Skating On Very Thin Ice

No, This Is Not A Joke About British Weather

Though we do seem to have had four seasons in one day.  All Your Humble Scribe is waiting for are some showers of frogs, and perhaps a flock or two of locusts.  Yes yes yes I know they were a Biblical plague, yet they are still seasonal, nicht wahr?

     I missed this off the list of Big Bug Movies because it is frankly risible, having painfully bad 'special' effects that consist of locusts filmed on a flat photograph.  Literally no expense spared.  Art!

     Of course - obviously! - in real-life these horrid hoppers would collapse under their own weight, and rather than infest city centres, they'd bee (sorry) off in the surrounding countryside, eating up whole acres each -

     ANYWAY what Your Humble Scribe actually meant to begin with was yet ANOTHER poisoned polemic about the inequities of Codeword.  Okay, let us dip a quivering be-taloned toe into the waters of woe.

"LUTZ": As you might expect, this threw Conrad.  "Did I get the words right?" I pondered, going back to check again. The only Lutz I knew was - Art!

Lutz Pfannensteil!

     Except you're not allowed to use person's names in Codeword solutions. So what can it be?  And, more importantly, can you eat it*?  Art!

     WHAT?  I had to resort to teh Interwebz to find out what this is, because it certainly wasn't in my Collins Concise.  'Twould seem that this is an ice-skating jump, and here let me quote Wiki: "The Lutz is a figure skating jump, named after Alois Lutz, an Austrian skater who performed it in 1913. It is a toepick-assisted jump with an entrance from a back outside edge and landing on the back outside edge of the opposite foot. It is the second-most difficult jump and the second-most famous jump after the Axel."

     I see.  When they say 'famous' they actually mean MOST WILFULLY OBSCURE TECHNICALITY EVER.  ARE WE NOW ICE-SKATING EXPERTS!?

     As you may have guessed, Conrad is positively seething with atomic angst, and if only the Remote Nuclear Detonator weren't off-line for repairs - O there'd be a reckoning.

     Motley, fish and chips for tea tonight.  How do you fancy a skate?

Back To That Building Site

You know, the seventeenth-century one that was being renovated by the construction firm contracted by Historic England, run by Noisy Gobshute, who had just sacked one of the only 9 people in the entire UK who could do part of the work.

     David, the sackee, refused to come back to the job unless he got a face-to-face apology from NG, half his money up-front and promise of not being bothered on the job. This never came to be, as Noisy Gobshute sacked the Site Manager in his trademark petty way, in an effort to shift the blame.

     The photo above shows a pub's plaster ceiling dating back to 1620, which developers ripped out the day before Historic England were due to assess it's status.  This wasn't illegal as the structure wasn't yet protected, and they were probably sniggering quietly to themselves at having dodged a bullet about maintaining the ceiling.  Har har, because their application to convert the building was refused.  This is how seriously people take historical shizzle in the UK.
     Well, David wasn't coming back, and the work had to be completed.  So - Noisy Gobshute hired a - waitforitwaitforit - Bulgarian.  David, kept informed by all the people at NG's headquarters who hated him with the burning passion of a thousand suns, was kept well abreast of all the news.  He wasn't worried, since he expected Basil (not his real name) to use 19th century methods in the renovation.  This was proved true when Basil failed to order the correct materials, because David knew exactly what was required to stay within specification.  Rather than jump in and deprive Basil of his wages, David stayed his execution for weeks, until he was certain that the Bulgarian had gone home well-compensated**.  Then, rubbing his hands and tweaking his moustache-ends (he might have been clean-shaven but whiskers work better here) he put his Diabolical Plan into action.

Beautiful Bulgaria

Gimme Shelter

NO!  Nothing to do with that collection of zombie cyborgs who perform in order to generate alimony money, or something along those lines.  No, I refer to another gluteus-gnashing attack by the Coincidence Hydra, because only recently have I come across the 'Hidden Manchester' website, where underground locations are explored and described.  Art!

     And I was convinced I had a photograph in "The War Illustrated" and have spent thirty minutes going backwards and forwards looking for it, getting grumpier by the minute (not a difficult achievement) when of course I realised it was in "Warrior Race", that work I purchased at the weekend.  O what it is to be old and slow***.  Art!

     It doesn't say which Manchester shelter, because there were half-a-dozen in Manchester city centre, with more in outlying towns.  It just struck me as a peculiar coincidence that here it was, just after Conrad has discovered HM.  The shelters are still there, just inaccessible and dangerous should you feel the irrepressible urge to visit.  Don't forget to let someone know where you're going, just in case, and don't copy those morons from "The Descent" who lie to each other about what their destination is.

Stockport, the sinister city south of Manch.

Finally -

We need but a short article to finish off and hit the Compositional Ton, so I thought I'd regale you with a couple of things.  Art!

     Hmmm, it hasn't come out as well as I'd like.  Whom you see here is Colonel Turner WHOPPING BIG SPOILER A-COMING YOUR WAY IN MERE SECONDS SO YOU'D BETTER STICK YOUR FINGERS IN YOUR EYES, who is revealed at the very end of "Where Eagles Dare" to be the British traitor.  He's sitting in the fuselage of an unheated transport aircraft in the depths of snowy Austrian mountain peaks, where it would be cold, spelled COLD.  Yet he's sweating as if in a sauna; you can just see it twinkling on his upper lip.  This is, of course - obviously! - because he knows he's doomed.  It's a subtle touch for a film that expended tens of thousands of rounds of small arms ammunition and blew up an entire castle.  Irony, hmmm?

And with that, sweet Vulnavia, we are done.

Things!  Exploding!

*  I know, I know, I think with my stomach.

**  Basil worked like a don - 12 hour days 7 days a week.

***  I maintain the gin has nothing to do with it.