With Apologies To Robert Persig
I've never read his book, and indeed don't know the first thing about it, whether it's fact, fiction or paint-by-numbers, just that it makes a handy literary meme, if you will.
I suppose a little explanation about "S.P.V." is needed. It's the official acronym for "Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle", a monstrous wheeled armoured fighting vehicle as used by those nosey parkers at Spectrum. Art!
The only way to outrun one of these beasts is to be in an F1, flooring it. You'd have to have a lead of several miles, too, because - it has missiles. Spectrum may be symbolised by rainbows but it has a distinct shortage of fluffy bunnies and butterflies. Art!
45ยบ slopes no problem! Spectrum has a world-wide distributed network of SPVs secured in hidden storage points, from where they can be retrieved by agents in good standing and with a valid Class 4 driving licence. Art!
Spot the SPV. You can't, it's hidden. This petrol station is fully functional, but the manager is actually a Spectrum undercover agent, tasked with keeping a weather eye on the hidden vehicle. It must be a burden, having to manage double-entry book-keeping and dealing with alien menaces in the meantime. If a Spectrum agent happens to turn up and produces appropriate ID, then -
Trailer goes away, SPV appears. Now, don't forget that these vehicles are only used in emergencies; Captain Ochre can't requisition one to get through traffic on his way to LAX - although seeing one of these in your rear-view mirror would clear traffic like magic - nor can a group of lagered-up Captains appropriate one to get home after the last bus has gone. So, bearing that in mind, they have to be kept in tip-top shape, cleaned, fuelled, armed, maintained, systems tested and given a quick buff at the weekend - ALL THE TIME.
Conrad suspects that this is rather beyond the remit of the resident undercover agent, because a sixteen-hour workday is a tad excessive, and if you spent eight hours a day in that truck above, people would wonder.
Thus Conrad proposes a national maintenance team for Spectrum, possibly one in each country where they have a presence (so none in Bereznik), who are peripatetic and whom rove up and down, discreetly ensuring every SPV is in peak condition. Art!
One of the more popular locations for maintenance staff; the Auld Lang Syne whisky distillery. That vehicle probably has a litre of malt in the first-aid kit.
Here an aside. Conrad is aware of South Canadian conspiranoid loonwaffles who maintain the myth of "The Black Helicopters"*, as if! These, the story goes, turn up at Mysterious Inexplicable Events, and dismount hordes of Anonymous Gubmint Enforcers, who remove all the evidence of whatever it was, which is why the only proof Lonny The Basement Boy has of 'an epic battle between the Greys and the US SEALS and the Terminator and Superman' is a scorched pine cone. Art!
A Black Helicopter! Flee for the hills!
You see, to hide their identity they have no insignia. Which is stupid. If they want to divert attention, they'd have the US Parks And Forests logo on them, or the 237th Reconnaissance Air Wing, or Spectrum
ANYWAY Conrad's point - yes there is one - is that South Canada is freaking huge. HUGE! I've flown across it from coast to coast and it took all day. Art, a handy map, please.
Does Lonny The Basement Boy think that these black helicopters all live in Kansas and fly out from there? How long would it take them to reach Florida? Or Alaska? Hours, and with refuelling required along the way. No, for the black helicopters to exist in reality they'd need a base in each state, with multiple helicopters available to account for those taken up by training, maintenance, repair or retaining pilot flying skills. They need fuel, and lots of it, and lots and lots of ground staff, and accommodation, and spare parts, and radars. Plus an extensive radio, e-mail and internet eavesdropping service to ensure they get to the scene first.
It's not very likely, is it?
My Spectrum scenario is far more plausible.
Of course, I may be over-thinking this a bit ...
Small Earth Tremor In Wigan
As I put it about on Facebook last night, I completed an MEN Codeword last night, which had NIL controversial words present. In fact, just to prove a point - art!
I made a bit of a bodge with "APPEAL" since I had it down as "ANNEAL" at first.
ANYWAY nothing contentious, which must be good, right?
Yes and no. It makes the Codeword easier but afterwards I've got nothing to complain about, so no blog content generated.
"The Sea Of Sand"
I shall have to keep this relatively brief since I wittered on so long with the Intro. Not going to apologise, once an author gets a head of creative steam behind him you have to stand back or be crushed by creativity.
Corporal Tam Mickleborough
escorted the detainees outside, into a silent, baking heat under a brassy sky,
the precursor to the approaching sandstorm, which now towered a hundred feet
high and only a few hundred yards away.
‘Double
time!’ he called, and led the two across the sands, past crates, boxes and
pallets, to a large khaki tent pitched in the lee of giant stack of
crates. Eddies of dust and sand began to
whip around their ankles.
‘Sir
– Captain Dobie’s ordered that you look after these two. Mates of the Professor,’ called the corporal
from outside the tent, then sped off to find his own tent.
The
tent flap opened and Lieutenant Llewellyn peered out, his peaked cap failing to
sit properly on his tousled hair.
‘Good
Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘Civlians?’ He cocked his head as the wind began to pick
up. ‘In here, smartish, chaps – oh!’
Obviously
he suddenly recognised Sarah’s gender.
Once they were safely inside, he hastily tied the tent flap shut.
Sarah
cast a sharp eye over the tent, aware before looking of the smell of sweat,
soap and tea. The horizontal tentpole
brushed the top of the Doctor’s hair, reminding her that she still carried his
hat.
‘I
beg my pardon,’ said the officer, wearing wrinkled shorts and a khaki shirt
open to the navel. He buttoned up the
shirt, then put on a pair of incredibly battered sandals. ‘There, decent. Now, introductions are in order. You are?’
‘I
am Doctor John Smith, and this is my travelling companion, Miss Sarah Jane
Smith,’ intoned the Time Lord, his eyes taking in everything in the tent within
the space of a second.
What Roger will make of his new guest's relationship remains to be seen. You may rest assured, however, that there will be NO hanky-panky here. Not the done thing.
A Passel Of Possibilities
A quick look at one of the introductory maps as found in the opening pages of "The War Illustrated", so Conrad can pontificate. Art!
This shows the strategic worries that the Axis had, because now the Allies controlled the whole of North Africa, they had umpteen possible choices to make about where to invade next. Spain? Southern France? Sardinia? Corsica? Sicily? Italy proper? Greece? Yugoslavia? Or more than one?
A Little Musical Critique
O yes indeed. These items have grown musicians and composers weeping into their beer as Conrad deconstructs ruthlessly, using logic and semantic analysis, and blatant mockery. Today it's the turn of Pink Floyd and "One Of These Days". Let the excoriation begin!
"One of these days I'm going to cut you into little pieces"
Hmmmmm, that's quite the attitude, isn't it?
And with that we're done. Hey, we're over the Adjusted Compositional Ton, I had to keep it short. Art!
Finally -
Payday today! Which is good, Conrad is always to have more beer and book tokens sitting in his bank account, except we'll be supporting the HR team that takes queries about pay, and I guarantee that there'll be lots of 'em. Fortunately there's only one more payday before we get the big heave-ho. Counting the days!
* I mock them, I jeer at them, yes; but Spectrum absolutely exists.
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