Like A Flea On A Griddle

Yes, But Just Imagine -
 - a griddle one hundred and fifty yards square, so that no matter how hard and fast the evil little parasite hops, it's blood-bloated body explodes in a miniature gout of gore from the heat -
     Conrad no fan of fleas.
     

     Still, the analogy is an interesting one, nicht war?  One might speculate on the mental make-up of whoever invented it.  Probably some philosopher-shepherd off in the Hellenic republic of ancient times, sitting cursing as he scritched and scratched, and then caught one of the little leechers and, instead of bashing it between two rocks as usual, decided to hurl it onto the griddle where his dinner was cooking*.

Johann Sebastian Bach.  Nothing to do with fleas.

      I'm just listening to Spotify Premium and a bit of electronic Bach - "Jesu Joy Of Man's Desiring", thanks for asking -
     Which kind of proves the point I was making, that Your Humble Scribe's mind is ever jumping from one subject to another, with little or no provocation.  One of the advantages of having a mind like a skip is that - I beg your pardon?  Ah - colloquially known in South Canada as a "Dumpster" - is that stuff is always making it's way to the surface.
     Okay, recall Friday, when Matt and Shelli were giving a live performance on Youtube, featuring tunes from their "pop group"?  Art?

The bright young things themselves

     One tune they did was a cover of that toe-tapper of terpsichore, "Sally MacLennane" by The Pogues.  Naturally that led Conrad to bring up a picture of the album it comes from, the wonderfully jolly-named "Rum, Sodomy and the Lash" (a counterpoint to an assertion that life at sea was all wind, women and snog.  I think.  I wasn't paying close attention).  Art?

The album cover

     Now, you may not know it, or care <PHILISTINES!>, but this is an "homage", or what other, crueller and more cynical people might call a "rip-off", to an extremely influential and popular French painting, which is absolutely enormous, bigger than life size, called "The Raft of the Medusa".  It was created in 1819 by young Theodore Gericault, who took immense pains to create a realistic portrayal of a real and very shocking event.  Writ short, the Medusa was stranded 100 miles off the coast of Africa, and since there wasn't enough room aboard the ship's boats to accommodate everyone, 147 people were dumped on a raft, told "Africa is that way" and abandoned.  Only 15 survived.

The real thing, absent the Poguey element.

     Okay, that led me to recall a snatch of dialogue from a sci-fi novel that I'd read many decades ago, called "Star Fox" by the prolific (and rather good) Poul Anderson, where someone is singing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home", except Poul describes it as " - the cruel Irish original" where there's very little left of Johnny and remains can't march, as you need legs for that.
     Now, I haven't even thought of "The Star Fox" in decades, and when I bought it the cover illustration is what sold teenaged Conrad, so if we can poke Art with a red-hot pitchfork <ahem> er - a tuning fork -

I think it's an Anthony Roberts artwork

     Your Modest Artisan remembers feeling a bit let down that there wasn't more military mayhem and that there was character development and plot and guff like that - although now I am older and wiser I might enjoy it more.  As I recall, the chap above fleeing from the enemy (possibly alien) machine doesn't come out of it too well, as it has cutting blades on the underside ...
     Excuse me whilst I waggle my fingers in emulation, we're now onto Widor's famous and inspiring "Toccata In F Major" as played on a church organ, which is the only way to play it.  One of the best bits about "Close To The Edge"'s title track is when Rick Wakeman cuts loose on church organ amidst the neo-classical-jazzy stylings of his band.  Art?

Don't fall - no safety rail!

     So there you have it, a quick hop around the mental map of me.  And you're welcome.

No, no, you're okay, mate, we're not going to explode you**.

     Ooops.  This Intro has turned out to be most of the blog for today.  Quick, Vulnavia, bring up the anti-Steam Locomotive Ditch-Digger, and go turf the motley out of the septic sump, it's Art's turn.

Thrown Down The Sword
No!  I don't mean that track from Wishbone Ash's album "Argus" - my we seem to be referring to music a lot today, don't we? - which I remember Sir John Peel playing back in the Seventies -
     But I digress.  No, I was being all metaphorical and stuff, like that shepherd killing fleas.  I mean The Battle Of Lower Spleine, which I, as Royalist commander, have decided to end, leaving me, as Parliamentary commander, victorious.
     This was more a test of the 'Polemos' set of rules than a considered wargame carried out by someone with experience.  I've only played the rules once before, seven years ago, and never got to finish that game.  Art?

     The whole game was biased by me not deploying properly at the very beginning, which condemned the two sides to try and manoeuvre in too-confined a space.  I'll know better next time, and you could rationalise and say it reflected the real-life inexperience of armies in 1642.
     Anyway, the Oxford army's cavalry is stuck in a stalemate on both wings.  Art?

Royalist left wing

     There's not much prospect of pushing the Roundheads back here, and they have two squadrons in reserve, visible at the back.  Things on the right flank are also kind of honours-even.  Art?

     Again, not looking as if any breakthrough is likely, and that routing Parliament horse squadron might Rally next turn.
     Where the King's men took a real beating was in the centre.  Art?

     Only four bases left of eleven!  Part of the problem was the Royalist foot being far too close together, whereas the Parliament foot were all in a single line; then, too, the Parliament infantry were all Trained, which gave them a distinct edge in combat over the more numerous yet poorer-quality Oxford men.
     I feel there is potential here; the results seem to mirror what actually happened on battlefields of the English Uncivil Unpleasantness.  If another battle is in the offing, I shall have to sit down and get to work with pen and paper.

Finally - 
I'm only adding this in by force of habit, as we need at least three articles in BOOJUM! and, even though they're inordinately long, we've only had two.  So, I'd like to leave you with a bit of a riddle: where does gold come from?
     Not in the sense of being mined, nor being washed out of riverbeds by prospectors with pans, but in ultimately, where does it come from?

Ore or -

     The last Conrad knew, the astronomical and geological consensus was that it came from supernovae; in fact all heavy metals did.

The possible process

     Now, dammit, there's a competing theory that it originates from neutron stars.
     Which is it?  Come on, science, make your mind up!

*  Obviously this is really, really ancient times, before they invented hygiene and cleanliness.  And food safety.
**  Not today, anyway.