Conrad: Cheating With The Seating

As A Matter Of Fact That's A Lie, Too

There are no seats, nor spoons either.  I am going to post a set of links rather than sit and type up a proper blog post, because once again whose blog is it?  I also have to take Edna out again for a third time, since on the last one, as I got to the end of Tandle Hill Road, I experienced symptoms of what can only be described as BOWELQUAKE! and had to return to The Mansion in a hurry.

     That is possibly too much information, so we shall move swiftly on and find a suitable pulp magazine cover, now that Art has recovered from his earlier Tazering.  Art!

     Well why not.  A female Terminator?  Works for me.  Okay, let the links commence!

2021

BOOJUM!: You Want To See My Crib? (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2020

BOOJUM!: The Rodent's Revenge (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2019

BOOJUM!: Dogs And Grogs And Blogs (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2018

BOOJUM!: Killer Bees (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2017

BOOJUM!: I Blog Of Dog (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2016

BOOJUM!: A Think About Drink (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2015

BOOJUM!: Public Service BROADCASTING! (They're A Band) (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

2014

BOOJUM!: A Bit Of A Thal (comsatangel2002.blogspot.com)

Manglement Meteorics

Today's Intro Features A Couple Of Made-Up Words

Ones not created by Conrad, even.  If you read as many Reddit stories on Youtube as Your Humble Scribe, you may have come across these: 'Manglement' meaning a management of IQ and morally-deficient idiots, frequently family members, and 'Stuporvisors', lower level flunkies who cannot walk and talk at the same time.  Today's Intro features the former.  Art!

     The Original Poster's director moved out and a new director (hereaafter 'BM') took over.  She wasn't actually very good at her job, but she was good at throwing mud at other staff and making it stick, which is how she had risen through the ranks.  OP had been tasked with creating a 30 minute presentation with vocals for the education of financial advisers in the business, which involved getting input from subject matter experts.  He completed a draft version and sent it to BM.

     She HATED it.  She replied with 20 pages of instructions on what to add to the presentation.  When OP tried to question this she doubled down and insisted in an e-mail trail.  End result: a presentation that was three hours long that went into excruciating and un-necessary detail.  Art!

You get the picture

     OP sent the horrendous mess to BM for approval, to loud silence.  A week later there was still no approval.  Then OP noticed that all e-mails from BM concerning this project had mysteriously vanished.  Not only his, but all those the subject matter experts had received, too, meaning Someone had deliberately gone into the mail server and selectively deleted them.  However, OP's IT contact was able to retrieve them, and OP wisely kept them on a flash drive.  Art!

No, Art.  No.

     Eventually upper management wanted to know why the presentation was a month late, and an executive called OP and BM into a Zoom meeting.  The Horrendous Mess was examined and execrated by BM, who said OP had misunderstood her instructions.  When he got his turn to speak she continually interrupted him, so much so that the executive interviewing them put her on mute.  OP then shared screens and showed all the deleted e-mails on his flash drive.  BM abruptly left the meeting and didn't return.  Art!

Apparently this is DC Comic's Zoom.  Thank you, Art.

     The fallout of this was that BM was fired on the spot.  So too was the IT Manager, whom she had been doing the naughty with, and whom she had gotten to try and cover her tracks.  Office Politics, hmmm?  OP took malicious delight in checking court records and finding out that both were in the process of being divorced by their respective spouses.

     Okay, that's enough Intro, I now have to Tazer Art into compliance.  I know, I know, it's a dirty job but someone's got to do it.  And our resident Neanderthal had been doing so well, too!

Art on one of his better days*

"The War Illustrated" Edition 152

I've fallen a couple of weeks behind in these seventy-nine year old updates as the cover date for this edition is April 16.  Art!  O stop whining and put a bit of salve on it.

     The Mareth Line was a series of fortifications constructed by the French to ensure that the Italians, present on the border in their Libyan colony, didn't get up to mischief.  Thus it was a natural refuge for the Axis, where they could hopefully fend off the Eighth Army for a while.  That monstrous piece of kit at bottom is a 4.5 inch gun.  Art!

     These pictures are from the west of Tunisia, where the First Army was fighting.  The first picture is of Teuton prisoners, some of whom look about fifteen, being marched off.  Below that you have a 'Bishop' self-propelled gun IT IS NOT A TANK; it's a 25 pounder artillery piece stuck on a tank chassis and given a very thin-walled turret to keep the flies out.  Next to that is the always-immaculate General Alexander, one of those men who have to look up 'Fear' in a dictionary to see what it is.  And at bottom the article coyly refuses to identify which regiments are manning the ubiquitous Bren Carriers, those tracked jeeps that the British army used in every conceivable role.

More Of "Tormentor"

Don't fret, there's only a couple of pages left.

CODA

              

The night of surprises hadn’t finished yet.  Walking back home in the dark meant Louis saw the pearly nimbus that glowed – that glowed from his house?

               ‘Did you invite friends to have a party?’ he asked.

               Yvonne hung back.

               ‘That’s not spirits, Louis.  I don’t know what it is.’

               ‘I need a cuppa and a sit down.  I don’t care who’s boosting the leccy bill, I’m going in.’

              

A stranger in a suit sat on the settee - make that a smug male model in an expensive Italian tailored suit.

               Not a spirit, realised Louis.  The man gave off an aura of raw power so strong you could imagine it coming off him in waves.  Meekly, Yvonne peeked round from behind him and gasped.

               ‘Ah, Louis.  And Yvonne.  Hello.’

               ‘Hello Mister - ?’

               ‘Call me Michael.’  He stood and gestured at the settee.  ‘Please, it’s your house and your furniture.’

               ‘Okay, it’s been a busy night and I want to try and get at least a couple of hours kip.  Who are you and what do you want?’ said Louis, dropping onto the cushions.

               ‘Louis!’ hissed Yvonne and elbowed him.

               ‘Blunt as ever, hey?  Consider me a messenger, Louis.  I represent the most senior management you can get.’

               The government? The UN? wondered the lecturer for a moment.  Yvonne pointed up for clarification.

     I think you can see where this is going, hmmmm?

Proof Positive

     This is Edna in Tandle Hill Park, on our long walk of the day.  I can tell you it took 12 minutes to reach here and we walked on for another 10 after that, where we reached a bench without any dogs around.  Predictably, because of the lovely weather the world and his wife were walking their woofers.

Finally -

A rather less bloodthirsty look at the SMO in Ukraine today.  You may have heard Ruffians - principally Lavvy The Liar - say 'It's all going according to plan, it's all going according to plan'.  Hmmm.  Hardly so.  One thing that's not happening is Nord Stream 2, so no oil or gas revenue for Dimya from that one.  'They can sell it to India and China instead', some pundits have parried.

     Hardly so.  It took years to build NS2 and it cost £20 billion, half of which was put up by Gazprom, none of which will be repaid.  How long would a pipeline to either China or India be?  How long would it take to construct?  Where would the Ruffians find the funding from?  A little number-crunching reveals that it cost £26 million per mile to construct.  The shortest distance from the Saint Petersburg terminal to China is 3,569 miles, meaning it would cost £92 billion just to get a pipeline to the Chinese border.  In fact the total would be lower as it's not being built underwater.  It took 4 years to build NS2; an overland pipe to China wouldn't be as technically difficult so they might manage it in, oooh, ten years or so.  Call me an optimist but I don't think Tsar Poutine has that long left.

*  Probably daydreaming of Mara Corday

Stop Me If You've Herd This One Before

I Don't Expect To Be Stopped

And NO THAT ISN'T A TYPO <eyes Remote Nuclear Detonator intently>.  It is an hilarious pun.  You'll see.

     I don't expect to be stopped because I'd not heard it before, and unless you're a farmer, you won't have either.  Okay, so there I was after typing up an Intro that mentioned 'Cow Pat Bingo' and needed a picture of a cow.  No problem.  Art!

Er - yeah.

     Then I saw a tagline that stopped me from scrolling swiftly onwards: "Is It Cruel To Have A Single Cow?"

     Somehow this is a question that Conrad has never considered, never mind the answer.  The answer is that yes, if you have only a single cow, it will become lonely and unhappy.  Cows, it transpires, are herd animals that are happiest when in a big bunch of other cows, all mooing melodiously.  If you have other livestock then they will pal up with the sheep or chickens or bandersnatches.  Plus, if you have a solo cow, and they can hear other cows, better hope your fences are secure, as Daisy will make an escape attempt to join the herd.  Art!

Flee, Daisy, flee!

     This leads on to another question nobody has ever asked me: are cows dangerous?  Could Daisy become a deranged psychopathic killer in her desperation to escape from solitary confinement?

     Don't laugh, the answer is possibly.  Over the past seven years four members of the public have been the victims of Killer Kows in the Murder Meadow.  Usually incidents involve walkers with dogs and cows with calves, not a winning combination.  Whilst cows don't possess poison fangs or tearing talons, they probably weigh a quarter ton each and if they knock you down or trample you, you will have bruises to remember it by.

Plus some have pointy bits

    Wonder Wifey has, in the past, warned Conrad about letting Edna Wunderhund off the leash if there are Daisy's about.  Point taken.

     Motley, let's moove smartly along!

Another Answer To A Question Nobody Asked

No, not "Why is Russell Brand still extant?"  This bizarre concept needs an illustration to get the ball rolling.  Art!

What on Earth?

     You know Conrad, a sense of greed and curiosity combined in one economy-sized packet.  This clip is from a series that invokes Gordon Ramsey, who in real life is an utter teddy bear made from marshmallow.  Here a collection of competitors have to traverse underground caves.  Art!

     Conrad is also a massive coward, as well as being massive, and there's NO WAY he would undertake this descent, which is supposed to be about retrieving 'truckles' of cave-aged cheddar.  Not sure what a truckle is.  Hi Google!

     A barrel of cheese.  Of course the name comes from Latin <hack spit> originally "Trochlea" which means "Wheel".  Of course it does.

     'Cave-aged cheddar' is also a real thing, again news to me.  Conditions inside cave systems maintain consistent cool temperatures and high humidity, which is what you want to mature your cheddar.  Art!

     "That was the easy bit.  Now it's going to get a lot harder,*" the lady above is informed.  At one point they have to squeeze through a gap of 10 inches, which makes Conrad wonder how big these cheese truckles can be?

Ah Me, Those Wacky Americans

Conrad, for the extent of this item, will (reluctantly and with considerable bad grace) acknowledge that the American Revolutionary War happened and they won it.  The South Canadians, as epitomised by "The Daily Beast", simply cannot get enough of This Sceptred Isle's monarchy.  Every edition of their virtual tabloid has an article about the Queen STAND UP FOR HER YOU RASCALS or Prince Charles or Marcilla Whosit.  Art!

     'Harry' here refers to Prince Harry, and the fact that they don't even bother with the title implies they know exactly who he is, and so do their readers.  Honestly, one would think they miss the days of Empire and being told sternly what to do and how to do it.  Okay, back to business as usual.

Let's Have More More "Tormentor"!

Yes, let's.  First, more tea.  Ah that goes down well.

Persuading Angela of the reality of spirits took no effort.  She had, after all, seen Jen after her funeral, right here in this very same house.  Louis couldn’t explain the reason for that since he’d only been holding Angela’s hand.  The mother-daughter thing, perhaps.

               Dave’s shotgun blast had been so effective because he’d put a silver ball down each barrel, kept there with a bit of gum.

               ‘Seventy quid well spent,’ commented Louis. ‘Next thing – both of you need to get a crucifix and wear it permanently from now on.  Don’t take it off even in the shower.’

               ‘Who were those men, and why did they kidnap me?’ pleaded Angela.

               Louis tried to explain.  Angela was one of the very few people he gave a toss about.  Kidnap her and the kidnappers knew he’d come to the rescue. Not so much “kidnappers” as human beings having their bodies hijacked, by the way.

               He sighed heavily and sincerely.  So much for Laura being at risk!

               ‘Come on, Yvonne.  Back home for us.’

               A startled Angela looked around the lounge as Dave gave a goodbye wave.

     Only the Coda left!

Meanwhile, Seventy-Nine Years Ago In Tunisia ...

Yes, we are off to "The War Illustrated" again, because I can.  Art!

     A slightly-blurred picture of where the Eighth Army had been attacking two weeks previously.  As I continually point out, these magazines were publishing news weeks after events took place, in order to avoid letting any sensitive information out.  Art!

     The page above refers to the Battle of Medenine, the last attack mounted under the command of Rommel and a dismal costly failure for the Axis.  So much for his 'fingertip feel' of the battlefield, hmmm?  That's what happens when you attack dug-in anti-tank guns supported by divisional artillery and medium and heavy artillery. 

Finally -

Here our usual pontificate about Tsar Poutine the Tiny Toxic Terror Toad and his 'Special' Military Operation.  Last night I happened to watch a Youtuber with a channel called "Speak The Truth", who had several excellent detailed maps of the situation on the ground.  His grasp of Ukrainian placenames needs a bit of work, mind.  Art!

     The Ruffians are making no progress in either the east or south, only in the north, and only then when the Ukrainians don't contest ground.  What progress is being made has been described by the South Canadians as 'grinding' and one wonders how long the Ruffians can continue attacking when their losses average 1,000 per day**.  This is Day Sixty Two of what was supposed to be a five-day SMO, after all.

     Further to matters, Justin Bronk - hereafter 'The Bronk' - was discussing matters with Ward Carroll on the latter's Youtube channel, and said he'd been discussing Perfidious Albion's 'Starstreak' anti-aircraft missile system with pilots, who all agreed it was Dog Buns! terrifying as a weapon, because as a beam-riding weapon guided by an operator, no warning or countermeasures will work.  The very faint laser beams cannot be spoofed, and the thing flies at Mach 4, meaning no aircraft ever built can outrun it.  The Bronk also confirmed that video of a Ruffian Mi-28 getting cut in two was a Starstreak in action.  Art!

     Note tail beginning to fall off because no, that's not how they're supposed to look.

     More prosaically, with older infra-red seeking MANPADS, a canny Uke apparently watched a Ruffian helicopter dumping all 192 decoy flares it possessed, and only then fired his missile.

     I think that's enough blood and thunder for one day, and Edna needs her Long Walk.  Chin chin!

*  Hard cheese?

**  It's a useful approximation

Conrad: If He's Breathe-y He's Seethy

You Know How It Is

Your Humble Scribe's default condition is a state of barely-controlled rage, so much so that anything can set off a state of Frothing Nitric Ire.  Just imagine how incredibly worse things would be if I supported a ballfoot team, because they inevitably lose matches here and there.  I'd need two Remote Nuclear Detonators, one for each hand.  In fact make it four, one for each hand and one for each foot.  Art!

Now we're talking!

     I could probably manage a fifth one by hitting it with my forehead - hmmm perhaps not, it doesn't sound very dignified.

     ANYWAY after having delicious re-heated pizza (because it always tastes better the next day when re-heated) I have fought off the red mist enough to be coherent again - we'll get to the 'why' shortly, don't you worry.

     Back to South Canada and that Youtube Reddit posting about 'Small Town WoE Stories', where I use BOOJUM!'s less offensive acronym*.

     One poster related how, in their small town of a couple thousand people, their mother could take her pet boa constrictor YEP SMALL TOWN SOUTH CANADA RIGHT THERE - Art!

Boa with puny human for scale

     - and arrange it around her shoulders, and then go shopping in the local supermarket, at which nobody would even blink, as they knew both her and the snake.  Boas, you see, can bite but have no venom; they kill prey by wrapping themselves around it and - you may be ahead of me here - constricting their victim's breathing.  So madame was living dangerously.

     Another bizarre event is 'Cowpat Bingo'.  For this a sports hall or other venue with a large flat surface area was chosen, with the area divided into dozens if not hundreds of squares.  Spectators chose a square.  Fair enough.  Then Daisy was introduced, and where she dropped a pat was - The Winner!

Atom Heart Bother

     One poster said their high school tried this.  The cheerleading team scared the cow so much that it ran at the retaining fence, knocked a hole in it and escaped.  Definitely a Killer Kow from the Murder Meadow.

     Motley - let us experiment with Crocodile Pat Bingo!

The Reason For Seethin'

As you should surely know by now, Conrad has an undeclared war ongoing against Codeword compilers of the world, of whom there are a lot fewer than there used to be (see above item for Remote Nuclear Detonator details).  I shall have to hurry up and type this before my inchoate rage renders my words illegible.

"JAPONICA":  YOU WHAT?!  It took me at least half an hour to work out what this one was, time I'll never get back.  How Dog Buns! unfair is selecting an obscure variety of plant?  Art!

     Fortunately it all fell into place after that and I only used the RND a few dozen times.  But come on, really!  In real life it is a variety of flowering quince, it says here.  Bah!

"GOLEM": No, not an exhortation to Stanislav.  You know, the chap who wrote 'Solaris' and 'The Cyberiad'.  Although, given his Jewish background, he'd probably be aware of what a 'Golem' was.  It's an artificial creature, usually made of mud or clay, which is brought to life by inscribing the Hebrew for 'Life' on it's forehead.  When the need for a golem has passed, the inscription is altered, not entirely sure to what, and back it goes to a lifeless lump of riverbed silt.  BUT STILL!  <sighs>  Art!

     It also featured in a daft horror film starring Roddy McDowall, titled "It!", which probably confused Stephen King fans, where said golem was indestructible, though not scarlet.  Art!

How to scare cats the Roddy McDowall way!

"OMBUDSMAN":  You see?  Now can you understand my Righteous Rancour?  My Collins Concise defines this as an official who takes up citizen complaints about government or government entities and agents.  And, get this, it comes from the Swedish for 'Commissioner".  Not entirely sure about that.

Ombudsmen are boring.  Have a Titan II missile launch instead.

Bring On The "Tormentor"

Worry ye not, nearly done.  Then we have the endless supply of 'Doctor Who' fan-fiction to go!

If it wasn’t Morgan, the entity still looked impressively evil.  At least nine feet tall, looking like a skeleton swathed in loose skin, clad in smokey rags.  The mouth dropped open and a venemous hissing voice rolled over the car.

               ‘Damn you to Hell McMahon!  Have you any idea how much that hurts?  I’ll kill you from the inside out!’

               The bushes parted and it moved forward.  Dave, wide-eyed with fright and wonder, produced his sawn-off and let off both barrels at the disturbed shrubbery.

               ‘Just drive!’ called Yvonne.

               ‘Bullets won’t -’ began Louis, because the bullets did.  Two great jagged rents appeared in the towering spirit, gaping holes that rapidly grew, gobbling up the creature’s chest and dissolving it in streamers of vapour.

               Dave revved frantically and reversed, then shot out of the car park in third gear.  Louis kept his eyes on the spirit, which clawed unbelievingly at it’s chest even as it vanished completely.

               ‘What were you shooting at!’ squeaked a terrified Angela.  ‘And why were those bushes moving on their own!’

               ‘Let’s just get back to yours,’ said a weary Louis.

    Oooh, exciting**.  Dave pretty obviously put a silver ball down each barrel of his sawn-off.

A Quick Trip Back Nearly Eighty Years

Yes, we are back to "The War Illustrated", that wartime publication from This Sceptred Isle.  Currently you can catch scenes and images from the 'Special' Military Operation on media websites that are up-to-the-second.  For readers of TWI, they had to wait until weeks had gone by before events got covered, and those covering it had to be officially credentialled, and what they published was gone over by the censor to ensure nothing of import got divulged to the Axis.  Art!

     Here you see Monty addressing a group of his generals - you can tell by all the red.  Since the Allies had control of the skies by this time there's little risk of a roving enemy aircraft pouncing upon them.  Though doubtless the enlisted men would smile in secret seeing a lot of bigwigs running for dear life.

Finally -

More martial musings from the eclectic brain, about Dimya's 'Special' Military Operation in Ukraine.  One has to laugh at the brass neck of the tiny toxic terror toad, telling other countries 'Not to interfere in Ukraine' and that 'Sending heavy weapon's could affect Europe's security'.  To the first - what, are you going to take on NATO as well, when you can't even defeat Ukraine?  To the second, you did that yourself, Dimya, you and your expert advisers.  Art!

Dimya's advisers, networking.

     Reflective of that picture of Monty and his military mates, it seems that 50 high-ranking Ruffian officers were having a conference together, dangerously close to the Ukes near Kherson.  The Ukes have a pretty capable radio intercept service, and don't forget they are being backed by NATO and especially the South Canadians, who are ecstatically happy to pass on juicy information like this.  End result, the Ukes blew up the command post and two more Ruffian generals are taking a dirt nap, with a third one likely to follow soon.  I think that makes it eleven Ruffian generals now at room temperature, or half of the ones that started in February.  This is bad news for the Ruffian army generally, since they appear to have two ranks: generals and grunts.  Because the grunts aren't going, the generals have to go gee them up, since nobody else has the wit or initiative to manage matters on their own.

     Let's hear it for Jonesy, Tsar Poutine's top military planner!

*  'What on Earth'.  Do keep up!

**  I hope.

Disgusting But Dangerless

Gather Round And Hear Of My Fungal Toe!

Come to think of it, 'Fungal Toe' would be a good name for a death-metal band, one who do covers of Black Rebel Motorcycle 

     ANYWAY Your Humble Scribe had an appointment with the Podiatry Nurse this morning, who examined my scrofulous big toe and declared 'Nothing to worry about, flower' before taking tin shears to it and trimming it back like a hedge.  There were only the two of us present, which was a good thing as toenail trimmings were flying like shrapnel.  Getting one of those in your eye would seriously crimp your day.  Art!

Fungal toe is disgustrous.  Have a shrapnel shell instead

     Here an aside.  Did you know that the shrapnel shell is so-named because it was invented by Lieutenant Shrapnel?  Honestly.  He was a bright-eyed ensign who put his own time and money into developing this novel munition.  Previously the Royal Artillery had spherical shot or canvas bags of 'canister' rounds for use against hostile party guests.  Lt. Shrapnel had the bright idea of filling a spherical case shot with the canister rounds, which would burst at a distance.  The Royal Artillery were delighted with this innovation; their French opponents considerably less so.  Art!

<Lament in French>

     They promoted Shrapnel to Major for his trials and tribulations

     ANYWAY going back even further, Your Humble Scribe had set his alarm for seven in order to have a shower and thus present his toes in their best possible light, which plan was sabotaged by him promptly falling asleep again, and only awakening just in time to make the appointment.

     Here another aside.  'Sabotage' derives from a French word 'Saboter', which meant 'to bungle or otherwise mess things up on purpose'.  There is an urban legend that it referred to Belgian industrial workers retaliating against their employers by hurling one of their wooden sabots (or shoes or clogs) into machinery to halt production.  Art!

     This is stupid for a couple of reasons.  Firstly, imagine a gigantic twenty-ton steam hammer; then imagine how incredibly ineffective a small wooden shoe would be against it in operation, and if Art will put down his bowl of coal -

Nope

     Then, too, management would instantly know who was to blame BECAUSE THEY'D BE WALKING AROUND WITH ONLY ONE CLOG.  Way to get both fired and sued!

     Where were we?  O yes, sabots - we've mentioned these before in the context of the Royal Artillery again, because Perfidious Albion invented the Armour-Piercing Discardable Sabot round for anti-tank use in the Second World 'Special' Military Operation.  Art!

     The 'sabot' in this case was a frangible shoe around the armour-piercing projectile, which meant all that surface area to accelerate the core with, focussed on a very small cross-section; the sabot fractured upon firing but stayed held together in the barrel.  The Royal Artillery were delighted with this innovation; their Teuton opponents considerably less so.

     And there we have the tale of my toe.  Motley, strike up those Norwegians and bring out the inverted crosses!

Bring On The Sleazy Underbelly!

Yes yes yes, this may be mixing metaphors.  Once again, whose blog is it?  Okay, another photograph from the BBC's collection of 'LA Noir', which if Art -

Follies

     Skating a little close to the edge here, but notice that these ladies are wearing at least a bit of clothing.  It seems that, as the night wore on, they would wear less and less, from not a lot in the first place.  You can bet every one of these women arrived in Los Angeles intending to become the next big thing in films.  Hmmmm yeah honey you and ten thousand others.  If I recall correctly, David Niven had a chapter in one of his autobiographies dealing with just this subject, which was sad rather than salacious.

'Countdown'

I've created a Google tab for this film but, thanks to gin and old age, cannot remember why.  Art!

     It's the story of an emergency accelerated Moon landing project, created to beat the Sinisters to a lunar landing; only one man will go up, with minimal resources, to rendevous on the lunar surface with a supply capsule.  When Apollo arrives months later, they'll retrieve him.  Since the Sinisters send up civilians, the South Canadians select a civilian, too - see above.  Art!

     

Moon 1 Sinisters 0

    Of course it all goes horribly wrong - if everything went right it would be fifty minutes long - and the original ending would have been a lot bleaker than the one the studio imposed.  You see, the director was Robert Altman, who is known for having his characters talk over each other; the studio were horrified at this and fired him just as he was sitting down to edit it.

     Still unsure why I tabbed it.

Gore And More "Tormentor"

Don't fret so, we've nearly reached the end.  As you ought to recall, Luma was having a showdown with a couple of the possessed.

The second kidnapper, a stranger to Louis, didn’t have a gun.  Only brute strength and speed.  The man rushed at him, arms outstretched, lacing fingers around his neck and began to crush with inhuman strength.

               Black blinds fluttered inwards at the edge of Louis’s vision, accompanied by swarms of electric dots.  No way to draw breath –

               Instead he produced his masquerading mobile phone, the big clunky model that the police had ignored during their search of his house; produced it and gripped the contact switches and rammed the disguised German stun-gun against his attacker.

               The feedback was so intense it hit him almost as hard as the possessed.  Louis found himself grovelling on the ground, drawing breath in great racking whoops and looking at the twitching, convulsing form of his assailant prone on the ground.  Both attackers were hors de combat, for the moment at least.

               Pushing very hard indeed against the ground enabled him to lurch unsteadily across the cold hard pitch and into the bushes, where Yvonne caught him up.

               ‘Get into the car,’ he slurred.  Angela and Dave were there already.  Yvonne helped him stagger into the back seat while Dave got the engine running.

               ‘One of them’s approaching,’ warned Yvonne.

               Dave revved the engine and wound  down his window.  Louis looked to where a rustling in the bushes announced the approach of a spirit.

     So now we know what the exotic Teuton import was.  Curiosity satisfied.

Finally -

More military musings on Dimya's 'O So Special' Military Operation.  Your Humble Scribe was delighted to see a familiar name in "The Daily Beast"'s reporting: Peter Caddick-Adams, described by them as a military historian.  Well, yes, and he also served in the British army as an officer, so knows whereof he talks.  Ol' Pete was not flattering about the Ruffian performance to date.  Let me nick a quote:  “Thus, what Russia did not learn from Syria was how to coordinate an all arms battle (artillery, armor, anti-tank, air defense, infantry, engineers, etc) at high tempo in complex terrain with aircraft of different types, helicopters, airborne and marine troops, with a well-balanced logistics and supply system—which is what they have needed for Ukraine"

     Ol' Pete also points out that Ruffian commanders in Syria got into a very bad habit of chatting to each other via mobiles, which was fine when your opponents have nobody who can speak Ruffian nor any means of intercepting messages.  Against the Ukes this has been a literal death sentence for Ruffian generals.  I think they've now lost eleven, which is half of the number they began this SMO with.  If it carries on at this rate they won't have any commanders for what's left of their army.

Anarchy In The South Canada

Conrad, As You Should Surely Know -

Is seriously addicted to Reddit Youtube channels, and spends hours every day reading them.  Some of the stories end up being repeated on BOOJUM! if they're amusing or insane enough.  The one I was poring over last night had the heading "What is your small-town WoE story?" except they use a ruder acronym than mine.  It confirms my suspicions that there's a strong streak of anarchy in most South Canadians, and it doesn't take a lot to bring it to the surface.  Art!

Flagstaff, Arizona

     This is proof of what one person posted about: Ruff's Guns And Liquor.  It is, as they said, exactly what it says on the tin, a shop that sold guns and liquor.  Can't see anything possibly going wrong there!  Off-licences are common enough here in This Sceptred Isle, gun shops are very un-common and I don't think anyone has ever considered combining the two.  The Chief Constable of Greater Manchester would probably think themselves the victim of a practical joke were "Booze And Two-Twos" ever to apply for a licence.  They also had a tale about Flagstaff's Pulliam Airport - Art!

     As you can see, literally carved out of the wilderness of rural Arizona, which is a lot greener than Conrad expected it t

     ANYWAY you can see the runway, which appealed to the local elk population because it retained heat, so they would arrive in the morning and lie down on it.  Pretty obviously an elk on the runway prevents aircraft from using it, as will many elks.  So the ground staff would go out and shout at the elks to make them move, and that worked for a while, until the elks got used to the noisy humans.  Then the ground staff resorted to firing a gun in the air - not at the elks, an elk carcass would need four people and a tow-truck to move it - until the elks got used to that, too.  Then came brute force, assaulting the elks to physically force them to move off.  Art!

Careful of the pointy prongs

     Eventually, after many years of elk-inflicted delays, one bright spark had the idea of putting up a fence, which immediately solved the problem.  Original Poster was sure they were an out-of-towner, none of the locals were that clever.  Art!

Note absence of elks

     Conrad is now musing on where the word 'whelk' comes from.

More Seedy Underbelly

Yes, back to that BBC webpage detailing the seamy side of life in Los Angeles, from the Thirties onwards.  Art!

     Lest you be unaware, that chap wearing a hat - all men wore hats and smoked in the Thirties - is a policeman, and the ne'erdowell he has in his clutches is clearly a miscreant, witness his blatant lack of either hat or cigarette.  Probably a Commie, too.  You could get away with that sort of thing in the Thirties whereas nowadays there'd be a grand jury invoked about two threads being pulled out of a cuff <bitter ranting screed redacted courtesy Mister Hand> and hang them high!  Art!

     That bemused looking gentleman is Micky Cohen, one of the mob bosses in LA, whose promotion to top dog upset a lot of other dogs, to the point that they tried to kill him.  The dishevelment above is due to there having been a bomb, not an earthquake.  Live by the sword, die by TNT.

The OVRO 40 Metre Telescope

Conrad apologises for using metric measurements, using Imperial ones would have been too confusing.  Yes, this is another South Canadian observatory, in California, where a lot of these facilities exist.  Art!

Sorry, no puny humans for scale

     This particular radio telescope is apparently involved in tracking down 'blazars', an astronomical term Conrad has never heard of until now.  Allow me to enlighten self ...

     Ah.  A bit like a galaxy-sized flamethrower, with the 'flame' travelling almost at the speed of light.  Sounds dangerous.  Best keep clear.

     Hmmmm we've had a lot of South Canadian-themed content so far, haven't we?  Let's change that to bucolic British charms with -

"Tormentor"

As you should surely recall, Luma has been summoned to replace Angela, who is being held hostage.

‘Hands in the air,’ warned an almost familiar voice.

Not mortal, anyway.  Over their bodies lay a shifting outline of vaporous filth, penetrating into and out of their mortal hosts, swirling like an intelligent fog.

               ‘Hello Sergeant Oswald.  Fancy meeting you here.’

               Bug-eyed, sweating madly, flushed and wielding a Smith and Wesson revolver, the policeman stared and glared at Louis, who kept on walking towards him, even speeding up a little.

               ‘McMahon!  How pleased I am to meet you.’

               ‘Who’s wearing a Sergeant Oswald suit, then?  You can’t be Morgan, he’s too much the coward to put himself at risk.’

‘Shut your ****** mouth, you mortal pustule!  Don’t dare call the name of Morgan in vain.’

‘Or else what?  You’ll kill me.  I take it that’s a given anyway.’

The reddened eyes of whatever was controlling Oswald narrowed.

‘Pleased as I was to finally meet you,  how much more pleased I am to kill you -’

               Before he could level the pistol, Louis spat at him.  The silver ball he’d cradled in his mouth for five minutes hit Oswald in the chest with all the effect of a medicine ball fired from a cannon, knocking the officer off his feet and discharging the pistol way off to one side with a terrific percussive crack.  Louis had expected merely a moment or two of stunned disorientation instead of such an over-reaction.

     Hmmmm how many of you saw that coming?  Go on, be honest.  And in the next paragraph we get to find out exactly what Luma ordered from Germany!  I know because I cheated and read ahead.  I can do that if I want, I am the author after all.

Finally -

You may skip this bit if Conrad blathering on about the 'Special' Military Operation isn't your cup of tea <pauses to drink from cup of tea> BUT I WILL KNOW AND THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.

     So here we are on Day 60 of the SMO, with the Ruffians essentially bogged-down where they were on Day 4, with very little to show for enormous casualties.  Lavrov The Liar has been beating his chest about nuclear weapons, which is about all he and Tsar Poutine can manage, and you have to wonder about the mindset of a man who would willingly destroy the Northern Hemisphere for the sake of a muddy field in the Donbass.  Whether the Ruffian military would obey an order to break out the Big Bang Bombs is moot, as is how many of their ICBMs are actually fully functional.  Dimya and his spokespuppets seem to be acting like the schoolyard bully - aghast with horror that Ukraine actually had the gall to fight back and win.  Lavrov is now stating that this is a 'proxy war' - but hasn't been arrested, beaten and thrown in prison - and do you know what, he's exactly right.  Ukraine is being re-armed and re-equipped and re-trained with NATO weaponry.  One wonders what Dimya's advisers dared to tell him about what would happen if Thunder Run Kiev didn't work.  Art!

Probably incoherent grunting