The Music Of The Spheres

NO!  We Are Not Talking About The Coldplay Album

Principally because I didn't realise it existed until five minutes ago, and also because I worry that Anthony Moran will come round and punch me in the face for even implying that I was going to play it, because he considers Coldplay as generic music for elevators in corporate headquarters of soul-less multi-nationals.  Nevertheless Conrad will cheerfully co-opt their cover, in order to fool people into visiting BOOJUM! because we are unencumbered by morals or scruples.  Art!

     No, what I want to introduce here is a philosophical concept about the orbits of the planets, as evinced by pioneering astronomer Johannes Kepler, which he dubbed "The music of the spheres", because back in the day planets were all seen as spherical instead of oblate spheroids (thanks to rotational artefacts).  Their orbits were all seen as spherical, too, when today we know this is not necessarily true.

      ANYWAY Ol' Jo put it about in a modern way that the orbits of the Sun and other observed planets generated music.  This was an update of Pythagoras and his school of thought a couple of thousand years previously.  Art!

Kepler's Nova

     That's Kepler's Nova, and getting a stellar object named after yourself is a sure sign you've arrived on the astronomical scene.  He can't appreciate it, he's been dust and vapour for a good few centuries.

     The thing about Ol' Jo's MOTS is that it wasn't audible, which ought to be wildly apparent when you stop to think about it; you don't get a burst of wild chords when the sun rises, do you? nor when the Moon appears over the horizon.  No, it was - er - 'heard' by the soul.  Yes.

     ANYWAY of course - obviously! - none of that MOTS guff has anything to do with what I wanted to go on about in this Intro, which was inspired by a headline on the BBC News webpage.  Art!

     FIVE THOUSAND!  Just imagine, before 1992 we'd no idea if there were any beyond the Solar System.  Now we know the heavens are hotching with the Dog Buns things, and indeed they seem to be the rule rather than the exception.  At first we could only detect planets the size of Jupiter, then as methodology and technology developed - James Webb Space Telescope I'm looking at you - we are getting to resolving small rocky worlds the size of Earth.  Art!

     That there is Kepler (yes that man again!) 452b, a small rocky world 1,600 light years away and, in the scheme of exoplanets, that is remarkably like Earth, which orbits in the 'Goldilocks' zone where liquid water will be present, if there is water present, and not molten iron or petrol.*  Possibly one of the denizens there is poring over data, having realised that Glypticritzwangbob 938574Z is a mirror image of their own world only 1,600 light years away.

     OKAY!  As mentioned prior, thank heavens that The Music Of The Spheres cannot be heard, because Earth would be bombarded with perpetual noise all day long, all year round, for century upon century.  Rather like - Art!

    - sticking your head in the bass bins at a Motorhead concert ALL DAY LONG.  As for being heard by the soul <insert Motown joke here>.  

Referencing "The War Illustrated" Again

Gotta get this in here, we're posting photographs from the March 19th edition all of a week and a half ago, meaning we're falling behind schedule.  Bring it on Art!

Conrad apologises for his shaky hands

     Hmmm can't read that description myself.  I think it alludes to modern warfare catching up to places of great antiquity in Tunisia.  Let me check the original.  So, these are 1)  street scenes in Sfax, 2) a Byzantine Basilica at Ain El Tebessa and 3) Roman tombs at Sbeitla.

     This montage shows British formations from 1st Army operating in Tunisia.  This force was advancing on Tunis from the West as the 8th Army advanced from the East.  You can see from these pictures that Tunisia differs considerably from the desert - lots of hills, mountains, trees and mud - and required different tactics to deal with the Axis; no haring off round an open southern flank.

March Going Out Like A Polar Bear

Conrad can scarcely believe that he took Edna walkies last Saturday in a tee-shirt and without any socks - as well as the usual other clothing, I hasten to add - whilst had I attempted this today I'd have frostbite.  Let me produce the evidence.  Art!

     The temperature might have been above zero, however the wind-chill took it well below, making me glad to be clad in scarf and fingerless gloves.  As well as the usual other clothing, I hasten to add.  So much for the lamb, hmmm**?

     Meanwhile, back in Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell - Art!

     Not a flake to be seen.  This is the view from Burgerking as Your Humble Scribe fortified himself with breakfast in a bun.  View it and weep Ruffians!

Bring On The Torment!

You should recall that Luma was being quizzed by a spirit that appeared to be that of his starchy Swiss spirit mentor, The Prof, yet - something wasn't right.

‘Ah! Damn you and your prattle!’grated a voice unlike the Professors, issuing at first from the Professor’s face and then from a face that twisted and lengthened, gaining a slack jaw with great jagged teeth, a hole where a nose ought to have been, and tiny, baleful red eyes.  The Professor’s clothes vanished into smoke that vanished itself.  What remained looked like a parody of a person, naked, bone-white, with huge hands at the end of arms so long they nearly reached the floor, and huge claws on the ends of those immense hands.  Shocks of white hair clumped all over the liver-spotted torso, and between the toes of the creature’s absurdly small feet.  A sudden chill fell upon the room.

               ‘And what do they call you?’ asked Louis, his breath fogging before him.  The creature didn’t answer, it sprang at him instead, slashing out with those great long arms as he twisted away.  A set of claws raked down his left arm from shoulder to elbow, slitting the fabric of his shirt and drawing blood.  His aim thrown off, the silver ball intended for the imposter’s head only travelled through it’s middle as it turned to attack again.  The projectile trailed a length of vapour and the hole left in the spirit rapidly grew larger, eating away at the crumbling edges of the wound.

               ‘Shit!  That ******* hurts!’it shrieked, clawing at the fist-sized hole in what would be the rib-cage on a human being.  Louis flicked another silver ball at the creature, hitting it squarely in the head.  The shriek that went up this time hurt his ears, it was so intense.

               Then, the creature vanished.  A chorus of barking dogs and wailing cats accompanied the departure.

     Blimey!  That's Luma playing it a bit close.

Finally -

Conrad comments critically on The Conflict, and if you ask "Which one?" I will flick a silver ball through the centre of your forehead, and see how you like it.

     Tsar Poutine is now retreating from Kiev and Cherniv, don't be fooled by all the Ruffian blather about 'It's all going perfectly to plan'.  The plan is now to move forces north across the border into Belarus and Ruffia, railroad them east and show how inept they can be in the Donbass.  The thing is, a retreat like this can easily turn into a rout with demotivated bungling conscripts being led by incompetent generals.  They will also have to leave behind anything that's either broken down or run out of fuel, on top of what's already been gifted to the Ukes.  Who will then probably send them all east to the Donbass.  Or, and this must worry Tsar Poutine, attack the flank of the forces that have moved out from Crimea.  Once again salute the mighty genius of Jonesy for dreaming this Plan B up, with his special military advisers - Art!

Jonesy modelling 2023's new Ruffian infantry kit

Martial geniuses every one

     Now, having made Dimya weep into his kasha, let us move on as we are well and truly done done done.

*  Honest, true, I swear on this stack of 'The Expanse' novels.

**  Aptly enough "The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway" has just been playing

Don't Get Your Knicks In A Pnyx

Actually, Conrad Unsure How To Pronounce That

This fear of an unintentional pronunciation faux pas is one reason he is very wary about using Latin <hack spit> phrases for fear of getting it wrong whilst trying to sound intellectual.  This is the ONLY reason you are allowed to use Latin.  I think priests have an out on this but will have to check.  Art!

Uke BTR4.  Of this, more later.

     
     Because, really, making a Latin phrase sound exciting is an uphill struggle.

     ANYWAY whilst talking about hills, we come to Pnyx.  This is a contribution from those rascals Steve and Oscar, having come to the forefront of my mind yesteryon whilst out of range of writing paper (for I am never without a pen).

     Here an aside.  I have abbreviated the Anglo-Saxon phrase 'Don't get your knickers in a twist' for today's title to hilarious effect, which probably needs a slight touch of translation to make sense to any South Canadian readers present.  "Don't get your panties in a bunch" would be the equivalent.  NO there will be no illustration from Art, you fearful perverts!  In fact - 

A Pnyx.  Possible the Pnyx.

     As good as a cold shower.  Right, back to this mysterious 'Pnyx'.  Your Humble Scribe was aware it had it's origins in ancient Greece.  It wasn't that river in the underworld that needed a ferry to cross, that was the Styx and the ferryman was Charon.  Conrad has his own tale of travel trouble today which you will no doubt get to hear, like it or not.

     Here an aside.  Pretty sweet gig, that ferrying operation.  One suspects that Charon was bribing someone in the Hades civil planning branch, because surely a bridge would be far simpler and more ergonomic?  Which is the Greek for "The laws of work", and now we know more than we did five minutes ago.  Art!

Charon, coining it in, the piker

     ANYWAY you may not have heard of the Pnyx, which is not altogether surprising unless you study the history of ancient Greece.  It is a small, rocky hill which at the time was just far enough from the agora in Athens to avoid the tumult and noise of that city's social and economic centre.  It was also conveniently close for those who wanted to gather and blather, making it a very important site in the history of democracy, since these gatherings began two and a half thousand years ago.  Art!

     That small stone structure to starboard is the Speakers plinth, where Greeks would get up and attempt to sway the crowd.  Many of their most outstanding historical figures got up and tried their rhetoric here - Pericles, Alcibiades and Demosthenes are three of the names I recognised.  The Greek principles of equality - of speech, of accession to positions of authority and of vote - were encapsulated in assemblies upon the Pnyx, and the principal speaker began proceedings by asking if anyone - literally anyone - wished to address the Popular Assembly.

     Noble beginnings indeed!

     Unfortunately I cannot explain why, for any reason, this came up to front of brain.  If you have any answers, please add them in the Comments.  Art!

"I am allowed to speak first because I wear the Magic Helmet!"

The Travails Of Travel Today

Not in general, Conrad doesn't care what horrors you suffer, it's all about me me me.  And this morning was especially awful.  The 409 managed to turn up on time, be a double-decker and had The Metro, hooray -

     Not so fast, matey.  Firstly, it was packed, which is unusual at that point in it's journey.  A little sly eavesdropping (one of my talents) revealed that the previous bus and the bus before that never turned up.  So, of course - obviously! - there were swarms of passengers a-waiting, which made the journey even slower.  Plus one particular passenger brought their shrieking infant aboard, ignoring them for five minutes, before removing them from their bed of nails or similar, which stopped the caterwauling.  Then we hit roadworks ...

     A journey the timetables laughingly claim takes 15 minutes took 40.  Art!

Happy laughing Conrad*

Let Us Soothe Nerves With A Pretty Picture

I find the best way to settle nerves is a bathful of brandy, you marinade in it whilst drinking it, and that way your nerves are most definitely settled.  Right!  Since we must stay sober, for we are at work, let us instead have one of those Sony World Photography candidates.  Art!

     Here you see 'a wild stallion' a.k.a. a mustang, 'kicking up a dust storm'.  Indeed.  Perhaps some hapless First Bus passenger was eyeing him up as an emergency method of gaining the homestead.  If it was Conrad then a casserole would occupy the forefront of his attention.  Art!

Sorry, couldn't resist

Have We Had Enough Of Torment For Today?

NO!  We are a collective glutton for punishment, because here's another extract from "Tormentor", where, if you recall, what looked like The Prof was making Luma very, very suspicious.  Even more so than usual.

‘Then again, I still have my crucifix.  I never take that off now!  And - ’ 

               With a satisfyingly loud click the kettle switched itself off.

               ‘And what?’ asked the Professor, hovering closer.  Literally hovering, a gap appearing beneath the floor and his neat and tidy shoes.  Louis ignored him to make the cup of tea properly, sipping it to make sure there was enough milk.

               ‘Ahh!  Can’t beat a good cup of tea.’  He switched hands, waving his right one right in front of the Professor.  ‘And my bracelet.’

               The Professor hissed mutedly and backed away.

               ‘Careful with that!’

               ‘Also, I have a couple of other items.  Here, I’ll show you - ’

               Louis strode into the back room, followed by what he was convinced was another spirit trying to imitate the starchy Swiss tutor, and not quite managing.  After all, the Prof knew all about that bracelet.

               ‘Damn, where did I put it?’

               He was trying to draw the conversation out, to see if he could trick this spirit into revealing itself, because it surely wasn’t the Professor.  Not that he dared to simply hit it with hand-thrown silver shot.

               The Professor leaned forward and put his hands on the table that supported Louis’s computer, as if tired and trying to remain balanced.

               ‘Sorry, I know it’s here …’ and Louis tailed off, seeing one of the “Professor”s hands pressed heavily onto the table rapidly shrivel into a big clawlike appendage, dotted with liver spots, sprouting long white hairs.  Talons, too.  Without speaking, even if his arms sprouted gooseflesh at the eerie sight, Louis stuck his right hand into his jeans pocket.

               ‘Trouble with your ectoplasm?’ he asked quietly.

     How postively unexpected!  Well, partially-unexpected.  Okay okay, you could see it coming.  Happy now?

     Hang on!  Wait one!  Let us check and see if the Champion Grumpy Old Man of contemporary music is still alive.  Art?

How to scare cats the Don Fagen way!

     Phew, he is.  That was a narrow escape. On with the motley!

Finally -

I did warn you that we'd come back to the 'Bucephalus', which is the Ukes own name for their variant of the BTR4, as seen above.  Let me refresh your memory.  Art!

     This is a bit of a hybrid.  It carries 8 infantry in the back, and a remote-controlled turret aloft, so it can mix it with other armoured vehicles, as well as being a battle-taxi for the dismounts.  The 30 m.m.** cannon is a pretty formidable weapon in it's own right, and the Ukes tend to pair it with a machine-gun, and grenade launchers.  No, it doesn't have the reach and resoluteness of a tank, but it doesn't have to because the dismounted infantry protect it, as it protects them.  There is graphic evidence of this on Youtube should you wish to look; we shall draw a veil over it.

     And Bucephalus?  The chosen steed of Alexandros Meglos, or Alexander the Great to you (the Uke's Cyrillic alphabet being derived from the Greek one), which is where we came in.

Pip pip!

*  Generating blog content is NOT sufficient compensation.

** Apologies for using Metric here.

In The Name Of The Rose

NO!

oi0ikop09ikoii - sorry, butter on the keyboard - in the words of your English teacher, GO BACK AND READ WHAT IT SAYS NOT WHAT YOU THINK IT SAYS.  We shall ooooooooooooooooooo - sorry, still some butter on the keyboard - pause for a moment here to ensure the keyboard is butter-free and for my Frothing Nitric Ire to ebb a little.  In the meantime, here's - Art!

     - a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, because I'll bet you never gave a second thought to how important aero-engines were in the Second World 'Special' Military Operation and the Mustang o

     ANYWAY this Intro is, of course - obviously! - nothing to do with the film "The Name Of The Rose", which Conrad has seen Lo! these many times, and has even read the novel it is based on - which has a less Hollywood ending that the film.  Art!

     In fact we referred to one of the principal antagonists in this film just the other week <name escapes Conrad's feeble memory> Feodor Chaliapin! (thank you Google), whom, amongst most of the cast, manages to look spectacularly ugly.  There's probably a casting agency called Ugly Bugs who have a roster of - er - 'attraction-challenged' actors.

     ANYWAY this Intro is in fact about roses, just not the ones you were expecting.  You see, there is a Latin <swills mouth out> saying  'Sub Rosa', which means 'Under the rose'.  Art!

     Back in the day - by which I mean several thousand years ago - the rose became associated with secrecy, when Cupid tried to keep Venus' - YES VENUS AGAIN! - secrets from the prying eyes of the other Olympians, because Olympians enjoyed messing up their fellow gods only slightly less than they enjoyed messing up Hom. Sap.  Thus if you happened to be holding a meeting and wanted members to get the message that loose lips sink ships, you bedecked your furniture with - roses.  Art!

     Because Conrad is too lazy to be subtle, I'd have gone with the Tongue Orchid, as a stern reminder that yours might go missing if you flap it about excessively.  Art!

Let's Have More Sony Photos

Conrad is rather cross about the lack of attribution with these pictures since they were taken by individuals who might like the credit they are due.  Okay, enough waffling, bring on the photos -

     Blimey, there's a face only it's mother could love.  It looks like a monster straight out of the imagination of that world-famous documentary maker John Carpenter, doesn't it?  In reality <boos at boring reality> it is a Crowned Tree Frog, a denizen of Guapiles in Costa Rica.  Doubtless it oozes incredibly toxic sweat that will kill a full-grown elephant with a single lick*.

Meanwhile, Back In Tunisia ...

Which those pikers the Romans knew as Africa Vetus, although this is some thousand years plus since their Vetan hey-day.  Nineteen Forty-Three, to be precise, as we upload more images from "The War Illustrated".  Don't forget, there was always a pause between any real-world event and it being reported, to ensure the Axis couldn't squeeze any information from it.  Art!

     These images seem to be concentrating on the Brylcreem Boys, filling in a bit of background.  Here you see their Servicing Commandoes, who appear to be armed engineers and pioneers, able to do sentry stag, make minor airframe repairs and prepare runways for aircraft.  Since the text is a trifle blurred, allow me to point out that's a Bisley light bomber, a type Your Humble Scribe is unfamiliar with.  Aha.  Apparently it was a Blenheim variant.  Now we are all the wiser.

     Here we have the Tunisian landscape and native villages and towns, all seized the previous month of February - don't forget, strategic delay in publishing.  They are, in order from the top, Medenine, Gabes and Gafsa.  I wonder what they look like today?  Art!

Medenine

Gabes

Gafsa

     Obviously there has been a bit of development over the past eighty-odd years.  You may have noticed**.
     That's enough TWI for one afternoon.  Let us move on.

Back!  Back!  It's A "Tormentor" Attack!

Leaving it at that rather ambiguous statement, let us return to my long-form fiction, where Luma, already suspecting Something Is Up, is made even more suspicious by the aberrant behaviour of his mentoring spirit, The Prof.

‘Well, interesting that you ask that, Prof.  I can call you “Prof”, can’t I?  Here, take a seat.’  He walloped the settee cushion next to him for emphasis. 

               ‘I shall remain standing.’

               ‘Okay, your decision.  Do you want a cup of tea?’

               ‘No!  Please, I need to know what you have arranged in terms of defences.’

               ‘Right.  D’you mind if I have a cup of tea?’

               The Prof seemed to quiver with righteous wrath and avoided answering.  Louis got up from the settee, stretched mightily, killed the sound on his television, sat back down again heavily and got back up.

               ‘You don’t want a cuppa?  Okay, okay, follow me.’  He plodded into the kitchen, filled the kettle and leaned against the worktop. 

               ‘Not in a hurry, are you?  This used to take ages to boil.  Hey, you might be able to answer one of my questions.’

               ‘Yes?’

               ‘As spirits, you don’t need artefacts, do you?  So that’s why you never compiled a book about the spirit community.  Not needed.  And it would be difficult to do until or unless you come across someone like me.’

               He pointed to the windowsill.

               ‘Some defence in place right there.’

               The Professor slid past, examining the book that lay on the windowledge, one of seven Louis had gotten from the supermarket.  Louis noticed that put the Prof between himself and the book, which may have been coincidence.

               ‘There’s one in each room,’ continued Louis.  ‘And in the hallway.’

               ‘Splendid,’ said the Professor, in a slightly strained voice.  He lost interest in that particular bible.

     Clearly Conrad is signposting here, except I can't remember what I'm signposting.  Old age and too many gins, doncha know, in addition to it being ages since I re-read it and far longer since I crafted the deathless prose itself.  You never know, exciting things might be just around the corner!

The Rage Is Beginning To Subside

Yes, once again First Bus take aim, shoot themselves in both feet and then proceed to cram both injured articles into their ravening gullet.  Art!

What's wrong with this picture?

     Spot the bus.  That's what I did for an hour this evening, after getting the tram to King Street to catch the 409.  The 18:53 didn't turn up, so I went and got food from Oodles.  The 19:23 didn't turn up, either, so I got a lift home in what had become increasingly chilly weather.  To add insult to a paper cut with salt rubbed into it, no less than three 409s went past in the opposite direction.  Bah!

Finally -

Another reference to the 'Special' Military Operation in Ukraine, which you may skip if you feel all martialled-out ALTHOUGH THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES IF YOU DO.  

     Okay, it's a little difficult for Conrad to accustom himself to calling places by their Ukrainian version, after years of the Sinisters forcing people to use their version.  So, Odesa is giving the Ruffians a snub by indulging in normal behaviour, rather than cowering in the catacombs.  This is not to say they have neglected their defences, because beachfronts are awash with mines, barbed wire, sandbags and beady-eyed Ukes itching for a chance to perforate Ruffian hide.  Art!

     Take note of that machine gun.  It's a bipod version of the formidable 'Dushka' that normally sits on a whacking big tripod mount, with a circular muzzle-brake.  Art!

With puny human for scale

     What the Ukes have done is turn the beast above into a weapon that can be used prone, and that big flat muzzle brake keeps it from jumping about when fired.  I know this because Ian from 'Forgotten Weapons', a man who has forgotten more about weapons than the rest of us know together, had film of same up on his Youtube channel.  Art1

     Once again we acknowledge the planning savvy of that military genius Corporal Jones and his crack team of South Canadian advisers in mounting this SMO.  Art!

The cast of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia"

     
     For those not in the know, those five people there have a collective IQ of 73.

*  I know, I know, there are no native elephants in South America.  Sue me.

**  The French not being in charge is one such.

Brian Of Venus!

 Yes Yes Yes Yesterday It Was 'Brain Of Venus'

You remember, the cover illustration from Thrilling Rocket-Jockey Wonder Tales or whatever the magazine was.  Hmmmmm you know, that sounds like a good name for an album, one with a retro cover.  Not sure which band I'll assign to thi

     ANYWAY yes, the story was set on Venus, and - who's this?  Art!

Brian of Venus!

     The story hails from 1937, when the common assumption was that Venus would be verdant and wet, thanks to the total cloud coverage.  By divers means we need not go into, the brain of the Chinese criminal Lu Sang is removed from his body - still alive, because the science of nineteen ninety-nine is awesomely advanced! - and ends up on Venus when the spaceship it was being escorted by crashes there.

     In reality, said brain would have been crushed into a protein puree instantly it met the atmosphere of Venus, as well as being rendered into a slimy remnant by the incredibly acidic airs.  John Russell Fearn - the author, do keep up! - has it that the vibrant and fecund nature of Venus allows the brain of Lu Sang - whom I have decided to call Brian for no other reason than that I can - to expand to enormous dimensions.  Art!

     Of course - obviously! - the Brain Of Brian turns out to be eeeeevil beyond belief, and is intent on destroying the Universe, because heck even a disembodied brain needs a hobby.  Pluto and Mars are destroyed and Earth is inundated by an invasion of protoplasm, until our plucky heroes blow up Venus and get rid of Lu Sang.  Conrad thinks this is going a bit far; a remotely-directed missile would have done the job just as definitely, and with Mars and Pluto already gone, bankable real estate in the Solar System must be at a premium.  Art!

Ooopsie.

     Unusually for a bit of space opera like this, the heroic protagonist gets killed at the end I DON'T CARE ABOUT SPOILERS IT'S EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS OLD, which might be down to the author being British, because our authors like to bring readers down to earth with a bump.  Had he been South Canadian I bet there'd be angelic choirs and a memorial parade, a bank note with his face on and a public park named after him.

     Motley, I feel an urge to hear Wings back when they were good.  Put "Venus And Mars' on the turning-table!

Let's Wheel On "The War Illustrated"

And not dilly-dally about it, because it'll soon be time to wheel on photos from the next edition, and we can't have an item-jam, can we?  Art!

     For your information, the Mareth Line was a series of fortifications running from the Mediterranean inland along the border between the French colony of Tunisia and the Italian colony of Libya.  The French, not especially trusting nor fond of the Italians, built it just in case Mussolini got the expansionist itch again.

     At top you see a lot of RAF ground crew prepping a stretch of desert to be an airfield, which amounts to picking up rocks and chucking them into potholes.  No need for grading or levelling plant, the whole place is flat as Brian's Brain on Venus.  Next you see evidence that winter storms in the desert could deposit an awful lot of water in a very short timespan, and these trucks have most unwisely chosen a low-lying area to park.  Well, now they are submarines, and the crew are sailors.

     Next up are Ford CMP trucks a-bursting with troops from the 51st Highland Division, all of whom carried a piece of chalk.  This meant that, when they came across kit captured by another party, they could scribble their initials upon it and claim the honour.  Yes, this is very naughty, and yes, they did it in the First World 'Special' Military Operation, too.

     Lastly you have Monty, minus headgear, and General Leclerc, who was a fighting general to stand alongside the fightingest of fighting generals, and who had the good sense to not get killed in action (ring a bell at all?).  Art!

     I think we'll call a halt to TWI there as the photographs that follow need copious amounts of explanation and verbiage, and we're well ahead on the word count.

More Of Those Sony Photographs

Sorry if we seem to whizzing through these at pace, it's just I want to get them out of the way so we can go back to more BBC Themed photographs, as yes they have put up another category.  Enough of that, let's get onto this.  Art!

     The blurb holds that this village in Kurdistan looks beautiful at dusk.  NOT IF YOU'RE THE TURKISH GOVERNMENT! as the very mention of 'Kurd' sends them into a frothing frenzy.  I believe the nursery rhyme 'Little Miss Tuffet' is banned there, as it mentions curds.  The Turkish Embassy in London gets very nervous when the council there goes on about road improvements, because it's easy to mis-hear 'Kerb' when you're paranoid.

      ANYWAY yeah, nice photo.

Bring On The Torment

Yes another extract from "Tormentor".  If you recall, Luma had been joined by the spirit of a dead actress, who was trying to earn brownie points with Heaven by helping out mortal souls.

Looking alternately left and right, they made it to his house without any sinister attack, the Dark Ones doubtless still having dinner.

               ‘I intend to have my tea.  You can stay and watch a mortal batchelor cook odd things.’

               The spirit snorted.

               ‘You’re back home and safe, which is what I had to watch for.  Still, I feel uneasy.  Watch yourself.’

               Then she vanished.  Louis considered the past half hour and began to wonder if perhaps he hadn’t really gone completely round the twist. 

               Damn!  I should have got her surname!  That would let me look her up on the internet. 

               For tea he put together an omelette, managing to overcook the bottom and leave the top underdone.

               ‘Still it keeps body and soul together.  Talking to yourself again, Louis?  Why yes.  At least I make sense to me.  For the present.’

               In what had started as a small check on the pseudo-spiritual material on television, he spent an hour in mocking the fake psychics and spiritualists on various channels.  Hilarious if not very productive – the Prof would doubtless disapprove.  One day perhaps his path and one of the fakers would cross; which would be amusing for one party and unpleasant for the other.

               The Professor arrived from the shadows, gliding in from the back room silently.

               ‘Sober tonight,’ began Louis.

               ‘So I see.  May I begin?’

               Louis made an expansive gesture of permission, feeling generous.

               ‘Thank you.  I need to know what methods of defence you have taken against the Dark Ones.’

               This unusually direct approach by the Professor made Louis instantly suspicious.  Perhaps he might not have been so apprehensive had Yvonne not warned him already, not to mention the lack of long words with a Latin root in the question.

     Ooo-er Matron!  What's going on?  Sorry, I've got no idea, it's ages since I last read this guff so Conrad is as in the dark as you are.  I suppose we'll find out tomorrow.

Finally -

And here we are with Conrad's considered opinion on what's going down in Ukraine, not the least of which is Ruffian morale.  Consider this, as Your Humble Scribe has calculated, the Ruffians appear to be suffering 1,000 casualties PER DAY on average.  This is possibly on the low side, as better-informed NATO sources reckon on closer to 1,400 per day, which is simply staggering.  Art!

The Stan of Afghan

     Consider, if you will, the Ruffian <ahem> 'Sinister' presence in Afghanistan, where they spent ten years not being able to defeat an insurgency.  Total casualties we shall round up slightly to 70,000 across ten years.  Which is TWENTY PER DAY, four of those being fatalities.

     It's actually a lot worse for the Ruffians in Ukraine today than those figures suggest, because the vast proportion of casualties are amongst what we call the 'teeth arms', the grunts at the front line who do the fighting and dying.  Remember that gloomy Ruffian general who predicted a Ruffian military occupation of Ukraine for forty years?  Even if the casualty totals are no worse than in Afghanistan, they would still total over a quarter of a million.

     So - let us praise the advisers whom Jonesy consulted before planning his invasion - Art!

Order of Stalin for all of you!

Custard And Mustard

There!  Happy Now?

Don't fret, we've already covered that large European predatory bird, the Bustard.  No, this relates to a promise I made on Facebook about how these two words are so similar, yet relate to completely unrelated foodstuffs.  Unless you enjoy mustard-flavoured custard, which is a perversion of reality across the Multiverse.  Art!

CAUTION!  Not to be confused with Crustavons.

     Okay, Your Humble Scribe used to make custard frequently when creating an ice-cream with his ice-cream making machine.  The principle was that you'd create a custard base, then add in pureed fruit like strawberries or peaches, kick in a tablespoon of vodka to ensure it can be soft-scooped, and leave in the fridge overnight <distant glassy look ensues>.  Art!

     Conrad has never been keen on custard as a solo dessert, principally because the jugs of custard at primary school were left to develop a disgusting 'skin' that came loose like a scraped scab fr

    ANYWAY the word itself.  Let me have recourse to my Collins Concise.  O joy unabounded!  It hails from Middle English <thumbs nose at Latin> and is a variant of 'Crustade', which was a kind of pie.  Art!

     One supposes that you poured your egg and milk sauce over the crustade and called it "What shall we call it?  Ah - Custard!" taking inspiration from Etragon.

     Then we come to Mustard.  Conrad has found this a most suitable marinade for meats before they go into a stew, and he enjoys the wholegrain variety on his sandwiches.  Where does this come from?  O I thought you'd never ask!  Art!

     I'm afraid this one does have a Latin origin.  Our noble honest English word derives from the decadent and foppish Old French 'Moustarde', which in turn comes from the Latin 'Must', meaning grape juice not a Need To Have, because back in the days of Nero The Zero, those bumbletucks the Romans used to add grape must to the condiment, which once again is an offence against the sensibilities of this and other realities.  Mind you, it's not going to be confused with the evil alien Mustargonians, because they don't exist*.

O NOES!  A Mustargonian in a spicy rage.  Perhaps.

     
     Soooooooo - you could have a bustard cooked when stuffed with mustard, yet never with custard.  Custard?  What kind of freak are you!

The Joy Of Alphabet

Conrad is currently listening to randomly-selected tracks from his i-pod, being played via his giant flatscreen television.  Each song has a unique alphabetical code, generated at random as far as I can see.  Art!

     I can tell what you're thinking here.  "How soon will they run out of four-letter codes?"

     Not anytime soon.  Don't forget that every additional letter after the first multiplies the number of choices by twenty-six.  So, at four letters you have twenty-six multiplied by twenty-six multiplied by twenty-six multiplied by twenty-six choices.  Which comes to a total of 456,976 options.  I've got less than 9,000 tracks on my i-pod so no danger of running out in the next fifty years.

Art Bigger Than Alcohol

You know Conrad, ever on the search for new and interesting things to show on the blog, the better to blather about them.  As you ought to be aware, this covers bottles and cans of beer (any alcohol, really), which are perused on Shop Day to see if an item can be wrangled from them.  Thus - Art!

     'Shindigger Pale" is what it says.  A very busy kind of can cover.  Conrad has no idea what this will taste like, which isn't the point, is it?

     At some point in the future we shall doubtless have to move on to buying bottles of wine based on their labels, which is going to be more expensive <wallet squeaks in anguish>.

More Sony World Photography Pictures

And why not.  That was rhetorical, you're going to get one like it or not.  Art!

     Taken at an exhibition in Singapore, where the tagline claims that this is a 'life-size' T-Rex, which Conrad thinks is an error.  Surely these ******** weren't twenty-four feet tall?  Hang on - hmmmmm no, about twelve feet at the hips.  HOW DARE THEY EXAGGERATE!  I feel a letter to The Times coming on.  Isn't it eerie how it's eyes follow you around the room**?

Bring On "The War Illustrated"

I have avoided bringing this archive material up because at present the world is getting as much unpleasant reminders about how war ***** donkey *****, but we'll miss the dateline if I delay any longer.  So!  Art?

     Here is Winnie, in his preferred RAF uniform, with the inevitable cigar, having done a whistle-stop tour of the Mediterranean.  The thing about Winnie is that he was an inveterate meddler, always wanting to second-guess his generals, having to be restrained by the acerbic Ulsterman Alanbrooke on a daily basis.  It was said Winnie had ten ideas a day, only one of which was good, and nobody, including himself, knew which one it was.

     Which we've already covered!  Oops!  Art?

     I'd forgotten to load the pictures.  Silly old Conrad.  ANYWAY what you see here is the Senior Service, the Royal Navy, attending a flag ceremony aboard the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious.  And yes, they are dressed in their Sunday best.  Bring on the next one, Art!

     This is Tunisia, where the shallowness of the Axis territory is revealed, having virtually no strategic depth, making them highly vulnerable to any major Allied attack.  Their logistics was being strangled by both air and naval attack, meaning shortages of supplies all round, especially fuel (hmmm that sounds familiar ...)

     And we'll leave it at that for today, because you can have altogether of a bad thing.

Bring On The Torment!

Well if you insist.

‘Ha!’ snorted the lecturer.  ‘Listen to me and my pathetic self-pity!  Okay, that’s enough walking.  I think I’ve worried enough pedestrians.’

               Still keeping an arm linked with the spirit, he headed back home, crossing over the main road.  A cluster of youths, gender indeterminate thanks to their hoodies, lurking in a bus shelter and drinking cheap cider, looked as if they might interfere with his progress.  Then one leaned across to another and whispered, and the whole group silently watched him pass by; obviously, rumours about who he was were now prevalent.

               ‘I can never go back, can I,’ he asked.  Even if his peculiar and unwanted ability departed him the next day, sufficient people had encountered him for the legend to persist.  Behind them, the raucous group began giggling and mock-fighting again.

               ‘No.  Do you want to?’

               Louis shrugged, the motion constricted by Yvonne’s arm. 

               ‘Rather out of my hands.  God proposes, Man puts up with it.’

               As they got closer to home, Yvonne slowed down. 

               ‘Do I have to invite you across the threshold?’

               ‘Oh, shush.  No, it’s just that there’s a feeling in the air.  Odd.  I can’t place it.’

               Louis looked up and down the cul-de-sac.  No traffic, no people out walking, most of the curtains long since drawn.  No sign of a threat.  Unless –

               He rattled the silver balls in his pocket.

Finally -

If you've had all the martial conflict you can cope with thanks to TWI, you'll probably want to miss this ending out, as we ponder the strategic dimensions of Corporal Jones' planning to invade Ukraine/destroy the Ruffian army/make Dimya cry <delete where applicable>.  I see the Ruffians have lost another general - well, I say 'lost' when I mean 'blown to bits in a drone strike'.  This makes seven of them so far, which is really very negligent of the Ruffians, because they only had twenty of them in their 'Special' Military Operation in the first place.  Losing a third of your generals in a month is the height of carelessness.  Conrad is unaware of any military campaign anywhere in the modern age when this kind of casualty rate has been experienced.  It's not just the loss of said generals that's the problem either, because their staff are being hastened off this mortal coil at the same time.  Which means an entire staff and general have to be replaced.  Pass the collection hat for Jonesy!

Jonesy using the very latest Ruffian encrypted secure comms

     Are we done here?  Well, have we made Dimya cry?  We have?  Then indeed we are done!

*  Neither do The Skreeming Voles, but that never stopped me.

**  Only joking!  Unless I'm not.