Lair Of The Dog

Which Reminds Me Of That Stupid Saying -

"Like a dog in a manger".  We are supposed to think that the dog is being selfish, because 1) it cannot eat hay and 2) it's preventing all the herbivores from getting at their scoff.  Art!

"I was here first!"

     Conrad posits that said hound is pretty wise, since it's lying on a nice warm, dry bed that's a lot more comfortable than the stable floor, which is covered with muck and dirty straw and manure.  What you might call <ahem> the 'Layer of the Dog'.

     ANYWAY that's only tangential to what I was going to bang on about at length, which was going to be 'Samogon', inspired by "To The Lake", where Polina (teenage tearaway and borderline alcoholic) finds a bottle of mysterious brown liquid and necks a fair few swallows before deciding 'Hey, this is pretty strong stuff.'  Yes it is.  Art!

<Insert Ruffian stereotype here>

     Traditional Samogon, you see, is brewed away from the big cities and the police, using makeshift stills and whatever vegetable matter is to hand - corn, potatoes, beetroot - or all three, or any other combination, with fruit or grapes or honey to sweeten the flavour.  It is thus much cheaper than vodka and considerably more dangerous, as home-made stills tend not to stick to health and safety guidelines and impurites or methanol can render you dead.  Nor is that all; it can be up to 90% proof, meaning the uncautious or over-enthusiastic can easily end up with alcohol poisoning.  Plus, it's dangerously flammable.  Lighting your fag whilst holding a glass of samogon puts you squarely in Guy Fawkes territory.  Art!

     HA!  This makes sense of another scene in TTL, where Boris opened a big wooden box and discovered similar.  The brewer pokes a hole in one of the fingers, which allows excess carbon dioxide to escape.  So now we know.

     ANYWAY that's all beside the point, because Conrad really wanted to talk about 'Aragh Sagi', which is Persian for "Doggy Arak" and YES! we are back on about beagles again.  I know both Shelli and Edna approve of this.  Art!

Behold the beagle!
(This is illegal)

     Aragh Sagi was produced in Iran before the Revolution, which is why that's the only picture you'll find on teh Interwebz.  The distillers who produced it had a beagle on the label, which naturally led to the Iranians calling it "Doggy Distillate".  It's made from raisins with distillations of other herbs or spices to flavour it, and is O SO ILLEGAL in the Iranian Republic, because they forbid alcohol*.

However ...

     Young people don't give a fig for their dictatorship, and instead use figs or raisins to made Aragh Sagi, more usually out in the countryside where the smells of distillation won't be noticed by the police.  Once again, like samogon, it's extremely strong stuff with all the attendant safety risks.

     There we go, all better informed than we were five minutes ago.

Strategic Strangle

For Lo! we are back with "The War Illustrated" Edition 145.  Given the fortnightly delay in publishing anything contemporaneous, readers were behind the curve when the magazine was published.  For example, by mid-January of 1943 the Axis bastion in Tunisia was under a double-pronged attack: from the west came the First Army, and from the East the Eighth Army.  The Axis position had no strategic depth and both sides saw the writing on the wall, with the Allies concerned about an Axis evacuation.  Art!

     Whilst supply by sea had become very risky indeed, men and supplies in a limited number could be flown in under cover of darkness, via the methods shown above: a huge cargo plane or a titchy glider.  They could also be evacuated the same way, which is what bothered Eisenhower.  Art!

With puny humans for scale

     The whole idea of an air bridge was a counsel of desperation, as the vast amount of supplies needed for an army in the field was simply impossible for aircraft to shift, certainly in the modest numbers the Teutons and Italians possessed.  Still, if you have lemons -

From Doom And Gloom To "Escape Room"

Don't forget, we shall be mentioning SPOILERS, so if you want to avoid knowing about plot holes that would allow not only a horse and carriage, but the Royal Scots Greys at the charge to pass through, do move on.  Art!

"We heard there was a plot hole?"

     SPOILERY BIT FOLLOWS.  

     Okay, so Ben and Jason, the sole survivors, escape from The Hospital Room and it's gas barrage, into what has been described as The Hallucination Room.  Art!

     Supposedly all the rooms have been designed with someone's worst fear in mind, so I must have been asleep when they linked this room with one of the candidates.  Both individuals end up getting spiked, and then have to find the antidote; but of course - obviously! - there's only enough antidote for one person.  O really?  How do they know?  Contrast the beefy bloke Mike with the teenage slip of a gal Zoey.  He'd have made two of her; if he'd taken the antidote, it might not have been sufficient to work; if Zoey took it she might well overdose.  How do They know that neither Ben nor Jason won't have an allergic reaction to the antidote?  Should it be given intravenously or intramuscularly?  Why not just wait until the hallucinogen wears off?

"We heard there was a plot hole?"

     Note also that the whole room rotates at speed, which implies considerable motive power to shift it, and 

SPOILERS!

     since there's nothing underneath it, said motor must be above the room.  Put a pin in that.

More Gloom And Doom

Time for another batch of freshly-baked "Tormentor"as we slot faithfully onwards.  

Jen hung around the edge of the classroom.  Today she had no need to slap anyone, since those who suffered her punishment last time weren’t here tonight.  Louis felt she might get bored.  He had to circulate and help each of the remaining students with their frankly appalling literacy skills, beginning with basic handwriting and alphabet.  Reading age eight on average, he surmised.

               Fifteen minutes before the lesson ended, he called for attention.

               ‘Okay.  I’m impressed at your ability to put the work in.  Everyone can leave, except Mister Big ****.  He can stay to play piano.’

               ‘Can’t make you out,’ muttered that same miniature hoodie-clad student as last week.

               ‘Good!’ Louis called out after him.  ‘When you can, I shall retire.’

              

 

After getting home he did the weekly shop, deciding that this week he would forego the purchase of alcohol in large amounts.  This was not completely voluntary; the spirit of Jennifer hung close to his elbow when he moved his trolley into the drinks and spirits aisle.

               ‘The English classes are boring.  And that girl fancies you,’ said the spirit dismissively.

               ‘Oh?’ said Louis with interest.  ‘If they bore you, then you don’t have to attend.  The remedial class, however, is one I do need your help with.’  He kept his voice low, not wanting to attract attention from other shoppers.

               ‘You didn’t ask about the girl.’

               ‘I’m a lecturer, Jen,’ he patiently and quietly responded.  ‘I don’t get involved with students.’ 

               ‘Besides,’ he added.  ‘Do you begrudge me some physical consolation?’

               The trolley chose that moment to ram a pile of baked beans tins.

               ‘I guess that’s a yes,’ he muttered to himself.

      A female spirit scorned is just as wrathful as the earthly version.  Who knew!

*  Strange that they have 200,000 alcoholics, then, isn't it?