Well Well -

No, Don't Worry, I Shan't Go On About Wells 23 Times
It's just that the blog seems popular tonight, and I wondered why.  Can it be that there is an unsatisfied thirst amongst the world at large to know more about pre-radar aircraft detection methods?  Or are my readers proud Northern folk, gloating a little too much at the Southlander's bitter defeat in that ballfoot game?  Maybe there are scores of scandalised dog lovers reading with disbelief about the Sinister's "Mine Dogs" of the Second Unpleasantness?*
     Who knows.  Plus, being as perverse as I am, if I did discover why, it would probably only propel me in the other direction.
     I would now 

Suddenly, BOOJUM! was interrutpted by a Pennsylvanian 442 Atlantic class locomotive!

     Dog Buns!  Really, just because railways are of strategic importance, they think they can barge in anywhere.  Go away and eat coal!
     Okay, let us get back on track.  I would like to continue with my thesis on -
     TORPEDOES!

About as Freudian as you can get

     Excuse me for a moment - I am currently listening to "Peter and the Wolf" by Prokofiev.  Say what you like about their desire to conquer the world, those Ruffians can certainly string a tune together.  Er - 
     Yes, torpedoes.  If you recall, these titanic tinfish of terror had come of age by the time of the First Unpleasantness.  Broadly speaking, a single 18 inch torpedo (diameter not length!) could deliver the explosive impact of a naval 12 inch shell.  Early motor torpedo boats normally carried two torpedo tubes, thus delivering the effect of 2 x 12 inch shells.

A motor torpedo boat, motoring

     Why is this significant?  Because a minnow like that above comes in at maybe 250 tons.  Remember that.
     Those twin 12 inch guns I mentioned before come in a turret, and this array alone would come in at 250 tons.  Art?

Say hello to my not so little friends -

     You can see why European navies were a bit skittish about torpedo boats: they embodied the ability to do a tremendous amount of damage for very little outlay.
     As a result of this - 
     But no, that is a tale for another day.
     Okay, time to see if the motley can manage a carriage drawn by a pack of rabid hyenas who have been plied with peach brandy and LSD!

I don't rate it's chances

A Little Musical Critique
A this point Simon and Garfunkel, also Peter Gabriel, would be quivering under the kitchen table, fingers in ears, swigging from a bottle of spirits.
     Don't fret, chaps!  Today is nothing to do with you.  Instead we turn our jaundiced, bloodshot and rheumy eye upon -
     - Lindisfarne.  Those hoary old folk rockers from the North East, where they talk funny.  Okay, "funnier than the rest of England".  Today we shall begin a thematic analysis of their most famous song "Fog On The Tyne".  Let the reductive excoriation begin!^

The river in question

"Sittin' in a sleazy snack-bar suckin'"

Do you really have to try and Americanise your diction?  Come on, lads!

"Sickly sausage rolls."

Nobody is forcing you.  Personally I think cold sausage rolls are the Devil's gruel.

"Slippin' down slowly"

Good!  Eat your food slowly.  Don't bolt it.  Your Mum brought you up well.

"Slippin' down sideways"

This I'm not so sure about.  You are at risk of choking and DEATH.

"Think I'll sign off the dole"

You display an affirmative work ethic, chaps.  "The Dole", for those unfortunate to live outside the Allotment of Eden, is Unemployment Benefit.

     I think we shall stop it there.  You got off very lightly, Lindisfarne.  Think yourselves lucky - though of course there is always tomorrow ...

Lindisfarne.  A tidal island - we may have covered it last year.

I'll See You A Commando Raid And Raise You A Kidnapping
For yes, we are back to that land of fjords and <thinks> Brown Goatsmilk Cheese.  No, you bafoon, Norway, not Thailand!
     It is an interesting fact that, when the commandoes of Perfidious Albion went a-raiding upon the coastlines of Norge (which is Norwegian for "Norway" - do keep up!), they not only brought back valiant patriotic Norks desperate to wage war against the hated Teuton occupiers, but also swathes of Quislings, too.  Art?

Presaging the football hooligan?

     This raises a couple of questions.  How did the commandoes know who were traitorous disgusting verminous Quislings?  That comes with it's own answer: the local Norks would have fallen over themselves in order to point the finger, as the only thing they loathed more than their Teuton overlords were Nork traitors.  Poor Quislings; it must be a hard thing to realise your own countrymen hate you so much they are happy to see you kidnapped and abducted by foreign soldiers.

A Quisling.

     The next question is - what happened to these unfortunates once they were back in the accusatory phalanges of Perfidious Albion?  Prison at the very least.  If they were sent back to Norway post-war, then they had an extremely unpleasant time of it, as 25 of the more detested Quisles were executed.  Blimey!  You really have to poke the Norks with a long sharp stick for a long, long time to get them annoyed, unless, it appears, you Quisle.
     Here an aside.  The insult "Quisling" clearly has a long lifetime, as the Third Doctor uses it on at least one occasion, when he confronts the Controller (who works for the Daleks).
     "You, sir, are a traitor.  You're a Quisling!"

And he is.
(But he redeems himself)

     Oh my, once again we have spiralled well over the Word Count, which used to stand at 750 yet which we now exceed to the tune of 1000+ on many occasions.  Proof, were it needed, that you can never have too much of a good thing.  Except maybe beer.



*  Mister Hand would like to point out that this "Re-capping" is in fact a lazy way of padding the word count.**
**  Conrad would like to point out that Mister Hand himself, the treacherous appendage, is in fact now padding the word count.***
***  Mister Hand - stops right there before this spirals into madness.
^  Excoriation: not a good thing.