Good Evening!
Well, it does say in the notes on Facebook that we here at BOOJUM! deal in tanks, atom bombs and zombies, so that's one charter item covered. Let's begin with TANK, shall we? Yes we shall, I was only being polite, you were going to get TANK whatever you said. Art!
BE WARNED! That vehicle to starboard is a TANK - a 'Chally' or Challenger 2. It's main purpose is to combat other tanks on the battlefield and act as infantry support, and it's main weapons are a 120 mm <cringes at Metric measurement> rifled gun, a co-axial and a pintle-mounted machine gun, and a Boiling Vessel. All Perfidious Albion's tanks since the Thirties have had a BV built in, which allows the crews to make a brew, and makes them the envy of the South Canadians.
The vehicle to port is NOT A TANK. It is an Armoured Personnel Carrier, designed to carry those squaddies you see in front of it into battle, protecting their delicate hides and providing fire support with a Rarden cannon and machine gun.
There you go, today's lesson on TANK. Simply because it has tracks does not mean it is TANK.
Now for Atom Bombs. Be advised that these are fission weapons, where a critical mass of fissile material is brought into being, and which splits apart most spectacularly, creating a self-sustaining chain reaction. Note that fission weapons are only about 6% efficient. Art!
You would get a large radioactive crater
If you want 100% efficiency, you need anti-matter warheads. Doubtless the South Canadians are researching this right now. Careful, chaps; I believe five grams <hack spit Metric again!> of AM will give you a twenty kiloton explosion.
There we go, a whistle-stop explanation of atom bombs. Now for ZOMBIES!
"All Of Us Are Dead" is a Sork zombie horror series that debuted in it's entirety last night, which surprised Conrad, as he expected to wait a week to see Episode Two. Apparently that's what these new-fangled 'Steaming' services do, which is where Boiling Vessels come in
ANYWAY let us cattle-prod that idle carbon-smutted troglodyte Art into action.
PLAINLY THEY ARE NOT!
Here an aside. As you should surely know by now, Conrad has a range of hilarious alternative titles for various nations across the globe. I've not dreamed up one for the Italians yet, though if you give me time I'll manage it. For "North Korea" we use the sneeringly dismissive 'Norks'*, so yes by rights for 'South Korea' we ought to be using "Souks" except that means 'Market' in Arabic, which would be hopelessly confusing. So 'Sorks' they shall be, even if this means Glaswegians end up being called 'Gorks'
ANYWAY on the spot with Esio Trot. This series is a zombie horror series that is mainly based in a Sork high school, which appears to be the teenaged hormonal hell that all secondary education is across the globe. BUT what's this - Art!
Small world, hmmmm? <pauses to don armoured underwear> because this chap, here the Science Tutor in a high school, is also the evil criminal mastermind 'Sigma' in "Sisyphus The Myth", that other Sork sci-fi drama series I'm watching intermittently <snaps fingers at the Coincidence Hydra>. Everything goes south because he doesn't bother to SECURE HIS HAMSTER. I have lost count of the number of times this leads to The Zombie Apocalypse. To all those maniacs plotting in laboratories across the world, ALWAYS SECURE YOUR HAMSTER! because otherwise everyone I was going to enslave will get off scot free by virtue of being either dead or undead. Art!
Bloody students.
Motley, please go sharpen the boar-spears, you never know when you'll need them.
Conrad: Delicate Of Touch
Welllll, sometimes. Admittedly I am more proficient in knocking a wall down with a sledgehammer than performing neurosurgery, but I have my days. The day being yesterday, as I was reading Catton's whopping big volume about the South Canadian Civil Unpleasantness. "Hmmmm, there appears to be a slight distortion in the pages ahead of my reading " - aloud as there was nobody around to frighten - "Could it be a fold-out map, that takes up more space than usual?" The maps of battlefields hadn't strayed beyond two pages at this point, so I flicked ahead and what did I find? Art!
 |
| The culprit |
The work was published in 1996 so Conrad doubts any CD that was present (mine wasn't) would work in this year AD 2022. I may chase this up because, as we all know, I am a pedantic hair-splitter of the very best kind.
Here's Your Beer
HAND'S OFF! It's MY beer, you go get your own, I was being all poetic and metaphorical and shizzle <short pause to compose self and quaff beer>. As we all know by now, Conrad trawls the beer, wine and spirit aisles of Morrisons on his weekly shop to see if there are any bottles or cans worthy of purchase in the service of BOOJUM! because they look interesting or odd or both. Frankly we do not care what the beverage is, nor how it tastes. If too horrid to drink we are always happy to donate to Darling Daughter. Art!
 |
| M 'kay |
Why it has a "K" is anyone's guess. Conrad's interest stems from H. P. Lovecraft, who was from Providence, Rhode Island, as he recalls from a BBC Radio 4 documentary "A Young Man Of Providence" back in 1984. Art!
Providential
The can also has a raised design, which is hard to detect from my photograph, meaning you get a better grip. Always a good thing with a can of beer.
Talking Of Horrid Supernatural Tales -
Time for more "Tormentor". Don't forget this is not the whimsical nonsense we - actually tanks, atom bombs and zombies aren't really 'whimsical nonsense', are they? O well, be warned that it's darker than your usual fare, especially this part.
Jen was nowhere to be seen. On the other hand, an
appalled shriek came from the prison van.
Marjory’s instruction, that a seer could enable the non-gifted to see if
they held the hand of a spirit and that person simultaneously, worked
perfectly.
From town centre, Louis got the bus back to college and spent a day without his spirit helper in the English classes he normally took. Things went normally, very normally indeed. They only returned to the un-natural when he got home for tea, and came back into the lounge after cruising the internet.
‘Hello!’ said a glowering Jen. ‘I’ve been having fun all day long.’
Eric Miller cursed the stupidity of the police escorts who seemingly tripped over their own legs and got his protective blanket tossed to the winds, just when the journo’s might have arrived.
From earwigging, he knew that the local press, and
perhaps a national daily, had discovered his planned low-profile transfer and
were intent on a photographic ambush.
The transfer got moved up to
Then they blew their cred by falling over, in front of
a witness too, who tried to step in to help.
At first Miller cringed back, imagining that the stranger carried a
knife or a razor. Then came that
peculiar chilling grasp on his shoulder before the interfering passer-by got
physically removed by a waiting fed.
Once in the van he got placed inside one of the four
tiny cells, barely big enough for a single person, while one detective stayed
in the walkway outside and the second sat in the cab.
Thanks to the seat design, the height of the cell and
the diminutive window, he couldn’t see out, but he took a look at the early
morning light streaming in.
Movement in the corner of his eye made him slowly move
his eyes back, keeping his head facing the window.
O Eric, you are not going to like this. Not one bit.
Finally -
We've gone well over the Compositional Ton, and Your Humble Scribe has a yen for some food, thus we'll end things here, so until tomorrow stay safe and boar-spear alerted!
* Not to be confused with the appreciative and respectful 'Norks' for 'Norwegians'
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