The technology of digital phones is supposed to make call interception more difficult. By chance I watched the Wire yesterday evening which had an episode about it taking more than a week to get a tap onto a 'pay as you go' mobile.
Today's Guardian allegations imply that there's other weak points to intercept.
My guess is that its through the voicemail, guarded by its massive 4 digit code, which for Orange used to be 1111, for Cellnet/O2 was 8705 and for T-Mobile was 1210. I guess if people change it the most likely substitution will be to their birthday date (ie DDMM* or MMYY).
So any malicious eavesdropper can take a punt that one of the default pins will work, or simply look up the person's birthday.
I'm watching the Torchwood series this week, albeit slightly later than the original screening times. The aliens have decided to land in London in the Security Services HQ at Thames House by Vauxhall Bridge.
I'm just not so sure that this type of alien would attract as much attention in London as the one in the television series. Sure, the children freezing and chanting might get noticed, but a smoke filled glass tank with some thrashing tentacles? in London??
There's stuff like this happening every day.
Whether its silver painted statues walking around, over sized beer bottles having parties on open topped buses or just generally people with tentacles walking about, there's still plenty of Londoners who would take this in their stride. I know I've seen that gunk on walls and windows as I walk around too. I'll grant that in the TV series they blocked off the north side of the Embankment, but everyone knows that there's a cone army on continual manoeuvres in the central area.
So it could all kick off tomorrow when the aliens get angry and the tank of poison gas explodes, but at the moment I'm wondering whether the aliens got MI5 to build them a rooftop parking spot and flew in to avoid paying the Congestion Charge?
I shall still watch though, and keep a sofa handy in case I do need something to hide behind.
NPG for lunch yesterday, and fittingly my menu had a portrait of Virginia Woolf on it. Why? The National Portrait Gallery's restaurant balcony looks out towards Trafalgar Square which, as the many rainbow flags attested, was the destination for London Pride 's march and party yesterday.
So why? The exhibition downstairs included Virginia amongst its selection. A different picture and not one that I'd seen before. Staring into the camera whilst smoking a cigar. Defiantly Bloomsbury rules, I would say.
I found myself looking long at the brown eyes of this iconic independent feminist writer. "A room of one's own" is probably her most well known publication and was self published in 1929, with the cover art drawn by her artist sister Vanessa Bell.
I remember first picking up on Woolf when still at school; the stream of consciousness writing of someone with more history than she would admit. Child abused, promiscuous marriage to Leonard Woolf, co creator of the Hogarth Press, long relationship with Ms Vita Sackville-West, depressive and finally suicidal, filling her raincoat with large stones before entering the River Ouse.
The ballroom light was slowly twinkle turning under air-pressure from the darkened room when we arrived at Jamm. Ten 'o clock, we'd woven past security, the outside drinkers and the chill-out bar and drifted into the early acts of the evening.
Busy room and the Hazeltones on stage. R&B - they looked like a family, with the youngest peering out from a precisely played drumkit. A soulful lead singer come bassist and a slightly swirly keyboard player. Afterwards we headed outdoors and heard relatives of the band chatting. London locals had brought a following to Brixton this evening.
We compared other gigs of the week, having between us attended Spinal Pap (signed sign to prove it - John handed a deliberately wrongly spelled sign to a roadie, and it came back signed - we'll never know who did it, but always suspect). Then Tindersticks the next evening with deckchairs in the park and cited as an exceptional gig. And not forgetting Blur, which was -ahem- atmospheric rather than visible.
During our chatter, we spotted The Spirit arrive and mingle and then a few moments later Rock Freebase wearing his trademark cap. And a few patted down heavily tat and hatted folk carrying small items into the bar, who looked as if they'd be on stage later.
Back inside, we'd somehow missed the CC Smugglers completely, fresh back from their busking tour of Canada. Most people were spread between the outside area we'd just come from and the bar we'd just entered.
"Hello!" smiles and beams from across the way. I turn and its a Fabulous Work Colleague. "Fwasgrh", I reply "Navxtryvqw", and similar utterances until I get over my surprise and start introducing everyone. You'll detect a certain improbability about this particular co-incidence and I'll have to exchange DETAILED reasons for our co-presence when FWC and I manage to speak next week. There will be a further story I'm sure.
We regained our separate groups in time for some hard edged angry poetry accompanied by a man sitting on a wooden box. The billing said Zenyth, but when I googled a few seconds ago, that seemed to be a guitar band, so I'm guessing this was someone else. Or maybe we missed two complete sessions?
Somehow during the last number, the man with the box seemed to be adding bass and trumpet improv, and we realised that the next band were quietly jamming along in the corner. A Tom Waits moment.
By now we had drifted a little too close to the front for this type of gig. You can usually spot the danger in a crowd like this and there was one spot which moved around saying "don't go here".
We didn't.
And on they came. The Congo Faith Healers. A four piece trumpet, double bass, drums and steel guitar, with around a third of the front audience already fans. Fast sweet gravel voiced guitarist, who could play anything, spikey and soulful horn, grooooved drummer and fluid bass. They were having a blast. And so were we. Instant party as they swept through rock edged, Mexican influenced numbers, with an intensity and humour to get everyone moving. An express train was running through the room. In a good way.
Two am. Nearly time for the headliners. They wandered out to plug in microphones, test the guitar, water bottles on stage. Then they appeared. Another incarnation of the Alabama 3. They ain't Three and they ain't from Alabama. I think they'd regard Brixton (or Coldharbour Lane) as a sort of spiritual home. Now the room was rammed. The bulldog trouble was over to the far side. Several bodies away. We could relax into the set. I still had half a Sol. They threw a few waters out for those needing hydration.
no Jamm pix - so Alabama 3 subset unplugged with Kate Nash
Into "Woke Up this Morning" as they started their set - we knew it would be unplugged so the guitar of Rock and the harmonica of Harpo Strangelove made the main music, with the rest of this particular formation cracking the vocals. A game of two halves and a mystery interlude. Plenty of the good stuff played well and with full participation, plus a middle stretch which dived off into that aceeedhousestuff with freestyling turntable clicks and enough bass to start an earthquake. We were momentarily confused mid set when the house lights came up and we were asked to chant things for the new CD, apparently to be Pro-Tooled into the album mix.
Then back to business, with more from their surprisingly large catalogue of good tunes. I'll describe the gig as unhinged as indeed were most of us by this point.
Three Thirty. Out into the arc light of Brixton. People still trying to get into the Jamm. We decided to kick-out.
The ghost of Mississippi Fred McDowell haunting the fingers of Rock Freebase on guitar, Larry Love’s larynx looser than Howlin’ Wolf. Devlin Love’s vocals as sweet as Sister Rosetta and Harpo Strangelove’s harmonica cooking up a Sonny Terry vibe - welcome to the Delta Blues alive and kicking in 2009. In Brixton.
I spent most of today at a very big house in the country. There was rural charm, though no animal farm, in the country. It had city dwellers and professional fellas, living life to the limit In the country.
I had sunshine days and a heat filled haze, in the country. There was Pimms so sweet, enough food to eat, in the country. A kind of centuries remedy, not so Jackanory, In the country.
In truth, it was all a bit of a blur. Pitching up at a big house, Pitching, Pimms from a pitcher and then leaving. You get the picture.
I didn't know we had such a thing as a hot weather warning level 3 until today, but that's what the weather people were saying this morning.
Plenty of advice about using sun screen and being sure to hydrate.
As I strolled to my meeting in Canary Wharf, I initially noticed the lack of people on the streets - were they taking heed of the 90% risk level? Of course, Canary Wharf has many tunnels which people habitually use to go between the buildings in this area, so maybe everyone was out of sight.
But then, I turned a corner to cut across one of the tree-lined squares and sure enough, it was filled with office workers watching the news on the big screen telly. Encamped on the grass without the aid of any portable furniture (forbidden), but with the aid of many sandwiches, salads and wraps from the subterranean shops.
The default latte has given way to iced coffee, which is served in industrial portions. Unlike the continent, there is no side glass of iced water.
My tactic to arrive early paid off. I could plough through some emails and make a call or two. My colleague was completely melted after running from the tube perspiring a little when he arrived a trifle late.
Judging by the craned necks from others, I think I also made someone's day by leaving my (paid for) newspaper on the table. There was huge shoulder grazing interest throughout my journey for the Sport section, with its big picture of Andy Murray and a similar sized one of the defeated England soccer team.
Like many, I watched the surprisingly close tennis yesterday and wish Murray well for the next rounds. From this morning's display of close humidity, its no wonder they reached for the Wimbledon towels after every rally.
Reading Maximum Bob's review of Bruce Springsteen at Glastonbury got me thinking about festival behavior.
The rashbre central tee shirts usually make it to a festival and yurt or two across the summer and this year it was Isle of Wight a couple of weeks ago but then Glastonbury simply viewed on television. I expect we'll hit Bestival or something else before the end of the season.
For overnighters, though, Glastonbury still can't really be beaten. Its the scale and the consequent variety. For some acts its easy enough to get proper front row. When we take a camera along, the artists (like Sharon Corr, here at IoW) will even respond with a pose or two along the lens. We've also been only a few rows back for some of the guitar bands but the barrier isn't always sensible when there's muchos pogos. Even from this slightly more distant point, it is possible to get interesting pictures to go along with the music. However, when I see people attempting to make recordings from near the front the power of the bass speakers destroy any fidelity. I regard these festivals it as 'topping up' with some live music rather than dedicated listening though. The main bands normally get television coverage whilst the interesting side bands are nearly always edited out. This year I could make a completely different non headliners track through Glastonbury and enjoy it just as much. Fortunately some of the recordings have made it to the BBC's online set coverage although I don't know how long the sessions will be available.
One of the tricks is to remember at these events is that the fan base changes for each band, so with the exception of a few die-hards, there is a consequent opportunity to be sited where one prefers. No great problem to spot the demographic for the Maccabees at IoW. Or to notice that the obvious way into this particular stage area is not the best way to get to the front. In any case, it sometimes its fun to stand further back and get the effects of the weather. Here's The Long Blondes at Glasto a couple of years ago, handheld phonecam in the rain.
My main point is simply to go with the flow. Glastonbury is a huge venue with plenty of stages, so part of the fun is to not be in the middle of 40,000 muddy and steaming people listening to Pendulum unless you really want to. .
So beyond the festivals, the rashbre central advanced listening model works quite well. Its surprising, particularly around London, how often there will be good bands playing in small venues on their hopeful way up. Nothing wrong with an occasional stadium or park venue, if you know what to expect, but there's fun in being able to sit a few feet from the band in relative comfort with tickets than can be as low as £8. We saw the excellent Low Anthem a couple of days ago sitting in row 7. We've already got similar tix for Amanda Palmer later in the year. This Friday we're planning to become outlaws.
Sometimes people comment about how quickly time passes and whether they are managing to get everything done. I can understand why when I think of a few recent conversations.
There was the one at the secret location near Edinburgh a few days ago. We decided to drive to a remote Scottish coffee house in the black Nissan Patrol after the meeting. The cows we'd seen a week before had already been abducted and our route was uneventful. But then, in our tranquil location, as we got deeper into our trigonometric conversation we realised that rather too much time had passed.
We could miss our plane.
Its a while since that has happened to me. Only twice. Ever. Both times with the same person.
Once when we were in Atlanta. It hadn't been good. Steve had (a) over slept (b) then locked himself out of his room. We then got lost driving our way to our business destination. The company we met thought we were from another organization. They presented the wrong and entirely inappropriate information. We left early and headed for the airport. We could turn this around, catch the earlier flight and be sitting by a pool drinking cocktails. It was then my fault that we missed the flight. I read the flight number as the departure time. We missed it. We both put it down to fatigue.
Second time. We were waiting in the lounge at Heathrow for a quick trip to Amsterdam. Ages since we'd seen one another. Chatter. You can work out the rest.
Would this be the Third Time?
So here, near Edinburgh, we jumped back into the quite muddy truck and headed for the airport. I noticed we arrived at the departure drop off at the exact time stipulated by 'Gate Closes' on my boarding pass.
Security. No fast lanes. Slow people with metal shoes and body piercings to make all the machines go bong. People sloshing with far too much liquid in their hand luggage. People with Ninja paper openers and cutting edge power saws. People who looked surprised to have to take off their jackets.
Beltless dishevelled we arrived airside. Gate 18 grinned remotely. It doesn't sound a long way away, but its actually the far far end of the terminal. The little boarding sign is already red "Final Call". Briskness through the airport. Lines of slow moving shoppers to traverse. Two travellators. A stunt team of randomly moving Japanese tourists.
The distant red speck glowing with 18.
I wave at the dots. People. Staff. They see us. I see them talking into a phone. Show tickets. Down more stairs. Outdoors. Walk across tarmac. Up the steps. Time to reduce the BPM.
So back to our conversation: The phone boxes do block the view of the entrance to Union Chapel. It is impossible to sit drinking a pint and spot when people start going in.
The technology of digital phones is supposed to make call interception more difficult. By chance I watched the Wire yesterday evening which had an episode about it taking more than a week to get a tap onto a 'pay as you go' mobile. 
Press to hack rashbre central voicemail
