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!