JOST A MON

The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

I can be stunned and stirred at the same time. Yes, I can. This is something that has been simmering under my hat for a while now, but a recent spate of data releases has finally caused my baffled fury to boil over.

Of what speak I? Why, Albion's perfidious government. In what has to be the grandest gerrymandering achievement ever, Labour has managed to create a vast class of people so utterly beholden to them that it is unimaginable for these folks to vote for anyone else. And who are these sheep? Why, public servants in all their disguises.

It is absolutely breath-taking. During the 10-odd years of Britain's economic boom, a period that our man Gordon Brown attributed entirely to his own skill (further embellished by his '
no more boom and bust' speeches), which part of the workforce added more jobs? You guessed it - the public sector. Between 1998 and 2007, of the 1.2 million jobs added in urban UK, two-thirds (two-thirds!) were in some bureaucracy or the other. In some parts of the UK, state employees are 70% of the workforce. We might as well be living in the USSR.

And what sorts of jobs are these? Not all necessary ones, of course, like teachers or police or nurses. Oh no. There were new metrics established that determined the efficacy of teachers and nurses and policemen. Who would monitor these metrics? The newly employed 'managers', of course. And watchers-to-watch-watchers in some surreal exponential series of artificial jobs.

To attract suitable talent from the private sector, massive salaries were offered to such worthies as heads of the various municipal authorities. Many of them were
paid more than the Prime Minister, even.

Meanwhile, to fund all these pen-pushers and layabouts and non-jobs, the Treasury under Labour issued billions of sterling in debt, so that when they really should have been paying down the deficit, they instead caused it to swell to gargantuan proportions. When the crash occurred in 2007-2008, obviously the fiscal situation then took a further plunge into the abyss.

Of course, the joke, dismal as it is, doesn't end there. It turns out that these leeches on the body politic actually - in the median -
earn more (£539 per week) than the private sector employee (£465).

In what universe is this sustainable? The private sector pays for most of this largesse in the form of tax. The state has continued to grow and grow. This makes eminent sense during a recession. But it made no sense at all during the years of growth.

Meanwhile, there are still more benefits to a public sector job. No matter what you earn, you are guaranteed a nice final-salary pension when you retire. (
Civil servants who joined after 2007 don't have the perk, it appears.) Why NHS consultants many of whom earn more than £100,000 need a guaranteed pension is anybody's guess. Especially when final-salary pensions in the private sector are mere whispers, tales told of legendary times. The argument for defined benefit pensions for public servants used to be that they earned so much less than the private sector jobbie that this was fair recompense in their old age. We have seen that this is a staggering lie.

I can't blame the public servant, of course. If I got a job that assured me of a nice salary and a rollicking pension, security, in fact, for the rest of my life, I might jump at it. Particularly if I lived in some dismal part of the Midlands, say, where, for entertainment, all I could do was throw stones at passing trains. I lay the blame entirely on Labour, even as I doff my hat to their chutzpah. They have fucked the United Kingdom well and proper, and left its people so in thrall to them that I cannot see them ever bowing out of power.

Someone please tell me I'm wrong, and there's a way out of this hellish morass.

The wonderful Alan Davidson spent twenty years of his life researching and writing that magisterial tome, that bible for foodies, The Oxford Companion to Food. A collection of wryly loving descriptions of everything edible - from aardvark to zucchini - this book is probably one of the great works in the English language.

And, of course, my favourite art historian Andrew Graham-Dixon made a TV programme about it. The Man Who Ate Everything was shown recently on BBC Four. Andrew interviewed a close friend of Alan's, Paul Levy, with whom he travelled to China to investigate the foods of that land.

After eating such exotica as poisonous snakes and anteaters and things, one day Alan purchased a bottle of tonic. Alan had had a sip, and it had worked on him instantly. He was completely energised.

On the bottle, it proudly announced that it energised the generative parts.

To wit, an aphrodisiac.

Andrew breathed in the aroma, had a sip and pronounced it marvellous.

Now, in China, it appears, almost every possible animal - native or imported - is some sort of sex aid. (Which possibly explains why the Amur tiger and various tribes of rhinos around the planet are being decimated just to support the odd hard-on or two.) This particular concoction helpfully offered its list of ingredients.

Top on the list were: penis of dog, penis of deer, and penis of seal.

Andrew choked at this point.

At the end of the list appeared the mysterious entry: 'other ingredients - 65%.'

Paul Levy said that Alan Davidson wondered what those other ingredients were.

Alan Davidson was a teetotaller, and he couldn't guess the constituents in that 65%.

Paul said, "It's alcohol, Alan."

Which probably explained Alan's high, ahem, spirits.

They pondered then what to do with the thing.

Alan leered at him, said Paul. He positively leered.

"We'll give it to the ladies," he said.

3.25.2010

Pavlov

Pavlov reflex? I'll give you a Pavlov reflex.

The other day, a colleague and I transferred from the Underground to the commuter service at Waterloo. At least, I did; he found his electronic ticket short of funds, and had to go off to recharge it before going through the turnstiles.

"Which platform are you going to be on?" he said.

"I don't know," I said. "Platform 3?"

"Okay," he said, and went off to put some money in his ticket.

I walked up the stairs to Platform 3, and stood waiting. I pulled out a book out of my bag and began to read it.

Presently, a train arrived and streams of passengers alighted and boarded. I kept reading.

Then I heard the beep-beep-beep warning of the doors closing, and without thinking, jumped into the compartment nearest to me.

The doors shut. I felt silly. The train pulled away from the station.

Minutes later, my mobile rang.

"Which platform are you on?" said my colleague.

"Er," I said. "I was on platform 3, but now I'm on the train."

"Ah," he said.

I continued to feel silly for the rest of the journey. What was it about that beep-beep-beep that prompted me to jump into the train?

I blame Pavlov. I'm no different from a slavering dog, it appears. Everyday as I commute I hear the beep, and invariably I jump into the nearest compartment. Evidently, I have no control over my legs.

So there you go.

3.24.2010

Randomly Premier

Gresham College, that ancient institution of public education, never ceases to satisfy one's intellectual cravings. The lectures there dwell on every possible topic of interest. Everyone - from jock to geek - may find themselves satisfied. And while geeks may not be particularly good at sport, they can certainly analyse it to discern patterns and see what's driven by skill, and what is random.

Consider, for example, the Barclays Premiership, object of veneration for football junkies all over the world, but in particular in England. There are twenty teams that play each other twice, once on their home ground and once away. A winner of a match wins 3 points, while tied matches obtain 1 point for each side. What is the distribution of points among the various teams? What is the spread between the topper of the table and the bottom team? What is the average point?

It may or may not be surprising to you, but a very simple probabilistic analysis can reveal much about the Premiership. Take the 2008/2009 season, for example. There were 380 matches played in all, of which 97 were tied. In other words, a quarter of the matches are drawn. In the previous season, 100 matches were tied; in the year before, 98. We may, therefore, assume that the probability of a match ending in a draw is 25%.

This means that 75% of matches have a result. If we assume that the likelihood of winning at home is the same as that away, we have probabilities of 37.5% of a home win, and 37.5% of an away win.

Given these numbers, we can easily simulate a season of the Premiership. If you make an octahedron, two of whose faces have 'Draw' written on them, three have 'Home' and three have 'Away', and toss it 380 times, and create the points table for the entire season, you will obtain a list that will look something like this (in decreasing rank order):

67 65 64 59 59 58 52 52 52 51 49 48 48 47 47 45 40 39 38 34

(I was too lazy to make the octahedron and toss it, so I wrote a little program in R to do the job for me.)

It is clear, for example, that the average points are roughly 50. The minimum score is 34 and the maximum is 68.

How representative is this of reality? Well, here's a table of the nine completed seasons of the Premiership in the decade of 2000.

Rank2008/20092007/20082006/20072005/20062004/20052003/20042002/20032001/20022000/2001
1908789919590838780
2
86
85
83
83
83
79
78
80
70
3
83
83
68
82
77
75
69
77
69
4
72
76
68
67
61
60
67
71
68
5
63
65
60
65
58
56
64
66
66
6
62
60
58
63
58
56
60
64
61
7
53
58
56
58
55
53
59
53
57
8
51
57
55
56
52
53
52
50
54
9
51
55
54
55
52
52
51
50
52
10
50
49
52
51
47
50
50
46
52
11
45
46
50
50
46
48
49
45
51
12
45
43
46
48
45
47
49
45
49
13
41
42
43
47
44
45
48
44
48
14
41
40
42
45
44
45
48
44
42
15
41
39
41
43
42
44
47
43
42
16
36
37
39
42
39
41
45
40
42
17
35
36
38
38
34
39
44
40
42
18
34
36
38
34
33
33
42
36
34
19
32
35
34
30
33
33
26
30
34
20
32
11
28
15
32
33
19
28
26

In every case, the top three teams have scored more points than we expect from our simulation. All the others, though, have points very similar to those we obtained. See, for example, the scores of the team ranked eighth in every year: 51, 57, 55, 56, 52, 53, 52, 50, 54. And what did our simulation tell us? 52. Or take the thirteenth team: 41, 42, 43, 47, 44, 45, 48, 44, 48. Our simulation: 47. Except for a couple of years when the bottom teams were absolutely disastrous, our predicted points (34) for the 20th is not far from those observed (32, 33, ...)

What do we infer from this? Other than the top 3 teams, the results of the rest are entirely random. They draw a quarter of their games, they win as many as they lose. The top teams outperform completely. No wonder that the toppers have been pretty much the same teams year after year. Their overall skill is, by far, overwhelming.

Has this differentiation always existed? I don't have the history back to the eighties or seventies, but in the first year that 20 teams competed in the Premiership, 1995/1996, the top teams scored 82, 78, 71. The remainder fell exactly in the same pattern as we limned above. The bottom-scorer was at 29.

So here's the question that we have attempted to answer: is the Premiership a purely random process? Is there any skill to any team over and above that expected by chance?

The answer appears to be: most of the Premiership results are as random as expected. Only the top three teams demonstrate skill exceeding this randomness.

It might be worthwhile checking the other great leagues to see if the conclusion holds for them. I'll leave that as an exercise.

Reference
John D Barrow, A Physicist Looks at Sport, Gresham Lecture, Oct 25, 2005.