Alternative computing

Why pay thousands to restrictive software companies when open source programmes are free, easy to us

This week, the Greens have joined together with Friends of the Earth, New Internationalist, People and Planet and the Free Software Foundation to call on other social and activist groups to reject Microsoft's Vista operating system and encourage the use of free software.

Free and open source software (FOSS) is written by teams of developers from different companies and organisations, and can be used and shared by anybody. The 'source code', which make the program work, is made available to all users to copy and rewrite, unlike conventional software, where only the copyright holders can make changes or legally distribute copies – usually for amounts of money that bear no relation to the cost of making and distributing a disc.

The main benefits of FOSS to a small organisation are, of course, cost and independence. Most of the software is free, and often it is very easy to use. It almost always works well with other programs and doesn't try to make you buy a whole package of related products.

With free software and some second-hand or refurbished hardware, an NGO or small business can start up an office with a couple of hundred pounds, rather than spending tens of thousands on new hardware and the vast range of software licences you need in order to do the most basic office tasks. Microsoft or Mac operating systems, along with Microsoft Office and Acrobat Professional for making pdfs, don't come cheap, even with non-profit discounts.

Professional support for non-profit free software is growing fast, with groups such Tactical Tech and Women's Net producing a collection of peer-reviewed software tools that do everything an organisation needs to get itself going, all bundled up as 'NGO In a Box'. Other tools such as the free 'relationship management' tool CiviCRM (which will keep track of your members, volunteers and donors all in one place) are helping NGOs to free themselves from the tyranny of the, frankly awful to use, Microsoft Access.

“This all sounds lovely,” I can hear you thinking. “But why is the Green Party getting involved? Surely this doesn't have a lot to do with the environment?”

Well, it does and it doesn't. Specifically on Vista, when it launched this year we alerted the world to the wasteful attitude to hardware Microsoft's new operating system was foisting on its customers. The demands of the new system meant that many components in the computers of early adopters would be unable to cope, so potentially millions of perfectly good sound and video cards could be dumped in the bin as a result of the switch. We went so far as to call it a 'landfill nightmare' and I said that “future archaeologists would be able to identify a 'Vista upgrade layer' in our landfill sites." OK that was an exaggeration, although not much of one.

But apart from the environmental benefits of free software in avoiding the throwaway festival that comes with a Microsoft upgrade, there are philosophical reasons for the Green Party's affinity with free and open source.

Greens are often thought of as being against globalisation in all its forms. However, globalisation of shared information is a good thing, especially if it means small and local economies can share the benefits of collaboration and become independent of multinational corporations. If you think this sounds idealistic, take a look at Brazil, where they are saving vast sums of money by using Linux to bring computing to the favelas, or the One Laptop Per Child project, which is using open source software to drive a very cheap and simple computer that will be distributed to children throughout the developing world.

We first adopted policies in favour of FOSS in 2005 and have been gradually moving our office systems to open source solutions since. We now use Linux for our web server and website and a range of open source programs in the office. Along with signing up to the Free Software Foundation's call for more NGOs to take advantage of the benefits, we're extending this call to government too.

Think about it. The problem of designing a computer system to run a library or make hospital appointments is roughly the same everywhere in the world. With every government hiring IT companies to create separate, proprietary systems, a lot of private profit is created. However, the governments will not own the source code at the end of the process and the companies can charge the same to each government they sell their software to. It's the same kind of deal as Microsoft charging hundreds of pounds for an MS Office licence and making astronomical profits, because the cost to them each time the software is installed is – literally – nothing.

Under an open source model, governments instead collaborate with each other and pay IT companies to develop open source systems. This means the problem can be solved once and then implemented everywhere without charging taxpayers again and again for the same thing. Upgrades and further developments can be funded and carried out collaboratively too, and this can lead to enormous savings overall. Health sector projects are already underway, such as the Open Health Information Project led by Oregon State University. Getting the UK government to embrace this new approach could bring huge benefits to this country, given the billions being put into public sector IT at the moment.

Using more FOSS in government could do more than save money and development time, it could also free us from having to get involved with companies like Lockheed Martin, who are now in the final round of selection to run the 2011 Census (as I have blogged about before).

The Census Alert campaign would be completely unnecessary if the government was able to take and adapt a free, open-source census-gathering system, developed collaboratively and openly with other governments, with data security and privacy in mind. Instead, unless the campaign succeeds (which it might – we now have Campaign Against the Arms Trade and several MPs supporting the campaign) it is likely we will have to put up with the black-box, proprietary software provided by Lockheed, plus their assurances our personal details will be safe. I know which model I would rather trust.

Sian Berry lives in Kentish Town and was previously a principal speaker and campaigns co-ordinator for the Green Party. She was also their London mayoral candidate in 2008. She works as a writer and is a founder of the Alliance Against Urban 4x4s
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad