Meanwhile, I have been able to dig up and copy a photograph from the BBC's website that I'd intended to yark on about, except I'd not done so whilst typing this scrivel up in my Sekrit Layr. I can't load up photographs at work, since the software won't let me, risks of viruses or NSFW imagery and all that.
So! Here it is. Art?
"What do footballers get up to when the season is over?"
Not a question that has ever crossed my mind, especially since I don't care what they do before the season starts, or while the season is in being. A pat answer would doubtless involve wheelbarrows full of cash and Instagramme (whatever that is).
However, Conrad is convinced that they migrate to Egypt and burrow into the estuarine mud of the Nile delta, there to hibernate for the summer months. Once the days start to shorten, out they pop.
 |
| Like swallows. |
Yeah, just like swallows. Or, how those duffers in the ancient world believed swallows behaved.
<short pause as I go to turn the oven off>
"Four Years On The Western Front" By Aubrey Smith
You see? Aubrey Smith? In the transport section of the 1st London Rifle Brigade? You see how it fits in with the title?
Damn. It's not funny if you've got to explain it.
Anyway, I would like to report that one of Ol' Aub's nemeses (the plural of nemesis since there were two of 'em), namely the wicked and wilful horse Jack, died of some internal complaint. "So what?" I hear you quip. "A dead horse. Now they can't flog it, can they?"
| Nope |
You are unaware that the army of Perfidious Albion didn't like dead chattels lying about; it made the place look untidy. Oh - and health reasons, too. So the transport section had to dig a grave for Jack, which took a great deal of exertion, a horse being quite a sizeable object. Once done, they put up a cross for the nasty beast, enscribed thus:
"Here lies a steed, a gallant steed, whose Christian name was Jack.
How often he lugged our limbers to the firing line and back.
Although he's loth to leave us, he is happy on this score -
He won't be in this [redacted] rotten Army any more."
- which greatly amused the section's officers when they passed the grave.
During late June of 1916, the transport section had camped down in a small wood, which meant they had to feed and water their steeds and do this before getting any scoff or brew themselves, tie the horses to a rope line to prevent straying, hang up harnesses and then settle themselves, at which point an NCO in the Royal Garrison Artillery came up and asked them not to go poking around any further to their right - there was a battery of "nine point twos" hidden alongside.
 |
| 9.2s out in the open, manned by some Ockers |
The RGA manned the bigger guns, and a 9.2" going off nearby you is like getting hit in the chest with a shovel. A battery would have four guns, and the combined fire of these in the proximity would likely terrify the horses. Fortunately for Ol' Aub's peace of mind and hearing, before these guns began firing, they moved out.
As shall we.
<Phew. I may have over-reached myself with three jacket potatoes, a whole tub of left-over spag bol and two garlic chicken Kievs but I shall valiantly continue>
The Land-Bridge Lives!
Ah, so the spell-checker didn't like that word unless it was hyphenated. Got it. I may still put "Landbridge" merely to mess with it.*
If you recall, Your Humble Scribe has made mention of the ancient landbridge (see? Terrible person) that used to connect the Continent to England (and most definitely NOT the other way round), and what things would be like if it never got eroded and washed away. Art?
| Before this |
Firstly, you cannot circumnavigate Britain. This might very result in two large port cities developing on either side of the land-bridge at the English end, opposite each other, as trade and people embark or disembark and travel to the other side. Kind of Dover and it's sister town Over.
Trade and commerce with the Continent would be far easier, since all you require is a stout pair of shoes at the very minimum, rather than a ship. Or a horse and wagon, instead of a ship.
There would probably be a local change from the weather we have today, since the body of water to the south of our Sceptred Isle would no longer be moving in a constant throughput. Whether it would be better or worse is a moot point; given the tendency of British weather to be dull, damp and depressing, "Worse" is highly unlikely.
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| "Damn you, land-bridge, DAMN YOU!" |
But it's always a possibility.
There's more to come, which I won't grace this post with, as you can have too much of a good thing. For example, there's still one baked potato and some spag bol left.
An Infinite Recursive Loop
I'm sorry, II accidentally looked back over my notebook and saw "Replicator Abuse", and - you know, the old brain never stops working, and I immediately wondered - if you had a replicator, could you instruct it to replicate the component parts for another, giant replicator? Of course it would take a long time, as the replicator I imagine is about the size of a microwave: your government doesn't want you replicating tanks or jet fighters! so the components would need to be of a certain size or smaller.
 |
| The first stumbling step towards Conrad's vision |
Of course, once your Giant Replicator is assembled, you can either order it to replicate an Almost-Giant Replicator, or create pieces for an Enormously Giant Replicator. Your electricity bill is going to be huge, though.
Then you can command the replicators to build you a vast array of other huge replicators, and you can then command them to build you an instant army of Giant Killer Robots. World Domination made easy and quick!
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| <cackles maniacally> |
* I know, I know, I'm a terrible person.
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