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.