By George!

Or, My Sainted Aunt!
Conrad feels a sense of achievement today, because he is still hale, hearty and in one piece. 
     This will need some explanation.  Alright, a lot of explanation. 
     Right.  On Easter Monday Your Humble Scribe made his way into Royton, noting that there were an awful lot of England flags about.  Now, if that idle rascal Art will -

     I put this down to a ballfoot match of some description.  Conrad has No Idea what goes on in the ballfoot world, so it might very well be the next Worldly Cup for all I know (or care) and there is always a big outbreak of Flag Fever when that occurs.      Wrong!  For what was yesterday but Saint George's Day.  St. George, patron saint of England.  Quite why we decided to have him as our patron saint is a bit of mystery, since he came from the Middle East and did his deeds of derring-do in North Africa.  Art?

Have at thee, varlet!

     Here an aside.  Reputedly, Ol' Geo helped the people of a Libyan town who were under siege by a dragon, which they had palmed off with a couple of sheep per day.  Said dragon was a pretty beefy beast, if it was getting through 400 lb of livestock per day; perhaps the dragon metabolism runs quite high?  These townsfolk seem to have been a right bunch of numpties, for were Your Modest Artisan in a similar position, those sheep would have been bloated with poisons. 
     Not only that, but the dragon gets fed up of sheep and (somehow - telepathy?) communicates that from then on it wants to dine on toothsome human morsels.  So the king's daughter is selected as victim - which does not compute, because you'd need three humans to match the mass of two sheep.  Ah, me, mathematics, coldly refuting legend, eh?

"I have a rare blood group!" exclaimed the dragon.

     Anyway, Ol' Geo rides out and impales said dragon on a big metal pole he happens to have handy - the townsfolk being too cowardly or stupid or both to think of Big Dragon-Impaling Things - which is the kind of behaviour that goes down well with fair maidens, and damsels in distress.  Considerably less so with our scaly friends.  The absence of dragons in today's world can be put down to an excess of zeal on the part of people wielding Big Dragon-Impaling Things, you know, plus the introduction of anti-aircraft guns with armour-piercing ammunition.
     Where were we?

Dragonslayer!

     Oh yes.  Ol' Geo became the poster boy for the slaying, extermination, extirpation and otherwise expurgation of evil - excuse me - Evil.  Evil quaked in it's shabby and poorly-stitched boots at the sound of his name.  St. George's Day to Evil is like nuclear-powered garlic to vampires: Evil runs and hides on April 23rd.
     However, the night before is a different matter.  All the Evil in the world stalks abroad, and at home, having a jolly party.  Or perhaps a dreadful party?  Conrad doesn't hang out with True Evil often enough to know.  Party party party.
     So, April 22nd is actually Walpurgisnacht.  Look it up and quiver with FEAR.  And I am happy to say that I survived it.* 

A Hell of a party.
(Not enlarging it as there may be rudery or nudery)

     Now, motley, we are going to make you snort a plateful of coke.

This kind of coke.  Heh!

Go Conrad
Well, in a fit of determination, I finally burned through the rest of "Nicholas Nickleby", spending a good 3 hours on it.  I feel validated.  Perhaps even vindicated.
     The ending has a mixture of happy and sad to it.  Nicholas, of course, finds true love, as does his sister Kate, and even Miss La Creevy gets hitched to Tim Linkinwater.  Art?
                           

Of course, if true love has to surmount a few ruts and bumps, True Evil, whilst it might thrive in the short-term, is called to account in the end.  O yes indeedy, Ally Sheedy.  Smike, that unfortunate, falls ill and dies, mourned by all.
     Sir Frederick Verisopht is long dead by this time, and his parasitical "friend" Sir Mulberry Hawk fled to France to avoid prosecution for the aforementioned's murder.  No extradition treaties in Dickensian times?
     The usurer Ralph Nickleby is ruined in business, and then commits suicide (three cheers!).  His fellow usurer, Gride, is also ruined in business, and then bloodily murdered (four cheers!) by criminals unknown.  Sir Mulberry burns through all his money, returns to England and dies in a debtor's prison (five cheers!).  The loathsome Wackford Squeers gets off pretty lightly, to be honest, and only gets transported.** His school is closed down, and his repellent little son dipped headfirst into a pot of brimstone, whilst his brutal wife gets force-fed of said brimstone.  Don't think she enjoyed the experience.

Somewhere in Yorkshire

     Now, in stark and utter contrast, my reading from today onwards is that thriller by Alistair Maclean, "Where Eagles Dare".  A right rip-roaring yarn, methinks!


And now - lunch. 

Still lunch.
There will continue to be lunch for some time.  I had better carry on whilst eating.


Further To The Above
Those noted prog rockers Procul Harum were a lot more than just "A Whiter Shade Of Pale", and as proof positive, I give you the instrumental "Repent Walpurgis", over on Youtube. 


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21UCojHGt9k




     Top stuff.

The Proculs, Haruming.

Finally -
We were talking about bizarre aircraft yesteryon, principally about the "Flying Flapjack" fighter, and that theme continues today with another bizarre-looking flying freak.  Gentlemen, prepare yourselves for a new scale of physical wonders - no, hang on, that was Professor Morbius in "Forbidden Planet", wasn't it?  I meant to say, prepare to gawp at what can only be described as - well, let's just have a picture, shall we?  Art?

"Look, Ma - no wings!"

     Indeed, it did not have any wings, and Your Humble Scribe was curiously looking to see where the cockpit was and where the pilot sat -
     I can save you the trouble, as the Aerodyne was intended to be  pilotless drone aircraft.  Drone?  With an engine capacity of that size, it probably roared!***
  








*  Of course, it's possible I should have been out party party partying.




**  But it is a long, horrible sea voyage to Australia.
***  Do you see - O you do.