Turboterror!

Ha!  Gotcha!
I know what you're thinking, directly along the lines of "Oh my god, Conrad, how terrifying is this Turbo-menace going to be?" and perhaps with an extra "!" or two thrown in.
     Well, I have to confess to a little click-baiting mispunctuation, as the title should not be "Turboterror", which implies an Asylum rip-off of "Speed" or "Deathrace 2000".  It should instead be "Turbot Error", except the pun was too good to miss.
     "Has he been at the Polish Pure Spirit*?" I hear you ask.  "Because this doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  Well, less than usual."
     Let me refresh your memory.  Here is a Turbot:

A flat fish.

     I don't know where the name comes from, and had mistaken the derivation from our etymological didactics** later in this post.
     Well!  Now that's out of the way, the motlei can begin!

The .455 Webley Revolver
Ah, yes, Conrad going on about guns again.  If guns are not your thing - EXCEPT HOW CAN THEY NOT BE! - then you have your talented typist's permission to move on.  Here is a picture of the above-mentioned revolver:

.455 is the calibre in inches

     Pretty obviously this is a no-nonsense bit of engineering.  I can't remember why it came up as an item, for which see today's earlier post about rocket-powered feet or some such shizzle.  Given it's size, weight and robustness, you could probably use the Webley  effectively as a club.  It came into service in the British army in 1887 and for a couple of decades was the most powerful service pistol going.  Generally, if you got shot by one of these at close range, you co-operatively lay down and died.  It's effectiveness was diminished somewhat by those pikers of the Hague Convention in 1907, who insisted that it's lead round have a full metal jacket.
     The Webley was the official service pistol of the British (and Commonwealth) armies of the First Unpleasantness, although production couldn't keep up with demand.  People who fire these things for enjoyment declare that the South Canadian M1911 Colt .45 is a better weapon with better ammunition.  I'm sure the British government's arms procurers would have fallen upon the necks of anyone who cared to offer such weapons to them:  "Yes yes yes!  We want 250,000, by tomorrow!"

A colt

A Little Name-Calling
Conrad likes to keep his normal name, if not under wraps, then discreetly hidden from the watching eyes of the eavesdroppers ever-present in those white vans parked outside.  "Conrad" is officially his first name, except unofficially he's always been called "Robert", usually abbreviated to "Rob", or "Git" as an amusing alternative.
     So!

Dough!

     In the interests of good taste*** I shall refrain from any further comment.

"Turb-"
Here we return to that stuff about Turbots.  Turbots of terror?  No! I said that's an error.
     Last week Conrad was sat in work, bothering about the state of the world, how long until payday arrived and what he was having for lunch.
     I was, to coin a word, "Perturbed".  That is, bothered.
     "But Conrad!" I hear your jeers already, "That's your default mental state!"
     Ah, not so quick.  Because your gifted author also wondered about being "Disturbed", and also about his thoughts being "Turbulent", and at how "Turbid" his coffee looked.
     I'm sure you've already spotted a common theme here, that these words all derive from "Turb-", which is a bit fishy if you - NO!  I said that's an error.
     Okay, all of them come from the Latin "Turba", which means "Crowd", in the sense of a major disturbance.  Which, since it, too, has "Turb-" in, might have to be replaced by - a ruck.

A tuba.  Close enough.

     Art!  My Tazer is within reach -

Alan Ruck?

     Get out of it, you coal-chewing sloven!

Conrad's Personal TARDIS
Sadly, gentle reader, only in terms of the inside being bigger than the outside.  No time travel involved.  Hmmm.  Not literally, anyway.
     Okay, here is the end unit of our wall cupboards that tends to harbour all the evil and illicit things Conrad holds dear:

Old Mother Hubbard?  Get out of here!

     That's all arrayed in completely random fashion.  Now, let me show you what the lowest shelf alone holds when emptied onto a flat surface:

Quite a bit of kit

     In addition to finding a packet of Jasmine tea, Conrad also found seven tubs of Ground Arrowroot.  None had been opened, so what he intended upon buying them years ago is lost in the mists of time.  A trip to Google beckons.
     After chucking out a few items well beyond their "Best By" date - three years ago is a bit past the limit even for me - I packed everything away neatly thus:

     Let's see how long it takes to completely mess this up.

Which Leads To -
The above might have hinted that Conrad regards food safety as a challenge, not a warning. As long as it's not rotten, mouldy or infested with weevils, your humble scribe will eat it.  In fact if it's mouldy he usually cuts the mould off and eats the rest.
     So!  Looking at the above, how ironic it is that this crops up as a suggestion from the Foobs:

"Food Hygiene"?  Get out of here!

     How perturbing is that!


*  140% proof!
** Big words
*** Get it?  Do you - oh you do.