyond. We’re slowly learning what that connectedness means. Breakthroughs in our understanding of physics a century ago are helping us do that. And that’s affecting the way we think of ourselves, our origins, our purpose.

We can’t think of the countries we live in in isolation, they’re connected. Which puts a great deal of pressure on our political and economic and financial and social systems. As you would expect, the pressure is telling, and major cracks are showing in all these systems. There’s a natural temptation to “contain the problem”, to introduce greater and greater frictions, to build and extend walls to contain human, intellectual and financial capital within legacy frameworks. Those responses are failing, and there’s much wailing and gnashing of teeth as a result. Political, economic and social systems are showing signs of extreme instability, and “failed states” have become more common.

We can’t think of the way we live in isolation, in terms of what we produce and what we consume, when, where and how. We’re connected. Everything we do has consequences that affect others. Water, food, energy, nutrition, health and the threat of war. Here we go again.

We can’t think of our own bodies the way we did, as we learn more about the genome and about the biome. The way we inherit and pass on physical characteristics is something we continue to investigate and refine our understanding of.

We can’t even think of our own minds the way we used to, as we learn more about how ideas form and spread, how values take hold, how we form economic and social systems, how these evolve. Theories of group selection in this context are regaining momentum.

Everything is connected. That phenomenon is accelerating. And everything is affected. The effects are far-reaching and themselves seem to be accelerating in speed and intensity.

What should I do about all this? That’s my predicament.

My instinct is to believe that in that connectedness lies the solution. That we’ve spent far too long steeped in the cult of the individual. That we need to understand more about what it means to be connected rather than to try and reverse the process of connection.

Much of who we are and what we do is based around the individual. The way we think of ourselves. We use phrases like “no man is an island” and then appear to spend time making us into individual islands. If any part of the fabric of society exhibits group instincts we try and nullify them.

Our ideas of property are based around the individual. Our ideas of employment are based around the individual. Our ideas of happiness are based around the individual. Our ideas of privacy are based around the individual. Our ideas of capability are based around the individual. Our ideas of relationships are based around the individual. Our ideas of trust are based around the individual.

Our ideas of health, education and welfare are all based around the individual.

The internet of <choose the term du jour>.

Our ideas of everything are based around the individual.

And we’re learning that we are actually more connected in every dimension we can think of, and potentially getting more connected every day.

Hmmm. Something has to change.

So I want to learn more about networks and relationships. I want to learn more about what makes them tick. I want to learn about the data that all this throws off. I want to learn about the implications of all this.

That’s why I’m interested in web science.

Because I believe that it represents a possible way for us to deal with the problems of our generation.

And that’s where I need your help. I’ve been doing this for over a decade now, and each day I realise how little I know. I want to accelerate my learning. You represent an amazing resource. You know things I don’t. Help me learn. I will share what I learn back here.

Have a great 2016.

 

 

holiday reading

Serious downtime is something I’ve grown to cherish more and more as I’ve grown older. I take care to ensure that as little as possible is planned into the downtime, other than to spend time with my family and with myself.

When it comes to my own time, there are two things I plan in detail. What I’m going to read. What I’m going to watch.

The watching bit is easy. As little as possible.

The reading bit takes a little more work, it’s something I start preparing for months in advance.

Some of you have asked me to share my holiday reading list, so here it is, in no particular order.

  1. Alice Roberts, The Incredible Unlikeliness of Being
  2. Lou Beach, 420 Characters
  3. Cervantes and Davis, The Complete Don Quixote
  4. Jeffery Pomerantz, Metadata
  5. Michael Pearce, The Mouth Of The Crocodile
  6. Jenkins, Ito and boyd: Participatory Culture in a Networked Era
  7. Ilan Stavans, Quixote: The Novel and the World
  8. Wiener, The Human Use of Human Beings
  9. Weisman, The World Without Us
  10. Brunton and Nissenbaum, Obfuscation

I’m quite excited by the list. I’ve already started the Ilan Stavans, reading it for the first time. Amazing. The Wiener and Weismans are both second time around. I’ve skipped through Metadata as well as Obfuscation, this time I’ll be giving them a serious read, fountain pen and notebook ready to hand. The rest are virgin territory.

that holiday feeling

 

 

 

  • for those of you who celebrate it, a merry Christmas to you.
  • for those of you who don’t, the best of the holiday season to you.
  • for all of you, may 2016 be everything you want it to be.

I woke up early this morning. Habit. Not Christmas habit, everyday habit. And I did my usual thing, went downstairs, made a cup of tea, prayed, thought about the day and week to come.

And then I listened to some music. For some reason I wanted to listen to “old” Bee Gees so I did. Holiday was one of the songs I played. I love that song. Loved it when I heard it the first time. Loved it as a young man. Love it as a grandfather. But the lyrics? Judge for yourself.

 

 

The Sixties were like that. Insane lyrics, enough to make you cringe —  if you cared — if you were in a fit state to be able to care about things like lyrics. I couldn’t think about any form lyrical insanity without making a reference to Joe Cocker and his version of With a Little Help From My Friends. Now remember the lyrics in the original were simple and understandable — they had to be — McCartney and Lennon wrote it for Starr. The Cocker version is something else altogether, and makes it to the top of the pantheon of misheard lyrics, the patron saint of mondegreens.

I append the video below, but would exhort you not to watch it while trying to eat or drink anything, you could do yourself a serious injury and that wouldn’t be a good thing.

 

 

Staying on the subject of Joe Cocker, who sadly died this week last year, may he rest in peace. The video below is probably one of my favourite examples of cross-Atlantic collaboration. Cocker and Belushi doing Traffic and Mason.

 

 

And on that note, happy holidays.

Old friends…lost in their overcoats

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Lost in their overcoats. How I love that line.

An old friend, Abu, came over to see me some time ago. It was a very long time ago. 1971. I was 13. We were already old friends by then. I’d known him since early January 1966.

We still meet. We’ve kept in touch. We have dinner every now and then, especially when other school friends come through London. That happens a few times a year. Wherever we meet, whenever we meet, it’s like a gathering of the clans.

Minoo rolls into town every now and then, all the way from Tennessee. Vishnu from Singapore. Asani from New York. Vir from Dusseldorf. Ashok from the West Coast. Nishat from Calcutta.

And when one of them passes by, a small number of us gather. Pesi. Abu. Sumit. Shiel. Me.

Old friends. We will have known each other for fifty years next month. And we’re still in touch. Some sixty, seventy of us, going through our various rites of passage. Some of us are grandfathers now. Well, at least one of us. Me.

We’re in touch in many ways. Some via email. Some via Facebook. Some even via new-fangled things like Whatsapp. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the tools help us meet regularly IRL. And we roll back time and laugh and reminisce and break bread together.

Old friends.

Where was I? Oh yes, Abu dropped by, in 1971.  Came to our flat in Moira Street. Our home. The place I lived in from the age of 11 till I was 23. An open-door establishment where the average guest count must have been five. (Actually that’s not accurate. They weren’t guests. They lived there. Along with about twenty others. Most of the time there were only four or five of them in occupation. But sometimes they were all there. Accompanied, of course, by the other “permanent” residents of the flat. My parents. My siblings. Me. My cousins.)

So Abu came along, carrying goodies. One of his family members had just come back from the UK. With two new albums. Two. New. Albums. Albums that hadn’t been released in India as yet. (An aside. The family then staying one floor below were the Menons. The father, Bhaskar Menon, was on the verge of becoming “the first Chairman and CEO of EMI Music worldwide”. At the time he was running Gramophone Company of India, in Dum Dum, the plant that was responsible for pressing about a third of the music I grew up listening to. And yes, it’s the same Dum Dum that gave its name to the expanding bullet).

Back to Abu (whom I called Shaf, not Abu. All the males in his family turned out to be called Abu. At which point I realised that the name everyone used for him wasn’t his name, it was some sort of title.)

Abu and the two albums. One of which was Bookends. Which gave me the chance to listen to Old Friends for the first time. If you haven’t heard it, go Google it and correct that omission now.

Listening to it this morning, I was reminded of the ways in which I “discovered” music in the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s. What I thought I’d do is to spend a little time writing about some other old friends, some songs that have meant a lot to me over the years, songs that not everyone would have heard, songs that some of you may find worthwhile.

Here we go.

Today I Killed A Man. Originally a Cook-Greenaway song, covered by many people since. Brought to my attention by Bertie Da Silva, another old friend, someone I last saw in May. He’s now Dean of Arts at the college I went to, a great musician, a great guitarist. After listening to Bertie’s wonderful rendition (must have been sometime in 1976) I went to the record shop in Lindsay St, just off New Market, and bought what I thought was “the” single, a White Plains cover.

Oh mama, mama I’m so cold/I feel that I am quickly growing old/I hope that you are thinking of your son/’cause tomorrow morning I’ll be twenty-one.

Time For The Leaving. A fabulous song by a vastly underrated group. Magna Carta. How did I come by this? Oh yes. The man behind the counter at the record shop on Lindsay St, a place I spent inordinate amounts of time. He used to be very kind to me and not throw away the posters he received for new releases; every now and then, he’d give me a few, telling me what he thought of their music while he did so. And so it was with Magna Carta. He gave me an LP cover sized poster, I think it was a Polydor release, in red and black. Told me about the group. Played Time for the Leaving as well as Airport Song. I was hooked. Still am.

and the yesterday face/a picture with moustache
looks down to the ground from the mantelpiece
this is my world alone
the blue cotton dress and the man on the cross on the wall

Long Chain On. Peter, Paul and Mary. A Jimmie Driftwood story song done beautifully by PP&M. My uncle Mohan stayed with us for a while in the mid 1960s and introduced me to In The Wind, the seminal PP&M album. And Long Chain On is one of the best tracks. Along with all the others. It’s that kind of album.

Though he was tired and hungry/A bright light came over his face/He bowed his head in the moonlight/he said a beautiful Grace. 

Sometimes In Winter. Blood Sweat and Tears. The incredible voice of Steve Katz given some airtime for once. How came I by this? Friend Gyan Singh, who was to marry my cousin. Gyan, who sadly passed away a few years ago.  He had a little stash of brilliant albums he brought over for me to listen to, including some Mayall and some BST.

Sometimes in winter/I gaze into the streets and walk through snow and city sleet/Behind your room.

Prison Song. Graham Nash. From his second solo album, Wild Tales. One of my uncle Mohan’s friends managed to find a Taiwanese import, a flimsy knockoff version of the album and parked it with us for a while. We devoured it. Amazing.

Kids in Texas smoking grass/Ten year sentence come to pass/Misdemeanor in Ann Arbor/Ask the judges why.

The best of the festive season to all of you.