Enough With The Quibbly Questions!

Conrad, As We Already Know -

Lives in a state of perpetual anger.  There is little about the modern world that does not irk him, and, as we also know, he is not slow to inform the world and his wife about the latest rancourous rage.

     Thus we have this.  Art!

From the BBC's website

     NO.

     Right, let's move on from that.

     Yes, this has to be one of the shortest Intros ever.

Gosh, what a grumpy old man I am!  Why would I ever want to 'learn to be happy' when I get such immense satisfaction from being perpetually angry?

I actually wrote this Intro last night, as Conrad couldn't be sure that the treacherous and despicable BBC wouldn't delete the article before dawn, knowing that they were bound to arouse someone's ire.

From Cuckoos To Triffids

We were discussing John Wyndham's "The Midwich Cuckoos" yesteryon, so of course - obviously! - Your Humble Scribe's mind ran to "The Day Of The Triffids", because who doesn't enjoy a cosy catastrophe or two?  I have just checked on the publication date - what's that?  You want a picture? O go on then.  Art!

Extreme gardening

     ANYWAY as I was saying, it was published in 1951, which is significant, because Sputnik didn't go aloft until 1957, beeping it's Sinister wicked way across the heavens.  Ol' Johnny has the global catastrophe that blinds 99% of the world's population as being an orbital weapons system gone amok, pretty presciently.  Later in the novel a mystery plague infects and kills survivors, with the implication that it, too, was a satellite weapon.  Hmmmm.  Unwise, really, putting a biological weapon into use, because diseases don't observe border protocols.  Art!

CAUTION! Not for human consumption

     These pictures are from the best adaptation of TDOTT, done by the marvellous and wonderful BBC in 1981.  There has been a sequel, approved by the Wyndham estate, "Night Of The Triffids", by Simon Clarke, which is mostly set in South Canada, which I've read, and is okay.  Even more interestingly for Conrad, a chap called John Whitbourne wrote "The Age Of The Triffid", which was NOT authorised by the Wyndham estate and which is only on sale in British America and the land of the Polite Australians, so I may have to look it up on Abebooks.  This, like NOTT, is set 25 years after the original and is an attempt to work out and explain 'What Happened Next'.  Art!

Proof I am not raving

     Conrad would like to float a theory here that might explain the apparent organised and intelligent behaviour of triffids, because as Ol' Johnny has his character Bill Masen explain, a dissected triffid possesses nothing like a brain.  Perhaps what he witnesses is a species of 'hive mind', one similar to that found in social insects like bees or ants, where the monad community expresses behaviour beyond the capability of individuals.  I dunno, it's only a theory.  

How d'ya like THEM! apples, huh?

     Motley!  Here's a machete and a flamethrower, go tend the garden.  And be careful of the Hopping Anti-personnel Mines, they're feeling tetchy today.

If I Were To 'Moon' You -

First of all WASH OUT YOUR FILTHY MINDS! Have you not got it through your concrete-covered crania that BOOJUM! is eminently SFW, and yes we did have a lady's bottom on once, but it was on a statue which makes it art and therefore okay.

     No, I am talking about the latest jigsaw, which is the first circular one I've done, and it's much harder than I anticipated, partly because there are no edges or corners, and partly because the subject matter is so low contrast.  Art!

     There are 59 pieces in that outer ring, and Conrad is uncertain if there really is a piece missing or if I've simply missed it, as there are 190 other pieces left in the box.  I guess we'll find out!

Much Madness And Horror The Soul Of The Plot

I nicked that from Edgar Allan Poe.  He can't complain, he's been dead for lo these many decades <checks> ah 1849.  On with my very own compilation of madness and horror, "Tormentor"!

Once he got home, Louis found Jen waiting for him, having made an omelette.

               ‘Mushroom, bacon and peppers,’ she proudly informed him.  ‘Involving lateral, rotary and reciprocal hand and wrist movements.  Chopping, whisking and stirring to you.’

               ‘Jen,’ he cautioned.  ‘This may be your first attempt at an omelette – not bad, not bad at all, actually – but please, don’t feel you have to look after me.’

               The spirit instantly began to broadcast sparks and a radioactive aura worthy of a malfunctioning nuclear reactor.

               ‘Look after you!  Luma, I choose to stay here until closure!  Your welfare is a side-effect!’

               Truly, this spirit was an entity that had divorced itself from the original Jennifer Hargreaves.

               ‘Let me guess.  “Closure” means that Eric Miller dies.  Is that what you want?’ asked Louis, not in any confrontational way, merely trying to clarify matters.

               ‘Yessss’ hissed the spirit, spitting sparks.  ‘My killer, dead.’

               That must be what Dave Hargreaves is working towards, realised Louis.  A vague idea took shape in his hindbrain, shades of Elizabethan revenger tragedies.

               ‘How about – try this on for size.  I get within physical contact range of Eric Miller, and touch him.  Probably with both hands around his neck squeezing as hard as possible.  That allows him to see you.’

               The spirit perked up and lost her frantically sizzling aura.

               ‘Oooh, yes, that would do it!  Let me go and see Marjory, I’ll ask her what comes next.’

               ‘Hang on, hang on.  You need to ask her how a spirit can become visible to people without second sight, and for long stretches of time.’

               ‘Oh-kay.  Alright.  See you soon.’    The spirit vanished off the settee, once again after having shifted the photograph of Jackie around.

     This is, of course, HUGELY unwise, because vengeance is reserved for a certain deity.  What can possibly go wrong?

I say!  Blue skies aloft!  Conrad bets it's cold outside.  There is a distinct danger of a dog walk in the near future, with the weather this bright and breezy.

"Between" Two States

Hmmmm.  So, in the small township of Pretty Lake, corralled inside a Lethal Death Zone, we have people in one of two states: under 21 and alive, or over 21 and dead.  The mystery plague appears to be hard-wired to become effective when a person's body clock hits 22, because one character did that and immediately died.

The cast keeps shrinking!

     The Evil Canuckistanian* Government is serious about their killer quarantine, too, instantly shooting down a light aircraft that attempted to fly over the LDZ.  Guys, the clock is ticking on this one, you'd better come up with a solution soon!  After three weeks of quarantine only a fifth of the population is left.  Those are not good statistics.

Finally -

Well, we only need a short article to hit the Compositional Ton, so - let's look at an uranium mine, shall we?  Because some of you are going to be working in one when I take over.  Art!

     Aha.  I see.  Rather grim-looking, isn't it?  Art!

     Those trucks look as if they're hand-propelled.  Toxic AND heavy work!  Art!

     Look at all that safety gear that you WON'T have.  A loincloth and sandals, that's all you'll be getting.  A rather larger loincloth for the ladies.  First person to complain gets sent to the organ banks!

*  The series is set in British America, in case you were wondering.  And even if you weren't.