Conrad: A Victim Of Gin

Hmmmmm Perhaps

After all, I am getting on a bit.  248 years old at last count, thanks to my peculiar alien physiology.  Hey, what can I say, I come from an ice-world in the constellation <redacted> and the star <redacted> where our metabolism is a lot slower than yours, and we live a lot longer in the service of our wonderful <description of skull-crushing totalian dictatorship redacted>.

     That, or gin. Art!

     

"It's not Gordon's, it's MINE!"

     You see, when Your Humble Scribe was off busy creating words of wit, wisdom and weltanschaung, it was a matter of wonder that my traffic figures would mysteriously increase.  I'd be at 3 visitors before crafting a long link-filled blog, and then find my traffic had shot up to as many as 4!  Or even 5!

Happy happy Conrad

     Okay, okay, from perhaps 11 to 24.  

     'What can this mean?' I asked myself - aloud, since we were at home in The Mansion and there was no risk of frightening passers-by.  'How can people out there know EXACTLY when I am going to be composing deathless prose, and log on to appreciate it?"

     Doubtless you are ahead of me here, gentle reader.  Do forgive an old man's gin-inflected grey matter after a journey of 190 light years in suspended animation with his blood replaced by anti-freeze.  Art!

     For those of you who like to keep track, we are still at 73 Ruffian visitors, meaning that the FSB only got to 3 people overnight; unless they took themselves out of the tracker, because Biter Bit and all that ki

     ANYWAY 'What can it mean?' I'll tell you what it meant.  Your Humble Scribe had been COUNTING HIS OWN VISITS TO THE BLOG.  I had disabled this function years ago, yet it must have come unglued, so I went back in and disabled it again.  FINALLY we shall be getting accurate traffic stats.

     Which today stand at 95 hits.  Not bad for a Monday!

O go on then.  Just a snifter or five.

     

Only Slightly Related

Conrad, sitting up in his Sekret Layr*, has a splendid view across the high hill country, all the way over to Oldham Edge, and one thing I notice absent today is wind.  Yesteryon the trees were threshing around like triffids on amphetamine sulphate, today they are utterly lank.  This also means the skies are covered with 10/10ths cloud cover, as the Brylcreem Boys would have it.

     So!  Let us import a picture of a beer can.  Art?

     "Do you have a vocation?"

     "Yes actually I have six of them!"

     Collapse of Stout party and retention to an Ukranian corner.

     Wibble wibble dibble dibble.

If none of this makes sense you need to inhale more Jeyes Household Cleaning Fluid.

Conrad Takes His Frothing Nitric Ire For A Walk

After all, everyone can do with a bit of exercise, can't they?

     Let us now deploy Ferocious Fantabulisms in search of Codeword compilers, because they need tracking down and ELIMINATING.   

"INVEIGHS": Ah me yes I remember trying to define this word to Janice, who hailed from Cameroon and whom had an excellent English vocabulary.  "To speak with violent or invective language".  Obscure and obsolescent to say the least.  You will have seen innumerable examples of 'Inveighing' here on BOOJUM!, usually against the Codeword Compilers, so we can define this as pretty much Business As Usual.  Art!

"A superglue accident caused an episode of inveigh"

"AXIAL":  That is, 'along the axis of -' and Your Humble Scribe is O so familiar with this term because of his unhealthy obsession with TANK.  You the girning public are probably less aware.  Art!

     Here we have a Matilda II, as loathed and hated by the Axis in North Africa during the Second Unpleasantness.  You can see the mighty two-pounder gun, which rendered many an Axis tank into Swiss cheese - and alongside that, on the same axis, is a machine-gun.  Hence co-axial.  If the turret crew came across a target that did not deserve Death By Two-Pounder, why then they would belabour it with machine-gun fire from the CO-AXIAL.

"QUANGO":  YOU WHAT!  THIS - <pauses to draw breath and calm down> This solution refers to <still gritting teeh> 'Quasi-Autonomous National Government Organisation" and it is an ACRONYM!

     I think I'd better change subjects before I spontaneously combust out of sheer rage.

Francophone On A Piping Drone

If you have been keeping track AND YOU SHOULD HAVE then you will realise that we here at BOOJUM! have been replicating editions from "The War Illustrated" and posting them, all the while at least two weeks behind the real events, in order to avoid giving any useful information to the Axis.  Which is a contemporary comment on what's going on in U

     ANYWAY - 

     Here we have bagpipers from the 52nd Highland division, who are playing with their TAM'O SHANTER not 'beret' thank you very much, being studied by curious French citizens whom have never encountered a dudlesack at close range.  I do notice one lady ramming her hands against ears - ah what the Kreplach! you can't make people like bagpipes**.

"The Sea Of Sand"

I do beg your pardon!  Here we are into the meat of the matter and the Scatter My Data post is still unposted.  Let us bring forth the squorth:

Di Fellica nodded back over the way they had come, where sand slid down to fill their footprints.

          ‘I’d prefer to be where the boy is,’ he said, using their nickname for the young graduate.

          ‘He might have vanished too, when we get back,’ said Fulgoni, only half-joking.  ‘Ah, we’re wanted.’  Doctor Bartolomei waved them forward.

          ‘Gentlemen,’ he said.  ‘We are going to take down the overburden on the second pylon.  Can you set up a path with wooden planking for the wheelbarrows?  Take it out to the eastern spoil heap.’

          Thus began several hours of toil, moving tons of sand from around the pylon.  Gradually the tapering column emerged from the concealing sands, and Fulgoni studied it with a practiced eye.  Whilst he might lack the depth of Templeman’s experience or Bartolomei’s knowledge about archaeology, his degree in Classical Antiquities gave him an insight.  He chatted to Di Fellica whilst they sweated, not feeling like conversing with the sullen French duo: Templeman and Doctor Bartolomei would undoubtedly not wish to hear his musings.

          What did he know about this unquiet site?  Firstly, the black pylons did not exhibit any wear or erosion.  Not even at their tips, where they had been exposed to the elements for God alone knew how many years.  Naturally the shroud of the overburden would have protected them once covered over, yet they stood as if their mysterious builders finished contruction only yesterday.  What were they made of?  The material looked like polished jet, glossy and dark, but it resisted the picks and hammers used to take samples.  Fulgoni suspected it of being a vitreous enamel coating, perhaps similar to that used in the vitrified hill forts in Northern Europe.  Likewise, the massive bulk of The Temple stood pristine, untouched by the literal and metaphorical sands of time.

     Ooooh Creepy-Pasta time!

Finally -

I think we're pretty much done here.  All that remains is to terrify, torment and titillate our Ruffian members with new nicknames for the Puffy Petrol Pimp.  <thinks hard> this one won't work unless you pronouce it in English: Pooh Tin - and then look to ascribe it,

*  The only typographical error we allow here.  Just so you know.

**  If only, if only.