Normally Thursday's blog is a hurried affair, positively gimcrack in construction, thrown together between baking for the ganterpies at work and dashing off to the Halfway House and the pub quiz.
Not tonight! Anna is bringing in scads of doughnuts - Krispy Kreme, ta, nothing else will do - and cakes, to celebrate her Marathon charity run, raising
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| Mexican Plate. Almost certainly to be what Conrad is thinking about |
We've got plenty to get through, so let's bang on -
Public Transport And George Orwell
George, less well known by his real name, Eric Arthur Blair, was a novelist and author who put himself in harm's way to get stories. His "Down And Out In Paris And London" is a book of two halves - the bleakly funny part set in Paris, and the dreadfully grim part set in London, and has nothing whatsoever to do with this post.
In "Homage to Catalonia" George recounts his time spent in Republican Spain - the hip and trendy left wing guys who lost - with the POUM anarchist militia. Now pay attention, because George codified a fact of life that is with us to this day, across the nation, in all walks* of life.
He stated that, if attempting to travel by train, you would find the train was frequently late. But not all the time. Sometimes it was early, and it was early just often enough that you couldn't gamble on it being late.
We shall call this "Orwell's Law" and it applies to all public transport - trains, trams, buses and if ever we see the day, giant mutated lizards with a cabin strapped to their back. Whether or not it applies to the organised and efficient Teutonic races like the Dutch is open to question, but it most definitely applies to the UK.
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| Okay, it's a cat, not a lizard. Still kinda impressive, though! |
Excuse me? This summer blockbuster is being touted as a sci-fi blamfest with brains, which is something Conrad is happy to be proven right about, but! Oh dear, that title. Are the advertising agency not aware that time is an immutable and intangible concept, devoid of substance, without form and thus it definitely does not have "edges", whatever else it may have. It would be far more sensible to call it "11:59 PM", which is factually correct. Conrad has spoken.
| Edge of Tomorrow, Razor clock, easily confused |
A Little Critical Analysis
Ever ready to put the boot in, Conrad has chosen to dissect a John Lennon song (Simon and Garfunkel sigh with relief): "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)". With no further ado -
"So this is Xmas"
(No, John! No it's not! It's June - June)
"And what have you done"
(Are you kidding? You want me to cram a year's worth of exploits into a single line?)
Another year over
(It's June, John, the year's not even half-done)
And a new one just begun
(NO IT ISN'T!)
And so this is Xmas
(Bloody hell, John, you really won't let go of this idea, will you? It's JUNE!)
I hope you have fun
(Ah. Something we can both agree with)
The near and the dear one
(Do you mean Rudolf? because if so you've mis-spelt his name)
The old and the young
(Excuse me! Do we the middle-aged not exist?)
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| Lenin at Christmas. No, wait a minute - |
I think that's quite enough of that.
Schadenfreude
Sounds like an opera by Richard Wagner, doesn't it? You can imagine it, the hero Schadenfreude, with his winged steed (pronounced "wing-erd" because opera is snobby) and his enchanted sword (a poetic image of much interest to Dr. Sigmund Freud), sweeping down on the evil bog-trolls of the Black Forest <Mister Hand intervenes to point out that this is not one of the hilarious "misinterpretations of an obscure word" articles and can we get a move on, the dinner's getting cold?>
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| "I'm feeling a little hoarse today" |
- ahem! Yes, er, "schadenfreude" - which means a malicious enjoyment of other people's misfortune, as with this morning as Conrad alighted from the bus. For weeks a black Mercedes has been sitting parked on double yellow lines near the bus stop, and today Mr Merc's luck ran out, for there was a bicycle-bound traffic - what's their jargonistic name nowadays? "Traffic Enforcement Officer - making notes.
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| Greater Manchester TEO |
As Conrad slobbered in delirious enjoyment, a ticket was produced and applied to the vehicle's windscreen as the TEO took a photo as evidence.
Sidling up to the TEO, Conrad had to keep his face from twisting into an hideous smile.
'He's been parked there every day for weeks,' I said. 'He might still come back tomorrow!"
We shall see, gentle readers, we shall see ...
Smoke Flutes
Conrad, being an alien, really does not get the Hom. Sap. interest in tobacco. It tastes vile, you can't cook it, and it's very expensive. In order to get rid of it, volunteers pay to burn it in close proximity to their breathing apparatus**. Or, they used to. This being the 21st Century, a bizarre electronic device I dub the "Smoke Flute" is now replacing cigarettes. One can find the flautists clustered outside any large building, playing a positive concerto upon their woodwind plasticwind instruments.
Whatever next - food pills and votes for women?
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| Far more likely than a franchise for females! |
Finally
As ever, Conrad calls upon Edna to pimp the blog. Dance for daddy, Edna!
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| Non Verbal Communication that means "I Can Haz Fuds?" |
* Yes, I am fully aware of the hilarious irony.
**Conrad may be a little off the mark here.
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