My Remote Nuclear Detonator -
- and thanks for the inspiration, Mirror Kirk! - stands ready to vapourise anyone who complains about spelling. Poetic licence, I say. And if your views differ - whose blog is it once again?
Now, you will recall, if you know what is good for you, that Your Humble Scribe was reading about the preparations for the Third Battle Of Krithia, in early June 1915, out on the Gallipoli peninsula. The First Unpleasantness? You may have heard of it. Big thing at the time. Art!
Alcitepe, as it is now known, at rush hour.
Conrad, who is wise beyond his years (127 at last count), looked on matters with foreboding. You see, as even the official history admits, the British divisions were only equipped with a third of the artillery they should have had, and had very few howitzers. I know, shocking, right?
You have no idea what I'm talking about, have you? <sighs in weary exasperation> okay okay. A howitzer is an artillery piece with a relatively short barrel, that can elevate to near-vertical positions. Art!
"Loud Bang-Making Equipment"
Thus they could drop shells behind dead ground, or use their parabolic trajectory (not a word pairing you expected today!) to drop almost vertically upon enemy trenches. Sadly for the British (including French and Commonwealth) the Turkish trenches at Third Krithia were undisturbed by howitzer shells, and as a result neither were the Turks. Art!
What's wrong with this picture?
Perhaps 'absent' would be more apt. You will notice that these British troops are wearing the splendidly elegant 'Solar Topee', which was supposed to protect the infantry bonce from scorching sunshine. It may very well have done; it's also a sterling fact that it did not protect from spall or shrapnel, and the fatal casualties would have been far fewer if the Brodie helmet had been issued - alas it was not in use for another year.
Then we have the dithering gimps in charge. But that is a tale for another day (probably tomorrow).
Motley! Time for a game of Cannibal Cucumber Carnage!
Protected by helmets, of course
Two Bites At The Cyanide Cherry
I'm guessing that there's no such fruit. Cherries, yes; oozing with cyanide, no.
Ooops.
Okay, THANK YOU SO MUCH MOTHER NATURE. Apparently cherry pits DO contain a compound that, when eaten by puny Hom. Sap., turns into cyanide and doing so with three stones is sufficient to kill you. Proper seedy.
Okay, two bites at the grape. That's fine, I take it? Similar size? Thank you botany. Thank you so much.
We are back at studying how spectacularly stupid Hom. Sap. can be, to the point of being rendered stone dead, for Lo! another Darwin Award beckons. First, a little background. A dodgy author named Forrest Fenn (I'm not making this up!) wrote a book that I'm not going to name, wherein he claimed to have buried £1,500,000 worth of gold and Jools.
Unavailable for comment
He further claimed that there were clues to where it was buried within nine pomes in the book. Nobody ever saw proof he'd buried so much as a single red cent but Hey! it moved books. 350,000 people have gone looking for this mythical treasure, and 4 people have died trying.
Enter Mike. If Mike had a job description, it would be 'Professional Idiot'. He and an unwise friend went to Dinosaur National Monument, in winter, with absolutely no preparation, equipment, clothing or supplies, because Mike knew, with absolute unerring scientific precision where that treasure was.
Dinosaur National Monument Park. Inclement in winter.
Sadly and badly, Mike was completely wrong. Both men got lost, and were found in the nick of time by search and rescue teams, who brought them to warmth and safety.
Wow, valuable life lesson, hmmm? Chalk it up to experience, snap one's fingers at fate and move on, right?
Wrong.
No sooner had he recovered his health than Mike (and his gullible friend) headed back to DNMP. They rented snowmobiles, which were put in their truck, and which enabled them to get really, really far into the wilderness. The hapless chap who rented out the snowmobiles alerted Park rangers when neither turned up by nightfall. They found the friend, barely alive, and Mike, whom had expired thanks to the icy wasteland he had lost himself in.
Fenn has since claimed the treasure has been found, except we have no proof it was ever there in the first place. Sorry, Mike.
"I have two candy bars and a bottle of water. Wilderness here I come!"
Well I was going to blather on about an item over at MagicFinger's "With The British Army In France And Flanders" buuuuuuuuuut I think not. We've had enough of the First Unpleasantness in one blog. How about we focus on LITHIUM WAFER BA - hmmm, perhaps not that, either. Ah! I know -
Dangerous!
Back to that long-neglected list of Horribly Poisonous Chemicals, for we all know how Conrad loves loves loves compounds that explode, are toxic, or radioactive, or preferably all three together (hello Plutonium!). Today we have Hydrogen Fluoride. Anything that contains fluorine is going to be at least faintly hellish, and this stuff is no exception. The thing is, HF is used in a vast number of industrial processes, and that non-stick saucepan you can only use wooden spoons on? Yup. Polytetrafluoroethylene.
Potentially lethal
HF in the raw will rapidly blind you thanks to destroying your corneas, since it instantly bonds with water to become hydrofluoric acid. This delightful aperitif will penetrate through the skin and begin destroying bones before you can sneeze. Art!
HF Fire. Having Fun?
There are lots of pictures of HF burns on teh Interwebz, which I'm not going to post as they're far too horrible and you might be eating. Suffice it to say that this stuff is not to be treated lightly.
Finally -
Apparently a lot of shops have re-opened today, so Your Humble Scribe may shortly be forced to travel into Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell and commute to his office job again. Goodbye to being able to roll out of bed and being able to log onto Enghouse five minutes later <annoyed face> although it means I will be able to see my colleagues face-to-face again <even more annoyed face>, which they may not be looking forward to, either. Ah well, such is life.
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