As we may already have demonstrated, Steve here is a bit of a willful character. Steve is responsible for administering Conrad's memory, in the same way that Art is responsible for administering pictures. Frankly, I wouldn't put up with either if I had a choice; Art is a coal-eating subhman idiot whose idea of a good time is to be locked up in a sewage sump, whilst Steve is merely an unpredictable bumbletuck.
| Art's Happy Meal |
Hence I was not best pleased when up pops a vague memory from 40 years ago. A phrase from a science-fiction short story, one that I can't remember the title of, nor even the author: "Boop-Jog", said of a dance.
Wait, what? Why on earth did this just come to the surface? If I remember the context correctly it was mentioned as of being a dance. Since "Boop-Jog" eddied up to the surface during work hours yesterday I did briefly consider Googling for it at lunchtime, yet decided against it. You never can tell quite what may appear on-screen, and it comes too close to "Boob Job " for comfort. Conrad not keen on IT Police coming to pay him a visit, especially since the reason is so sketchy.
Well, once I got home to rouse my PC and it's hamster from hibernation I did try Googling, and nothing in the nature of cosmetic surgery came up. Nor did a dance, although lots of Betty Boop images did.
Steve? Go sit in the corner with a dunce's hat on.
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| Liable winner of the "head most like a bottom" award |
What Nightmares May Come
Consider, if you will, Peppa Pig. A painful process, I admit, but for the purposes of this post you must grin and bear it. Art? Evidence.
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| Sinister. Probably evil, in fact |
There exists on The Interwebz a species of Youtube videos of Peppa, which are almost unspeakably vile, done with an excess of swearing. We're not here to talk about those, however, instead I would like to present to you -
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| A flounder.The bounder! |
- the Flounder. A species of flatfish, where both eyes are on the same side of it's face. Check it out. Check Peppa out. This is obvious evidence of either some hideous medical experimentation worthy of Viktor Frankenstein, or a pig and fish - er - "getting it on".
I apologise for any images this may conjure up. We here at BOOJUM! need to inform you about stuff like this, I'm afraid.
"With The Jocks" By Peter White
This is an autobiographical account by an officer in the 4th Battalion the King's Own Scottish Borderers (never ever call them by the acronym "Kosbees" as it drives them wild) in the last 8 months of the Second Unpleasantness. Given the scrapes he gets into it's surprising he survived intact and unscathed, as by war's end he's one of very few survivors of his original Company. It's a very detailed account that illustrates the sheer uncomfortable misery of being a footsoldier - tired, dirty, cold, wet and deprived of sleep, which is quite enough to be going on with quite apart from having people doing their best to kill you.
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| But not kilt you. A Lowland regiment, they wear trews. |
There is a lot of detail at the tactical level for those who wish to make notes, and several anecdotes that stand out. One compelling story is that White's platoon suffered it's greatest number of casualties from friendly fire: a troop of self-propelled 17 pounders shelled them by mistake. Another was an operation carried out in cooperation with Churchill Crocodile flame-throwing tanks; it took one of these terrifying weapons all of 6 minutes to turn a house into a small heap of glowing brickwork.
Here an aside, directed at those who consider the British to be a collection of effete tea-swilling hoorahs who - little-finger cocking tea-swilling hoorahs at that - who couldn't knock the skin off a rice pudding*. Google "Churchill Crocodile" and see what comes up, as it is one of the worst weapons of war ever invented for those on the receiving end.
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| The kindly version |
War Office Inventory: Rat, Dead, One Of
Here is another terrifying weapon of war, tinged with both a little derision and disgust.
Behold the Exploding Rat! Art? Put down your plate of coal.
I'm not sure how the unfortunate animal in question was acquired. Perhaps they were patriotic volunteers? Or scooped up from the sewer in a sack? Tempted by the trilling of tunes by a piper? Whatever, the intent was that they would be smuggled onto the Continent of Occupied Europe and hidden in piles of coal. Our erstwhile opponents the Teutons would then scoop them up with shovels and hurl them into furnaces, where they would explode and cause all kinds of mischief.
Conrad not sure how effective this would have been. As it was, the Teutons got hold of an explosive-stuffed rat, worked out what it was for and went to extraordinary lengths to avoid having their furnaces mischief-meddled. Far more effort than put into the rats themselves.
"The Guns Of Navarone" has a scene where one of these rats is gingerly handled by nervous Teuton troops with very long bolt-cutters, although it goes off with a squeak more than a bang.
Which is where we came in ...
Ooo-err the format's going wonky need to quit out of here ...
* A traditional epithet meaning you lack vigour or strength
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