From Sputnik to Spacewalk

We ground-bound evolved hominids can sometimes get a bit blasé about the world we create and invent.  For instance, there are news headlines about today's spacewalk at the ISS being cut short; the Italian astronaut experienced leakage of water in his suit to the amount of about a pint* and had to return inside with the help of his colleague.  Fluid on the loose inside a spacesuit is a serious issue, since it doesn't behave the way it would down on Mama Earth - see Chris Hadfield's videos on Youtube for how freakily water behaves in microgravity.

Why is this in my blog?

Well, pilgrim, before 1957 there was no Space Age.  The first orbital satellite went up only four years before I was born (launched by them pesky Russians, too).  Sputnik whizzed around the world bleeping to all corners.  It looked like a shuttlecock posing for Playboy and was two feet** across.



Sputnik.  Russian for "Traveller".  Oh those jokey Russians.  It did 70 million km.  Of course it travelled!

The ISS, on the other hand, weighs in at 450 tonnes and is 100 times longer than Sputnik.  At a price tag of £150 billion it costs more than Sputnik, too.  Yes! I know it's a lot of money, but this is an international scientific endeavour that is not researching better ways to blow up your fellow man.  It is, for want of a better paradigm, a very Arthur C. Clarke project.

So, next time you read or hear of some hideous unpleasantness involving Hom. Sap***., cock an eye at the skies and recall that we've put an object massing three Jumbo Jets up there, in order to better ourselves.  We are (nearly) all of us in the gutter, but some of us are indeed looking at the stars.



The ISS.  And this picture exists because it was taken from the Space Shuttle.  Double awesome.

*  and **Tee hee.  British Imperial measurements in the 21st Century.  What a techno-saboteur I am.
*** Abbreviation for Homo Sapiens.  That's you and me, buddy.

Streaming, and Screaming, and Ice-Creaming

The Streaming Bit
     So.  That wonky-eyed* chap from Radiohead - Thom, that's him, young Thom Yorke - has pulled his tracks from Scrotify.  I don't blame him.  Bloody chiselling weasels, restricting free play to 0.0005 seconds per month and preventing more than 0.9999 plays of a song whilst pimping 18 billion aural adverts.  Disgraceful!
     I am, however, deliriously happy that Grooveshark didn't get a mention in the BBC article - hang on I'm a blogger there ought to be a link here -

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-23313445

 - ah there we go!  Where was I?  Oh yes, Saint Swithin's Day is supposed to - hang on, whoops -

 -ah, yes, Conrad is getting on a bit and loses the thread sometimes.  No Grooveshark, so it can be my little secret. Mine, mine, mine.  ALL MINE!  and someday, Valentina, I will tell you about 96.2 The Revolution.  Meanwhile all Grooveshark bases belong to me.

The Screaming Bit
     Nominally, there ought to be 40 staff in my team at work, although with sick leave and holiday and people seconding/leaving/idling-off-in-the-kitchen this is more like 33 staff.  Today, what do we get?  Triple the normal number of phone calls. 
     I raise this as an issue because Conrad, being the impeccable column of sheer cool** that he is, remains refreshingly stress-free and jovial whilst all around can barely restrain their inner turmoil - hence the Screaming.
     'What is this word "stress" that you speak of?' I tried.  Looks either blank or brutal returned, Conrad did not try that gambit again.
     We shall see how many of the 33 turn up for work tomorrow.  Really, I should think of a way to boost my fellow-worker's morale.  What can ...
     Turbo-tiddly winks!  Yessss!  How can that fail!  already I see <Cont. Page 96>

The Ice-creaming Bit
     Ah, dearie me, I forgot to add rum to my ginger ice-cream before the freezing process.  The end result tastes fine, it just needs to be ice-picked out of the ground an hour before consumption.  Thankfully I have just purchased a quarter-bottle of vodka for the purposes of rigelation (?) and concrete ice-cream ought not to be a problem again.

The Ice-Dreaming Brit
     Excuse dreadful pun!  This comes of the Ice-Penetrator astronomical article referred to yesterday.  Back in the day, science fiction fondly imagined more rarefied applications of Jovian exploration, in that the atmosphere of the planet or it's satellites was examined - see James Blish, Harry Harrison or Isaac Asimov - rather than the subterranean environment of the Jovian satellites themselves.  It's entirely possible that the ice-penetrator technology (and they have to come up with a catchy name or acronym!) is going to get there before Conrad croaks, in which case I need to know - Are We Alone***?

*  You can't deny it.  It's there in the CD listings - "Yorke, Thom: Rhythm guitar, lead guitar, vocals, wonky eye, glockenspiel"
** Cooler than liquid nitrogen.  Baby.
*** This leads in to "The Kraken Wakes".  To be expanded upon in later blogs .....

Kursk

An entry with two meanings - 1) The giant battle of July 1943 and 2) The K141 Submarine Kursk - only because 1) prompted recall of 2)  Whilst 3) might be a non-sequiteur, 4) is slightly more relevant in terms of velocity and penetration, and ice.

1)
     As a wargamer of long standing, I am more familiar with the battle of Kursk than 99% of my fellow countrymen.  During the Cold War it remained an obscure subject here in the West, except for people like me who gamed Eastern Front stuff in hex-and-counter games or on the tabletop with Historical Miniature Replicas (no they are NOT "Toy Soldiers"!).  This is the 70th anniversary of the battle, and the BBC even reported on it last week, so it has come out of the shadows somewhat.
     Now, I wonder, do (or did) the Russians ever get to read about what the Allies did before the Great Patriotic War started and whilst it lasted?  Obviously the Allied commitment in North Africa, Sicily, Italy and then North West Europe was on a smaller scale than that of Russia, but we did our bit.  Then, too, we had commitments in the Far East.

2) 
     I won't go into details here but thought at the time, what a terrible way to die.  I don't doubt submariners across the globe were thinking "There but for the grace of God ..." and also thinking what a terrible way to die.  Next month marks the 13th anniversary of the K141 going down.

Good lord, what a depressing post!  Quick, Conrad, think of something cheerful!

3)

Aha!  England beat Australia in the Ashes!

I'm not sure about cricket.  Don't watch it, only barely understand the rules and am certain nobody outside the Commonwealth gives a toss about it, but - damn it, it is such a characteristically British sport.  It's not whether you won or lost but how you played the game, although beating the Ozzies really is the cherry on the cake.  I have been stunned at the erudition and intellect shown by cricketers when interviewed on Radio 4 (my diversion during drive-to-work) and this was explained to me by Phil, the sporty component of our pub-quiz team: apparently a lot of cricketers arrive as professionals from university cricket programmes, so they are degree-level sportsmen.  Football and rugby - ah, now there's a different story ...

4)

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23281423

If the Battle of Kursk was dominated by tanks and armour and penetration of same, say hello to my little friend the 20Kg penetrator, which turned 10 tonnes of ice into snowflakes on impact, and yet could have had a payload of eggs because nothing inside the penetrator was broken, or even jarred a bit.  They need a name more catchy that "penetrator", too, because it sounds like an extra in a porn film.



20 kilos of British Blammo*! getting ready to go Father Christmas on a ten-tonne block of ice.

* You never know, they might call it that.


Chin-chin old chap!

BOOJUM!: living down to it's reputation

Ahoy Mateys!

After yesterday's uncommonly serious nonsense, we are back to a tour-de-farce of umpteen subjects.  Do keep up!

The Storm Gate/Grozovye Vorota
This is a Russian mini-series set in the Caucasus in 2000, focussing on a company of Russian paratroopers under attack from vast numbers of Chechen rebels.  I am watching a version with subtitles that beggar belief - about one sentence in ten is actually comprehensible, whilst the others are composed of achingly literal translations that make no sense, peppered liberally with Russian words or phrases.  Maybe, one day, I can find a version that Makes Sense.

The British Heatwave
IT'S NOT A BLOODY HEATWAVE IT'S WHAT WE CALL "SUMMER" AND IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS YOU LIGHTWEIGHTS!  There. I feel better now.  Also my purchase of an ice-cream maker proves to be providential in these temperatures.  Latest ice-cream version is mint-chocolate, thank you for asking.

Trees
When we moved into this house 16 years ago there was a sapling in the back yard.  This has now grown as tall as our house and created a vast bank of shadow across the back yard.  We have been tackling the branchy barstard over the past four days and have reduced it's size most impressively, to the point that dappled sunshine plays o'er our baking flags.  I have to say, the amount of work required to reduce a tree by any significant amount plays tribute to Nature's design capabilities.

Capitalist Conrad's Cake-baking Calculations
I suspect that only accountants would find this bit riveting, but here goes.  I bake on a weekly basis and have done for over a decade.  Friends at work would oooh and ahhh at the cakes I made and say "Rob -" er no sorry that should be "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
     Advance the clock to 2010 when I am unemployed and signing-on at the Job Centre.  I give them a potted account of my life story and what do the various DSS staff say?     "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"
     I'm not sure I'd enjoy the transition from sideline to What Pays The Mortgage.  It has been done - Pete Berry of Bacchus Miniatures used to be a civil servant who produced miniature wargaming figures in his spare time, and who then went solo and is solvent and happy.
     Anyway, I was ordered/it was suggested - that I calculate how much it costs to make a cake, which I have been doing over this afternoon.  It isn't as straightforward as you might think, but it is interesting.  My Banana and Walnut Loaf comes in at £2.75, whereas the Hummingbird Bakery's Four Layer Carrot Cake was only £6.34.  This calculation echoes a passing comment from colleagues at work, who laughingly said "It must cost you a fortune!".
     Then only last week Jane, an old friend (in the sense that I have known her for years - okay Jane? if you are reading this, and not in the unflattering sense of - ah, whatever) had some advice for me.  What was it?   "Conrad - you should open a shop and sell cakes!"

Division, Regiment, Brigade and Battalion
I think I'll allow MG units to be allocated down to Battalions, and light mortar/minenwerfers as well, but the medium and heavy mortars/minenwerfers are only able to be split up and allocated to Brigades or Regiments.  This means a bit of fudging at battalion level for MGs but no need to massage the numbers for the heavier weapons.

The Book Barn
After the Great Cull of 2010 I despaired of ever buying books again.  However, my total now stands at 392 Military History books, with a few more due next week.  This, I hasten to add, is not really very impressive.  Several years ago I was boasting in front of Andy at a wargaming convention about how many hundreds of books I had.  He effortlessly trumped me with his casual mention of three thousand books.

Well, I've got to go create some counters for that hex-and-counters boardgame.

Toodle-Ooh!

Holy Mother Russia!

Just one of those things that pops into your head on the drive home from work.

Pobieda!
I am aware that Russians, in the past, referred to their (mother)land as the Title line suggests - Holy Mother Russia.  This stopped once the Godless Bolsheviks took over - unless they needed a bit of sympathy from the masses - and you end up with WW2 slogans like (IIRC) "Za Rodina!" - which means, if my addled and aged brain recalls correctly, "For The Motherland!".   No "Holy" there.

Now, now that the Godless Bolsheviks are gone the way of the Dodo, do Russians invoke the "Holy" part of Mother Russia?  Or is the 21st Century Russian a more secular individual who only goes to church at Easter and who thinks The Motherland is a bit un-PC and it ought to be The Land?

I ask because this country - that is, the UK, for any out there actually reading this - used to be called "Great Britain" rather than just simply "Britain".  Obviously we must be Great, or people wouldn't be trying to get here so hard from all kinds of places* across the globe, but it isn't really a formal title any more.

Marcus Fox, the 1922 Committee, Presja (ciśnienie) krwi* and a debt of honour
     Here I have to bare a truth that may cause you, dear reader, to condemn me to perdition, kick your monitor in and assault random strangers in the street:  I am not a devotee of right-wing politics.
     Why is this relevant?
     Well because.  The above named Mr Fox used to head a very, very influential back-bench Conservative committee in Westminster known as - bingo! - the 1922 Committee.  They were stolid staunch right-wingers who exerted a considerable degree of behind-the-scenes influence.  They hated Europe, they hated anyone not a WASP and they hated anyone not actually WASP-ish trying to settle here in Britain.  Excuse me, Great Britain.
     It therefore tickles my mischief-bone about how they would view and cope with the number of Poles who currently work here in the UK.  "They aren't British!  But but but - they're White!  They're <gasp> Catholic!  But but but they're Christian!  They aren't scrounging dole money! But but but - and here the satire breaks down.

     Today is, if you care to call it such, The Second Polish Invasion. 

The First came during a little conflab known as World War Two.  Being strictly serious**, please be aware that the exiled Poles who managed to escape from a Poland occupied by both the Nazis and the Bolsheviks made their way westwards and ended up joining the French armed forces, until France was over-run by Germany (hey these Nazis get around) upon which they moved home to the U - ah, whatever - Great Britain.  The highest-scoring RAF squadrons during the Battle of (Great) Britain were - yes, Polish.  The highest scoring pilot in the BoB was actually Czech, but what squadron did he fly with?  Yes a Polish one.
Who manned the lines at Tobruk in Libya during the nine month siege***?  Yes Polish soldiers.  Who stormed the German lines at Monte Cassino?  Yes the Poles.

I could go on, but <chorus of readers plead NO NO NO!> yes you get the picture.  The Poles helped the U - Gr - Britain during a time of trouble.  The Poles in my workplace are clever and conscientious and it tickles my mischief-bone to greet them with "Djen Dobrie!" of a morning.

*I Googled this translation and it means "Blood Pressure"
** A rare occurrence on this Blog for which I apologise.
*** I could bore for England on this subject and would do but I have to eat and sleep


A Pole who died fighting in Africa against the Italians and Germans, surrounded by mostly Christians but also a Jew.  Truly, war mocks stereotypes.

VICTORY!!

A Celebration
The forces of righteousness prevailed at the Halfway House pub quiz tonight, and team Marsden Morons WON!  without an assist from Harry the Quizmaster, and - but of course! - no Googling on mobile phones in the toilets.  I was rather apprehensive; one question asked "What is the maximum points obtainable from a frame of billiards?" and another asked "How long is the delay before the tape self-destructs at the beginning of "Mission Impossible"?"  I had put down "10" for the first and thought I'd also put down "10" for the second. Which would have been bad.  The second question is in a section called "Wipeout".  Get all ten questions right and you get an extra five points.  Get one question wrong and you lose all the points for that section.  The self-destruct answer was "5" but I'd not written it down, so Phew! and let us now gloat at our £30 beer token.

Translation for any viewers in a foreign clime: "pub" = public house, except it's not a house and public aged under 18 aren't welcome.
"pub quiz" = an invention of the brewery to get people into their pubs mid-week
"Googling" - what cheating rascals get up to if unwatched.
"mobile phones" = hideous electronic gadgets surely sired by Satan
"Toilets" = sanitary amenities frequently used by cheating rascals
"apprehensive" = in this context "Will my quiz partners forgive me for making a complete b0ll0cks of our answers?  Er, probably not ..."
"Billiards" = one of those peculiar games that involve protracted ballistics on a flat green baize, flavoured in the past by clouds of tobacco smoke.
"Mission Impossible" = Lalo Schifrin's finest musical moment.

Song of the siren
I live on a busy main road running between Rochdale - home of the Co-Operative movement doncha know - and Oldham - home of - home of - home - give me a minute - home of the Seton Tubigrip Bandage (apologies to readers in rural Russia or Brazilian favela - imagine the far-flung suburbs of one of your major cities).  This main road runs directly to Oldham Hospital and is used by ambulances because it's the quickest way to get from A to B.  Thanks to our summer weather, all one week of it, the windows have to stay open at night and this means that ambulance sirens get noticed, especially in the small hours.  Bloody hell there's a lot of them!

Opus 40 Stoned

To borrow a line from Mercury Rev*.  Just been listening to "Deserters Songs" in the kitchen whilst preparing a Banoffee Pie.

The Gestation of a Banoffee Pie
Yesterday, in full view of darling daughter, I opened the kitchen drawer that contains fruit.  Laying there were eight leopard-print bananas. 
     "Those bananas need using up," quoth I.  Daughter's face transforms into one of delight.  Oh birdsweat, realises Conrad, I have stepped into a confectionary ambush.
     "Shall I make a Banoffee Pi-'
     'YES!  Yes yes yes!'
     So here we are.  I've made the biscuit base, probably the trickiest bit.  The toffee has been cooked and poured into the base.  Now we wait for thirty minutes before doing the banana and whipped cream.



Deep Thoughts of a Dark Nature
Once I park up in the morning it's a 15 minute walk to the office, which I utilise as Thinking Time.  Occasionally the thoughts are about work - much to my surprise I seem to be a real Company Man - but more frequently they concern the gigantic hex-and-counter wargame I'm designing, or that zombie novel I always bang on about.
     Current design dilemma - how to treat infantry battalions who have had divisional machine-gun units dispersed to them.  This reflects real life, where a Major-general might instruct MG companies to be attached to individual battalions instead of being brigaded together in one giant unit.  My resolution, derived whilst walking into Hanover Street, is that the individual battalions ought to get the ability to project their MG fire along a single line of hexes.  On the other hand, if they all stick together as the Divisional MG unit, then they get a "fan" of hexes, and they can also carry out barrage fire -

British MG team in action.  Note lack of Brodie-pattern helmet, and since the photographer would have been standing out in the open six feet above the position, this is likely a training photograph.  Notice, too, the emergency tripod located under the water jacket.

Come back, stop falling asleep!  This is fascinating stuff, really -

Murder! Mystery! Mjolnir!
Hastily adding another article, I have recently been reading detective fiction recommended by other members of the Great War Forum**.  Philip Kerr writes about detective/private eye Bernie Gunther from late Weimar Republic to pre-Castro Cuba in what someone must have decided was to be designed purely for the entertainment of Conrad.  Jolly decent stuff.  Then we have "Bryant and May", by Christopher Fowler, two antiquated detectives solving bizarre crimes in novels where London is as much a character as anyone else. 
     The "Mjolnir" bit comes apropos*** of Scandinavian crime fiction.  I have read several Jo Nesbo novels about Harry Hole - not entirely sure how Norwegians pronounce that surname and if they relate to it's base Anglo-Saxon slang interpretation - although no Stig Larrson or whatever about hives and beekeeping, and have only just discovered Sjowall and Wahloo.  These latter were husband and wife, who set out to map contemporary Sweden via the milieu *4 of detective novels.  I watched a film featuring Bruce Dern and Walter Matthau that was based on S & W's "Laughing Policeman" without realising it until a few weeks ago.  I think S & W were rather egging the pudding about how awful and deadbeat and ennui-laden contemporary Sweden was - the novels are set in the late 1960's and early 70's - but they are jolly good reads.



Imagine this - in Swedish (minus dayglo ties).


* Who are not very productive.  Last album was how many years ago?
** A thoroughly splendid forum for absolutely everything to do with World War One
*** Not a word I get to use often. 
*4    A word I get to use even less often than "apropos"