But, once again, whose blog is it? yes, thank you. Now go sit at the back, quietly and respectfully, or the Music Police will have a word with your.
About that blog title - Well, well, well. Many wells make a river, as the Ruffians say. Conrad may not have quite got his cakey-bakey mojo back but he certainly got a part of it nagged into him by Wonder Wifey over the weekend.
"Consider it payment for the lights," she quoth.
In case you'd forgotten: Lights by Wonder Wifey |
You can see where this is going, can't you?
Yes, Conrad ended up baking a "Norwegian Blueberry Cake", which is like the Norwegian Pear Cake, except with blueberries, and it was received with rave reviews.
I don't know if you can actually thirst for a solid object, but we'll find out tomorrow when "The Great British Bake-Off" begins anew. This might help to hammer home a bit more cakey-bakey mojo.
I'll let you know.
"Game Of Thrones: The Golden Crown"
Hopefully salting BOOJUM! with this will entice more unwary travellers than usual to sample our unwholesome fare.
Now, I am going to warn you that there are SPOILERS ahoy, which is just me being cautious, as this is Season One we're talking about, going back to 2011.
In this episode, Targaeryan the Twod - that blonde drama queen - no, the man! - is hilariously killed by having a bucket of molten gold poured over his head; the Dothraki head chap had, after all, promised him a gold crown that would make men gasp in awe.
Okay, okay, not "hilariously". Horribly. There. Happy now? Art?
Ouch. |
1) Can you actually melt gold in a cauldron over a bunch of twigs?
2) If you can, how long does it take?
3) Would it kill you, and if the answer is "yes", how quickly?
Conrad voiced these doubts in front of witnesses (Wonder Wifey and Degsy) and they came back with answers so quickly and at length that Conrad suspects they came from a website. That, or they regularly murder people with molten gold.
1) No, you cannot, despite the
Not even with cow pats. |
3) If we grant that, somehow*, the gold melted, then getting it poured onto your bonce would kill you in pretty short order. As WW pointed out, molten gold ain't hot wax; it would roast the skin off your head, ignite your hair and simultaneously boil your brain like a haggis. The shock alone would finish you off.
And now for our final tasteless picture, because it certainly applies to Twod:
Ouch. |
I wrote this looking across Royton, which typifies England's Green and Pleasant land, really. A land nourished by copious quantities of ... wait for it ... rain!
I suppose you can't have one without the other, and a landscape of sere browned grass is dull indeed. And yet, and yet ... from a vista on the 14th Floor of the Electric Goldfish Bowl, all your humble scribe could see was endless grey. Never the most fashionable of colours, when it's all one can see, it kind of deadens the soul.
"I feel like a fish!" was my silent lament. No! Not my normal lunchtime tin of sardines, more like a Neon Tetra. The EGB was well named. Art?
Misery, encapsulated |
Sunshine. You may have forgotten what it resembles. |
Oh, wait, I forgot about First Bus. There, that sense of entitled rage is boiling up nicely now.
First Bus Performance Tally:
On
Time √
Double-decker X
The Metro Present √
Finally -
More sinister forward-planning from your modest artisan.
A whole lot of clones |
* Dragons! Everything is answerable with Dragons!
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