Achtung Bobby

No!  Nothing To Do With U2
Although perhaps that slightly click-baity title will pull in a few of the confused or the curious.  Actually, whilst we're on the subject of music, that Coincidence Hydra has been nibbling on my nethers again.  What was I playing on my i-pod before?  "Before and After Science" by Brian Eno; you know, the one from Roxy Music who dressed like a peacock.  What came up on Facebook this afternoon?  That's right, an animated advert for - Brian Eno.

B.Eno

     Really, if the Universe is trying to tell me something, couldn't it just use social media?
     None of this, of course, has anything to do with what follows.  Do keep up!

"The Dead Can Wait" By Robert Ryan
The author, not the film star, and the "Bobby" of today's title.  A sequel to "Dead Man's land", but not as enjoyable, for reasons.  Which I will now go into, so beware of the SPOILERS ahead.  The plot concerns the development of the tank in 1916, during the First Unpleasantness.
     Here an aside.  The British invented the tank, yet it was the M83s who came up with the classic layout with the Renault F17.  Art?

The Abram's great-grandaddy

     Now, Bobby over-eggs the pudding by having not one but two Teuton spies at work in the Allotment, located right next to the testing grounds.  One would be believable, two is, frankly, stretching it rather.  Nor is that all; these Teuton spies are veritable superhumans, which is utterly at odds with the real spies in the Allotment, who were bungling incompetents arrested by the dozens*.  Nor is that all!  One of them works for the Naval Intelligence Service, who in reality restricted their agents to very dull work exclusively about naval guff - they wouldn't have had anything to do with tanks.  This same spy has their own radio transmitter and receiver; unfortunately for the plot, MI1(b) had half a dozen eavesdropping stations that would have, at the very least, picked up any NIS transmissions.

Hi-tec at the time!

     Bad Bobby!  Naughty Bobby!  Next time, see Conrad first.

If The Borg Were British -
You know, those chaps from "Star Trek" who look like a dynamited plumber's warehouse. 

Comes with a Bluetooth option!

 They would have a much easier time of conquering the universe if they adopted the persona of the British.  Yesterday I explained how they could amend their language to come across as us island folk.  I shall expound more lessons.

1)  DON'T TALK IN CAPITALS ALL THE TIME!  This is pretty close to boasting aloud, which we here in the Allotment simply do not do.  Impolite, you see.

2)  Offer your subject race a cup of tea before you assimilate them; everything goes better with a brew.  A digestive biscuit would be nice, too.

3)  Avoid steaming in with threats as your opening sentence, as being threatened with imminent immolation can frequently offend.  Instead, begin with "What about the weather, eh?" or "Did you see 'Bake Off' last night?"

4)  Point out that First Bus are so utterly rubbish, assimilating them can only be a good thing.

5)  If about to attack Starfleet personnel in ground combat, form an orderly queue.

6)  Politeness cost nothing; when imposing your hideous diktat on cowed survivors, always remember to add "please", and say "excuse me" a lot.

     There you go - Conrad, helping aggressive expansionist conquerors get in touch with their Inner Polite.

I said a QUEUE!

Dammit!
They haven't taken my advice - a hasty review of the BBC's website includes a sports report about the "British and Irish Lions", who are apparently a variety of rugby team.  Rugby, for those not hailing from the Allotment, is one of those sports that the British taught the world, only for the world to get better at it than teacher.  It's like South Canadian Football, without all the soppy protective gear.
     I keep going to bat for the weasel, and I think I put together a pretty cogent argument last week that these teams ought to be named after our native mammal, rather than a great lazy fur coat with teeth.

                       Mum and Dad

Righto, time to wrap this up and head downstairs for tea!


*  And then executed.  No happy endings for them.