My Wargaming Rules
Come back! I shan't bore with a description of same. I started, in a very idle and dilettantish manner, on these exactly two years ago to this day. I didn't really put any effort into them until earlier this year. Re-reading them confirms that I'll have to edit and chop and change them around, the penalty one pays for stringing out the creative process for soooo long.
Ice-Cream again
It wouldn't be BOOJUM! without a gratuitous mention of ice-cream, would it? This version is Raspberry and Yoghurt. I didn't bother sifting the pips; gives it a bit of texture, I think. Thanks go out to Anna, who provided the Bison vodka that helps prevent the final product from being icecrete.
The English Obsession
Weather. I see we're now back to the standard seasonal Slutch. I could have got in a boat and sailed downhill into Royton town centre this afternoon, and probably paddled back upstream, too. Thanks for raining whilst I'm on leave! Watch tomorrow morning dawn bright and beautiful in mockery.
Furnishing a Room
Apparently that's what good books do. I now have 18 recently bought ones to get through, and I was on the bus for the past week, allowing some serious reading to be done to and from work. The thing is, if I'm reading a book I'm not writing one, and those zombies really still have to be dealt with ...
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
End of The World, Ma!
Today I have been mostly watching "The World's End"*. Not, I assure any trans-Atlantic viewers, "The End Of The World", because that is a similarly-themed cinematic excursion released at the same time in the same cinemas, being entirely different.
No. "The World's End".
I dunno. It seemed appropriate. Blue blood?
I loved it, and - really - would go back to see it again tomorrow, just to pick up on the background references that got missed first time around. Not the shooting star, though - got that first time, Edgar**.
O Dull Work, Thou Chastisement
In order to view The World's End I ventured into Manchester, Yeah! that City of Sin. After the cinema I felt realllly thirsty and so detoured to my place of work, which is but three minutes away, where I retrieved and guzzled a pint of lemonde. Also I obtained one of our corporate discount cinema cards, enabling me to view at the same cost as a student. What shall I view cheaply as a result? The World's End again, or The End Of The World, or - Pacific Rim? The spectacle of giant robots biffing the spit out of equally-giant monsters*** does have it's appeal.
It was either this, or Godzilla. And we've all seen Godzilla a million times, right?
Timeslip
I admit to having two whole pints of beer from six o'clock onwards. Then I fell asleep. Waking up later I was convinced it was the small hours of the next day. Went to bed. Woke up at what the alarm clock insisted was 10:30 yet it was pitch black outside. Suddenly realised - ah, you got there ahead of me. Bizarre with a capital "Q"! Okay, today I have been mostly <cue Twilight Zone theme>
Time considered as a helix. No semi-precious stones, sorry****.
*Fast Show reference
** Edgar Wright. Directed "Spaced". Several of whose actors appear in TWE
*** Yes I know it's actually "kaiju" but "equally-giant monsters" has more POW. Ta.
**** Score double points if you recognised this as a Comsat Angels record and derived from JG Ballard, English Sci-Fi's enfant-terrible
No. "The World's End".
I dunno. It seemed appropriate. Blue blood?
I loved it, and - really - would go back to see it again tomorrow, just to pick up on the background references that got missed first time around. Not the shooting star, though - got that first time, Edgar**.
O Dull Work, Thou Chastisement
In order to view The World's End I ventured into Manchester, Yeah! that City of Sin. After the cinema I felt realllly thirsty and so detoured to my place of work, which is but three minutes away, where I retrieved and guzzled a pint of lemonde. Also I obtained one of our corporate discount cinema cards, enabling me to view at the same cost as a student. What shall I view cheaply as a result? The World's End again, or The End Of The World, or - Pacific Rim? The spectacle of giant robots biffing the spit out of equally-giant monsters*** does have it's appeal.
It was either this, or Godzilla. And we've all seen Godzilla a million times, right?
Timeslip
I admit to having two whole pints of beer from six o'clock onwards. Then I fell asleep. Waking up later I was convinced it was the small hours of the next day. Went to bed. Woke up at what the alarm clock insisted was 10:30 yet it was pitch black outside. Suddenly realised - ah, you got there ahead of me. Bizarre with a capital "Q"! Okay, today I have been mostly <cue Twilight Zone theme>
Time considered as a helix. No semi-precious stones, sorry****.
*Fast Show reference
** Edgar Wright. Directed "Spaced". Several of whose actors appear in TWE
*** Yes I know it's actually "kaiju" but "equally-giant monsters" has more POW. Ta.
**** Score double points if you recognised this as a Comsat Angels record and derived from JG Ballard, English Sci-Fi's enfant-terrible
Monday, 29 July 2013
"We Wanted Flying Cars - Instead We Got 140 Characters"
Yes, and a bloody good thing too!
You can be spiteful and unpleasant with 140 characters. You can't kill anyone with them. This came home to me on Friday as I caught the bus home - normally I drive but this week I'm on public transport - and we drove past a pair of smashed-up cars. When standing not far from this spot at a temporary bus-stop on my Night Out, I witnessed traffic arrangements that practically invited an accident. And lo, it happened.
Okay, now imagine this same accident occurring a mile* up at 250 mph*. Both disintegrated ex-flying cars, plus their shattered nuclear-propulsion units, fall back to earth and blow up Manchester city centre, killing thousands and causing billions in property damage. Given the standard of what I used to call the Daily D1ckhead Death Derby, a.k.a the morning rush-hour, this minor apocalypse would be repeated across the whole of the UK until our island was a smoking plutonium graveyard.
So be grateful for 140 characters!
It's a car. It's flying. What more do you want? A rubber biscuit?
Stuff The Flying Cars, Where Are All The Superheroes?
This concept kind of pinged to life in my brain this afternoon whilst the centre of Manchester experienced a tremendous thunderstorm. Dark clouds, stair-rod rain, actinic lightning and thunder sounding like John Bonham going mad with the world's biggest bass drum.
"This - " thanks to a lifetime of reading comics - "is the sort of stormy lightning that, when it hits weedy uber-geek Clarence McSprong, turns him into THUNDARRR! Lord of Living Lightning" I daydreamed.
Well actually no it wouldn't, replied the sensible half of my brain. Young Clarence would most likely be fried like an eel stuffed into a plug socket.
Thanking the sensible side of brain for that image, I did wonder. Given the amount of chemical pollution we've been spreading across the planet, and the duration of same, shouldn't someone, somewhere, have developed superpowers?
Real superpowers, mind you, like super-strength or telekinesis or shooting electric bolts from your fingers. Flight - yeah well anyone with the readies can get a ticket with Ryanair. Superman as a comic concept dates from the late 30's, so I want to know when the real thing is going to turn up. I'm not getting any younger!
"Sorry I'm late. Did I miss anything?"
* Still with them Imperial measurements!
You can be spiteful and unpleasant with 140 characters. You can't kill anyone with them. This came home to me on Friday as I caught the bus home - normally I drive but this week I'm on public transport - and we drove past a pair of smashed-up cars. When standing not far from this spot at a temporary bus-stop on my Night Out, I witnessed traffic arrangements that practically invited an accident. And lo, it happened.
Okay, now imagine this same accident occurring a mile* up at 250 mph*. Both disintegrated ex-flying cars, plus their shattered nuclear-propulsion units, fall back to earth and blow up Manchester city centre, killing thousands and causing billions in property damage. Given the standard of what I used to call the Daily D1ckhead Death Derby, a.k.a the morning rush-hour, this minor apocalypse would be repeated across the whole of the UK until our island was a smoking plutonium graveyard.
So be grateful for 140 characters!
It's a car. It's flying. What more do you want? A rubber biscuit?
Stuff The Flying Cars, Where Are All The Superheroes?
This concept kind of pinged to life in my brain this afternoon whilst the centre of Manchester experienced a tremendous thunderstorm. Dark clouds, stair-rod rain, actinic lightning and thunder sounding like John Bonham going mad with the world's biggest bass drum.
"This - " thanks to a lifetime of reading comics - "is the sort of stormy lightning that, when it hits weedy uber-geek Clarence McSprong, turns him into THUNDARRR! Lord of Living Lightning" I daydreamed.
Well actually no it wouldn't, replied the sensible half of my brain. Young Clarence would most likely be fried like an eel stuffed into a plug socket.
Thanking the sensible side of brain for that image, I did wonder. Given the amount of chemical pollution we've been spreading across the planet, and the duration of same, shouldn't someone, somewhere, have developed superpowers?
Real superpowers, mind you, like super-strength or telekinesis or shooting electric bolts from your fingers. Flight - yeah well anyone with the readies can get a ticket with Ryanair. Superman as a comic concept dates from the late 30's, so I want to know when the real thing is going to turn up. I'm not getting any younger!
"Sorry I'm late. Did I miss anything?"
* Still with them Imperial measurements!
Sunday, 28 July 2013
China - is it The Right Stuff?
A Duplicitous Question
Bear with me on this, I'm being clever here.
China, the word suggests, refers to dainty crockery used only on Sundays or when the most high falutin' visitors come to visit. "The Best China" is a British cliché used as shorthand for a particularly elevated social circumstance.
Or does it? China, after all, is a country, a nation-state with 1.3 billion citizens, the most populous country on earth.
Then, back in the 50's, all those cheap tinplate wind-up toys came to us here in the West courtesy of - China!
Cut to today, when all our cheap digital gewgaws come to us here in the West courtesy of - China!
Fired-clay, tinplate or silicon, which of these reflects the Right Stuff as applied to China?
The Right Stuff
Ironically enough (given my musical tastes) Dave Brock of Hawkwind sang about The Right Stuff Baby The Right Stuff. "The Right Stuff", although it sounds 100% British, is in fact a book by Tom Wolfe about the American Mercury space programme. And, Dave, you wouldn't have gotten within a mile of Mercury thanks to drug-testing, which you would have failed - actually Epic Failed - in the first instance.
Now, the Right Stuff deals with the personalities and business of getting men into orbit, as a prequel to getting men on the moon. This, remember, is the 1960's. Jump forward to the 2010's. Who is managing a space programme and getting ready to go to the Moon? China!
The question is, do their astronauts have - The Right Stuff?
Barbara Hershey, as in The Right Stuff. Pretty damn Right according to Conrad.
Sam Shepard as Chuck Yeager. Also pretty damn right, according to Conrad.
That other kind of china. A bit dull in comparison, ain't it?
Bear with me on this, I'm being clever here.
China, the word suggests, refers to dainty crockery used only on Sundays or when the most high falutin' visitors come to visit. "The Best China" is a British cliché used as shorthand for a particularly elevated social circumstance.
Or does it? China, after all, is a country, a nation-state with 1.3 billion citizens, the most populous country on earth.
Then, back in the 50's, all those cheap tinplate wind-up toys came to us here in the West courtesy of - China!
Cut to today, when all our cheap digital gewgaws come to us here in the West courtesy of - China!
Fired-clay, tinplate or silicon, which of these reflects the Right Stuff as applied to China?
The Right Stuff
Ironically enough (given my musical tastes) Dave Brock of Hawkwind sang about The Right Stuff Baby The Right Stuff. "The Right Stuff", although it sounds 100% British, is in fact a book by Tom Wolfe about the American Mercury space programme. And, Dave, you wouldn't have gotten within a mile of Mercury thanks to drug-testing, which you would have failed - actually Epic Failed - in the first instance.
Now, the Right Stuff deals with the personalities and business of getting men into orbit, as a prequel to getting men on the moon. This, remember, is the 1960's. Jump forward to the 2010's. Who is managing a space programme and getting ready to go to the Moon? China!
The question is, do their astronauts have - The Right Stuff?
Barbara Hershey, as in The Right Stuff. Pretty damn Right according to Conrad.
Sam Shepard as Chuck Yeager. Also pretty damn right, according to Conrad.
That other kind of china. A bit dull in comparison, ain't it?
Saturday, 27 July 2013
Books! Comics! Cakes! Levenshulme Market!
Books
Another two arrived in the post today and I got two more from the Oxfam bookshop in Manchester, plus I haven't added the three that arrived by post yesterday to my list. It must be over 400 now, which is about 100 more than this time last year and only 100 to go until we approach the totals of pre-Operation Apocalypse.
The results of 2 weeks of ordering books, only 18 of them. I know, I know, a bit lightweight. Next time I'll do better, honestly.
Comics
Just finished reading the very last of "The Boys", which is good - a comic series with a definite denouemont, thus there will be no more of them. I hope so, one of the things I detest about mainstream comics is Endless Reanimation. A character dies, and then comes back in later issues with some fantastically threadbare billicks about how it happened - and then it happens again. And again.
Also, the two central characters in The Boys are a Cockney and a Scot, even if it is set in America. Hurray for the UK!
Cakes
Today I went around to see my friend Jane, whom I have not seen face-to-face for years. She hesitated upon the doorstep - white hair and bushy moustache obviously a big surprise - before recognising myself. Since I'd been trampling around for half an hour the papaya ice-cream had turned to gelid slop, but the Coffee and Chocolate Loaf and Honey and Walnut Loaf offering went down well. After perusing the market we chinwagged at "POD" - "Post Office Delicatessen" - an old Post Office now a café of sorts. I remember it as a Post Office when I lived in Levenshulme; one of the benefits, if you like, of being an old get.
Levenshulme Market
I turned up because Jane (see above) recommended it on Facebook. "Aha!" thought I. "I always liked Jane. Now I have an excuse to see her and conduct market research at the Market. Result!"
Market research consisted of walking around any stall selling baked stuff, and totalling what they charged per loaf, cupcake, pie, bun, cheesecake, Brioche or Danubio. Only after half an hour did Jane point out that nobody I was scrawling data about knew what I was doing. I might have been Health & Safety, Levenshulme Market inspectors, Trading Standards, Tesco - anyone. I managed a subsequent explanation - I've been baking for charity at work for 16 years and never costed a cake until a couple of weeks ago.
Eventually we leave the market and I have some Cheesecake Canneloni and Fatjax chutneys - one of them Peach and Ginger because that way nobody else at 625 will touch it!
Okay, enough blogging. I've got "Invincible 16" and "100 Bullets 11" to read. Plus that zombie - oh you get the picture.
Toodle-ooh!
Another two arrived in the post today and I got two more from the Oxfam bookshop in Manchester, plus I haven't added the three that arrived by post yesterday to my list. It must be over 400 now, which is about 100 more than this time last year and only 100 to go until we approach the totals of pre-Operation Apocalypse.
The results of 2 weeks of ordering books, only 18 of them. I know, I know, a bit lightweight. Next time I'll do better, honestly.
Comics
Just finished reading the very last of "The Boys", which is good - a comic series with a definite denouemont, thus there will be no more of them. I hope so, one of the things I detest about mainstream comics is Endless Reanimation. A character dies, and then comes back in later issues with some fantastically threadbare billicks about how it happened - and then it happens again. And again.
Also, the two central characters in The Boys are a Cockney and a Scot, even if it is set in America. Hurray for the UK!
Cakes
Today I went around to see my friend Jane, whom I have not seen face-to-face for years. She hesitated upon the doorstep - white hair and bushy moustache obviously a big surprise - before recognising myself. Since I'd been trampling around for half an hour the papaya ice-cream had turned to gelid slop, but the Coffee and Chocolate Loaf and Honey and Walnut Loaf offering went down well. After perusing the market we chinwagged at "POD" - "Post Office Delicatessen" - an old Post Office now a café of sorts. I remember it as a Post Office when I lived in Levenshulme; one of the benefits, if you like, of being an old get.
CAAAAKE!
Not the one I took to Jane.
I turned up because Jane (see above) recommended it on Facebook. "Aha!" thought I. "I always liked Jane. Now I have an excuse to see her and conduct market research at the Market. Result!"
Market research consisted of walking around any stall selling baked stuff, and totalling what they charged per loaf, cupcake, pie, bun, cheesecake, Brioche or Danubio. Only after half an hour did Jane point out that nobody I was scrawling data about knew what I was doing. I might have been Health & Safety, Levenshulme Market inspectors, Trading Standards, Tesco - anyone. I managed a subsequent explanation - I've been baking for charity at work for 16 years and never costed a cake until a couple of weeks ago.
Eventually we leave the market and I have some Cheesecake Canneloni and Fatjax chutneys - one of them Peach and Ginger because that way nobody else at 625 will touch it!
Okay, enough blogging. I've got "Invincible 16" and "100 Bullets 11" to read. Plus that zombie - oh you get the picture.
Toodle-ooh!
Friday, 26 July 2013
Comics and Cake. Actually Trade Paper Back and cake.
Comics
I've blathered on about cake and ice-cream and astronomy and music and science fiction here, but I don't think I've covered the subject of comics yet. That is the printed, stapled, four-coloured kind of comic, not the Miranda Hart type. Maybe a blog about her later -
For many years I used to buy 2000AD weekly, venturing into Manchester to Odyssey 7 because I passed that way to work. By the late 90's I went off 2000AD and didn't bother buying comics for an age, until I started buying Trade Paper Backs. These are collected versions of comics that come out monthly or every two weeks. Now I actually work in the city centre I can mosey into Forbidden Planet or Travelling Man and spend Far Too Much on these TPBs - The Boys, Invincible, The Goon, etcetera. I suppose this is the difference between an eager twenty-something with pennies to spend, and a middle-aged cynic with a bigger budget.
Anyway, "The Boys" - I'm about to read their final TPB, with all sorts of twists and turns and surprises. I didn't realise at first how it was satirising certain superhero lines from Marvel and DC, because I was distracted by the way it beat the reader over the head with OTT violence, and sex, and violence. And how many comic heroes are based on Simon Pegg? Come on, admit it, Wee Hughie has to be Simon.
This is just scraping the surface of comics. I feel long, long, loooong blogs on this subject are to be featured in the future.
Cake!
Well, I shall be meeting Jane, and possibly another Jane, tomorrow. Not seen the lady for years, so my white hair and moustache might send her into a fit of giggles. In order to alleviate any such levity, I intend to take along some cake. Specifically Coffee and Chocolate Loaf and some Honey and Walnut Loaf. Perhaps a bit of ice-cream too, as there is some raspberry and some papaya left. Cupboard love ain't respect, but it'll do in the meantime.
Yeugh! Chocolate cake. Can't stand the bloody stuff myself.
I've blathered on about cake and ice-cream and astronomy and music and science fiction here, but I don't think I've covered the subject of comics yet. That is the printed, stapled, four-coloured kind of comic, not the Miranda Hart type. Maybe a blog about her later -
For many years I used to buy 2000AD weekly, venturing into Manchester to Odyssey 7 because I passed that way to work. By the late 90's I went off 2000AD and didn't bother buying comics for an age, until I started buying Trade Paper Backs. These are collected versions of comics that come out monthly or every two weeks. Now I actually work in the city centre I can mosey into Forbidden Planet or Travelling Man and spend Far Too Much on these TPBs - The Boys, Invincible, The Goon, etcetera. I suppose this is the difference between an eager twenty-something with pennies to spend, and a middle-aged cynic with a bigger budget.
Anyway, "The Boys" - I'm about to read their final TPB, with all sorts of twists and turns and surprises. I didn't realise at first how it was satirising certain superhero lines from Marvel and DC, because I was distracted by the way it beat the reader over the head with OTT violence, and sex, and violence. And how many comic heroes are based on Simon Pegg? Come on, admit it, Wee Hughie has to be Simon.
This is just scraping the surface of comics. I feel long, long, loooong blogs on this subject are to be featured in the future.
Cake!
Well, I shall be meeting Jane, and possibly another Jane, tomorrow. Not seen the lady for years, so my white hair and moustache might send her into a fit of giggles. In order to alleviate any such levity, I intend to take along some cake. Specifically Coffee and Chocolate Loaf and some Honey and Walnut Loaf. Perhaps a bit of ice-cream too, as there is some raspberry and some papaya left. Cupboard love ain't respect, but it'll do in the meantime.
Yeugh! Chocolate cake. Can't stand the bloody stuff myself.
Thursday, 25 July 2013
If I said "Empire" -
- would you think "Ah yes, Kasabian's rather weak second album" or "Ah yes, the premier British film magazine"
Hopefully the latter, as that's what I meant. This publication needs to be handled with care; I read it back-to-front because that's how I am, and it also prevents me from "just flicking through", a fatal intention that always, always results in reading it for at least 45 minutes. I can't afford to waste valuable research time on reading Empire tonight, I have to trawl tabloid tat websites to prepare for the pub quiz in less than an hour's time.
I know, I know - a magpie would be better.
Mars. No, NOT The Mars Volta, nor Bruno, just Mars
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23349496
An interesting and timely BBC web article about that manned mission to Mars: how to get there, what to do and how to get back. Note that this iteration of a MMM does not rely on Big Brother funding models. Which has to be a good thing.
We are so gonna get there one day!
Hopefully the latter, as that's what I meant. This publication needs to be handled with care; I read it back-to-front because that's how I am, and it also prevents me from "just flicking through", a fatal intention that always, always results in reading it for at least 45 minutes. I can't afford to waste valuable research time on reading Empire tonight, I have to trawl tabloid tat websites to prepare for the pub quiz in less than an hour's time.
I know, I know - a magpie would be better.
Mars. No, NOT The Mars Volta, nor Bruno, just Mars
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23349496
An interesting and timely BBC web article about that manned mission to Mars: how to get there, what to do and how to get back. Note that this iteration of a MMM does not rely on Big Brother funding models. Which has to be a good thing.
We are so gonna get there one day!
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Conrad, Jerome K Jerome and How The Machines Are Out To Get Us.
If you observe my photo in this blog's background, you will observe that I am advanced in years - 51 - and not entirely sylph-like and sleek. Not sure what I weigh but I am fairly hefty and come in XL Size. Nor do I exercise - an unpleasant occupation that means not being able to drink pots of tea, pints of beer or sit and read books.
My employer, who I am still being coy about, had a day of events since today is 24/7/2013 and the charitable focus is on those who care for others 24/7. One of those events was Anna's Boxercise class, which I had half-agreed to on our night out last week.
So, this hefty, idle and large individual managed 45 minutes of Boxercise class without fainting or dying, which I think is pretty frickin' impressive actually. By the end I was glowing red, knackered and looked as if showered in a sweat fountain, but! still alive and hale.
How I felt afterwards
Three Men In A Boat
Before all you dirty-minded illiterates start a-snickering, this is a splendid novel by JKJ, only partly eclipsed by "Three Men on the Bummel" - stop snickering at the back there!
Anyway, it includes a wonderful account of what I would like to dub "The Insolence of the Inanimate". The three heroes have brought along a tin of pineapple chunks on their boat trip, but have forgotten a tin-opener, and try other improvised means to open it. Some of these are so dangerous they are lucky to remain un-maimed. Eventually they resort to battering the tin with a rock, until they batter it into a shape that frightens them so much, they pitch it into the river.
That shape, dear reader "horribly resembled a grin".
Dear me, a long intro. Anyway, I was reminded of this when I extracted my I-pod's earphones from my shirt pocket, where they had been neatly looped. Inevitably, every single time, they snag on the pens in my pocket. I have to scramble to avoid pens scattering onto the pavement. Then, attempting to unravel the earphones, they turn into a horrid stringy mass of knots that have to be patiently unscrambled.
I ask you, how does this happen? How? HOW!
It's like the power cable for the mobile, all of half a centimetre across, and which I unfailingly and unerringly manage to park my chair leg on. How does that happen?
Clifford Simak wrote a short story about this, about machines coming to life in order to thwart their human creators.
Philip K Dick* also warned of how the machines are going to club together and take over - his most resonating fear being that it wouldn't be a big giant monster machine stomping down Main Street, it would be the toaster that told you how things were going to be from now on -
Tins of pineapple, earphones - join the dots, Vilhemina, we're going to be bowing to our machine overlords any day now ..
.
Note only 5 arms reaching - one obviously severed in the tin-opening process
Of course Dick isn't dead. No, instead he - but that's a story for another blog
My employer, who I am still being coy about, had a day of events since today is 24/7/2013 and the charitable focus is on those who care for others 24/7. One of those events was Anna's Boxercise class, which I had half-agreed to on our night out last week.
So, this hefty, idle and large individual managed 45 minutes of Boxercise class without fainting or dying, which I think is pretty frickin' impressive actually. By the end I was glowing red, knackered and looked as if showered in a sweat fountain, but! still alive and hale.
How I felt afterwards
Three Men In A Boat
Before all you dirty-minded illiterates start a-snickering, this is a splendid novel by JKJ, only partly eclipsed by "Three Men on the Bummel" - stop snickering at the back there!
Anyway, it includes a wonderful account of what I would like to dub "The Insolence of the Inanimate". The three heroes have brought along a tin of pineapple chunks on their boat trip, but have forgotten a tin-opener, and try other improvised means to open it. Some of these are so dangerous they are lucky to remain un-maimed. Eventually they resort to battering the tin with a rock, until they batter it into a shape that frightens them so much, they pitch it into the river.
That shape, dear reader "horribly resembled a grin".
Dear me, a long intro. Anyway, I was reminded of this when I extracted my I-pod's earphones from my shirt pocket, where they had been neatly looped. Inevitably, every single time, they snag on the pens in my pocket. I have to scramble to avoid pens scattering onto the pavement. Then, attempting to unravel the earphones, they turn into a horrid stringy mass of knots that have to be patiently unscrambled.
I ask you, how does this happen? How? HOW!
It's like the power cable for the mobile, all of half a centimetre across, and which I unfailingly and unerringly manage to park my chair leg on. How does that happen?
Clifford Simak wrote a short story about this, about machines coming to life in order to thwart their human creators.
Philip K Dick* also warned of how the machines are going to club together and take over - his most resonating fear being that it wouldn't be a big giant monster machine stomping down Main Street, it would be the toaster that told you how things were going to be from now on -
Tins of pineapple, earphones - join the dots, Vilhemina, we're going to be bowing to our machine overlords any day now ..
.
Note only 5 arms reaching - one obviously severed in the tin-opening process
Of course Dick isn't dead. No, instead he - but that's a story for another blog
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
1 Billion Miles From Home (Home Being A Small Blue Planet)
Avoiding all the wiltingly-unpleasant headlines that have been scouring my eyes today, I have to add this photo:
That arrow indicates Earth, long-known to science fiction fans as Terra. Earth, in a photograph taken from a robot probe now out at the orbit of Saturn - the "One billion miles" of this post's title. I believe one of the Apollo astronauts observed that Earth has no political boundaries when seen from space - in a near-Earth orbit of a few hundred miles, not from a billion.
We may not get to the stars, given our human frailties, but I'm willing to bet that our robotic servants will. If travel broadens the mind, what will the perspective of gazing on the worlds of Alpha Centauri bring?
Jonnie Peacock
A name to conjure with! Despite not being interested in sport, not interested at all, I did like the Beeb's mention of his 100 metre performance in the IPC Athletics (forgive me if I don't get abbreviations correct - not interested in sport, remember?). The prosthetic limbs these sportsmen use look like car-suspension parts to me, but Mr Peacock managed 100 metres in 10.99 seconds, which is <ahem> considerably faster than an old fat get like me could manage, with two legs. With two legs and a bicycle, probably.
I do wish there was a better word than "Disabled" and not some ghastly PC term like "Challenged" for sportspeople like this. They're inspirational*. I shall retire and ponder.
Mock these people and they will kick you to death at 150 mph
Pink Floyd and the Daleks
The ranks of the Floyd are thinning-out. Sid and Rick have both gone. Roger, Dave and Nick are getting on a bit. In fact Roger reminds me of Richard Gere.
Anyway, I only recently realised that the electronic middle of "One of These Days" - one of my favourite Floyd/instrumental tracks ever in the history of the world - is actually a thinly-disguised version of the "Doctor Who" theme as done in the old days by Ron (Gov'ner) Grainger.
Oh - and during one of the tracks on "Atom Heart Mother" you hear a processed voice-over declaring "SILENCE IN THE STUDIO!" with all the charm and warmth of a Dalek.
There. I've worked one of my favourite bands into one of my favourite television shows. Result!
Gerry Anderson saw this and thought "Spectrum! An international PC paramilitary group!"
* Except for the wheelchair basketball players. They can be classed as "homicidal".
That arrow indicates Earth, long-known to science fiction fans as Terra. Earth, in a photograph taken from a robot probe now out at the orbit of Saturn - the "One billion miles" of this post's title. I believe one of the Apollo astronauts observed that Earth has no political boundaries when seen from space - in a near-Earth orbit of a few hundred miles, not from a billion.
We may not get to the stars, given our human frailties, but I'm willing to bet that our robotic servants will. If travel broadens the mind, what will the perspective of gazing on the worlds of Alpha Centauri bring?
Jonnie Peacock
A name to conjure with! Despite not being interested in sport, not interested at all, I did like the Beeb's mention of his 100 metre performance in the IPC Athletics (forgive me if I don't get abbreviations correct - not interested in sport, remember?). The prosthetic limbs these sportsmen use look like car-suspension parts to me, but Mr Peacock managed 100 metres in 10.99 seconds, which is <ahem> considerably faster than an old fat get like me could manage, with two legs. With two legs and a bicycle, probably.
I do wish there was a better word than "Disabled" and not some ghastly PC term like "Challenged" for sportspeople like this. They're inspirational*. I shall retire and ponder.
Mock these people and they will kick you to death at 150 mph
Pink Floyd and the Daleks
The ranks of the Floyd are thinning-out. Sid and Rick have both gone. Roger, Dave and Nick are getting on a bit. In fact Roger reminds me of Richard Gere.
Anyway, I only recently realised that the electronic middle of "One of These Days" - one of my favourite Floyd/instrumental tracks ever in the history of the world - is actually a thinly-disguised version of the "Doctor Who" theme as done in the old days by Ron (Gov'ner) Grainger.
Oh - and during one of the tracks on "Atom Heart Mother" you hear a processed voice-over declaring "SILENCE IN THE STUDIO!" with all the charm and warmth of a Dalek.
There. I've worked one of my favourite bands into one of my favourite television shows. Result!
Gerry Anderson saw this and thought "Spectrum! An international PC paramilitary group!"
* Except for the wheelchair basketball players. They can be classed as "homicidal".
Monday, 22 July 2013
For Some People, Small Beautiful Things Are What Life Is All About ...
One of my favourite lines spoken by that Gallifreyan vagabond, The Doctor, in his Fifth incarnation. Standing up to those swaggering metal bullies* the Cybermen, in fact, if you want to know.
Relevant because I've just been reading my Philip Kerr novel, sitting in the back yard quaffing some iced pear cider, enjoying the shades of dusk arriving. Very balmy and summery and not something I've been able to do for years. When true dark falls the bats arrive as the sound of motor cars fades in the night**, and if you hang around long enough the owls will start to hoot.
Ahhh! Forget vampires, these guys are as cute as puppies!
Orphan bats. Really, even Newt Gingrich would melt at a photo like this.
Another Small Wonderful Moment
Featuring The Doctor. Tah-dah!
Don't run away, I shan't break into a confession that I learned everything I know from Doctor Who. No. No, I was also watching Star Trek at the time. No! Only joking.
Anyway, the scene I like that embodies everything right about The Doctor is from "The Silurians". Our hero is poking about in a shady character's house, convinced that it hides a guilty secret, when he rounds a corner and runs directly into a six-foot***, reptilian biped with green scaly skin.
What does The Doctor do? Run screaming in fear? Pull out a ray-gun and start blasting? Turn the Silurian into an emerald pretzel with Venusian Aikido?
None of the above. Instead he goes to shake it's hand, in a universal gesture implying friendship and lack of malice - except someone else blunders into the situation and spoils it. Oh well it would have been a short series with a resolution that quick.
The old-school, non-sexy Silurian. Snogging one of these definitely not on the menu.
* Yes yes yes, the Cybermen are emotionless great trollies but they are simultaneously whopping great bullies, so there.
** Yes yes yes, I did steal a line from "Supper's Ready" by Genesis so sue me.
*** Conrad, proudly maintaining Imperial measures into the 21st century.
Relevant because I've just been reading my Philip Kerr novel, sitting in the back yard quaffing some iced pear cider, enjoying the shades of dusk arriving. Very balmy and summery and not something I've been able to do for years. When true dark falls the bats arrive as the sound of motor cars fades in the night**, and if you hang around long enough the owls will start to hoot.
Ahhh! Forget vampires, these guys are as cute as puppies!
Orphan bats. Really, even Newt Gingrich would melt at a photo like this.
Another Small Wonderful Moment
Featuring The Doctor. Tah-dah!
Don't run away, I shan't break into a confession that I learned everything I know from Doctor Who. No. No, I was also watching Star Trek at the time. No! Only joking.
Anyway, the scene I like that embodies everything right about The Doctor is from "The Silurians". Our hero is poking about in a shady character's house, convinced that it hides a guilty secret, when he rounds a corner and runs directly into a six-foot***, reptilian biped with green scaly skin.
What does The Doctor do? Run screaming in fear? Pull out a ray-gun and start blasting? Turn the Silurian into an emerald pretzel with Venusian Aikido?
None of the above. Instead he goes to shake it's hand, in a universal gesture implying friendship and lack of malice - except someone else blunders into the situation and spoils it. Oh well it would have been a short series with a resolution that quick.
The old-school, non-sexy Silurian. Snogging one of these definitely not on the menu.
* Yes yes yes, the Cybermen are emotionless great trollies but they are simultaneously whopping great bullies, so there.
** Yes yes yes, I did steal a line from "Supper's Ready" by Genesis so sue me.
*** Conrad, proudly maintaining Imperial measures into the 21st century.
Sunday, 21 July 2013
Diem Domesticus
Ah. Sunday. A lie-in, then a round of domestic duties. No! Don't go! There are wrinkles that make for entertainment, honestly.
Laundry - work clothes for next week need to be washed and then the shirts ironed. It's as dull doing the ironing as it is writing about it, believe me, so I always have a film on either PC or player, except then the bloody job takes twice as long. Unless it's foreign and subtitled in which case - four times as long.
I know, I know, I should have music on because that doesn't distract.
Hoovering - again it's a matter of hideous wonder at just how much crap a Dyson sucks out of your carpet. I know the floor was grubby but you could have built a cat from all the hair present (we already have two so no more needed).
Litter disposal - this includes getting rid of carcasses that our cats have so graciously bestowed upon us. This weekend a fledgling and most of a mouse. Last week a frog - which got away alive - and more mice and a shrew.
Rice - for my rice salad next week, put that on to soak a while ago. Some olives, fresh mint, cheese cubes and yoghurt dressing and we're good to go. Most importantly, with those ingredients nobody else in the household will be tempted to try it.
Blog - time to spare on a Sunday to create what is either deathless prose or drivelling piffle. Possibly a bit of both. As you can see I've modulated the Bauhaus black and white with a nice clementine-tinted font.
Reading - I've had three weeks and still hadn't started one of my library books - "The One From The Other" by Philip Kerr, so I sat down at breakfast with book, Base Egg and a pot of tea, and began to read about post-WW2's hardest-bitten private detective. Really, this chap Kerr seems to have written these books specifically for me. Ta very much!
Burial Duties - I sadly binned my Gear4 I-Pod dock speakerset today. Typically, being large and clumsy, I caught my foot in the power lead and propelled the Gear4 at high speed to the floor from a height of several feet. Digital Humpty-Dumpty. I have had years of use out of it, mind, although when Jenny (our she-cat) chewed the aerial lead off the radio function was useless. I am having to substitute with a Ministry of Sound speakerset which is a pale and hollow compensation.
Ice-Cream - of course I have to blather on about ice-cream in here somewhere, it wouldn't be BOOJUM! without it. Just working out what cost is involved with a custard-based ice-cream; about £3 for about a couple of pints, which is half of what you pay for a Ben & Jerry's. Of course they have overheads that I don't, but they create on an industrial scale so it balances out.
Zombie Novel - enough blogging, better go and do some more of this. Our hero, Dee, is about to be sent to the most terrifying place in the UK - the Isle of Wight - and is putting his career on the line in order to - ah, but that would be telling.
Cheerio!
Laundry - work clothes for next week need to be washed and then the shirts ironed. It's as dull doing the ironing as it is writing about it, believe me, so I always have a film on either PC or player, except then the bloody job takes twice as long. Unless it's foreign and subtitled in which case - four times as long.
I know, I know, I should have music on because that doesn't distract.
Hoovering - again it's a matter of hideous wonder at just how much crap a Dyson sucks out of your carpet. I know the floor was grubby but you could have built a cat from all the hair present (we already have two so no more needed).
Litter disposal - this includes getting rid of carcasses that our cats have so graciously bestowed upon us. This weekend a fledgling and most of a mouse. Last week a frog - which got away alive - and more mice and a shrew.
Rice - for my rice salad next week, put that on to soak a while ago. Some olives, fresh mint, cheese cubes and yoghurt dressing and we're good to go. Most importantly, with those ingredients nobody else in the household will be tempted to try it.
Blog - time to spare on a Sunday to create what is either deathless prose or drivelling piffle. Possibly a bit of both. As you can see I've modulated the Bauhaus black and white with a nice clementine-tinted font.
Reading - I've had three weeks and still hadn't started one of my library books - "The One From The Other" by Philip Kerr, so I sat down at breakfast with book, Base Egg and a pot of tea, and began to read about post-WW2's hardest-bitten private detective. Really, this chap Kerr seems to have written these books specifically for me. Ta very much!
Burial Duties - I sadly binned my Gear4 I-Pod dock speakerset today. Typically, being large and clumsy, I caught my foot in the power lead and propelled the Gear4 at high speed to the floor from a height of several feet. Digital Humpty-Dumpty. I have had years of use out of it, mind, although when Jenny (our she-cat) chewed the aerial lead off the radio function was useless. I am having to substitute with a Ministry of Sound speakerset which is a pale and hollow compensation.
Ice-Cream - of course I have to blather on about ice-cream in here somewhere, it wouldn't be BOOJUM! without it. Just working out what cost is involved with a custard-based ice-cream; about £3 for about a couple of pints, which is half of what you pay for a Ben & Jerry's. Of course they have overheads that I don't, but they create on an industrial scale so it balances out.
Zombie Novel - enough blogging, better go and do some more of this. Our hero, Dee, is about to be sent to the most terrifying place in the UK - the Isle of Wight - and is putting his career on the line in order to - ah, but that would be telling.
Cheerio!
Saturday, 20 July 2013
48 Hours of Fun
Blogless when I blog less
Yes, no blog yesterday! This is because - well, read on.
Being a gentleman of advanced years I do not frequent the bars and clubs of that Modern Babylon, Manchester, and have not done so for many years. However, my employment in the centre of that den of decadence means becoming vicariously familiar with what can be called <ahem> The Scene from my colleagues at work.
Milena proposed and organised an event for the 19th, beginning immediately after work. The 19th being a Friday meant if I went then the weekly shop would have to happen on Thursday; furthermore since attending would regretfully mean drinking alcohol, I'd need to go on the bus. There would thus be no time to go home and change, or write a blog entry. After our chaotic dining experience at Tiger Tiger we hiked across the city centre to a club called "Noho" - me remarking along the way about bouncers. Apparently every club you come across has these folk guarding the entrance, news to me. Then we arrive in the Northern Quarter, which used to be seedy backstreets back when I cruised the city centre. Now - surprise! It's all pubs and clubs.
In daylight, before the crowds and drunks turn up
.
Noho before dark; day-glo cocktails not visible. I sat where this photo was taken from.
I am sad to say I did actually dance at Noho - but only because Milena physically pulled me onto the dancefloor, clasped my hands in hers and kept me stepping forth whilst a bloody long version of "Sex Machine" played. The most dancing I've done in years. Fingers crossed nobody took photos.
Then it was last bus-ride home, and inevitably the House Drunk turned up alongside me, arguing with a bouncer at the venue alongside the queue. "F***ing B******s!" he slurred at the bouncer. "Do you want to see them?' he slurred at me.
"No. Not at all. Not under any circumstances," I replied, whereupon he dubbed me "Professor". Three lads, one in fancy dress, crossed the street in front of us. "F***ing B******s!" slurred House Drunk at them. Then my bus turned up, which seemed to annoy House Drunk too because his comment was "F***in B******s!" The last I saw of him, he was back arguing with the bouncer and if I could lip-read he'd probably be saying "F***in B******s!". I think House Drunk has some unresolved anger-management problems.
Anyway, the last bus drops me off in Royton, an 18 minute walk home, by which time it was 12:30 Saturday morning and thus - No Blog!
Okay, back the usual unfocussed drivel.
Ice Cream
I got a couple of papaya's going cheap at Tesco's with the express intent of making ice-cream out of them, which is what I've done; a custard-based one this time. Quite a laborious process, labour-intensive and requiring a lot of kit I have to say, Wonder how one would factor that into pricing it?
The Hovel Needs Scouring
Conrad's Lair, looking a bit under-organised. I did try to push the concept of entropy as regards tidiness, in that there are far more disorganised orientations for a room than organised, but physics as excuse can only go so far.
Better get going. After room-tidy that zombie novel needs a bit of work.
Ta ta!
Yes, no blog yesterday! This is because - well, read on.
Being a gentleman of advanced years I do not frequent the bars and clubs of that Modern Babylon, Manchester, and have not done so for many years. However, my employment in the centre of that den of decadence means becoming vicariously familiar with what can be called <ahem> The Scene from my colleagues at work.
Milena proposed and organised an event for the 19th, beginning immediately after work. The 19th being a Friday meant if I went then the weekly shop would have to happen on Thursday; furthermore since attending would regretfully mean drinking alcohol, I'd need to go on the bus. There would thus be no time to go home and change, or write a blog entry. After our chaotic dining experience at Tiger Tiger we hiked across the city centre to a club called "Noho" - me remarking along the way about bouncers. Apparently every club you come across has these folk guarding the entrance, news to me. Then we arrive in the Northern Quarter, which used to be seedy backstreets back when I cruised the city centre. Now - surprise! It's all pubs and clubs.
In daylight, before the crowds and drunks turn up
.
Noho before dark; day-glo cocktails not visible. I sat where this photo was taken from.
I am sad to say I did actually dance at Noho - but only because Milena physically pulled me onto the dancefloor, clasped my hands in hers and kept me stepping forth whilst a bloody long version of "Sex Machine" played. The most dancing I've done in years. Fingers crossed nobody took photos.
Then it was last bus-ride home, and inevitably the House Drunk turned up alongside me, arguing with a bouncer at the venue alongside the queue. "F***ing B******s!" he slurred at the bouncer. "Do you want to see them?' he slurred at me.
"No. Not at all. Not under any circumstances," I replied, whereupon he dubbed me "Professor". Three lads, one in fancy dress, crossed the street in front of us. "F***ing B******s!" slurred House Drunk at them. Then my bus turned up, which seemed to annoy House Drunk too because his comment was "F***in B******s!" The last I saw of him, he was back arguing with the bouncer and if I could lip-read he'd probably be saying "F***in B******s!". I think House Drunk has some unresolved anger-management problems.
Anyway, the last bus drops me off in Royton, an 18 minute walk home, by which time it was 12:30 Saturday morning and thus - No Blog!
Okay, back the usual unfocussed drivel.
Ice Cream
I got a couple of papaya's going cheap at Tesco's with the express intent of making ice-cream out of them, which is what I've done; a custard-based one this time. Quite a laborious process, labour-intensive and requiring a lot of kit I have to say, Wonder how one would factor that into pricing it?
The Hovel Needs Scouring
Conrad's Lair, looking a bit under-organised. I did try to push the concept of entropy as regards tidiness, in that there are far more disorganised orientations for a room than organised, but physics as excuse can only go so far.
Better get going. After room-tidy that zombie novel needs a bit of work.
Ta ta!
Thursday, 18 July 2013
The Mars Volta RIP
I can see your furrowed brow - "What the hell is Mars Volta? A region of Mons Olympus on the Red Planet? A unit of electrical current? A bizarre Californian cocktail? Tell us, Conrad, tell us!"
The Mars Volta, thank you, were a rock band who broke up earlier this year. I hesitate to describe them but "Bonkers prog-metal mathcore" is probably the closest I can get. I've been playing three of their CDs non-stop over the past couple of weeks, after having paid very little attention to them over the past three years. I have one as my Car CD; these are CDs I've decided need to be given serious listening to, where I, as a captive audience, cannot get away from them. And I've decided that I do really like TMV - and have only just found out that they went toes-up in 2013.
Oh well. I've had similar experiences before in music and literature. Discover an artist, love their work, look for more - then discover they died twenty years ago and will never play or write again.
A short blog today <hooray! shout other, competitive, bloggers> since I've got the pub quiz at 9:00. Also since I am going out after work tomorrow, I did the weekly shop tonight, after having to pick up parcels from the Sorting Office, so didn't get in until after 7:00. Which means - gasp! - no time to bake a cake for the office tomorrow. Oh the humanity!
Toodle-ooh!
Not this week, ma'am. We may relent next week. If they're good.
The Mars Volta, thank you, were a rock band who broke up earlier this year. I hesitate to describe them but "Bonkers prog-metal mathcore" is probably the closest I can get. I've been playing three of their CDs non-stop over the past couple of weeks, after having paid very little attention to them over the past three years. I have one as my Car CD; these are CDs I've decided need to be given serious listening to, where I, as a captive audience, cannot get away from them. And I've decided that I do really like TMV - and have only just found out that they went toes-up in 2013.
Oh well. I've had similar experiences before in music and literature. Discover an artist, love their work, look for more - then discover they died twenty years ago and will never play or write again.
A short blog today <hooray! shout other, competitive, bloggers> since I've got the pub quiz at 9:00. Also since I am going out after work tomorrow, I did the weekly shop tonight, after having to pick up parcels from the Sorting Office, so didn't get in until after 7:00. Which means - gasp! - no time to bake a cake for the office tomorrow. Oh the humanity!
Toodle-ooh!
Not this week, ma'am. We may relent next week. If they're good.
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Thank you Gene Roddenberry
Neptune's New Moon
"S/2004 N 1" doesn't exactly dance off the tongue. However, that marvel of design the Hubble Space Telescope spotted this traveller in orbit around Neptune. Over two and a half billion miles away.
Now, that's a long spot. Plus, S/2004N1 is only twelve miles across. Or, to put it another way, spotting it is the equivalent of spotting a football five hundred thousand miles away.
You young whippersnappers are probably too young to recall, but back when the HST got launched, it had severe technical troubles that comedians the world over fell over themselves to scorn. Where are the jokes now?
The Gene Roddenbery allusion is a quote of his I've always liked: "Did aliens build the pyramids? No! Human beings did, because they're clever and they work hard." Likewise S/2004N1 didn't leap up and shout hello!, it was tracked down via human ingenuity and ability.
We may not be very space-mobile ourselves, yet our constructs and instrumenalities* do the job for us.
Neptune. Like a one-eyed anti-Smiley.
Atomic Food
What is it about hot spiced food that we Hom Sap like so much? I ask this whilst scoffing "Hot Chilli Peanuts and Black Beans", having had a salad at lunch that featured fiery Peppadew peppers, and looking at a tin of Kschololat that had chilli-chocolate coated almonds in several Christmasses ago. I bought chilli-and-ginger chocolate from the stall at the Oldham Beer Festival, and darling daughter and I both like to slather our sandwiches with Sweet Chilli Sauce, apart from the times when I douse them with Chilli and Tomato Sauce, or perk them up with wasabi.
If you stop to think about it, liking hot spicy food is anti-evolutionary. Our caveman ancestors - no, that won't work here - our hunter-gatherer ancestors would surely have spat things like chilli peppers across the room on first tasting - "Ack! O! My tongue is alight! My mouth has been imbued with molten rocks! I cannot see as my eyes are awash! Also disgusting stuff is cascading from my nose!"
Somewhere along the line the genes must have got mixed up. Instead of the wholly-credible scene above we get - "Oooh. Aaaah. YES! I like this burning sensation upon the most tender parts of my pie-hole <cue pervy snigger>"
Thus we descend to Saturday night, or more accurately the small hours of Sunday morning, when young men rendered silly by drink order the hottest vindaloo takeaways possible and try to eat them (evidence of which is usually found by Monday morning workers walking those very same pavements).
The villain of the piece. Oh so quiet and deceptive. DO NOT BE FOOLED!
* I just had to include this word because it's from "Forbidden Planet" and conjures up images of Robbie the Robot. Who does not resemble "Curiosity" - but that's another story
"S/2004 N 1" doesn't exactly dance off the tongue. However, that marvel of design the Hubble Space Telescope spotted this traveller in orbit around Neptune. Over two and a half billion miles away.
Now, that's a long spot. Plus, S/2004N1 is only twelve miles across. Or, to put it another way, spotting it is the equivalent of spotting a football five hundred thousand miles away.
You young whippersnappers are probably too young to recall, but back when the HST got launched, it had severe technical troubles that comedians the world over fell over themselves to scorn. Where are the jokes now?
The Gene Roddenbery allusion is a quote of his I've always liked: "Did aliens build the pyramids? No! Human beings did, because they're clever and they work hard." Likewise S/2004N1 didn't leap up and shout hello!, it was tracked down via human ingenuity and ability.
We may not be very space-mobile ourselves, yet our constructs and instrumenalities* do the job for us.
Neptune. Like a one-eyed anti-Smiley.
Atomic Food
What is it about hot spiced food that we Hom Sap like so much? I ask this whilst scoffing "Hot Chilli Peanuts and Black Beans", having had a salad at lunch that featured fiery Peppadew peppers, and looking at a tin of Kschololat that had chilli-chocolate coated almonds in several Christmasses ago. I bought chilli-and-ginger chocolate from the stall at the Oldham Beer Festival, and darling daughter and I both like to slather our sandwiches with Sweet Chilli Sauce, apart from the times when I douse them with Chilli and Tomato Sauce, or perk them up with wasabi.
If you stop to think about it, liking hot spicy food is anti-evolutionary. Our caveman ancestors - no, that won't work here - our hunter-gatherer ancestors would surely have spat things like chilli peppers across the room on first tasting - "Ack! O! My tongue is alight! My mouth has been imbued with molten rocks! I cannot see as my eyes are awash! Also disgusting stuff is cascading from my nose!"
Somewhere along the line the genes must have got mixed up. Instead of the wholly-credible scene above we get - "Oooh. Aaaah. YES! I like this burning sensation upon the most tender parts of my pie-hole <cue pervy snigger>"
Thus we descend to Saturday night, or more accurately the small hours of Sunday morning, when young men rendered silly by drink order the hottest vindaloo takeaways possible and try to eat them (evidence of which is usually found by Monday morning workers walking those very same pavements).
The villain of the piece. Oh so quiet and deceptive. DO NOT BE FOOLED!
* I just had to include this word because it's from "Forbidden Planet" and conjures up images of Robbie the Robot. Who does not resemble "Curiosity" - but that's another story
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
From Sputnik to Spacewalk
We ground-bound evolved hominids can sometimes get a bit blasé about the world we create and invent. For instance, there are news headlines about today's spacewalk at the ISS being cut short; the Italian astronaut experienced leakage of water in his suit to the amount of about a pint* and had to return inside with the help of his colleague. Fluid on the loose inside a spacesuit is a serious issue, since it doesn't behave the way it would down on Mama Earth - see Chris Hadfield's videos on Youtube for how freakily water behaves in microgravity.
Why is this in my blog?
Well, pilgrim, before 1957 there was no Space Age. The first orbital satellite went up only four years before I was born (launched by them pesky Russians, too). Sputnik whizzed around the world bleeping to all corners. It looked like a shuttlecock posing for Playboy and was two feet** across.
Sputnik. Russian for "Traveller". Oh those jokey Russians. It did 70 million km. Of course it travelled!
The ISS, on the other hand, weighs in at 450 tonnes and is 100 times longer than Sputnik. At a price tag of £150 billion it costs more than Sputnik, too. Yes! I know it's a lot of money, but this is an international scientific endeavour that is not researching better ways to blow up your fellow man. It is, for want of a better paradigm, a very Arthur C. Clarke project.
So, next time you read or hear of some hideous unpleasantness involving Hom. Sap***., cock an eye at the skies and recall that we've put an object massing three Jumbo Jets up there, in order to better ourselves. We are (nearly) all of us in the gutter, but some of us are indeed looking at the stars.
The ISS. And this picture exists because it was taken from the Space Shuttle. Double awesome.
* and **Tee hee. British Imperial measurements in the 21st Century. What a techno-saboteur I am.
*** Abbreviation for Homo Sapiens. That's you and me, buddy.
Why is this in my blog?
Well, pilgrim, before 1957 there was no Space Age. The first orbital satellite went up only four years before I was born (launched by them pesky Russians, too). Sputnik whizzed around the world bleeping to all corners. It looked like a shuttlecock posing for Playboy and was two feet** across.
Sputnik. Russian for "Traveller". Oh those jokey Russians. It did 70 million km. Of course it travelled!
The ISS, on the other hand, weighs in at 450 tonnes and is 100 times longer than Sputnik. At a price tag of £150 billion it costs more than Sputnik, too. Yes! I know it's a lot of money, but this is an international scientific endeavour that is not researching better ways to blow up your fellow man. It is, for want of a better paradigm, a very Arthur C. Clarke project.
So, next time you read or hear of some hideous unpleasantness involving Hom. Sap***., cock an eye at the skies and recall that we've put an object massing three Jumbo Jets up there, in order to better ourselves. We are (nearly) all of us in the gutter, but some of us are indeed looking at the stars.
The ISS. And this picture exists because it was taken from the Space Shuttle. Double awesome.
* and **Tee hee. British Imperial measurements in the 21st Century. What a techno-saboteur I am.
*** Abbreviation for Homo Sapiens. That's you and me, buddy.
Monday, 15 July 2013
Streaming, and Screaming, and Ice-Creaming
The Streaming Bit
So. That wonky-eyed* chap from Radiohead - Thom, that's him, young Thom Yorke - has pulled his tracks from Scrotify. I don't blame him. Bloody chiselling weasels, restricting free play to 0.0005 seconds per month and preventing more than 0.9999 plays of a song whilst pimping 18 billion aural adverts. Disgraceful!
I am, however, deliriously happy that Grooveshark didn't get a mention in the BBC article - hang on I'm a blogger there ought to be a link here -
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-23313445
- ah there we go! Where was I? Oh yes, Saint Swithin's Day is supposed to - hang on, whoops -
-ah, yes, Conrad is getting on a bit and loses the thread sometimes. No Grooveshark, so it can be my little secret. Mine, mine, mine. ALL MINE! and someday, Valentina, I will tell you about 96.2 The Revolution. Meanwhile all Grooveshark bases belong to me.
The Screaming Bit
Nominally, there ought to be 40 staff in my team at work, although with sick leave and holiday and people seconding/leaving/idling-off-in-the-kitchen this is more like 33 staff. Today, what do we get? Triple the normal number of phone calls.
I raise this as an issue because Conrad, being the impeccable column of sheer cool** that he is, remains refreshingly stress-free and jovial whilst all around can barely restrain their inner turmoil - hence the Screaming.
'What is this word "stress" that you speak of?' I tried. Looks either blank or brutal returned, Conrad did not try that gambit again.
We shall see how many of the 33 turn up for work tomorrow. Really, I should think of a way to boost my fellow-worker's morale. What can ...
Turbo-tiddly winks! Yessss! How can that fail! already I see <Cont. Page 96>
The Ice-creaming Bit
Ah, dearie me, I forgot to add rum to my ginger ice-cream before the freezing process. The end result tastes fine, it just needs to be ice-picked out of the ground an hour before consumption. Thankfully I have just purchased a quarter-bottle of vodka for the purposes of rigelation (?) and concrete ice-cream ought not to be a problem again.
The Ice-Dreaming Brit
Excuse dreadful pun! This comes of the Ice-Penetrator astronomical article referred to yesterday. Back in the day, science fiction fondly imagined more rarefied applications of Jovian exploration, in that the atmosphere of the planet or it's satellites was examined - see James Blish, Harry Harrison or Isaac Asimov - rather than the subterranean environment of the Jovian satellites themselves. It's entirely possible that the ice-penetrator technology (and they have to come up with a catchy name or acronym!) is going to get there before Conrad croaks, in which case I need to know - Are We Alone***?
* You can't deny it. It's there in the CD listings - "Yorke, Thom: Rhythm guitar, lead guitar, vocals, wonky eye, glockenspiel"
** Cooler than liquid nitrogen. Baby.
*** This leads in to "The Kraken Wakes". To be expanded upon in later blogs .....
So. That wonky-eyed* chap from Radiohead - Thom, that's him, young Thom Yorke - has pulled his tracks from Scrotify. I don't blame him. Bloody chiselling weasels, restricting free play to 0.0005 seconds per month and preventing more than 0.9999 plays of a song whilst pimping 18 billion aural adverts. Disgraceful!
I am, however, deliriously happy that Grooveshark didn't get a mention in the BBC article - hang on I'm a blogger there ought to be a link here -
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-23313445
- ah there we go! Where was I? Oh yes, Saint Swithin's Day is supposed to - hang on, whoops -
-ah, yes, Conrad is getting on a bit and loses the thread sometimes. No Grooveshark, so it can be my little secret. Mine, mine, mine. ALL MINE! and someday, Valentina, I will tell you about 96.2 The Revolution. Meanwhile all Grooveshark bases belong to me.
The Screaming Bit
Nominally, there ought to be 40 staff in my team at work, although with sick leave and holiday and people seconding/leaving/idling-off-in-the-kitchen this is more like 33 staff. Today, what do we get? Triple the normal number of phone calls.
I raise this as an issue because Conrad, being the impeccable column of sheer cool** that he is, remains refreshingly stress-free and jovial whilst all around can barely restrain their inner turmoil - hence the Screaming.
'What is this word "stress" that you speak of?' I tried. Looks either blank or brutal returned, Conrad did not try that gambit again.
We shall see how many of the 33 turn up for work tomorrow. Really, I should think of a way to boost my fellow-worker's morale. What can ...
Turbo-tiddly winks! Yessss! How can that fail! already I see <Cont. Page 96>
The Ice-creaming Bit
Ah, dearie me, I forgot to add rum to my ginger ice-cream before the freezing process. The end result tastes fine, it just needs to be ice-picked out of the ground an hour before consumption. Thankfully I have just purchased a quarter-bottle of vodka for the purposes of rigelation (?) and concrete ice-cream ought not to be a problem again.
The Ice-Dreaming Brit
Excuse dreadful pun! This comes of the Ice-Penetrator astronomical article referred to yesterday. Back in the day, science fiction fondly imagined more rarefied applications of Jovian exploration, in that the atmosphere of the planet or it's satellites was examined - see James Blish, Harry Harrison or Isaac Asimov - rather than the subterranean environment of the Jovian satellites themselves. It's entirely possible that the ice-penetrator technology (and they have to come up with a catchy name or acronym!) is going to get there before Conrad croaks, in which case I need to know - Are We Alone***?
* You can't deny it. It's there in the CD listings - "Yorke, Thom: Rhythm guitar, lead guitar, vocals, wonky eye, glockenspiel"
** Cooler than liquid nitrogen. Baby.
*** This leads in to "The Kraken Wakes". To be expanded upon in later blogs .....
Sunday, 14 July 2013
Kursk
An entry with two meanings - 1) The giant battle of July 1943 and 2) The K141 Submarine Kursk - only because 1) prompted recall of 2) Whilst 3) might be a non-sequiteur, 4) is slightly more relevant in terms of velocity and penetration, and ice.
1)
As a wargamer of long standing, I am more familiar with the battle of Kursk than 99% of my fellow countrymen. During the Cold War it remained an obscure subject here in the West, except for people like me who gamed Eastern Front stuff in hex-and-counter games or on the tabletop with Historical Miniature Replicas (no they are NOT "Toy Soldiers"!). This is the 70th anniversary of the battle, and the BBC even reported on it last week, so it has come out of the shadows somewhat.
Now, I wonder, do (or did) the Russians ever get to read about what the Allies did before the Great Patriotic War started and whilst it lasted? Obviously the Allied commitment in North Africa, Sicily, Italy and then North West Europe was on a smaller scale than that of Russia, but we did our bit. Then, too, we had commitments in the Far East.
2)
I won't go into details here but thought at the time, what a terrible way to die. I don't doubt submariners across the globe were thinking "There but for the grace of God ..." and also thinking what a terrible way to die. Next month marks the 13th anniversary of the K141 going down.
Good lord, what a depressing post! Quick, Conrad, think of something cheerful!
3)
Aha! England beat Australia in the Ashes!
I'm not sure about cricket. Don't watch it, only barely understand the rules and am certain nobody outside the Commonwealth gives a toss about it, but - damn it, it is such a characteristically British sport. It's not whether you won or lost but how you played the game, although beating the Ozzies really is the cherry on the cake. I have been stunned at the erudition and intellect shown by cricketers when interviewed on Radio 4 (my diversion during drive-to-work) and this was explained to me by Phil, the sporty component of our pub-quiz team: apparently a lot of cricketers arrive as professionals from university cricket programmes, so they are degree-level sportsmen. Football and rugby - ah, now there's a different story ...
4)
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23281423
If the Battle of Kursk was dominated by tanks and armour and penetration of same, say hello to my little friend the 20Kg penetrator, which turned 10 tonnes of ice into snowflakes on impact, and yet could have had a payload of eggs because nothing inside the penetrator was broken, or even jarred a bit. They need a name more catchy that "penetrator", too, because it sounds like an extra in a porn film.
20 kilos of British Blammo*! getting ready to go Father Christmas on a ten-tonne block of ice.
* You never know, they might call it that.
Chin-chin old chap!
1)
As a wargamer of long standing, I am more familiar with the battle of Kursk than 99% of my fellow countrymen. During the Cold War it remained an obscure subject here in the West, except for people like me who gamed Eastern Front stuff in hex-and-counter games or on the tabletop with Historical Miniature Replicas (no they are NOT "Toy Soldiers"!). This is the 70th anniversary of the battle, and the BBC even reported on it last week, so it has come out of the shadows somewhat.
Now, I wonder, do (or did) the Russians ever get to read about what the Allies did before the Great Patriotic War started and whilst it lasted? Obviously the Allied commitment in North Africa, Sicily, Italy and then North West Europe was on a smaller scale than that of Russia, but we did our bit. Then, too, we had commitments in the Far East.
2)
I won't go into details here but thought at the time, what a terrible way to die. I don't doubt submariners across the globe were thinking "There but for the grace of God ..." and also thinking what a terrible way to die. Next month marks the 13th anniversary of the K141 going down.
Good lord, what a depressing post! Quick, Conrad, think of something cheerful!
3)
Aha! England beat Australia in the Ashes!
I'm not sure about cricket. Don't watch it, only barely understand the rules and am certain nobody outside the Commonwealth gives a toss about it, but - damn it, it is such a characteristically British sport. It's not whether you won or lost but how you played the game, although beating the Ozzies really is the cherry on the cake. I have been stunned at the erudition and intellect shown by cricketers when interviewed on Radio 4 (my diversion during drive-to-work) and this was explained to me by Phil, the sporty component of our pub-quiz team: apparently a lot of cricketers arrive as professionals from university cricket programmes, so they are degree-level sportsmen. Football and rugby - ah, now there's a different story ...
4)
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23281423
If the Battle of Kursk was dominated by tanks and armour and penetration of same, say hello to my little friend the 20Kg penetrator, which turned 10 tonnes of ice into snowflakes on impact, and yet could have had a payload of eggs because nothing inside the penetrator was broken, or even jarred a bit. They need a name more catchy that "penetrator", too, because it sounds like an extra in a porn film.
20 kilos of British Blammo*! getting ready to go Father Christmas on a ten-tonne block of ice.
* You never know, they might call it that.
Chin-chin old chap!
Saturday, 13 July 2013
BOOJUM!: living down to it's reputation
Ahoy Mateys!
After yesterday's uncommonly serious nonsense, we are back to a tour-de-farce of umpteen subjects. Do keep up!
The Storm Gate/Grozovye Vorota
This is a Russian mini-series set in the Caucasus in 2000, focussing on a company of Russian paratroopers under attack from vast numbers of Chechen rebels. I am watching a version with subtitles that beggar belief - about one sentence in ten is actually comprehensible, whilst the others are composed of achingly literal translations that make no sense, peppered liberally with Russian words or phrases. Maybe, one day, I can find a version that Makes Sense.
The British Heatwave
IT'S NOT A BLOODY HEATWAVE IT'S WHAT WE CALL "SUMMER" AND IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS YOU LIGHTWEIGHTS! There. I feel better now. Also my purchase of an ice-cream maker proves to be providential in these temperatures. Latest ice-cream version is mint-chocolate, thank you for asking.
Trees
When we moved into this house 16 years ago there was a sapling in the back yard. This has now grown as tall as our house and created a vast bank of shadow across the back yard. We have been tackling the branchy barstard over the past four days and have reduced it's size most impressively, to the point that dappled sunshine plays o'er our baking flags. I have to say, the amount of work required to reduce a tree by any significant amount plays tribute to Nature's design capabilities.
Capitalist Conrad's Cake-baking Calculations
I suspect that only accountants would find this bit riveting, but here goes. I bake on a weekly basis and have done for over a decade. Friends at work would oooh and ahhh at the cakes I made and say "Rob -" er no sorry that should be "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
Advance the clock to 2010 when I am unemployed and signing-on at the Job Centre. I give them a potted account of my life story and what do the various DSS staff say? "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
I'm not sure I'd enjoy the transition from sideline to What Pays The Mortgage. It has been done - Pete Berry of Bacchus Miniatures used to be a civil servant who produced miniature wargaming figures in his spare time, and who then went solo and is solvent and happy.
Anyway, I was ordered/it was suggested - that I calculate how much it costs to make a cake, which I have been doing over this afternoon. It isn't as straightforward as you might think, but it is interesting. My Banana and Walnut Loaf comes in at £2.75, whereas the Hummingbird Bakery's Four Layer Carrot Cake was only £6.34. This calculation echoes a passing comment from colleagues at work, who laughingly said "It must cost you a fortune!".
Then only last week Jane, an old friend (in the sense that I have known her for years - okay Jane? if you are reading this, and not in the unflattering sense of - ah, whatever) had some advice for me. What was it? "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
Division, Regiment, Brigade and Battalion
I think I'll allow MG units to be allocated down to Battalions, and light mortar/minenwerfers as well, but the medium and heavy mortars/minenwerfers are only able to be split up and allocated to Brigades or Regiments. This means a bit of fudging at battalion level for MGs but no need to massage the numbers for the heavier weapons.
The Book Barn
After the Great Cull of 2010 I despaired of ever buying books again. However, my total now stands at 392 Military History books, with a few more due next week. This, I hasten to add, is not really very impressive. Several years ago I was boasting in front of Andy at a wargaming convention about how many hundreds of books I had. He effortlessly trumped me with his casual mention of three thousand books.
Well, I've got to go create some counters for that hex-and-counters boardgame.
Toodle-Ooh!
After yesterday's uncommonly serious nonsense, we are back to a tour-de-farce of umpteen subjects. Do keep up!
The Storm Gate/Grozovye Vorota
This is a Russian mini-series set in the Caucasus in 2000, focussing on a company of Russian paratroopers under attack from vast numbers of Chechen rebels. I am watching a version with subtitles that beggar belief - about one sentence in ten is actually comprehensible, whilst the others are composed of achingly literal translations that make no sense, peppered liberally with Russian words or phrases. Maybe, one day, I can find a version that Makes Sense.
The British Heatwave
IT'S NOT A BLOODY HEATWAVE IT'S WHAT WE CALL "SUMMER" AND IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS YOU LIGHTWEIGHTS! There. I feel better now. Also my purchase of an ice-cream maker proves to be providential in these temperatures. Latest ice-cream version is mint-chocolate, thank you for asking.
Trees
When we moved into this house 16 years ago there was a sapling in the back yard. This has now grown as tall as our house and created a vast bank of shadow across the back yard. We have been tackling the branchy barstard over the past four days and have reduced it's size most impressively, to the point that dappled sunshine plays o'er our baking flags. I have to say, the amount of work required to reduce a tree by any significant amount plays tribute to Nature's design capabilities.
Capitalist Conrad's Cake-baking Calculations
I suspect that only accountants would find this bit riveting, but here goes. I bake on a weekly basis and have done for over a decade. Friends at work would oooh and ahhh at the cakes I made and say "Rob -" er no sorry that should be "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
Advance the clock to 2010 when I am unemployed and signing-on at the Job Centre. I give them a potted account of my life story and what do the various DSS staff say? "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
I'm not sure I'd enjoy the transition from sideline to What Pays The Mortgage. It has been done - Pete Berry of Bacchus Miniatures used to be a civil servant who produced miniature wargaming figures in his spare time, and who then went solo and is solvent and happy.
Anyway, I was ordered/it was suggested - that I calculate how much it costs to make a cake, which I have been doing over this afternoon. It isn't as straightforward as you might think, but it is interesting. My Banana and Walnut Loaf comes in at £2.75, whereas the Hummingbird Bakery's Four Layer Carrot Cake was only £6.34. This calculation echoes a passing comment from colleagues at work, who laughingly said "It must cost you a fortune!".
Then only last week Jane, an old friend (in the sense that I have known her for years - okay Jane? if you are reading this, and not in the unflattering sense of - ah, whatever) had some advice for me. What was it? "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
Division, Regiment, Brigade and Battalion
I think I'll allow MG units to be allocated down to Battalions, and light mortar/minenwerfers as well, but the medium and heavy mortars/minenwerfers are only able to be split up and allocated to Brigades or Regiments. This means a bit of fudging at battalion level for MGs but no need to massage the numbers for the heavier weapons.
The Book Barn
After the Great Cull of 2010 I despaired of ever buying books again. However, my total now stands at 392 Military History books, with a few more due next week. This, I hasten to add, is not really very impressive. Several years ago I was boasting in front of Andy at a wargaming convention about how many hundreds of books I had. He effortlessly trumped me with his casual mention of three thousand books.
Well, I've got to go create some counters for that hex-and-counters boardgame.
Toodle-Ooh!
Friday, 12 July 2013
Holy Mother Russia!
Just one of those things that pops into your head on the drive home from work.
Pobieda!
I am aware that Russians, in the past, referred to their (mother)land as the Title line suggests - Holy Mother Russia. This stopped once the Godless Bolsheviks took over - unless they needed a bit of sympathy from the masses - and you end up with WW2 slogans like (IIRC) "Za Rodina!" - which means, if my addled and aged brain recalls correctly, "For The Motherland!". No "Holy" there.
Now, now that the Godless Bolsheviks are gone the way of the Dodo, do Russians invoke the "Holy" part of Mother Russia? Or is the 21st Century Russian a more secular individual who only goes to church at Easter and who thinks The Motherland is a bit un-PC and it ought to be The Land?
I ask because this country - that is, the UK, for any out there actually reading this - used to be called "Great Britain" rather than just simply "Britain". Obviously we must be Great, or people wouldn't be trying to get here so hard from all kinds of places* across the globe, but it isn't really a formal title any more.
Marcus Fox, the 1922 Committee, Presja (ciśnienie) krwi* and a debt of honour
Here I have to bare a truth that may cause you, dear reader, to condemn me to perdition, kick your monitor in and assault random strangers in the street: I am not a devotee of right-wing politics.
Why is this relevant?
Well because. The above named Mr Fox used to head a very, very influential back-bench Conservative committee in Westminster known as - bingo! - the 1922 Committee. They were stolid staunch right-wingers who exerted a considerable degree of behind-the-scenes influence. They hated Europe, they hated anyone not a WASP and they hated anyone not actually WASP-ish trying to settle here in Britain. Excuse me, Great Britain.
It therefore tickles my mischief-bone about how they would view and cope with the number of Poles who currently work here in the UK. "They aren't British! But but but - they're White! They're <gasp> Catholic! But but but they're Christian! They aren't scrounging dole money! But but but - and here the satire breaks down.
Today is, if you care to call it such, The Second Polish Invasion.
The First came during a little conflab known as World War Two. Being strictly serious**, please be aware that the exiled Poles who managed to escape from a Poland occupied by both the Nazis and the Bolsheviks made their way westwards and ended up joining the French armed forces, until France was over-run by Germany (hey these Nazis get around) upon which they moved home to the U - ah, whatever - Great Britain. The highest-scoring RAF squadrons during the Battle of (Great) Britain were - yes, Polish. The highest scoring pilot in the BoB was actually Czech, but what squadron did he fly with? Yes a Polish one.
Who manned the lines at Tobruk in Libya during the nine month siege***? Yes Polish soldiers. Who stormed the German lines at Monte Cassino? Yes the Poles.
I could go on, but <chorus of readers plead NO NO NO!> yes you get the picture. The Poles helped the U - Gr - Britain during a time of trouble. The Poles in my workplace are clever and conscientious and it tickles my mischief-bone to greet them with "Djen Dobrie!" of a morning.
*I Googled this translation and it means "Blood Pressure"
** A rare occurrence on this Blog for which I apologise.
*** I could bore for England on this subject and would do but I have to eat and sleep
A Pole who died fighting in Africa against the Italians and Germans, surrounded by mostly Christians but also a Jew. Truly, war mocks stereotypes.
Pobieda!
I am aware that Russians, in the past, referred to their (mother)land as the Title line suggests - Holy Mother Russia. This stopped once the Godless Bolsheviks took over - unless they needed a bit of sympathy from the masses - and you end up with WW2 slogans like (IIRC) "Za Rodina!" - which means, if my addled and aged brain recalls correctly, "For The Motherland!". No "Holy" there.
Now, now that the Godless Bolsheviks are gone the way of the Dodo, do Russians invoke the "Holy" part of Mother Russia? Or is the 21st Century Russian a more secular individual who only goes to church at Easter and who thinks The Motherland is a bit un-PC and it ought to be The Land?
I ask because this country - that is, the UK, for any out there actually reading this - used to be called "Great Britain" rather than just simply "Britain". Obviously we must be Great, or people wouldn't be trying to get here so hard from all kinds of places* across the globe, but it isn't really a formal title any more.
Marcus Fox, the 1922 Committee, Presja (ciśnienie) krwi* and a debt of honour
Here I have to bare a truth that may cause you, dear reader, to condemn me to perdition, kick your monitor in and assault random strangers in the street: I am not a devotee of right-wing politics.
Why is this relevant?
Well because. The above named Mr Fox used to head a very, very influential back-bench Conservative committee in Westminster known as - bingo! - the 1922 Committee. They were stolid staunch right-wingers who exerted a considerable degree of behind-the-scenes influence. They hated Europe, they hated anyone not a WASP and they hated anyone not actually WASP-ish trying to settle here in Britain. Excuse me, Great Britain.
It therefore tickles my mischief-bone about how they would view and cope with the number of Poles who currently work here in the UK. "They aren't British! But but but - they're White! They're <gasp> Catholic! But but but they're Christian! They aren't scrounging dole money! But but but - and here the satire breaks down.
Today is, if you care to call it such, The Second Polish Invasion.
The First came during a little conflab known as World War Two. Being strictly serious**, please be aware that the exiled Poles who managed to escape from a Poland occupied by both the Nazis and the Bolsheviks made their way westwards and ended up joining the French armed forces, until France was over-run by Germany (hey these Nazis get around) upon which they moved home to the U - ah, whatever - Great Britain. The highest-scoring RAF squadrons during the Battle of (Great) Britain were - yes, Polish. The highest scoring pilot in the BoB was actually Czech, but what squadron did he fly with? Yes a Polish one.
Who manned the lines at Tobruk in Libya during the nine month siege***? Yes Polish soldiers. Who stormed the German lines at Monte Cassino? Yes the Poles.
I could go on, but <chorus of readers plead NO NO NO!> yes you get the picture. The Poles helped the U - Gr - Britain during a time of trouble. The Poles in my workplace are clever and conscientious and it tickles my mischief-bone to greet them with "Djen Dobrie!" of a morning.
*I Googled this translation and it means "Blood Pressure"
** A rare occurrence on this Blog for which I apologise.
*** I could bore for England on this subject and would do but I have to eat and sleep
A Pole who died fighting in Africa against the Italians and Germans, surrounded by mostly Christians but also a Jew. Truly, war mocks stereotypes.
Thursday, 11 July 2013
VICTORY!!
A Celebration
The forces of righteousness prevailed at the Halfway House pub quiz tonight, and team Marsden Morons WON! without an assist from Harry the Quizmaster, and - but of course! - no Googling on mobile phones in the toilets. I was rather apprehensive; one question asked "What is the maximum points obtainable from a frame of billiards?" and another asked "How long is the delay before the tape self-destructs at the beginning of "Mission Impossible"?" I had put down "10" for the first and thought I'd also put down "10" for the second. Which would have been bad. The second question is in a section called "Wipeout". Get all ten questions right and you get an extra five points. Get one question wrong and you lose all the points for that section. The self-destruct answer was "5" but I'd not written it down, so Phew! and let us now gloat at our £30 beer token.
Translation for any viewers in a foreign clime: "pub" = public house, except it's not a house and public aged under 18 aren't welcome.
"pub quiz" = an invention of the brewery to get people into their pubs mid-week
"Googling" - what cheating rascals get up to if unwatched.
"mobile phones" = hideous electronic gadgets surely sired by Satan
"Toilets" = sanitary amenities frequently used by cheating rascals
"apprehensive" = in this context "Will my quiz partners forgive me for making a complete b0ll0cks of our answers? Er, probably not ..."
"Billiards" = one of those peculiar games that involve protracted ballistics on a flat green baize, flavoured in the past by clouds of tobacco smoke.
"Mission Impossible" = Lalo Schifrin's finest musical moment.
Song of the siren
I live on a busy main road running between Rochdale - home of the Co-Operative movement doncha know - and Oldham - home of - home of - home - give me a minute - home of the Seton Tubigrip Bandage (apologies to readers in rural Russia or Brazilian favela - imagine the far-flung suburbs of one of your major cities). This main road runs directly to Oldham Hospital and is used by ambulances because it's the quickest way to get from A to B. Thanks to our summer weather, all one week of it, the windows have to stay open at night and this means that ambulance sirens get noticed, especially in the small hours. Bloody hell there's a lot of them!
The forces of righteousness prevailed at the Halfway House pub quiz tonight, and team Marsden Morons WON! without an assist from Harry the Quizmaster, and - but of course! - no Googling on mobile phones in the toilets. I was rather apprehensive; one question asked "What is the maximum points obtainable from a frame of billiards?" and another asked "How long is the delay before the tape self-destructs at the beginning of "Mission Impossible"?" I had put down "10" for the first and thought I'd also put down "10" for the second. Which would have been bad. The second question is in a section called "Wipeout". Get all ten questions right and you get an extra five points. Get one question wrong and you lose all the points for that section. The self-destruct answer was "5" but I'd not written it down, so Phew! and let us now gloat at our £30 beer token.
Translation for any viewers in a foreign clime: "pub" = public house, except it's not a house and public aged under 18 aren't welcome.
"pub quiz" = an invention of the brewery to get people into their pubs mid-week
"Googling" - what cheating rascals get up to if unwatched.
"mobile phones" = hideous electronic gadgets surely sired by Satan
"Toilets" = sanitary amenities frequently used by cheating rascals
"apprehensive" = in this context "Will my quiz partners forgive me for making a complete b0ll0cks of our answers? Er, probably not ..."
"Billiards" = one of those peculiar games that involve protracted ballistics on a flat green baize, flavoured in the past by clouds of tobacco smoke.
"Mission Impossible" = Lalo Schifrin's finest musical moment.
Song of the siren
I live on a busy main road running between Rochdale - home of the Co-Operative movement doncha know - and Oldham - home of - home of - home - give me a minute - home of the Seton Tubigrip Bandage (apologies to readers in rural Russia or Brazilian favela - imagine the far-flung suburbs of one of your major cities). This main road runs directly to Oldham Hospital and is used by ambulances because it's the quickest way to get from A to B. Thanks to our summer weather, all one week of it, the windows have to stay open at night and this means that ambulance sirens get noticed, especially in the small hours. Bloody hell there's a lot of them!
Wednesday, 10 July 2013
Opus 40 Stoned
To borrow a line from Mercury Rev*. Just been listening to "Deserters Songs" in the kitchen whilst preparing a Banoffee Pie.
The Gestation of a Banoffee Pie
Yesterday, in full view of darling daughter, I opened the kitchen drawer that contains fruit. Laying there were eight leopard-print bananas.
"Those bananas need using up," quoth I. Daughter's face transforms into one of delight. Oh birdsweat, realises Conrad, I have stepped into a confectionary ambush.
"Shall I make a Banoffee Pi-'
'YES! Yes yes yes!'
So here we are. I've made the biscuit base, probably the trickiest bit. The toffee has been cooked and poured into the base. Now we wait for thirty minutes before doing the banana and whipped cream.
Deep Thoughts of a Dark Nature
Once I park up in the morning it's a 15 minute walk to the office, which I utilise as Thinking Time. Occasionally the thoughts are about work - much to my surprise I seem to be a real Company Man - but more frequently they concern the gigantic hex-and-counter wargame I'm designing, or that zombie novel I always bang on about.
Current design dilemma - how to treat infantry battalions who have had divisional machine-gun units dispersed to them. This reflects real life, where a Major-general might instruct MG companies to be attached to individual battalions instead of being brigaded together in one giant unit. My resolution, derived whilst walking into Hanover Street, is that the individual battalions ought to get the ability to project their MG fire along a single line of hexes. On the other hand, if they all stick together as the Divisional MG unit, then they get a "fan" of hexes, and they can also carry out barrage fire -
Come back, stop falling asleep! This is fascinating stuff, really -
Murder! Mystery! Mjolnir!
Hastily adding another article, I have recently been reading detective fiction recommended by other members of the Great War Forum**. Philip Kerr writes about detective/private eye Bernie Gunther from late Weimar Republic to pre-Castro Cuba in what someone must have decided was to be designed purely for the entertainment of Conrad. Jolly decent stuff. Then we have "Bryant and May", by Christopher Fowler, two antiquated detectives solving bizarre crimes in novels where London is as much a character as anyone else.
The "Mjolnir" bit comes apropos*** of Scandinavian crime fiction. I have read several Jo Nesbo novels about Harry Hole - not entirely sure how Norwegians pronounce that surname and if they relate to it's base Anglo-Saxon slang interpretation - although no Stig Larrson or whatever about hives and beekeeping, and have only just discovered Sjowall and Wahloo. These latter were husband and wife, who set out to map contemporary Sweden via the milieu *4 of detective novels. I watched a film featuring Bruce Dern and Walter Matthau that was based on S & W's "Laughing Policeman" without realising it until a few weeks ago. I think S & W were rather egging the pudding about how awful and deadbeat and ennui-laden contemporary Sweden was - the novels are set in the late 1960's and early 70's - but they are jolly good reads.
Imagine this - in Swedish (minus dayglo ties).
* Who are not very productive. Last album was how many years ago?
** A thoroughly splendid forum for absolutely everything to do with World War One
*** Not a word I get to use often.
*4 A word I get to use even less often than "apropos"
The Gestation of a Banoffee Pie
Yesterday, in full view of darling daughter, I opened the kitchen drawer that contains fruit. Laying there were eight leopard-print bananas.
"Those bananas need using up," quoth I. Daughter's face transforms into one of delight. Oh birdsweat, realises Conrad, I have stepped into a confectionary ambush.
"Shall I make a Banoffee Pi-'
'YES! Yes yes yes!'
So here we are. I've made the biscuit base, probably the trickiest bit. The toffee has been cooked and poured into the base. Now we wait for thirty minutes before doing the banana and whipped cream.
Deep Thoughts of a Dark Nature
Once I park up in the morning it's a 15 minute walk to the office, which I utilise as Thinking Time. Occasionally the thoughts are about work - much to my surprise I seem to be a real Company Man - but more frequently they concern the gigantic hex-and-counter wargame I'm designing, or that zombie novel I always bang on about.
Current design dilemma - how to treat infantry battalions who have had divisional machine-gun units dispersed to them. This reflects real life, where a Major-general might instruct MG companies to be attached to individual battalions instead of being brigaded together in one giant unit. My resolution, derived whilst walking into Hanover Street, is that the individual battalions ought to get the ability to project their MG fire along a single line of hexes. On the other hand, if they all stick together as the Divisional MG unit, then they get a "fan" of hexes, and they can also carry out barrage fire -
British MG team in action. Note lack of Brodie-pattern helmet, and since the photographer would have been standing out in the open six feet above the position, this is likely a training photograph. Notice, too, the emergency tripod located under the water jacket.
Come back, stop falling asleep! This is fascinating stuff, really -
Murder! Mystery! Mjolnir!
Hastily adding another article, I have recently been reading detective fiction recommended by other members of the Great War Forum**. Philip Kerr writes about detective/private eye Bernie Gunther from late Weimar Republic to pre-Castro Cuba in what someone must have decided was to be designed purely for the entertainment of Conrad. Jolly decent stuff. Then we have "Bryant and May", by Christopher Fowler, two antiquated detectives solving bizarre crimes in novels where London is as much a character as anyone else.
The "Mjolnir" bit comes apropos*** of Scandinavian crime fiction. I have read several Jo Nesbo novels about Harry Hole - not entirely sure how Norwegians pronounce that surname and if they relate to it's base Anglo-Saxon slang interpretation - although no Stig Larrson or whatever about hives and beekeeping, and have only just discovered Sjowall and Wahloo. These latter were husband and wife, who set out to map contemporary Sweden via the milieu *4 of detective novels. I watched a film featuring Bruce Dern and Walter Matthau that was based on S & W's "Laughing Policeman" without realising it until a few weeks ago. I think S & W were rather egging the pudding about how awful and deadbeat and ennui-laden contemporary Sweden was - the novels are set in the late 1960's and early 70's - but they are jolly good reads.
Imagine this - in Swedish (minus dayglo ties).
* Who are not very productive. Last album was how many years ago?
** A thoroughly splendid forum for absolutely everything to do with World War One
*** Not a word I get to use often.
*4 A word I get to use even less often than "apropos"
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