Bolt-On And Off

This Has Less To Do With Politics -
And more to do with simple self-preservation. You may already be aware that the South Canadian Defence Secretary John Bolton bears a strong resemblance to Your Humble Scribe, which, if Art is at all on the case -
              
                            John Bolton                                                          Your Humble Scribe     
     I think you see my point.
     Conrad's worry, you see, is that Mister Bolton's intention to either blow up the world or conquer it would redound back upon himself, and that there would be a debate aboard a First Bus thus:

VEHEMENT YET MISGUIDED PASSENGER: Hey!  You're that John Bolton bloke!
CONRAD: Afraid not
VYMP: You '*$#@!> South Canadian b*****!  If you're not blowing up the world you're trying to conquer it!*
CONRAD: Still not
VYMP: Here's one in the eye for everyone you've been bombing silly, courtesy the Sanjak of Novi Pazar -

<a scuffle ensues>

POLICE OFFICER: Now, sir, can you explain what happened?
VYMP:  Yeah, it was this c**** b******** inviting it, sitting there all smug and arrogant, like.
POLICE OFFICER: What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Bolton?
CONRAD: Reality sucks.
     Now that El Bolto has been hurled from the political heights, or did he jump? well, regardless, the scenario above is less likely to happen.  Why one would believe that the South Canadian Defence Secretary is slumming it on a bus to Gomorrah-in-the-Irwell is quite beyond me, but recall that Einstein quote about hydrogen and stupidity.


Vindicated
I was a bit downcast on Monday morning, not because I have to faff around and catch two buses into work where previously it was but one, nor yet because it is now pitch black and depressingly dismal of a morning, nor yet because it was damp and soggy.  Rather, because I'd been sat trying to do The Metro's Cryptic Crossword and - I only got six clues.

     I know this sounds about on par with Minor Earth Tremor In Bolivia, A Few People Were A Bit Scared - to you.  To Conrad it was akin to the sky splitting open and an invasion of Frumious Bandersnatchi descending, to the soundtrack of "The Sound Of Music", aided by a hundred million clones of Russell Brand and Alan Carr.
     Bad news, in other words.      Fortunately, Your Modest Artisan's intellect had re-established it's moral superiority over the crossword kingdom by the time it came to journey home, and I give you that photograph above as evidence.  And no, I did not cheat!
A Tale Of Two Rooms
Your Humble Scribe had another thing pop up into his brain from the fruitful, if fuming, depths of his fetid mind, about the very ending of an M R James ghost story, where the narrating character mentions an old house having what I recalled as a "Blackbeard's Chamber".
     You know me.  If I get the scent of anything interesting I will pursue it with the relentless endeavour of a cyborg bloodhound mainlining amphetamine sulphate, riding a rocket of ruthlessness**.

A frankly effete-looking Blackbeard
(But don't tell him I said that, okay?)

     First things first.  A search for "Blackbeard's Chamber" brought up nought but stories about pirates and piracy and how Edward Teach (Blackbeard's Sunday name) stuck lit tapers in his beard to terrify the opposition.  If the illustration above is anything to go by, then it looks as if his brains are boiling away via his ears, which might be alarming to observe; definitely not terrifying.
     Back to M R James.  I did some effective Google-fu and discovered the story I was after was called "The Residence at Whitminster" and that the story ends with mention of a "Bluebeard's Chamber".
     Bluebeard, Blackbeard, close enough for friends.
     This is where we need to backtrack about Bluebeard.  This character is from French folklore, being a nobleman who had married many times, always to beautiful ladies who subsequently - vanished.


     This was the Middle Ages, that or the Early Modern Period, when nobody bothered about women vanishing, since they couldn't vote or do complicated maths. 
     Anyway, Ol' Bluey's latest wife "vanishes" and blahblablah, he ends up marrying the beautiful daughter of a local nobleman, who moves in with him.  When he has to go away on business, he leaves her with a bunch of keys and an admonition NEVER TO ENTER A PARTICULAR LOCKED CHAMBER.
     Have you got that?  He gave her the key to that very same chamber, amongst others and told her NEVER TO ENTER IT.  NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
     "What if the castle was burning down and that room was the only access to a fire-free escape route?" I hear you wibble.
    WHICH PART OF "NEVER" DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?
     "But," I hear you continue to quibble, "If there was an invasion of giant spider-wasps and that was -"
     NEVER!
    
     ... we shall leave the story there for the moment, Vulnavia, just to build up a sense of suspense.

"NEVER OPEN A PARTICULAR LOCKED CHAMBER!"
(Less a blue beard than great big pop eyes)

Egad!  The Weather!
Forsooth, this morning it was dark and dismal and the rain came pounding down in Gomorrah-in-the-Irwell as if the concepts of "dry" or "sunshine" had gone out of use.  To over-use one of my favourite phrases, the Atlantic Ocean came to visit.  Now, however, it is the early afternoon and my starboard side is being slowly roasted by the actinic rays of sunlight spearing into the office.   
     Will this madness never cease?!

Manchester bakes

     This morning you could not see the top of the Halle Tower, so low was the cloud base, and now people are dancing in the Picadilly Square fountains.
     (I can't actually see Pic Gards from here, but take it from me, there will be some chavvish individuals getting wet inside and outside there).

I am going to end it there as by the time I finish this we shall have hit the Compositional Ton, and I'd like to get this out there by Publishing before I leave work.

Chin Chin!


*  How coincidental that this person speaks in the way Conrad writes.
**  Ruthless in a good way