Of Napoleon And Nourishment

Not Quite "Cabbages And Kings"
 - which is also from Lewis Carroll, who wrote "The Hunting Of The Snark", from which is derived that most eloquent of words, "Boojum", which is - hopefully! - familiar to anyone reading this.
     I refer, of course, to "1812: Napoleon's Invasion of Russia" by Paul Britten Austin, which I am currently reading, and will be reading for a while hence, as it's about three inches thick.  I have, thankfully, gone past the point where the pages were upside down and back to front, which necessitated tearing half the volume from it's spine and reading it back to front.  Art?

The evidence

     Nappy has just taken the decision to retreat, since he simply cannot bring the Russian army to a decisive battle.  After the battle of Malojaroslavets, where the Italians had their hour of glory, the French army prepares to depart.
     This is not a good idea.  It means travelling over lands that have been ravaged so thoroughly that there is hardly any food or fodder left.
     Why is this?  because the French approach to supply and logistics can be summed up in one word:  loot.  They don't like admitting this, claiming that their soldiers "find" food and, having found it, remove it from the Russians encountered en route.
     This is another reason why retracing their footsteps is a bad, bad idea.  Those Russians encountered en route, are, to put it mildly, extremely angry.  Ruffians tend to be rather vigourous in their pursuit of warfare, all the more so if it's (Holy Mother) Russia where the warfaring is.  The poverty-stricken peasantry are so filled with frothing nitric ire that they buy French prisoners from the regular army, in order to do them to death.  So the French are going to be retreating across lands not only devastated but seething with (seething!) peasants, who have now had time to get armed and organised.
     Plus, winter is about to begin.
     What can possibly go wrong!

Russians:  big lads armed with nasty pointy things

Hello Coincidence Hydra - 
 - and can you kindly remove your serrated fangs from my tender posterior?
     If you read the blog with any frequency then you are surely aware of the unholy number of coincidences that regularly impact upon Conrad, especially so if he's reading Thomas Pynchon.  This one, though, is sufficient to render one seriously worried.  Because -
     - well, how many times has your humble scribe sat down and posted about songs to play at his funeral?  Exactly.  Once.  On Monday.  Here is the link to prove it:

http://comsatangel2002.blogspot.co.uk/2016/08/one-bite-at-cherry.html

     So, what does he encounter in the atrium of the Electric Goldfish Bowl this morning?  The top 10 songs played at funerals, and a free pair of earphones.  Plus, fill in this card with your preferred choice and you stand the chance of winning an i-pod mini.  Art?

Wowsers!

     I think it's time to go ponder on this at length.  Clearly the Universe is trying to tell me something, it's just a shame that Ol' Uni's a bit of a stick-in-the-mud and can't use social media.

How To Speak Dog - An Occasional Series
The dog in your life is a lot more accommodating than the cat, and whilst they are quite willing to put their lives on the line defending your Mansion, they expect recompense, either in the form of attention or treats, preferably both.
     Take Edna for example:

     "But I'm so adorably wonderful and hungry can't you share some of your crisps with me, on account of me being so wonderfully adorable?  And hungry?"
     No.

Damn You All To Hell!
Not you, gentle reader, lest you feel alarmed.  No, Conrad is venting his spleen at those people who invent new and pointless things that make our lives more complicated and burdensome, with no advantage - like the mobile phone.  Which, when I become World Dictator, will also go the way of the dodo and the video cassette, and then we'll see what the younger generation are made of, eh?
     None of which has anything to do with dice.  Allow me -

Excuse the photograph

     Normally I'd use a screenshot but the PC was feeling it's age last night and couldn't manage.
     Suddenly wargaming as a hobby becomes much more complicated.  Clubs are going to have to decide if these Lucifer-inspired inventions are allowed or not, and you can guarantee (human nature and wargamers being what they are) that somebody will spend three days clapping in front of 50 of these dice whilst their compatriot takes notes of which numbers turn up.  And if they don't all hit 16% there will be merry hell to pay!

The Onus Of Bonus

Admit It, You're Impressed
 - because how many blogs feature a word like "Onus"?
     It is hopefully apparent, after over three years of publishing this stuff, that your humble scribe has a certain facility with language.  Written language.  When in conversation, Conrad's repellent mumbling is nothing to write home about*.  

Conrad:  possibly mumbling, it's a bit difficult to tell with that moustache in the way

     "A wordsmith" is how Sophie flatteringly described me, which recognition is welcome and yet brings a certain level of responsibility with it - that "Onus" I mentioned.  Because this week we have two people departing, which is that "Bonus" bit I mentioned:  Charlotte, whose existential crisis over how long it takes a party of women to put on their make up has been recounted at length; and Sylwia, our resident Pole.
     Thus - two poems pomes to compose, and one in less than 24 hours as Sylwia leaves tomorrow!
     Come on, Muse, strike me twice.
     Plus, your humble scribe is also trying to compose a non-sporting Olympic quiz that one cannot simply Google to answer, which is harder than it sounds.  This is for the event that the lovely Anna - don't forget, as nice on the inside as the outside and with an inexplicable modicum of affection for your loathsome literati - is arranging, themed around the Olympics (don't tell her they've already finished!).

Rio 2016.  Empty.  Poignant, but mostly empty.

     Still waiting, Muse.  Right here.  Right now.
     Also, the quiz shouldn't be too hard, so if it's multiple-choice they have a 25% chance of guessing correctly.  Should I charge extra for giving hints about the picture clues?  Because whom amongst my fellow workers is going to recognise a N - a nuclear-tipped Surface to Air Missile from the Sixties?

Proof that stunt weasels do exist
(See article below)

     Anthony, perhaps - he leapt into the conversational fray earlier in the afternoon when I mentioned "Dixon of Dock Green" after Carol spelled the surname the other way.  "Played by Jack Warner," he stated, "In "The Blue Lamp" where SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER he gets killed at the end.  And then comes back in "Dixon of Dock Green"."
     Absolutely correct, Anthony.  Oh, and - the quiz?
     You're banned.

     Oh, Muse?  Still waiting. Still here.

The Great British Bake Off
This has returned, and at an awkward time, too, ta very much Beeb.  Since Thursday evening is usually given over to Pub Quiz, your modest artisan has to do his bake for the Hunger Hobbits** on Wednesday evening, which is bifurcated by GBBO.
     Which very much deserves the "British" of the title.  Not in the sense of it being a reflection of British culture, PC and all that, but rather that this is a prime-time international hit series about - baking.  Twelve people in a tent, baking stuff.  No glitz or glamour, or any reason to be successful and - yet it is.  No cyborg death-ninjas or explosions or killer stunt weasels or gamma-ray lasers, just twelve people in a tent, baking stuff.

And probably drinking lashings of ginger ale.

     Still waiting, Muse.
     When it comes to what they were actually baking this first time round, Conrad sneered in scorn at bothering to bake Jaffa cakes.  It's far, far easier to buy a packet of them rather than faff around for a couple of hours baking them, all the more so since they are one of Conrad's guilty pleasures and he can easily inhale a pack in 5 minutes.  As for Genoa cake, I have tried baking such only once.  As soon as the tin was lifted from it, the cake - sorry, "cake" - split apart and the uncooked batter, of which there was plenty, spilt out.  Never again since then.
     Yoohoo, over here, Muse -

No, Art!  Bad Art!  No biscuit for you!

When I Take Over The World -
 - as forewarned, a lot of vapid celebritutes are going to rapidly find out how the dodo feels.  Or felt.  My frothing nitric ire will not be restricted to plastic prettyboy popsters, though, and if any executives from First Bus are reading this, a sound will or an escape plan are advised.

Conrad, nursing his frothing ire.  Nitric, you see - causes indigestion

     "Why, what could possibly have gotten the eternally-sunny and positive Conrad*** annoyed to the point of, not only murder, but mass murder?" I hear you call.
     Well, allow me to tick off the boxes.  Double decker bus?  Yes.  On time?  No.  Late, and late enough to have your talented typist's knees trembling in anxiety.  How it can be so late this close to the point of departure in Rochdale is a mystery for the ages.Copies of The Metro?  bah!  Don't be ridiculous, FB staff don't think passengers can read

Finally -
As Dixon of Dock Green used to say at the end of every episode -

"Evening all"

     This was back in the day when Pete, ex-copper friend of mine, said they ended formal reports with the phrase "I have the honour to remain, your very obedient servant".


*  Do you see what - O you do.
**  My hilarious name for the ganterpies at work.
***  All lies <the painful truth courtesy Mister Hand>

One Bite At The Cherry

For Yes, I Am Only Posting Once Today
It's not the weekend and I deserve to spend some time of my own, doing what I have so long neglected:  Plotting To Take Over The World.  Naturally this impacts on the length of time I have to craft deathless prose, so make the most of this.
     Yesterday's first post began with a reference to socks, and the smell of used ones being burnt, because this cruel and hurtful jibe was levelled at my grilled Italian blue cheese.  Apparently it smelt like that.  Well, I am over it now, and wanted to introduce more bloody socks.
     No, Vulnavia!  I am not swearing.  Remember if you will that BOOJUM! is SFW.  Perhaps the picture will serve better as an explanation.  Art?

Literally bloody socks, you can only agree!

     The picture comes courtesy of the Evil Dead feed on Twitter, and you can make out the chainsaws as wielded by Ash, and of course all the consequent blood.  Whilst wearing these would be extremely cool, they would also risk work colleagues catching sight of them and having a myocardial infarction, and your management will surely frown at the spectacle of employees slumping dead over their keyboards.
     Right, enough ice broken!  Let the phaeton of phantasy roll on with it's "L" plates showing and a siren sounding!

Conrad Is Unsure About This
Last night I scoffed the last of my Cinnamon Biscuit ice cream, and because I'd put it down before starting the blog, I only remembered about it once it had practically thawed.  Of course I fell upon it like the wolf upon the fold*, and in an instant it was gone.
     So, we only have the Gelato in the freezer, as I'd finished the last cornetto at breakfast this morning.  Plainly the Mansion required a second variety of ice cream.  This seemed interesting, and it wasn't made up of chocolate:

Uncertainty persists

     I tried a small bowlful of it and am still unsure.  The peanut butter flavour is more savoury than sweet, and what Conrad is looking for in ice cream is more sugar than is good for you.  There are what seemed like lentils on top, which proved on investigation-by-biting to be made of chocolate.  Again, unsure.
     I haven't written it off entirely.  After having more tonight I shall get back to you on this.

More Sugar
Of the metaphorical kind.  As you know, Conrad is a flinty-hearted rascal who finds other people's suffering and misery to be highly entertaining, what we call "Schadenfreude".  This next is the complete opposite, a group of chaps enjoying themselves dancing.  Art?

     They are nothing if not exuberant, and wildly athletic with it.  If you watch it, be prepared for your mouth to smile, even just a little bit.

A Little Musical Critique
We've not had a deconstruction of anyone's lyrics for a while now, so I am going to put The Gaslight Anthem squarely in the cross-hairs of my sniperscope, and focus on their song "The '59 Sound", probably the best track of the eponymous album.

"Well I wonder which song they're gonna play when we go"

Excuse ME!  Don't include Conrad in your desire to meet your maker so quickly, ta very much.  I intend to extend my end, friend.  
     Although - which song would your humble scribe choose?  Three that I can think of straight away - 1) "Jesu Joy Of Man's Desiring" by the incomparable Johann Sebastian Bach, as it is a simply sublime piece of music.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uptLNBRUrBw

 - and there's a Youtube link to it being played on an organ.

2)  "People Help The People" by Cherry Ghost, because again it's a wonderful song with a positive ethos.
3)  "One Of These Days" by Pink Floyd, because it's a boss instrumental and the line "One of these days I'm going to cut you into little pieces" says a lot about the human condition.

"I hope it's something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow"

Er - okay, choices one and two fit the bill, number three not in any way, shape or form.  It could have been worse, I might have picked "Metal Machine Music".

"When we float out into the ether into the everlasting arms"

Does that scan?  It certainly doesn't rhyme.  Also, I remain unsure about floating on ether as it is notably volatile and affects the breathing.  Oh - whose arms are those?  Why are they going to last for infinity?

"I hope we don't hear Marley's chains we forged in life"

Ah, yes.  Marley, taken from Dickens, you know.  Much to my surprise, I enjoyed reading Dickens.  Marley comes from "A Christmas Carol" and is cruelly laden with chains, although, since he's a ghost, they possibly disturb him less than you'd imagine.

"We'll see you later, Conrad."

Oh.  Oh dear.  They look rather rough lads, too.  Quick!  Change the subject!

Finally - How To Speak Cat - An Occasional Series
Allow me to demonstrate.  Art?

     "Yes human I am quite comfortable"
     - an alternative iteration is:
     "Go away.  Now."



* "Greedily" - translation courtesy Mister Hand.

A Farewell To Charms

I've Probably Used That Before
Except none of you will remember, and I doubt anyone bar me reading this will be so obsessive as to trawl through over thirteen hundred and odd posts to see if I did, indeed, already use it.
     In the above title I refer, of course, to the imminent departure of Charlotte, one of my co-workers on the Seventh Floor of the Electric Goldfish Bowl.  I also cover how long it takes a party of women to put on make up.
     Excuse me whilst I add-in a picture of <thinks> ENIAC!

This was hot stuff in 1946

     ENIAC stands for "Electronic Numerical Integrator And Computer", it came into being in 1946 and helped with the calculations on the feasibility of thermonuclear weapons.
     However, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the departure of Charlotte, which is intentional, as I don't want the photograph of the lass herself to be displayed on Facebook by default.
     "Is she young and attractive?" I hear the lechers amongst you query.  PUT YOUR TONGUES BACK IN!  Conrad isn't going to respond to anything so shallow.  Art?

Charlotte is on the left

     Here she is.  Typically, she had responded with considerable vim to the attempts of Naz and myself to kill a wasp that had formed a mysterious bond of attraction with our party.  "No!  Don't kill it!" was her impassioned wail.
     I think my tash could do with a trim, don't you?  Off to the hairdressers next weekend I think, as my plumage is looking a -
     - sorry, got a little side-tracked there.  I said "typically" as Charlotte is a graduate of something Animal-y and is keen on living things of all varieties.  When convalescing in the car park of Heaton Park*, she explained that the occasional bee one sees lying unmoving on the ground is actually suffering from exhaustion; it can be revived by offering it a solution of sugar dissolved in water.  How long this will take is academic, but surely shorter than the time it takes a party of women to put on make up.
     Fittingly, she is off to be an intern at a zoo, working in the Aquarium**.  This wasn't her first choice, but competition for working with the Large Carnivores (Lions and Tigers) is as fierce as the critters themselves.  I suppose working with tomorrow's fish fingers doesn't have the same kudos.

Point proven

     Typically of your humble scribe, the above is nothing to do with the main point of this article, which is:  How long does it take a party of women to put on their make up?
     I ask this because we finished at 5:00, and your modest artisan had to be on his way by 6:00 to catch the last direct bus home.  I anticipated having about an hour to enjoy a delicious soft drink, which didn't take into account how infernally long it takes a party of women to put on their make up.  By 5:15 I was tapping my toes.  By 5:20 we were down in the atrium of the EGB, still waiting.  How long does it take a party of women to put on make up?  Entirely too <add rude word here> long!

No sign of them.

     The clock rolled around to 5:30 before they assembled in a giggling flock, and -
     - WHAT NOW!  WHAT IS IT NOW!?
     Lack of money.  Unlike your talented typist, they hadn't bothered to arm themselves with sufficient money for the night out, so there was another loooong pause as they all took turns getting money out of the cash machine in the EGB's atrium.
     Then we walked to Sinclair's, which took another 10 minutes, so Conrad had time to arrive, say hello, say cheerio and depart***.
     Well, apart from having time to take that photo, which I will roll out again:

Once again, I am on the right

     I feel obliged to point out which person is me, just to be clear.
     Another thing I feel obliged to point out is that I will not miss Charlotte on the floor one little bit.  Not at all.
     "Gosh, Conrad!  How thoroughly like your unpleasant and churlish self!" I hear you chorus.  Well, only because she's far too efficient and capable; she makes other people look bad by comparison, so the overall level of performance ought to drop once she's out of the way.

Well, I seem to have clocked up the word count without doing anything except bang on about how long it takes women to put on make up, which is one of those unexplained mysteries of our times^.  I shall be back tomorrow with a whole lot of other scrivel, don't you worry.

Remember - keep watching the skies!

Or else ...

*  I was convalescing, being old and tired.
** There's a joke in there somewhere, I know it.
*** Not really, but it's funnier this way.
^  Nobel prize in the offing here, chaps.