Conrad Occasionally Makes This Assertion
Usually because technology that is obviously from the future has arrived in the present, so much so that one suspects a certain chap with a big blue box has been mucking about with the timestreams*. And it seems rather odd that th
ANYWAY here I am wittering about the future, because that is where we will spend the rest of our lives (a profound statement that I stole from someone else) unless of course - obviously! - the Robot Rebellion takes place. Or the Zombie Apocalypse, not being precious about which End Of The World takes place. Art!
'What on earth is that?' pondered Your Humble Scribe. 'It looks most impressive. An induced protoplasmic pulse-pummeler?
Well, no. It's actually an Ukrainian Anti-Drone Gun, which is nothing to do with either bagpipes or the office bore. No, the drones in question are Ruffian ones flying over the battlefield, which the Ukes would rather be decorating the ground after coming to a dead stop mid-air. The weapons have come from Lithuania, where they are known as 'drone-mitigation systems' because South Canadianese gets Dog Buns! everywhere. Art!
The weapon is described as being a 'jammer' with little more detail than that, which is deliberate, as the less the Ruffians know about it, the more effective it will be. That picture above shows it held by what seems to be a lady, making it look even larger and deadlier than it is. One presumes that using this most 'alli' piece of kit will allow the anti-aircraft missiles to be spared for more worthy targets. As one of the gleeful by-lines asserted, anti-drone capability is no longer limited to Angry Neighbour With Shotgun, though I have heard of a harassed dog taking down one that flew a little too low.
O - that graffiti? "Death to Russians and Putin" in case you wanted to know. And even if you didn't.
Motley! Break out the bagpipes and let's get reeling!
Bridging It
Another architectural wonder from that brief article on the Beeb's website, with only another 3 to go if bridges aren't your thing HOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE BRIDGES and don't worry, I've got another link to another photography article with a theme. Thank you for taking up a little of the heavy creative lifting, Auntie Beeb! Art?
This is the <squints hard> Q'eswachaka bridge in Peru, made out of grass. Yes, you read that correctly: grass, not glass. The local tradition has the previous year's bridge callously dumped into the river below, and the natives then pound grass with rocks, soak it in water and then form cables with it.
Every year? Sounds like a right pain. Why not go with reinforced concrete and never have to build another for a century?
Conrad: idle as they come.
"The Sea Of Sand"
Back to my magnum opus that was pretty well-received over on Fan Fiction <modest blushing>. A rather grim Prologue, one has to admit. This long-form fanfic features The Fourth Doctor and Sarah Jane Smith, for your information. And it's loooooong, because as a fan writer you don't have to accommodate an editor, and yes that may be a good or bad thing depending on how good an author you are.
He began to
run again, wearily, being forced to the south by the pursuing demon, further
into the desert sands and away from the campsite and help. The adrenaline surge that allowed him to
outpace it earlier was a distant memory.
Yes, when the
dune nearby the one he sat upon to watch the excavation quivered, rumbled and
suddenly burst open to reveal the demon, he’d jumped upright in fear, dropping
his cigarette and running headlong into the night.
The stitch
came back again, worse than before, slowing him to a painful shuffle. His bare feet burned, his throat
spasmed. Once more he bent forward,
seeing the gritty sand up close. His
mouth felt dry as a stone, his tongue like a towel.
Foolish man,
he said, to the wind and sand. To take
the lire and cigarettes and be happy with them.
No living thing heard his despairing words; in this the most silent of
regions there were no creatures to hear him.
Once again the
soft soughing of the Demon caught his ear, and Al-Hassan managed to stagger on
for a few paces, until his ankle gave way.
He pitched to the sands, sprawling, feeling the cold grains dash against
his face. The hissing grew louder very
quickly, as the pursuing monster slid down the dune face towards him.
Ibn
Al-Hassan’s upthrown arm and hopeless wail of despair failed to stop the
monster. He died there, on the desert
sands, and nobody ever knew.
Sorry but you can't have wall-to-wall fluffy bunnies and rainbows. Where would the demons and hurricanes sit?
Hmmm The Real World Intrudes
As alluded to in a Facebook post, Conrad became aware that the Manchester In The City ballfoot team were having a Roman triumph this evening, starting at 18:00, in order to celebrate The Pigskin Of Power or somesuch. Stop me if I get too technical, okay?
BIRDSWEAT THIS MEANS TROUBLE! because it would inevitably snarl up traffic into and out of Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell, and it takes Your Humble Scribe quite long enough already -
But - hearken yea! It's Rob our Mighty Team Leader, who's giving those of us who live in the far distant hill country a chance to leave now (15:00) and work from home to make the time up.
'Hmmm?' he puzzled. 'What was that white flash in the corner of my eye?'
It was Conrad, heading for the exit. Art!
Happy, happy Conrad
There's A Starman
To coin a phrase. Conrad has long reckoned that the most telling job of all at International Rescue is that of Space Monitor, which normally falls to John Tracy to man (none of that PC drivel here), except for one month or two where Alan gets to do the job, being an astronaut. Art!
The thing is, crew aboard this whacking big orbital antenna farm are incredibly isolated; yes, they can listen in on thousands of radio and telephone conversations, probably even social media and text messages, yet they have no human contact for months at a time. Only Alan when he comes to deliver food and water. Art!
It takes a very exceptional mindset to sustain or even thrive under these conditions. Let's hear it for John Tracy!
Finally -
Excuse myself, just got to go down and put the tea on. Back very shortly!
Okay, I'm back. Your Humble Scribe has quite a few nicknames for Putin, none of which are allowed to be sweary because BOOJUM! prides itself on our SFW status. Thus we have: Tsar Poutine (after a French-Canadian dish of chips, cheese curd and gravy); Dimya - the familiar diminutive of his first name, and which would send him bandy if he knew Conrad were using it, because only your bezzie mate is allowed; Bloaty Gas Tout, though I stole the 'Gas Tout' bit'; Puffy Petrol Pimp - quite proud of that one. My latest is "Hydrocarbon Whore", which is skating perhaps a bit close to the edge, but it's Dimya, so who cares. Art!
Sad Dimya is sad
* We ignore the female version as it's not canon and we don't like it.
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