You shouldn't necessarily be alarmed by the timely appearance of the sock <User: ritual sacrifice>, even though it's not me or <Deffi>.

Although if I were you I would be.

Now most know that the 10,000 year old lunar harvest festivals were originally attended by <human male sacrifice to the Harvest Goddess>- in which the "King for a day" gets to shag the most nublie woman in the village and then gets chopped up upon "completion..."

But fewer know these etymological warning signs (for you)-

1. "Dominus"- OK this means "King," really. Everyone knows that "Emperor" derives from the Latin <imperator>, which simply meant a head of state assuming direct command of legions.

However, in post-Republican Rome, the actual office of what we now consider to be the "Emperor" was called <Dominus>, not Imperator.

Viz- you are the King.

2. "Chew Sockpuppet" Yes, here in Korea it is almost <Chu-seok>, the four day lunar harvest festival in which every Korean in the country howls at the moon and talks to her dead grandmother.

Good times? Sure. But they used to be even better. From the "ritual sacrifice" angle.

You're not scared are you? I don't want you to be scared.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

DOG PILE ON DOM

Oh wait that's not very flattering...

Sorry <Deffi>!!

HOT CHICK PILE ON DOM

cripes now it sounds too good..

Is that an American vest (aka Waistcoat) or a British vest (an unmentionable undergarment sometimes made of string)? String Vest Theory may yet explain everything.

What did the endlessly recurring Procul Harum song say? A hit in 1602 (lyrical doo-wops by Bill Shagspere), in 1697 (I. Newton on cosmic bongos, man), in 1882 (recorded on wallpaper rolls by Edison, played by running the wallpaper through a combine harvester), plus the 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, and all the other lost decades of the 20th century.

What should I do?

Elsewhere, somebody went into a (to me) incomprehensible riff about American football game scheduling and *parity*. From what I could work out, there is a perfect example of this phenomenon (winners play winners) close at hand. It's called the Swiss system.

Is chess being forgotten? Just like Mani and his lost religion of light... the poor sap claimed to be the last prophet (about 1700 years ago, heh) and an avatar of Jesus, Zoroaster and the Buddha. So, naturally, the Christians, Buddhists and Zoroastrians all charged him with heresy.

Look you can't worry about what the next athlete is thinking about you at a chess website- all you need to remember is to obliterate him over the board if you ever get the chance.

The vast majority of people at this website are half educated- at best- and that includes most of the Academic faculty who come here, titled players, you name it.

I don't think playing chess has any real connection to the "intellectual life" as we understand that term in a a post-Enlightenment context. I think this is even more true of the "chess fan" as he is today.

Although some of them Enlightenemnt guys enjoyed a good game or three, of course.

Chess won't be forgotten because people never forget anything.

Which is not necessarily good if you think about it.

very nice

Here at Frog's Pawn we take pride in belonging to a minority.

Or should I say <minus>-orority?

OOooookay then

Do frogs have pods? Maybe I'm thinking of whales. As everyone knows, Whales is bigger than Lhuxemburg.

"Mani tried, Mani cried
Simple stories are the best
... don't want to be like all the rest."

Very well written, entertaining article, in many ways reminiscent of the rise and fall of "Buckler" here in Holland.

Bravo; just a bust a stitch.

I *am* looking forward to Galway, you know. Mostly because I want to get another copy of the local newspaper -- last year I particularly enjoyed the completely bloody barking quiz which told me what Galway season I was. I had to answer questions about my favourite type of stew and what sort of men I liked to take to the horses. In the end I was 'our horrible, bitter winter', or something.

But I'm also slightly more optimistic chess-wise, because I played my first game of the season a couple of nights ago and managed to win, despite being sick as a corncrake and sleep deprived:

White: Some bloke
Black: MD

1.d4 g6 2.c4 Bg7 3.Nc3 d6 4.Nf3 Bg4 5.e3 Nc6 6.Be2 e5 7.d5 Nce7 8.e4

Suttles had this position vs Robatsch in 1974 -- the very first Suttles game I ever played through, in fact. There he played 8...Bxf3 9.Bxf3 h5 10.0-0 and played ...Bh6 exchanging off dark square bishops a few moves later. It occurred to me over the board that black might play ...h5 first, 'tempting' white into h3 and getting the Suttles position a tempo up as a result. Turns out that was bollocks thinking really. The added h3 both makes g2-g4 easier and stops intrusive knights. Ho hum.

8...h5 9.h3 Bxf3 10.Bxf3 Bh6 11.Bxh6 Nxh6 12.Qd2

So now what do I do?

12...Qd7

A move, granted, but an especially 'nothing' one. There were vague ideas here of keeping an eye on g4 as well as castling queenside if white did so.

13.Qe3 f5

Oh gawd, premature f pawn thrusts threatening to ruin an already ruined game... the chess season must have started again!

click for larger view

14.g3 h4 15.a3 Nf7 16.b4 a5

I love pawns.

17.b5 b6

Wimpy; I was just trying to lock things up.

18.Rd1 g5 19.Qe2 hxg3 20.fxg3 g4

I suspect this was the wisest over the board decision.

21.Bg2 f4

This, however, is just an overplay in my opponent's time trouble.

22.gxf4 gxh3 23.Bf3 Ng6 24.Bg4 Qe7 25.f5 Nf4 26.Qf3 Qh4+ 27.Kd2 Ng4 0-1

Yikes. Played, played, played. How many historians does it take to let go of the past?

I think your opponent's main problem was his bishop -- you sensibly got rid of yours, but he was stuck with that lump on f3. Where it simply got in the way, impeding his f-pawn, his queen, and creating a target for your pawns.

He had a chance around move 13, instead of Qe3, to redeploy the bish with 13.Bd1 and 14.Ba4, where it might have been useful. But he doesn't seem like the type of player, somehow, who looks for moves like Bd1.

Interesting game. I suspect, btw, your winning move was ...Ng5 rather than ...Ng4 ...? Unless you meant "Kt to King's Kt's 4th" of course.

Afternoon all.

I'm back from Galway where, among other things, I played five games of chess. I suppose I had best get straight to the sad news, namely that this year's Dick & Dom Show was missing the latter. I anxiously phoned the idle monad during half time in the Ireland vs Italy World Cup qualifier (I'd taken the drinking man's bye on Saturday evening -- three games of chess in one day is at least three too many) to find out where in Eire he'd got to, and I received a perfectly satisfying explanation involving technological and fiscal meltdown. Something to do with reviewing a play too. All seems well and he should be back online fairly soon; basically this is just a warning that the following tournament report contains but one GM, and that's Baburin. Look away now, McCarthyites.

I wasn't entirely alone, of course. As per last year I was joined by my friend Greg, a larger-than-life troubadour whom my flatmate insists doesn't actually exist and is but one of my psychotic delusions. Greg was playing in the 'Major' section and had travelled to Dublin a day early to get drunk with Eoghan, a relatively new chess player who was entering into what he called the 'gobshite' section. For reasons best known to myself I was diving head first, again, into the misleadingly titled 'Masters'.

As I had naturally plumped for Aer Arann's absolute cheapest flight to Galway I had to get up at 6 to make the 9:30 from London Luton. This was miserable enough in itself - for me sleep deprivation is worse than illness, hangovers, the lot - but upon arriving into Ireland I also had to contend with torrential rain, a backpack mysteriously torn to shreds since check in (and thus soaked contents), and a mobile phone that apparently now refused to work abroad. I wasn't in the mood for chess, and was already thinking about Lonnegans, the charming bar a short walk from the Salthill Hotel.

The taxi driver who took me from the airport had plenty to say about the weather, of course. 'I don't know much about that climate change' he said. 'I don't know if it's down to human intervention. But I do know that the weather's changing. It's not how it used to be. I can just feel it.' This I took to be an example of Michael Taussig's preemptive apocalyptic knowledge:

'Let us recall for the moment the sage who taught in the seventh century AD that the world was spherical, the savant's savant, Isidore of Seville, with his equation of *calor* and *color*. For the question arises as to whether a new body will be formed as that other body we call planet earth heats up? Certainly changes are already happening down to the genetic level with insects and plants. As regards us humans with a body whose themostat will be reset together with other basic adjustments, might we not want come to possess a new body-mind relationship such that our body's understanding of itself shall change? Even more important in changing the old-fashioned mind-body setup will be the cultural changes-- that foreboding sense of cliff-hanging insecurity in a world ever more engaged with security in a climate gone terrorist.

'The mere possibility that this could happen should be sufficient for us to consider other forms of the body's knowing itself as a consequence of planetary crisis and meltdown. It is when the machine begins to break down that you begin to see how it works. Likewise it is when authority is challenged that you begin to see the otherwise concealed workings of the power structure.'

M Taussig, 'What Color is the Sacred?' (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), p.14.

And I kept conspicuously silent for well over a week, unlike me.

Please share your thoughts, I'd almost insist.

I extend solicitations to you and to <Dom>- We miss him terribly and we await his return, after which we will be very relieved and happy to see him.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow,
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Emily Dickinson

The weather *did* clear up actually, so that's one in the eye for all of you expecting relentless gloom. But one can only polish a turd to a certain extent; likewise there's only so much a bastard determined on miserability will be cheered by a bit of sun. Besides, bright sunshine accompanied by soggy feet is pretty much the most depressing thing in the world. So I checked in to my room, watched a repeat of Monday Night Raw, then sat on a particularly uncomfortable rock by Galway Bay, pashmina wrapped tight, and wrote an unhappy poem about unrequited love or rather, unrequited love triangles. The first round was still three hours away. It was clearly Lonnegans time.

As I sat there with my first Guinness of the day I chose to ruminate on the extreme pointlessness of it all - what else is there to ruminate on? - whilst watching some rugby, a sport I've never liked, being played between two clubs I'd never heard of. Slowly my thoughts drifted on to chess -- a sure sign that something was wrong. I began thinking about last year's Galway Congress, and was filled with joy when I remembered how quickly round one was over back then. After just thirteen moves and without a single piece having been captured my opponent, David Path (2068), offered a draw:

David Path-MD, Galway Masters 2008

1.Nf3 d6 2.d4 g6 3.c4 Bg7 4.Nc3 Bg4 5.g3 Nc6 6.e3 e5 7.d5 Nce7 8.Bg2 Nh6 9.h3 Bd7 10.Qc2 a5 11.b3 0-0 12.Bb2 f5 13.Ng5 1/2-1/2

(NB: For the sake of not coming across as pretentiously as I usually do, I am choosing to relate games here in English algebraic as opposed to my usual Norwegian.)

click for larger view

Just as I was beginning to look forward to playing the first round - simply because it might be over in about fifty minutes - I spied that antidote to hope, Greg, gliding past the window with Eoghan. I ushered the lads in. When Greg is around, you should understand, it is quite impossible to drink in moderation. So the plan was this: I would turn up at the board not just feeling sorry for myself and very tired and with possible trenchfoot, but a little drunk to boot. With any luck there would be some sort of dialectical standoff and I would be blessed with the ability to play chess. Then I would try with all my might to get a draw in as little time as possible so I could spend the rest of the evening sleeping and drinking gin at the same time.

The first part of the plan worked, somehow. But Darren McCabe (2009), whom I was playing with white in round one, had different ideas about how long the game should last. What followed was an unbelievably stressful encounter that didn't conclude until after 11pm -- the very last game to finish, in fact. Me and my crazy plans.