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stringlengths 6
7
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stringlengths 4
4
| question_id
stringclasses 29
values | domain
stringclasses 4
values | metadata
dict | context
stringlengths 1.45k
2.44k
| question
stringlengths 3
185
| question_type
stringclasses 9
values | answers
list | correct_answer_id
int32 0
3
| constituency_depth
int64 3
22
|
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
f092_9
|
f092
|
9
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
How long was a speach by each young entrepreneur?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"1 hour",
"10 minutes",
"4 hours",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 7 |
f092_10
|
f092
|
10
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
How does the narrator feel about the fact that BT are going to buy the company?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"not enough information",
"concerned",
"happy",
"calm"
] | 1 | 15 |
f092_11
|
f092
|
11
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
What is the man who co-founded the venture that BT plans to purchase wearing?
|
Factual
|
[
"A yellow jacket and bright red trousers.",
"not enough information",
"A suit.",
"A costume."
] | 0 | 18 |
f092_12
|
f092
|
12
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
When did the narrator got drunk?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"I did not drink at the party",
"After party started.",
"not enough information",
"Before party started"
] | 1 | 6 |
f092_13
|
f092
|
13
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
Back in September 2006, when did the narrator find themselves drunk from the free bar?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"During the party",
"before the party",
"after the party",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 9 |
f092_14
|
f092
|
14
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
What does the narrator do for a living?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"not enough information",
"He is a banker.",
"He is an investor.",
"He is in finance."
] | 2 | 7 |
f092_15
|
f092
|
15
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
How does the narrator's drinking buddy feel about the story that was printed?
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"not enough information",
"happy",
"enthusiastic",
"annoyed"
] | 3 | 11 |
f092_16
|
f092
|
16
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
What does the narrator think about the purchase BT plans to make?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"not enough information",
"It's bullshit.",
"It's a bad fit.",
"It's ridiculous."
] | 2 | 13 |
f092_17
|
f092
|
17
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
September 2006, and deep in the bowels of the Adam Street private members' club in London a very special group of people is crammed into a private room, supping imported Spanish beer from a free bar.
The value - on paper at least - of the companies owned by those squeezed into this tiny, boiling space would dwarf the debt of a small African nation. Among those present are some of the key players in Europe's Internet industry. The content creators, the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the investors; these are the new media moguls. And tonight they're in their element.
I'm hiding at the back of the room getting slowly drunk with the event's organiser, an entrepreneur who helped raise a ridiculous sum of money for a business networking site that had projected revenues of precisely zero. His mantra, he tells me, is 'revenue is the enemy'. It's not clear what that means, but I have to admit it sounds great.
A microphone is being passed around and we're watching and listening as a succession of young - mostly under forty - men - they're mostly men - rattle off their CVs and their future plans.
'He,' whispers my drinking buddy, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at a short, well-groomed man wearing a yellow checked jacket and bright red trousers, 'was in the FT yesterday. Apparently BT are going to buy the company he co-founded for half a billion dollars.'
'Fuck,' I half-whisper back. One habit you soon pick up, hanging out with dot com entrepreneurs, is swearing. 'That's a terrible fit. It's like Friends Reunited* all over again. What the hell are BT going to do with them?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'No, the story's bullshit. Totally made up. And they fucking printed it. '
'Fuck.'
'Of course they printed it. They called the investors to check it out, but they refused to comment. So they ran it as a "rumour". And why not? It wouldn't exactly be the most outrageous deal of the year, would it?'
He has a point.
|
How many people are at the club?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"not enough information",
"A dozen.",
"A hundred.",
"Fifty."
] | 0 | 6 |
f093_0
|
f093
|
0
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
What is the gender of the narrator?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"Female.",
"not enough information",
"Male.",
"Non-binary."
] | 1 | 7 |
f093_1
|
f093
|
1
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
The writer's computer-owning peers probably liked to do what with their computers?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"learn desktop publishing",
"play video games",
"write code",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 9 |
f093_2
|
f093
|
2
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
It is peobably true about the narrator:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"He continues enjoying the Internet",
"He becomes Englsh teacher",
"The recent past.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 7 |
f093_3
|
f093
|
3
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
When the narrator first learned desktop publishing?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"After elementary school",
"Before Christmas",
"Before 7th birthday",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f093_4
|
f093
|
4
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
What did his parents buy him on his seventh birthday?
|
Factual
|
[
"ZX Spectrum.",
"A radio",
"not enough information",
"A book"
] | 0 | 7 |
f093_5
|
f093
|
5
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
What was the supposed reason Mr. Coen taught this person desktop publishing?
|
Factual
|
[
"to produce an alternative school version of the school magazine",
"to write flattering articles",
"to work on the official school magazine",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 10 |
f093_6
|
f093
|
6
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
Who prefered radio for pursuing fame and wealth?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"Howard Stern",
"Nick Griffin",
"Hitler",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 9 |
f093_7
|
f093
|
7
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
Who taught him desktop publishing?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"His school teacher",
"Nick Griffin",
"Mr. Coen",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f093_8
|
f093
|
8
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
The writer's parents believed the computer would be used for what motives?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"His peers amusement",
"not enough information",
"educational",
"making shit appear on the screen"
] | 2 | 11 |
f093_9
|
f093
|
9
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
Fame-hungry dickheads found their preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth from which source?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"books",
"not enough information",
"newspapers",
"Leaflets"
] | 1 | 10 |
f093_10
|
f093
|
10
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
After he convinced Mr. Cohen to teach him desktop publishing, why did he get banned from the computer room?
|
Causality
|
[
"He made a magazine that mocked his teachers.",
"He got detention.",
"He didn't follow the rules.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 10 |
f093_11
|
f093
|
11
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
What does the narrator think about the possibilities of technology?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"It's addictive.",
"not enough information",
"The possibilities are not endless.",
"It's a way to subvert norms."
] | 3 | 9 |
f093_12
|
f093
|
12
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
How long did it take the narrator to learn desktop publishing?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"A few hours.",
"Weeks.",
"Days.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 9 |
f093_13
|
f093
|
13
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
The narrator will most likely:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"Become a web-publisher",
"not enough information",
"Become an English teacher",
"Become a media specialist"
] | 0 | 5 |
f093_14
|
f093
|
14
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
How long was it between the time the Apollo 11 landed on the moon and when the writer got his ZX Spectrum?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"2 weeks",
"18 hours",
"not enough information",
"18 years"
] | 3 | 12 |
f093_15
|
f093
|
15
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
What did the narrator discover Internet?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"not enough information",
"Before 1991",
"After 1997",
"Before 1996"
] | 2 | 6 |
f093_16
|
f093
|
16
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
What is probably true about the narrator?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"not enough information",
"He likes to read.",
"He is an English teacher.",
"He is a hacker."
] | 3 | 8 |
f093_17
|
f093
|
17
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do.
While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house.
From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked.
Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term.
And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet.
Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the Internet I had found mine - and it was a doozy.
|
How did Hitler find his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth, according to the text?
|
Causality
|
[
"letters",
"Books",
"leaflets",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 9 |
f094_0
|
f094
|
0
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
When did narrator become good friends with Charlie Skelton?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"not enough information",
"After starting comedy magazine",
"After I started my law degree",
"When Fiday Thing was born"
] | 2 | 7 |
f094_1
|
f094
|
1
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
The Friday Thing started:
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"not enough information",
"AFTER Charlie's office comedy project failed",
"WHILE Charlie was working on his office comedy project",
"BEFORE Charlie's office comedy project started"
] | 1 | 3 |
f094_2
|
f094
|
2
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
After the end of the text, the group likely:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"not enough information",
"Gained no attention",
"Gained a lot of attention",
"Had their project fail"
] | 2 | 7 |
f094_3
|
f094
|
3
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
How long was the writer probably a school magazine publisher?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"Throughout middle school",
"Throughout elementary school",
"not enough information",
"Throughout high school"
] | 3 | 6 |
f094_4
|
f094
|
4
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
How does the writer feel about attending lectures?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"They always bore him",
"not enough information",
"They are not interested",
"They make him stay at class late"
] | 2 | 9 |
f094_5
|
f094
|
5
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
The Friday Thing probably became:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"The pivot of Clare's career",
"not enough information",
"Popular",
"Charlie's biggest failure"
] | 2 | 3 |
f094_6
|
f094
|
6
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
Who would meet with the writer and Charlie Skelton to brainstorm projects?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"Clare",
"not enough information",
"Rhys Jones",
"Griff"
] | 0 | 10 |
f094_7
|
f094
|
7
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
Why did narrator had plenty of time?
|
Causality
|
[
"not enough information",
"He was a school magazine publisher",
"He had no intention of studying",
"He was famous"
] | 2 | 8 |
f094_8
|
f094
|
8
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
How does Clare know Rhys Jones?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"They are friends",
"not enough information",
"They are acquaintances",
"They are coworkers"
] | 1 | 6 |
f094_9
|
f094
|
9
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
The character in the story:
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"not enough information",
"Is old",
"Is competitive",
"Has a sense of humor"
] | 3 | 5 |
f094_10
|
f094
|
10
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
Who is the main character in the story?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"A celebrity",
"A writer",
"not enough information",
"Clare's good friend"
] | 2 | 8 |
f094_11
|
f094
|
11
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
Where would office workers be able to see the group's comedy magazine?
|
Factual
|
[
"In their physical mailboxes",
"not enough information",
"On the internet",
"At a newspaper stand"
] | 2 | 11 |
f094_12
|
f094
|
12
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
Who had a stalled TV project?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"not enough information",
"Griff",
"Clare",
"Charlie"
] | 1 | 6 |
f094_13
|
f094
|
13
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
The petition became successful:
|
Event_duration
|
[
"Over two years",
"Overnight",
"The next week",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 5 |
f094_14
|
f094
|
14
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
How do the writer and Clare probably know each other?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"They are classmates in law school",
"They are friends",
"not enough information",
"They are strangers"
] | 1 | 6 |
f094_15
|
f094
|
15
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
How was the online magazine started?
|
Factual
|
[
"Website",
"Printing",
"Email",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f094_16
|
f094
|
16
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
How was the media alerted to The Friday Thing?
|
Causality
|
[
"A journalist randomly found the group's website",
"not enough information",
"Rhys Jones told the media",
"The group sent them a press release"
] | 3 | 8 |
f094_17
|
f094
|
17
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC.
|
What did narrator thinks of his days as a publisher?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"How much more British people work compared to Americans",
"Printing and distributing magazines is difficult",
"not enough information",
"How to send out newsletters"
] | 1 | 9 |
f095_0
|
f095
|
0
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
After the end of this story, the narrator seems to be a little:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"self-deprecating",
"arrogant",
"not enough information",
"prideful"
] | 0 | 8 |
f095_1
|
f095
|
1
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
What is probably true about Yvette Cloete?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"Her clients are reasonable, trusting people.",
"She gave somebody a flu shot.",
"not enough information",
"Her job often requires her to physically examine children."
] | 3 | 8 |
f095_2
|
f095
|
2
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Where were the accounts of kidnapped or murdered girls published?
|
Factual
|
[
"The newspaper.",
"Page Three.",
"The Sun.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 8 |
f095_3
|
f095
|
3
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
What happened to the narrator after the article?
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"Their website made them a target.",
"Their website got a lot of traffic.",
"Their website was a success.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 7 |
f095_4
|
f095
|
4
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
What does the narrator think about the state of British TV in 2002?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"It is absolutely mental.",
"It is madness.",
"not enough information",
"It's ridiculous."
] | 0 | 9 |
f095_5
|
f095
|
5
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Why does the narrator think the parents are morons?
|
Causality
|
[
"not enough information",
"because they tend to blow things out of proportion",
"because they let a killer get away with murder",
"because he drank too much"
] | 1 | 9 |
f095_6
|
f095
|
6
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
How long did it take to set up thinkofthechildren.co.uk website?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"Few years",
"Few month",
"not enough information",
"10 minutes"
] | 1 | 9 |
f095_7
|
f095
|
7
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
What did the narrator do before setting up their website?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"They went to the paediatrician.",
"not enough information",
"They went to school.",
"They read a story about Maxine Carr."
] | 3 | 9 |
f095_8
|
f095
|
8
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Who had her door vandalized by a group of 'concerned parents'?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"Dr. Yvette Cloete",
"Ian Huntley",
"Maxine Carr",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 9 |
f095_9
|
f095
|
9
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Why were the parents concerned?
|
Causality
|
[
"not enough information",
"They were misled.",
"They were concerned.",
"They wanted to keep their children safe."
] | 3 | 5 |
f095_10
|
f095
|
10
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Whose front door had the word "paedo" painted on it?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"not enough information",
"Yvette Cloete",
"The narrator",
"Maxine Carr"
] | 1 | 8 |
f095_11
|
f095
|
11
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Who did Ian Huntley murder?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"a pretty young girl",
"a vigilante",
"a friend of Maxine's",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 5 |
f095_12
|
f095
|
12
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
Who is Murdoch?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"A journalist.",
"A newspaper editor.",
"A newspaper publisher.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f095_13
|
f095
|
13
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
The narrator believes that:
|
Belief_states
|
[
"Parents have the right to worry about their child's safety, within reason.",
"not enough information",
"Parents should team up as anonymous crimefighters",
"Parents should jump to conclusions immediately"
] | 0 | 5 |
f095_14
|
f095
|
14
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
What color paint did the vandals use?
|
Factual
|
[
"Red",
"Blue",
"not enough information",
"Yellow"
] | 0 | 5 |
f095_15
|
f095
|
15
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
How was the thinkofthechildren.co.uk site received?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"not enough information",
"It was viewed as a satire.",
"It was viewed as offensive.",
"It was a success."
] | 0 | 5 |
f095_16
|
f095
|
16
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
The narrator created a website:
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"before people had vandalized a doctor's house",
"not enough information",
"after people had vandalized a doctor's house",
"while people were vandalizing a doctor's house"
] | 2 | 5 |
f095_17
|
f095
|
17
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's.
Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint.
Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron.
And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness.
The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order.
|
The narrator has probably been living in his neighborhood:
|
Event_duration
|
[
"for two weeks",
"for most of his life",
"not enough information",
"for a day"
] | 1 | 8 |
f096_0
|
f096
|
0
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
What newspaper did the main character write a regular column for?
|
Factual
|
[
"food and drink website",
"The Friday Thing",
"not enough information",
"the Guardian"
] | 3 | 6 |
f096_1
|
f096
|
1
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Where did the writer work?
|
Factual
|
[
"For the Guardian column.",
"not enough information",
"London.",
"The writer was a Regular contributer to other publications."
] | 0 | 5 |
f096_2
|
f096
|
2
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
What probably happened to most of the main character's dot com friends?
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"They were promoted",
"They became rich",
"They lost their jobs",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 10 |
f096_3
|
f096
|
3
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
For how long was the main character writing about the dot com industry?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"not enough information",
"About 4 years",
"Around 10 years",
"Several months"
] | 1 | 10 |
f096_4
|
f096
|
4
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
What was the dot com boom?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"Writer's plan to use the internet to become hugely famous and successful",
"Parties to celebrate a year in business.",
"not enough information",
"Speculative investment bubble that formed around Internet companies"
] | 3 | 5 |
f096_5
|
f096
|
5
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Who did the writer eat lunches with while they tried to convince him to write about them in his column?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"not enough information",
"The great and the good of the dot com world",
"online entrepreneurs",
"his friends"
] | 1 | 17 |
f096_6
|
f096
|
6
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Immediately atfer the end of this text, narrator appears to be:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"Disappointed",
"not enough information",
"Excited",
"Enthusiastic"
] | 0 | 8 |
f096_7
|
f096
|
7
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Who was jealous and rich in the story?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"Maggie",
"not enough information",
"Sam Lewis",
"The main character"
] | 2 | 7 |
f096_8
|
f096
|
8
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Why did he think the entrepreneurs tried to convince him to write about them?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"They invited him to launch parties.",
"not enough information",
"They invited him to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year.",
"They told him their secrets of business."
] | 0 | 16 |
f096_9
|
f096
|
9
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
What was the main character's job title?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"not enough information",
"tv personality",
"food critic",
"journalist"
] | 3 | 7 |
f096_10
|
f096
|
10
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
What did the main character think about his girlfriend's job?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"He was conserned",
"She had a great job",
"He was jealous",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 8 |
f096_11
|
f096
|
11
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
How long had Maggie been the writer's girlfriend?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"When in London, the writer had made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, he was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free.",
"Since he arrived in London.",
"In 2003 when he was covering the 'new media' industry.",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 7 |
f096_12
|
f096
|
12
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
When did the main character start hanging out with people in the dot com world?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"After he met his girlfriend",
"Before he started working for the Guardian",
"After he arrived in London",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 12 |
f096_13
|
f096
|
13
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
How could the writer eat at London's best restaurants for free?
|
Causality
|
[
"I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie",
"The writer was invited to attend launch parties for new sites.",
"not enough information",
"Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website was his girlfriend."
] | 3 | 8 |
f096_14
|
f096
|
14
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
After the dot com boom when were the first signs of trouble for the industry?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry",
"not enough information",
"The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000.",
"As the century turned, so had the market."
] | 2 | 7 |
f096_15
|
f096
|
15
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Why were people not having an easy with the 'new media' industry?
|
Causality
|
[
"not enough information",
"Because of the tulip craze",
"dot com industry was in trouble",
"There was no industry left"
] | 2 | 7 |
f096_16
|
f096
|
16
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
Who is Sam Lewis
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"The main character's best friend",
"The main character's brother",
"not enough information",
"The main character's boss"
] | 2 | 5 |
f096_17
|
f096
|
17
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Paul Carr",
"title": "True Confessions of a New Media Whore",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/carrpother10bringing_nothing/0.html"
}
|
With regular money now coming in from the Guardian column, my regular contributions to other publications and the modest subscription revenue from The Friday Thing, I had been living something of the high life since arriving in London.
I had started hanging out with the great and the good of the dot com world: attending launch parties for new sites, going to parties to celebrate them staying in business for a whole year, eating their lunches, drinking their booze and learning their secrets while they tried to convince me to write about them in my column. Many of these online entrepreneurs had become my friends and I'd managed to find myself a new girlfriend - Maggie, a Welsh journalist who was a restaurant reviewer for a food and drink website. This was a brilliant blag: it meant we could eat at some of London's best restaurants and never pay a penny. Life was wonderful: The Friday Thing and the Guardian column meant that my plan to use the Internet to become hugely famous and successful was firmly on track, I'd made lots of new friends, and, on top of all that, I was getting laid and eating gourmet food for free. Even Sam Lewis was jealous, and he was rich.
Meanwhile, the people I was writing about were not having such an easy time of it. 2003 was a really strange time to be covering the 'new media' industry - mainly because no one was really sure for how long there would be an industry left to cover.
The dot com boom of 1999 seemed like a millennium ago: a period in history as crazy as the tulip craze or the South Sea Bubble look to us now.
The first signs of trouble for the industry had come in 2000. As the century turned, so had the market and - to use the parlance of analysts - the boom had turned out to be a bubble. And then the bubble had burst.
|
How long dot the dot com boom last?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"20 years",
"Few months",
"5 years.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f097_0
|
f097
|
0
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
Who was he meeting for the interview?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"A man named Salvador.",
"A middle-aged woman.",
"not enough information",
"A desk manager."
] | 2 | 7 |
f097_1
|
f097
|
1
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
Where was Casa Salvador located?
|
Factual
|
[
"In the business part of downtown.",
"not enough information",
"In a nice part of town.",
"In a nasty part of town."
] | 3 | 5 |
f097_2
|
f097
|
2
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
Who was the peroxide-blonde women arguing with?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"Women faking moans of pleasure",
"not enough information",
"The desk manager",
"The contact"
] | 2 | 6 |
f097_3
|
f097
|
3
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
What kind of job was he going to an interview for?
|
Unanswerable
|
[
"Pimp",
"not enough information",
"Desk Manager",
"Hitman"
] | 1 | 8 |
f097_4
|
f097
|
4
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
What do the women he hears faking moans of pleasure do for a living?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"Prostitute",
"not enough information",
"Secretary",
"Desk manager"
] | 0 | 13 |
f097_5
|
f097
|
5
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
How long was he in the front lobby?
|
Event_duration
|
[
"A few seconds.",
"20 Minutes.",
"not enough information",
"A few minutes."
] | 0 | 6 |
f097_6
|
f097
|
6
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
Who was argung with the middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman?
|
Character_identity
|
[
"Desk manager",
"Interviewer",
"not enough information",
"Office manager"
] | 0 | 9 |
f097_7
|
f097
|
7
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
When the man leaves the flophouse he probably:
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"did not get a job",
"got a job",
"regrets being late",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f097_8
|
f097
|
8
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
John shouldn't have missed his appointment by:
|
Event_duration
|
[
"not enough information",
"More than a few minutes",
"More than a few days",
"More than a few hours."
] | 1 | 7 |
f097_9
|
f097
|
9
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
Why was he going to Casa Salvador?
|
Causality
|
[
"To talk with the desk manager.",
"For an interview.",
"not enough information",
"To talk to the blonde woman."
] | 1 | 7 |
f097_10
|
f097
|
10
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
What did he think the desk manager wanted to do?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"not enough information",
"Interview him.",
"Hassle him.",
"Help him."
] | 2 | 11 |
f097_11
|
f097
|
11
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
What happened before he went to the room 313?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"not enough information",
"He walked past the front lobby.",
"He looked at his watch.",
"He heard a phone ringing."
] | 1 | 10 |
f097_12
|
f097
|
12
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
What did he blindly search along the wall for?
|
Factual
|
[
"The light switch.",
"The phone",
"not enough information",
"The baseball bat."
] | 0 | 7 |
f097_13
|
f097
|
13
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
He answered the phone
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"While the manager was busy arguing with the blond",
"While he was in Room 313",
"not enough information",
"After he went up the stairs"
] | 3 | 5 |
f097_14
|
f097
|
14
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
How did he probably feel when he sat on the bed?
|
Subsequent_state
|
[
"Hopeful.",
"Disgusted.",
"Curious.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 10 |
f097_15
|
f097
|
15
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
How did he feel when he saw the bat?
|
Entity_properties
|
[
"Disgusted.",
"not enough information",
"Concerned.",
"Curious."
] | 2 | 9 |
f097_16
|
f097
|
16
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
What does he think the desk manager wants to do?
|
Belief_states
|
[
"Manage to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.",
"Hassle him",
"not enough information",
"Argue with the blonde woman."
] | 1 | 11 |
f097_17
|
f097
|
17
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements.
I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked.
I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure.
Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?"
There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door.
My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily.
After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump.
|
Why did the man wait?
|
Causality
|
[
"He want to look at the baseball bat.",
"He hoped his contact would return even though the man telling the story arrived late.",
"not enough information",
"He was waiting for a phone call"
] | 1 | 5 |
f098_0
|
f098
|
0
|
fiction
|
{
"author": "Moxie Mezcal",
"title": "Concrete Underground",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html"
}
|
"Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued."
My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy.
I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back.
She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over."
Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here."
She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?"
"Probably."
"Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?"
I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up."
"These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face.
"Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again."
|
When did Sharon sit down?
|
Temporal_order
|
[
"After her conversation with the protagonist.",
"not enough information",
"Before her conversation with the protagonist.",
"During her conversation with the protagonist."
] | 3 | 6 |
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