What's Brew, Pussycat

Ha!
Predictably unpredictable, that's us here at BOOJUM!'s headquarters.  Just when you were expecting coffee-based puns, we turn in our own metaphorical length and come back with ones about tea.  They still amuse me, and since I'm the one around here who matters, they will continue.

A laff riot.  Possibly

     Okay, first things first.  I began writing this on the bus earlier today - "One feels a need to simultaneously castigate and compliment First Bus in the light of -"
     WHAT?  Did I really write that?  Strike the "compliment" as I cannot ever see this word applying to the drooling incompetents who mismanage First Bus, whom, were they ever put in charge of human development, would still see fire as a dangerous innovation.

As for the steam enging ..."LOOK!  LOOK!  IT IS THE DEVIL'S WORK!"

     "Gosh, what can have agitated the old codger so badly?" I hear you query.
     Well, I do not ask a lot of First.  Turn up on time, be a double-decker and have a copy of The Metro.  Not to read the wretched rag, which is a splendid example of something to line the cat's litter tray with, but for the Cryptic Crossword -
    
     hang on, let me just check that Ben Folds is still alive - Phew!  He is indeed, it was just too much caffeine, not a myocardial infarction -

     - and what was absent this morning?  The Metro, which means there are still 2 answers from yesterday's Cryptic that I DO NOT HAVE!
     However, though The Metro occupies a place in my heart only slightly higher than First, which is to say way way down at the bottom of the sub-cellar sewage sump, not tasking myself with the Cryptic meant I could tackle this.  Art*?

     I was immensely pleased that Volume 2 of "The Strain" has turned up before Volume 3, as that would be a trial indeed.  Plus, you know me: poor impulse control.  It would be quite in character for me to try and read the whole thing in one go, finishing at 3:37 ante meridian, having to get up at 6:00 ante meridian.

Veracity
Yes!  We are back to "Kelly's Heroes" again, because I intend to ruthlessly squeeze all possible content from this film, as you would a lemon.  After cutting it in half, first, as it would explode messily if you just squeezed it whole, and a fresh lemon would probably require considerable pressure to squeeze effectively -
     - sorry, where was I?  Ah yes.  Pedantry applied to pictures.  Get a load of this.  Art?

The truth shall set you teevee

     Forgive the synchrony bars, and focus on the background.  Note all that tracked kit, which are genuine period specific South Canadian towing vehicles. They look to be a local variant of the M4 artillery tractor, which looks thus:

     Note also that there is nobody else in the back of Kelly's jeep, so I have NO idea what some hallucinating raver meant when he described what sounded like a crew member sitting in there.  Your brain on drugs?

There will now be a short pause as I pop off to eat some of that food stuff.

"They fought undaunted a war of treacherous ferocity"
Hey, I typed that from memory and it's all correct!  I refer to a book that was an unashamed cash-in, published after the Falklands Unpleasantness, and here is proof that I am not raving.  Art?

Hmmm.  Well, they ought to be ashamed.

      This, of course, has nothing to do with the weather, but it did come roiling around in my mind because of the Allotment's particular climactic conditions.  You see, the vista from The Mansion this morning was quite welcome; bright, sunny and cold, all three things that I like.  Art?

     However, the weather in Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell was in utter contrast, more akin to a creepy horror film, probably a Hammer one where they overdid the smoke machine. Art?

Primordial!

     Hence my feelings about that word "treacherous".  You can't call our weather "ferocious", as that would mean it was interesting, or even exciting.
     Hmmm.  I wonder - First Bus haven't been given charge of the Allotment's weather, have they?  Because it would explain so much ...

Ambiguity In Perpetuity
Recall, if you will that dramamentary series "Doctor Who", specifically the terrifying event that occur in "Pyramids of Mars".  Now, I'm sure you remember that Marcus Scarman is taken over by Sutekh as a variety of mindlessly obedient minion.  Art?

Green.  The colour of mindless enslavement,

     Scarman is instrumental in securing the release of Sutekh, which is not a good thing, as Ol' Sutey is very cross indeed at having been stuck in a chair for millenia.  Anyway, as Ol' Sutey breaks free from the Osiran's imprisonment, Ol' Scarry gleefully yowls "Free!  Free!" and then collapses in a shrivelled heap.  Stone dead, don't you know.
     Now, I always wondered who was gloasting about being free**.  Is this Ol' Sutey, vocalising via his walking puppet, or has the mental control of Ol' Sutey been broken, and Ol' Scarry is relishing his 2.73 seconds of liberty from mind control?
     Can we have our expert witness for comment?

"It's always the alien option, Conrad.  So - Sutekh."

Finally -
Because I am as wicked as I am creative, and because that default description on FB still has mention of astronomy, and because I like to smash the 750 word count if on a creative roll, here's a picture of Comet Kohoutek.  Art?

     Wherever this photograph was taken, Conrad suspects it was not in the Allotment, as our skies tend to be full of Astronomer's Blight, which you and I would call 'Clouds'.


*  He's healed up from yesterday.  I told you not to worry about him.
**  Or perhaps he's a fan of the band?