Nerd.

To some it is an insult, tossed derisively at some technically-superior acquaintance.  With it comes the image of a spot-faced, overweight, twenty-something man, face illuminated by the blue glow of a PC screen at 3 a.m., flaming in capital letters an e-friend who dared suggest that Stargate SG1 was on a par with Babylon 5.  No personality, no hygiene, no friends.  Someone even accountants can look down on.

But some, some of us even, look on it as a badge of honour.  In much the same way as early Christians turned the shameful cross into a glorious symbol, the same way gays call each other ‘queer’ as a term of endearment, as ‘nigger’ identifies a fellow black gang member.  Names have had power since the earliest times.  Own the name, and you own the power.

I am a nerd.  Say it loud and say it proud.  I have worked for decades at earning the title.  Should I now disown it?  Should I hide it under a bushel?  “No!” I cry, and, “No!” again.

Of course, it helps that I am naturally that way inclined.  As a small lad I would always dissemble toys to see how they worked.  There was not a ballpoint pen that was safe.  When I in turn sired children it but gave me new opportunities to insert the battery (not included) and master the operation of some new and wondrous toy.  (“Dad, can I have a go now?  It is my toy.”)

For the term ‘nerd’ does not just describe a level of technical competence.  No, a nerd is much more.  A nerd enthuses about technology.  He (and it usually is a ‘he’) loves technology.  He eats, breathes and lives technology.  The newer the better.  Microsoft has a job role.  ‘Technology Evangelist’.  I have applied.  I have been rejected.  There are degrees of nerdiness, and I have yet to reach the upper echelons.  I aspire, I dream.  One day.  One future, glorious day.  But I am hampered by a family.  I have other pursuits that limit my dedicated nerd-time to mere hours per evening.

But still, give me two hours of your time and a six-foot wide white board, and I will show you the poetry of custom IP subnet masks.  Not in decimal, that would be madness.  But the elegance and symmetry of a 28-bit mask in binary moves me to tears.  My voice cracks and sometimes in class I have to call a break early.  I have seen La Joconde in the Louvre.  It’s some fat bird with a smirk.  But binary, that is pure art.

The same applies to toys.  What separates the men from the boys?  The cost of their toys.  My family doesn’t understand.  “What would you like for your birthday?” they enquire.  Does it matter?  Anything.  Anything at all so long as it has a USB connection and buttons.  You can buy a USB pole dancer.  It is a plastic doll which… well… pole dances when connected to your PC.

“It’s a plastic pole dancer,” I explain to The Wife, “that dances on the pole when you plug it into the PC.”

“Why?”

I don’t understand the question.  I try to explain again.  “It plugs into the PC.  And it dances.”

“Yes, but what’s it for?”

Is she stupid?  Is she from planet Zorb?  “It’s for watching her dance when you plug her into the USB socket”, I try and explain to her.  I talk slowly, as to an infant or Frenchman.  She shakes her head and walks away.  She is a strange woman.

To me it’s so obvious, and she should be pleased.  I could lust after Ferraris or ocean-going yachts.  Something bank-breakingly expensive.  But in truth, I would only be interested in the sat-nav.  Surely she should be glad that my needs are so simple and easily supplied.

But there’s more.  I am no mere egg-head, nor just an enthusiast.  I am certified.  Bill Gates himself has certified me in various technologies, not least as a trainer.  I have the certificates, locked up safely out of harm’s way where Bill’s signature won’t be faded or sullied by sunlight.  The Wife seems to think that the signature is printed much the same as the rest of the certificate, but in my heart I know different.  Me and Bill Gates?  We’re like that, me and him.

A colleague gave me a ballpoint pen the other week.  I must have greatly pleased him somehow.  It has a Microsoft Certified Trainer logo on the side.  But that’s not the half of it.  It also has a button.  Point it at the ceiling, press the button and the MCT logo is displayed.  Yes!  Really!  It’s my very own MCT bat-pen.  I cannot begin to tell you the thrill I get shining it at the ceiling and singing, “Dana-nana Nana-nana Microsoft-Certified-Trainer!”  OK, it doesn’t scan quite as well as Batman, but I’m working on it.

There is a man.  He is in his thirties, but he looks twelve.  He works for Microsoft.  He is the chief MCT nerd.  He has a fancy title but that’s what he is.  Chief MCT nerd.  In March last year he asked the MCT community to proof-read the secret MCT web site.  There would be, he promised, swag for those of us that came up with errors or inaccuracies.

I was the first to reply.  With three (count them, three) errors.  I sent him my mail address, informing him that I was even now clearing the space for the X-Box 360.  He replied with a smiley.  Oh well.  Swag.  Swag from Microsoft.  It would be nerdy.  It would be logoed.  It would be, in short, something I could brag about to my nerd peers.

March.  2006.  That was when it happened.  I’ve kept the email.

So in January 2007 I got another email, apologising for the delay, but assuring me the swag was on its way.  I replied that I would clear the space again for the X-Box 360.  This time there was no reply.  Not even a smiley.

Two weeks later when I got home my wife informed me that there was a parcel for me.  I ran into the living room.  There was a large cardboard box.  On top the address label stated it had originated in Microsoft USA.  Oh my gosh!  Could it be?  Was it really?  An X-Box 360?

As I grabbed it with fevered hands, I knew immediately that my dreams were just that.  The box was far too light to contain a games console.  So what was it?  Was it so bulky but light that it warranted a large box, or was it some micro-electronics hidden in a planet-warming bulk of packing?

If I ran, I could probably make it to the kitchen, find a knife to open the box and return in, what, ten seconds?  Too long.

I seized the keys from my pocket and hacked at the parcel tape in what an Old Bailey judge would describe as ‘a frenzied attack’.  The last tendons of tape parted as I grasped the box lid and ripped it open.

A laptop bag!  I tenderly took it in shaking hands and lifted it reverently.  A laptop bag!  I was leaping from foot to foot, like a small boy that had received the latest must-have toy at Christmas.

But wait!  Not just a laptop bag.  Though woven in the obligatory black fabric, what was this, embroidered on the front?  ‘Microsoft Certified Trainer’!  There, for all to see.  No longer would I have to ‘accidentally’ hit the button on my pen.  For the last time would I casually engineer it into a conversation about Big Brother.  It would be there, unmissable, for all the world to see.

I was giggling.  My laptop was at work, frustratingly, but I began to imagine the possibilities.  I held it, high, visible, the logo on the outside.  Wait!  Was that movement, inside the bag as I wielded it?

I started to explore it, looking at its function, not just its form.  There were two main compartments, each big enough to hold my laptop, one big enough to hold more beside.  I was flying to Manchester for a couple of days shortly.  I could put my clothes in one half, my laptop in the other.  I would need no other bag.  How cool was that?

I saw that I had already been pre-empted.  There was a TechEd 06 T-shirt inside one of the compartments.  TechEd 06.  The conference I had applied to attend.  The one that Microsoft had short-sightedly decided not to fund me to attend.  Oh well.  A peace offering.  I only wanted to attend for the T-shirts anyway.  Yes, it sounded unconvincing to me as well.

And a combination padlock to secure it with.  Yes, it also had an MCT logo on it.  Oh, how my colleagues would gnash their teeth in envy.

Another flap unzipped, and there was an array of pockets in which I could secret dongles, sticks, cables and paraphernalia galore.  There was even a row of pen holders.  A grin slowly manifested on my face.  I took my bat-pen from my pocket and slid it neatly into my utility belt.  Utility bag.  Utility pen-holder.  I would work on the name later.  Yes, when all was lost on the hour flight to Manchester, when the autopilot blue-screened and the sat-nav hung, I would be ready.  Me and my bat-pen.

Who’s going to use ‘nerd’ as an insult now?