R.I.P. Robert Calvert

I Bet None Of You Young Snapper-Whippers Out There -
 - know what I'm talking about.  I don't blame you, for remember - Conrad frequently has no idea what he's talking about either.  As an example, if you remember, there was a mysterious acronym I wrote down years ago that I've now completely forgotten about, except that I remember I couldn't remember what it was about.


Track 6, pop-punters

     Anyway, back to Robert Calvert, who was a writer and poet before he kind of fell into the orbit of Hawkwind, where he ended up being their frontman and lyricist.  Conrad does have an especial fondness for the Calvert-era Hawkwind since he was a dab hand with lyrics, probably the outcome of having a poetical background, and he was well-versed in contemporary science fiction; always an impressive skill for any artist, I feel.
     We shall glide effortlessly over Bob's less-than-PC opus "Flying Doctor", since the Australian SAS Regiment would come in through the windows to kill us all were I to vent it to the skies.

                                                    One of these will kill you dead.
     Where were we?  Oh, right - "Railhead Logistics in Combat Sustainability for the Period March 1917 to Augu -  No.  That's not right.  Memory  
     Ah!  Yes, Bob Calvert.  Let us now leap o'er the decades, back to 1978, and the Hawkwind album "Quark, Strangeness And Charm", and that very same title track.  "Quark, Strangeness And Charm" - you ARE paying attention, aren't you?






     "All of that does not anti-matter now -" warbled Bob, which <finally!> brings us to what I wanted to talk about: antimatter.*
     Specifically, antimatter missiles.  Antimatter missiles in an orbital weapons station which we shall dub E.R.A.S.M.U.S., an acronym for Enhanced Retaliatory Asset Survivable Missile Station.  Nifty, eh?


Along these lines

     You see, the current treaties in force apply to nuclear weapons, which are not allowed in orbit, not at all, not even a little bit.  Antimatter is quite outside these terms, as it does not rely on fission or fusion to create an explosive effect.
     At this point, the web-crawling spider-bots of US Air Force Intelligence are twitching their sinister virtual antennae -
     But wait!  It gets better.  Or worse, depending on your perspective.  For these missiles do not need a massive amount of fuel to get out of Earth's gravity well; in fact gravity will be working for them, so they really only need a few ounces of manoeuvring fuel as they fall towards where Ex- marks the spot. 

<whistles nonchalantly)

     Nor is that all.  O no!  For these missiles need only a targeting system, akin to a GPS, to direct them to the target. 
     "But Conrad," I hear you quibble.  "Anti-matter is so hard to contain and manipulate."
     True enough, but we are here postulating praseodymium super electro-magnets, which can create a magnetic bottle sufficiently strong to contain antimatter.  Thus we do not need an elaborate arming and fusing mechanism for our theoretical foofoodillies, because when they hit the ground that magnetic containment is going to instantly shatter, and the 8 grams of anti-matter will go pop.**
     At this point, the web-crawling spider-bots of US Air Force Intelligence are all over BOOJUM! so I think we can call a halt there for today.

The other end of the spectrum

     Oh, don't worry about the motley, we already locked it in the boot of a car being used on the gunnery range at Bisley.

Good Lord Aloft - Cannibal Wins Oscar!
Or something like that.  Conrad saw the animated short "Bao" last year when he went to the pictures - SOMETHING YOU NETFIX SLUGGARDS SHOULD DO MORE OFTEN - and was somewhat at a loss.  It's about a sentient dumpling that a Chinese mum makes and then witnesses grow up, until she eats it.  And it still comes back to life, as if it were never gone, like a death-of Marvel superhero.  Rather baffling.  And now it wins an Oscar!

CAUTION!  May come to life and ruin yours.
(Or something)

      And now I feel hungry.
     Bah!

"Missiles" By The Sound
They were a corking band, you know, and that track above was writer Adrian Borland's impassioned rant about nuclear missiles, which is either staying on theme or being worryingly monomaniacal on my part. 
    

Who the hell makes those missiles?
Who the hell makes those missiles?
Who the hell makes those missiles?
When they know what they can do

A missile, cruising

     Back in 1980, when Ol' Ade was ranting and tanting, the internet was still but a distant gleam in the eyes of DARPA (Defence Advanced Projects Agency), so the answer to his question above would have needed a deal of checking.
     Your Humble Scribe can now reveal that it is in fact Raytheon who make those missiles.
      There.  Another question answered and a sense of closure brought to the world.

"Paraphernalia"
It gets used a lot, this word, so have you ever sat down and bothered about where, exactly, it comes from?***
     Don't worry, I've already gone into it, so you will be better-informed the next time you read about that cliché "drug paraphernalia".
     Predictably, with an ending like that, it's derived from Greek.  "Para" meaning "Apart and separate from" and "Pherne" meaning "Wedding dowry".  Back in the groovy Middle Ages the phrase meant what a married woman possessed that was not her dowry.  The word has acquired a bit of definition-creep since then, as you can appreciate.  Art?

The Hoplite's paraphernalia

     Believe me, it wasn't easy coming up with that - 99% of the pictures to do with Paraphernalia are all about drugs and DRUGS ARE BAD! apart from caffeine because you get that in tea, and tea is heavenly nectar.

Finally -
Conrad was glad of the Cryptic Crossword in The Metro this morning, because, like an absent-minded old man (which I am, actually) I neglected to add Professor William Philpott's grand strategic study of the First Unpleasantness, "Attrition", to my bag.  Despite thinking to myself "Right that's everything put in".
    O how fallible is my memory is my human memory.
     Fortunately I have two editions of the Manchester Evening News, sufficient to keep my mind occupied during the bus ride home.

Me.  Being happy.
(Yes, it can be hard to tell)

      Ah - Bisley just rang.  Can we take delivery of a very-disintegrated motley?
     No!  Har-har!



*  I can hear the sighs of relief from here.
**  A 320 kiloton pop, mind you.
***  Of course you haven't, because you're normal.  Poor thing.