The Annual Event

Picture the “Killing Matters” den, deep in the heart of the City.

Say it was a very warm May in day.

Warm enough to cause a glistening of the skin of the many attendees to be found in the bowels of the building with bowls and bottles in their hands.

Great imbibing was being and had to be done.

And lo, the conversation did flow, smoothed by the quaffing of copious amounts of alcohol of many hues, but mostly embottled in darkened glass.

Cold beers, from warm climes were offered and taken in abundance.

Food was offered and troughed.

The attendees did attend,

They were many, and womany (though fewer womany than the many, as is ever the way with the IT crowd even in the enlightened times of the 21st Century) in attendance.

They all did appear, after the email of provocation offering free provisions had proven overwhelmingly attractive. Greeks with their herds (Geeks and nerds?), for it was they in attendance, would drop everything for the chance to have their fill at someone else’s expense, some even came from countries far and wide (or long and narrow in the case of Portugal)

Tasty was the food that flowed, some onto the floor and some down many a fine fine beard (on the many faces rather than the womany faces, for the bearded lady was not in attendance)

Beards were in short supply on the womany. Though an enterprising soul  did set up a stall at the entrance selling self adhesive beards, tattoos and clip on nose rings to help the womany fit in with the many many.

At last there was a call to arms, or was it a hiss to quiet the crowds. The masses moved from the bowels of the building  to the sunlit uplands (or more simply upstairs to the conference room).

It was time to hear the orations of the high and mighty (there was a small stage, so they weren’t too high or even too mighty)

Silence fell, with a whump and a bang, and thus did the mighty appear at the rear of a stately procession.

Youths throwing petals and rice walked ahead of the glorious trio as they wended their merry way to the Stage of Speech and Fright.

The anticipation was palpable, or that may just have been the heat and the moisture of the baited beery breaths.

Breaths were then held and then exhaled and inhaled once again (the wise crowd knew about The Breathe (™))

Anticipation was anticipated.

The instrument of sound capture was tapped.

The processional youths scattered and one of the mighty threw off his dark robes to expose himself (later deemed to be a garde-de-robe failure)

The spotlights shone,

His majesty, Phil of the Parka (for that was his dark robe), glowed (or was it glowered) under the bright lights.

Blinking in the blinding, multi-coloured beams, he moved forward to the front of the stage (only tripping once or twice to the mild amusement of the assembled crowds).

He wowed the audience with his clever banter, though some were distracted by the strange music and dancing on a large screen behind him.

HIs failure to show his own dance moves was a bitter disappointment to his ardent fan base and small cries of, “shame”, could be heard, strange as Ms Leonardo was nowhere to be seen.

Then the dance video stopped. Phil moved to one side and introduced the main men of The Event.

Thomas the Chosen and Ryan the Pure hove into view, likely stately battleships coming into port after being at sea for a year.

There was a cheer (or was it a chair), there was a standing ovation (or so we have been told, the facts are lost in the mists of time, or was it the mists from the perspiration of the penned in throng?)

Words were spoken,

“The world is good”, spake Thomas.

More words were uttered, some even muttered, even more misheard.

There were cheers and whoops, laughter and tears (the tear gas really was a dubious prop to use in a confined area)

Maps and many wonders of the world were displayed.

Distant dark Wales was indicated to all with a resounding but momentary cheer.

There were, “Oohs”, when Thomas the Chosen, found Singapore on the map, and pointed it out to the assembled masses.

There were, “Ahs”, when Ryan the Pure put on his moose costume and cavorted for our entertainment (but maybe I simply dreamt that) .

Many (perhaps womany) words were spoken.

More light was shone,

Knowledge was shared, nay even transferred.

The quiet of the audience was pulpable (or was that the loose oranges being crushed underfoot)

Thomas spoke some more and was listened too with silence.

He said that Equal Experts associates were, “Grown Ups”, to which the assembled herds of Greeks (are you sure about that?) and associated populace gasped with horror,

“We are but children in front of you, our Lord and Master”, mumbled the assembled audience.

“We, like Peter Pan, never wish to grow up and lose our curiosity about the world of software”

Thomas was firm, “You are all Grown Ups and that is a good thing”, he said again.

The company was doing well. The company, like the assembled masses, had increased its girth (of was that sales?), the HMRC cupboard of of earthly delights had done its twisted job.

Hats were thrown, luckily none of them edged with anything sharp, so no eyes were lost in the tumult (However, ensuring everyone one got the correct hat back was time consuming - you really should sew your name into the inside of the hat, but that is old knowledge from a dim and distant technology free time. There should be an app for that, but sadly there is not)

At one point, more cheers were heard (but that was from the pub across the road).

“Stand you newcomers, those of you who know not the mighty 386” (possibly it was misheard, and he meant 486 or even Pentium?)

The latest acolytes stood up warily in the spotlight fame.

The wizened old hands, or was it just Richard son of John, as he is known, (interviewer and code reviewer extraordinaire), looked on as in amazement as huge numbers of the attendees stood.

It is whispered, quietly in the shadows, that if you can pass his interview questions you are a maid for life (surely you mean made for life?).

Thomas waved his hands and magically the acolytes took their seats again (one even tried to take it out the front door and down the road, but a tight security operation was in effect and they soon put a stop to that)

It was finally time for the main attraction.

Ben of the Silver Hectare (we are in the EU after all and Imperial Measurements are banned) came forth and was seen by the assembled multitude.

There were gasps of wonder, as the magic words RCT were recanted, decanted, and then poured forth at great speed and with immense feeling and heat.

Strangely, plugs of butter were mentioned, but quickly intermingled with the showing of interesting graphs which are used for nefarious purposes by tricksy newspapers and editors.

The Daily Mail and Daily Express were excoriated, to the general acclaim and satisfaction of the audience.

The enthralled watchers and listeners gasped, “Ooh”, and exhaled ”Ahh”,  as fact after fact came forth like a Biblical plague of words from the great orator.

Randomized Control Trials (RCT), it appears, are the truth, the way and the light.

Ben chanted, “If only, they were used with Big Data!”, (apparently Data has put on a lot of weight since the end of Star Trek TNG in the late 80’s)

The Ben of the Pewter Perch, bestrode the stage like a colossus but sadly could not keep the pose for long.

This way and that, he leapt, from one side of the the stage to the other.

Magic slides were shown (the one at Alton Towers was particularly lovely).

Statistics were thrown (some into interestingly shapes bowls) and tossed about like small boats on an angry sea of numbers.

Facts frothed and boiled, until and with great gusto, “Statins” were mentioned.

Silence fell like a deflated balloon.

There was a blinding flash and a small nuclear bomb went off as Ben of the Copper Rood told his captivated (or was it just captive) audience that he could talk about them until 9pm, 10pm, 1am, 3am, even 4am if the watching crowd could stick with him to the bitter end.

There was a look (possibly even, The Look (™)) from Kathleen, daughter of Coal, and her voice echoed clear and bright around the cavernous room, “Ten minutes and no more, there is no over time for you, my lad”

Ben, took this on the chin like a Super Trouper and broke into a short song and dance about statins and the medical trials of Fernando.

He enthused over how statins needed to be compared with each other, on a like for like basis, to ensure that the Laws of the RCT were met, otherwise there were going to be deaths of a Biblical proportion in the general population (well, to all those taking statins at least).

The “oohs” and “ahhs”, sadly abated after the “Ooh and Ahh Sound Machine (™)” at the back of the room, failed after its software melted like butter due to the intense temperatures generated by the huddled beery and bearded masses.

Time was called, a few questions were asked (or even allowed to be asked, as Kathleen, Glorious Queen to Time, was seen to be tapping her watch) and the final round of applause shook the building as if a mighty hand had struck the ground nearby (It turned out later to be a 1.3 tremor on the RIchter scale).

There was momentary pause before the attendees realised that it was over.

Feet crashed to the the floor, chairs were scattered and rucksacks loaded with Big Mac’s were wielded to carve a path to the exit, empty bottles clattered and bowls fell to the floor as the crowd, freed from the restriction of having to listen, rushed down the stairs, back to the depths of the building on a promise of yet more free beer and food, well at least until it all ran out.

There was mention of further talks, bounteous prizes and “Afterwards the Pub”, but sadly the author of this short journal had to go and meet his Waterloo at a Waterloo full of cancelled and delayed trains.