The Short Goodbye

All Those Readers Who Are Not Goldfish

Will probably be bored with this intro SIT BACK DOWN! It is interesting, really.  As you will be aware if you have a sentience level above that of a whelk, Conrad has been doing temp work for just over two months at Footasylum HQ up in Sandbrook Park, Rochdale.

     This had several plus points going for it.  Art!

     None of which are very exciting, so here's a Centurion AVRE (Assault Vehicle Royal Engineers), modified with a dozer blade and a demolition gun firing a 64 pound HESH round that would turn pillboxes into concrete gravel.  It could also carry a giant fascine bundle on the forward hull to fill in ditches o

     ANYWAY one advantage of the job was - no phone calls.  Out of perhaps 40 staff only three would be on phones, and then only taking perhaps half a dozen calls per day.  Conrad has no idea how they got through, there's no contact phone number for Footasylum, a fact that enraged many unhappy customers.  Art!

     Like the other temps, Your Humble Scribe dealt with What's App queries.

     Second, the bus stop at which I caught the 409 bus was mere feet from Tony's Fish And Chips, who do a monstrous Extra-Large Donner on nan that Conrad fell in love with; the thought of this was enough to sustain me through a very long day (which see later).  Art!

Taken from the bus stop

     Then again, it was only a 6-minute bus ride from home, which is a heck of a lot more convenient than an hour and a half into Gomorrah In The Irwell.

     There were negatives, too: doing a 40 week in only four days leaves little time for anything once one got home.  Tea (that kebab again), tomorrow's lunch, blog, bed.  Also, Dog Buns Kreplach! awful music playlists that were Rap, Drime and Grill FAR TOO OFTEN.  And a 15 minute walk from the bus stop that turned into a 25 minute one at weekends, because the back gate was shut.

     Conrad went out in a twinkle of glory, as I had done one of my Pomes, and here is the wretched doggerel.

I am about to make my way

So you'll no longer hear me say:

"I do not like the sound of this,

In fact it sounds like a pile of diss*"

Nor fervent requests for MORE BAGPIPES

And other exotic music types.

What I won't miss will be the rap 

 - unless 'twere played upon a dudelsack.

And - was that the sound of lowing cattle?

Why no! 'Tis but a passing rapping battle.

Young folk today - I mean what the heck,

He died in vain did poor Jeff Beck.

Jeff**: The guitarist's guitarist

Nor will I miss the dread canal towpath;

One false step and it's an early bath.

No more trudging Queensway in the dark:

I walk TEN MILES to get to Sandbrook Park!

I cannot finish until I mock -

My prime function - What's App, Doc?

     Notably I lied, it was a little under a mile weekdays and just over at the weekend.

     Presentation over, I was modestly surprised by a round of applause.

     Conrad retained his Temp Pass since otherwise I'd not get out of the building and nobody asked for it back - i wonder, could I still sneak in?  That's just me thinking aloud if anyone from Footlocker is- Ooops! sorry Footasylum is listening in.

The target
NO! Sorry, I meant to say 'The place I used to work in'.  Honest.

  

What Desperation Looks Like

As you may be aware, the Bloaty Gas Tout is having trouble exporting his oil and gas out of Ruffia nowadays.  Not only has the volume being exported fallen dramatically over the past year, the price has also fallen AND there's a cap on how much he can charge for a barrel of crude oil.  His regime ranted and tanted about how they wouldn't pay, it was incredibly unfair, Russophobia, you passed the port the wrong way round the table, etcetera - and then quietly complied.  Art!

     

     As Joe Blogs reported on his excellent Youtube vlog, Ruffia is now about to export oil to Pakistan, in a logistically complex process of railroading it to the Afghan border, transferring it to tankers, driving it to the Pakistan border and then loading it into Pakistani tankers.  

     The kicker is the volume being exported - 1,000 tons.  This might sound like a lot but it's a mere fraction of a fraction compared to crude transported by sea-going tankers.  It translates as 7,000 barrels, or $400,000 dollars worth.  And the further kicker is that Pakistan is almost bankrupt; they may not be able to even pay for it.

     FYI, a supertanker can carry 2,000,000 barrels of oil, or 285 times this shipment.

"The Sea Of Sand"

The survivors of the Italian and British garrisons are trawling through crated Italian supplies, attempting to get at equipment the Doctor wants.

‘Wellll – I dabble!’ beamed the Doctor, hoping not to become a focus of attention.  ‘You know how it is – widely read, widely travelled.  Been around a bit, seen a few things.’

          Roger, using the crane, swung a crate (“track spares for M11/39” according to his notations on the flimsies) over and across, dumping them abruptly on the gravelly ground.  His lack of care was rewarded with a shattered clinking sound and the release of a puddle from the crate.  A cloyingly sweet smell filled the air.

          ‘What the hell is in there!’ he asked nobody in particular, sounding astonished.

          Tam sniffed. 

          ‘Booze, sir.’

          ‘Amaretto,’ corrected the Doctor, sniffing also.  ‘Italian almond liquer,’ he informed the two British soldiers.

          When they prised the crate open with crowbars, they discovered twelve layers of liquer bottles, each layer consisting of twelve bottles.  The bottom two layers had been broken by Roger’s rough treatment, but one hundred and twenty intact bottles remained.

          Tam whistled.

          ‘This is not a licence to get paralytic, Corporal Mickleborough!’ snapped Roger sternly.

          ‘Did I mention whisky as effective against bio-vores?’ mused the Doctor aloud.  ‘For “whisky” read “Amaratto”.’  He cast a cynical eye over the crate of bottles.  Pretty obviously, someone had been up to mischief here, hiding alcohol in what ought to be a wooden box full of tank tracks.

     Hmmm what a serendipitous discovery!  How crafty the author, because you can guarantee this event is going to be a Chekhov's Gun moment.

Lord Peter's Make-You-Very-Crossword

What next, one wonders?  Well, wonder no longer, here's another of Ol' Dot's 'clues': "Whole without holes behold me here, My meaning should be wholly clear (6)"

     You know, I might have managed to solve this one, it's relatively straightforward for Dot.  The solution is: INTACT

Finally -

Okay, I wasn't planning on taking a trip into Royton BUT there is a parcel Wonder Wifey wants dropping off at Wraggs, which also offers an Evri service, and Your Humble Scribe forgot to get fat sausages yesteryon whilst doing the weekly shop, because he was very interested in her description of how you can slit them lengthwise, then add grated cheese and salsa and bake in the Ninja.  Conrad: thinks with his stomach.  True dat.

*  SFW at all times

**  Fingers and thumbs insured for £7,000,000