The Sea Of Tranquility

Or Not
We shall in fact be focussing on quite the opposite of "Tranquility", yet I didn't want to bring people down on this, the most sugar-coated warm fuzzy-feelinged day of the year.  Christmas Day, for those of you isolated in a sensory deprivation environment.
     Besides, the "Sea of Tranquility" reference does allow your humble scribe to wedge in an astronomy reference, as per the default blog description that crops up on Facebook.
     "Mare Tranquilitatis" is the Latin name for TSOT, which serves to separate the literate from the Latinate, and at this point I'm going to request back-up from Art -

Mare Mare quite contrary ...

     It's also the location for the touchdown of Apollo 11, at the site subsequently dubbed "Tranquility Base".  For those of you who still hold to the Hoax, the exit door IS THAT WAY!

A trudge on the Tranqilitatis

     These are shots of the Moon, in case you were unsure.
     Typically this Intro has nothing to do with what follows, so I hope it set the scene nicely.  Let the brouhaha begin!

Sea Fury
I quite like bashing you, the reader, over the head with how thoroughly British I am, and how thoroughly wonderful fantastic unique Britain is; also that, whilst the world may view us as effete tea-drinkers speaking Received English*, prod us at your peril.
     Hence we move to the Sea Fury, which was a propeller combat aircraft of the Royal Navy post-Second Unpleasantness, one of the fastest propeller aircraft ever, and a redoubtable piece of flying firepower.  Art?

Flying Fury

     Powered by an insanely powerful Bristol Centaurus engine, this baby could be thrown around the skies like a stunt kite, if the pilot felt like showing off, or hit 485 mph in level flight.  Mounting four 20mm cannon, it could turn anything else in the skies into a cloud of spall within one second flat.
     It also has a very rare distinction, in that on 8th August 1952 an RAF pilot flying a Sea Fury shot down a Chinese MIG-15 jet, one of the vanishingly rare times this has happened.  This didn't happen out of mere spite, gentle reader, it was during the Korean Business.
     "So - we now know more about British fighter aircraft than we did before," I hear you cavil.  "Where is this leading?"
     I'm so glad you asked!
     This whole post is based on the fact that I happened to pick up a bottle of beer whilst doing the weekly shop.  Art?

Less deadly, better tasting

     There you go.  A bit of a stretch from Mare Tranquilitatis to a bottle of beer, yet we got there in the end.
     Next!

Denied!
Yesterday Conrad was whizzing around Royton and Ur-on-the-Irwell**, not as part of his busy social whirl, rather as chauffeur for Darling Daughter and Best Friend Erin.  En route I dived into the Co-Op, had a quick scan of what was going cheap and hastened to the checkouts to pay and be away.
     "Sorry, I can't sell you this," advised the polite and apologetic person on the till. 
     Conrad looks startled.  Surely you don't need a licence to purchase a Peppered Steak Slice?

The offending article

     "It's date-expired," explained the chap, sincerely.
     "I don't care!  I have an indestructible stomach!" I loudly and proudly proclaimed.  The Customer Service Assistant (for such is their full title) wasn't budging.
     "Sorry, sir, but the Co-Op doesn't want you to die," he concluded.  "And you probably don't want to, either."
     Well, no, but see my statement of fact above.

Part of the Haul
I'm not sorry about this, you're just going to have to put up with my gloasting about What I Got For Christmas.  That's all there is to it.
     Okay, you may not, if you are new round here, be aware that one of the constant's in Conrad's life in the office is a breakfast of stale bread dipped in a drink of hot Marmite.  As I always say, the breakfast of champions.  
     So, today I was delighted to receive a new lunchbox.  Art?

Voila

     Degsy was impressed as it resembles the "lunchpail" he used to pack back when he lived in South Canada.  I was quite delighted because my old lunchbag, Sheridan the Screaming Skull - 

Voila aussi

     - has not only been saturated with fish oil, stuck frozen to the back of the fridge, been cut, poked and stabbed and generally abused, to the extent that I really do need a new one.
     What really took the biscuit, however, is this:

NO!  Art, you semi-sentient sack of slime -

<A Tazer crackles into action repeatedly>

     Ah now, I think I can post that what really took the biscuit is this:

     "Sorry the bread's not really stale," apologised young Sal.
     "Don't worry it will be by Wednesday!" enthused your humble scribe.



* Effetely drinking our tea with a cocked finger, no less.
**  Manchester