Attack Of The Killer Socks

Yes, Really

No, this is nothing to do with what was quite possibly the daftest post to ever ever appear on BOOJUM! - and yes, that is saying a lot - about The Mansion being over-run by sentient feral socks - I think we can manage a link -

https://comsatangel2002.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/boojum-hunting-wild-socks.html

     Of course I don't bother to track them down mys - hang on, am I taking that nonsense seriously now?  Nurse!  Quick, my medicine!



A sock.  Just so we're clear

     Back on track.  The humble sock can be transformed into a deadly weapon simply by adding sand - Hay Pesto! an improvised cosh.  Or a couple of snooker balls instead, if you aren't on holiday at the seaside.  Smeared with grease and full of plastic explosive, they can immobilise a tank.*
     Or, when full of wood wool saturated with paraffin wax and set alight by a timed fuse, they can be used as incendiary weapons.  Art?

Sock stuffed with sin explosives

     For Lo!  We come to yet another example of Perfidious Albion in action during the Second Unpleasantness, in Operation Outward.  From 1942 onwards the Brits released free-floating balloons that were carried by the wind over to the Continent.  Thanks, wind.  Half of these balloons were armed with crude incendiary devices that operated on a slow-burning fuse, which would ignite and drop them within the bounds of the land of the Teutons. 

Balloon party

     Said rubber balloons were taken from a giant stock that the Royal Navy had hidden in a cave, filled with hydrogen, then sent aloft with another slow-burning fuse to regulate height.  And, because Perfidious Albion likes to share a good thing, they were sent aloft by the tens of thousands.  To which the Teutons could make no reply - the wind at balloon-effective height blows from west to east.  Thank, wind.  The killer socks were responsible for setting numerous fires in forests and heathland, which were variously reported in the Continental press as an example of how treacherous and, indeed, perfidious Albion was.**
    We shall come back to this topic.  O yes indeed!
     Meanwhile, let us check the car boot we threw the motley into earlier.  Ah yes, still alive.  Good, good, we shall now drive down that lane which consists of nothing but potholes.

Wood Wool.
There's a tongue twister in there somewhere.

I rather missed a trick with titling yesterday, gentle readers.  In pursuit of alliteration I ought to have put "Mister Musk's Massive Missile" because you can never be too clever with words. 

Traffic
Not sure if this will work, since as an expedient I am having to refer back to Monday's blog entry, because the photograph that I loaded from my phone is no longer available on Blogger.  Not sure how I ever loaded it in the first place.  Let's see if it's possible to copy the photo I took.  Art?


It worked!  Hurrah for Conrad.
And the wind.  Thanks, wind.

     This is the backlog of traffic, all the way from half a mile away in Royton, all caused by a few yards of roadworks.  I shall now show you what it ought to be like.  Art?

    
     There you go.  And, FYI, it took ages to find that last one, because, again, the photo I took on Tuesday isn't available for selection.  I feel an attack of Frothing Nitric Ire coming on!

More Traffic
You see?  You see how everything ties in together?  Last night your humble scribe was perusing a set of comments on a Facebook thread in The Flop House pages,  concerning what public transport was like in each poster's city of residence.  In most cases this city was in South Canada.
     Oh my.  What a comparison.  Truly, the lack of service and infrequency - once per hour was common - makes First Bus <dammit am I really typing this?> look good by comparison.  Words I thought I'd never type.

First Bus happy

     Somewhat frighteningly, that last caption took the word count up to 666.

Living In Silent Hill, Again
One of the tribulations of living in Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell is the soggy, boggy, foggy climate, and one of the perks of working in the Dark Tower is the splendid perspective it gives one o'er the grim grey grimy city.  Yes, it remains grimy despite getting a daily wash.
     "Where are you going with this?" I hear you ask.  "And what twisted reasoning are you going to employ in order to painfully squeeze a pun out of this?"

Also works on puns

     Pausing only to point out that your latter sentence practically defines BOOJUM! as is, and to wonder why you're here, I shall explicate.
     There I was, looking out of the windows, enjoying the view that ranged to the Pennines and Cheshire to North and South, until the wind changed and began to roll in a fogbank every bit as sinister as that in John Carpenter's terrifying documentary "The Fog".  Or perhaps "Silent Hill", if you want something a little more contemporary.  Art?

     Thanks, wind.
 

*  See  "Saving Private Ryan"
**  But we knew this already.  Tee Hee.