Scissors Wraps Paper, & Paper Raps Metal

     Coins are peculiar metallurgical items, and not just from a Marxist perspective. Take the pesky baby of the family, the One Pence Piece. Once upon a time a 1p was worth a trip to the cinema. In my youth you could by a few sweets and penny chews. Nowadays our cupric friend would purchase zilch. In fact, only 1/5 of all transactions actually need a 1p.

Thus, it is you are actually going out of your way to pass on the blighters. By the same token (no pun intended) it is only an obligatory coin for the haberdasher to return to the customers itchy plam when the cost of an item ends with 9p or 7p. Again the 20% rule comes into play. The only reason you use the pennies most of the time is to get rid of the little swines. It’s pretty much akin to having an E.U. penny mountain in your sideboard. I am misleading you of course, dear reader.

One of the reasons where the “99p” appendum to the price (apart from the psychological advantage of a whole 1p mark-down), was this: back in the day of Gestetner Steam-Driven cash register, if the Price were rounded to the nearest pound then the operator could pocket the cash, for he wouldn’t have need to open the till: no change. However, 99p means that he has to open the till and swap coins in front of the customer. So I say, Pluto the penny, banish the brass. This is one little fella we don’t need. Compare the ways of the prehistoric penny to our friend the postage stamp. Many a sleight has be made of the Queen-emblazoned sticker. It seems a tad unfair. After all, if you were to send you Aunt Gertrude a Happy Divorce card, a mere 30p seems a most economical way of posting, say from London to Edinburgh. In fact at 0.07p a mile this is the delivery method of choice. Unlike the old stick in the mud coin, the stamp will change its value. Adapt & Survive. That’s what I say. You’ll never see a 2p think it’ll be better of as a threepenny bit. So, three cheers for stamps. Britain at it’s Best.

Did Dorian Gray have glue on one side of his face?

Through A Glass Darkly

     I recall reading  about the life of Charles VI of France in I Commentarii  (by Enea Silvio Piccolomini). Although VI on the roman numeral scale, he was better known as Mad Charles by his adoring fans. Although it could have been worse. Ethelred’s The Unready moniker can’t have been much of an ego boost.
    On the subject of Roman Numerals  – which we weren’t – I recall my associate Blenkinsopp relating the following story. Apparently he had posted his Aunt Agatha a brass banana-peeler to her summer residence in Georgia (part of the American colonies) when a week later the following encounter occurred. Following a ringing of the doorbell, he promptly opened the aforementioned portal to have the fortune to meet that man of letters, Mr. Witherspoon, the friendly neighbourhood postman. Unfortunately, Witherspoon also had a suspiciously banana-shaped package hard at heel. Mr. Witherspoon explained that according to the note attached to the package, the labour-saving device could not be accepted over the border due to the fact that the address was written using Arabic Numerals (presumably to spot any post from the middle east) Obviously, among the luxuries exported was not an education system.

Mafia Accountancy

     As I was saying, Charles VI apparently, was a bit of a square egg. He sometimes didn’t recognise his family and would run around the corridors of his palace howling like a wolf. His crown size was 7¼ incidentally.
     More bizarrely, he became convinced that he was made of glass and needed to be held together with bits of wood, and iron rods  to stop him from shattering.[ear trumpet material here… http://www.learningcurve.gov.uk/podcasts/ It must have been a handy skill, if you’d dropped your keys, assuming of course he believed it was transparent glass. Perhaps it was a fetching burgundy Ghiaccio as favoured by the venitians. I don’t expect you’d see him hogging the central spot affront the hearth. Pretty handy though for lightning a fire, using the magnifying power if his thumb. I suppose he was really thinking of the fragility downside. These days he’d probably be seen running down the street, chase by a crowd of children, dressed in his bubblewrap suit.

one i prepared earlier

     In 1561 account reported a sufferer “who had to relieve himself standing up, fearing that if he sat down his buttocks would shatter… The man concerned was a glass-maker from the Parisian suburb of Saint Germain, who constantly applied a small cushion to his buttocks, even when standing. He was cured of this obsession by a severe thrashing from the doctor, who told him that his pain emanated from buttocks of flesh.”http://wapedia.mobi/en/The_Glass_Delusion

     Further Reading “Enea Silvio Piccolomini (Papa Pio II), I Commentarii, ed. L. Totaro, Milano, 1984, I, p. 1056”.

Slightly Foxed

British Success Uncovered

     As we approach the anniversary of Mr. Armstrong & Mr. Aldrin’s well known landing on the Moon. Let me take the gentle reader on a voyage fantastique of which the history books keep a mysterious silence.

     For I can reveal, that the first man to walk on the surface of the Moon was none other than Britain’s very own Captain George Formby. After a glittering career in the military, bringing off such coups as infiltrating a Nazi Spy ring, and delivering a good old knuckle sandwhich to Mr. Hitler (in his very own bunker)- not to mention serving as a crack RAF fighter pilot.serving  obviously George was the man for the job. He was dubious as to whether he could pull off a trip to the lunar surface. He soon changed his mind.

     After months of  training at the hitherto secret training academy in Skegness, Formby emerged with his sidekicks of Captains Sidney James and Hattie Jacques. At last they were ready to go boldy where no man had been before.

     Eventually, in October 1957  a window of opportunity presented itself, and the trio clambered into the invention of the now infamous Dr. Brunel. The Space-Balloon secretly ascended into the atmosphere above the salty air of Skegness.

Dr. Brunel's designs

     The journey was fraught with danger, accounts of which are still too vague and unsettling to recount here. Albeit to say that after a fortnights flight they eventually descended to the mysterious lunar territory. Almost immediately they were met by the curious inhabitants of our sole satellite. After a series of unlikely adventures the Soup Dragon was slaughtered, and the Clangers were a free people.

The Revolution Begins

     Out intrepid trio stayed for ginger beer and cheese sandwhiches, but had to be back on Earth to report their findings.

     As if this were not enough, Sir George Formby went on to further success in other fields of human endeavour. Of course, his winning the Grand National and the Isle of Man T.T. have been well documented in the popular press. In his 60’s he was elected Member of Parliament for Bristol East, whereupon he famously pushed through the Octopus Protection Bill. Upon retiring to spend more time actively in politics, he became an inventor. Younger readers will probably be more familiar with the George Formby Grill.

Double Trouble

Getting to know you

     Dear reader, let me relate to you a headline that I encountered in the Village Gazette the other day. I was puzzled by the headline, which read “Midget Twins killed by Fake Ladies of the Night”

     It just goes to back up those stories you are always hearing about twins separated at birth ending up in the same professions, having the same type, of dog, and in several cases being married to the same woman. I suppose some of it makes sense, you must be difficult to resist those two for one offers for example. However, if you are, for example, lacking in the height department, the choice of a career in Professional Wrestling (Mexican department) does seem particularly ill-thought through. Just the thought of a huge 220lb Mexican version of Giant Haystacks descending at 9.8ms-2 of a 20ft pair of ladders, only to have his descent hindered by my miniscule bonce would certainly give me second thoughts at the interview. Perhaps they played as a team; sort of two halfs for your pint philosophy. Oh dear, that makes them sound like some 1930’s slapstick comedy. Visions of braces being pulled from behind, a-running through open legs, and much a-slapping of wobbly cheeks seems to spring to mind.
     I wonder if they ever won a match? Did they get half of the belt each?
It is a shame they a no longer with us. Still to be, albeit accidently, killed by a prostitute you would at least want them to have the dignity of being real ladies-of-the-night. My of my, the second oldest profession is getting more sloppy these days. Where they happy to carry out the pleasuring act, but refused to take the monies after said transaction? Who knows, certainly not I, gentle reader. Marxist escorts spreading their tentacles across the Mexican map. Soon, surely, America will follow. I can just see aero planes packed full of mini-skirted, basqued, stocking and beheld Marxist nocturnal escorts, stepping out of airports all over the civilized world (apart from Iceland, obviously.) What do they really want? Perhaps they are a religious sect intent on terminating all twins, seeing them as an abhorration? Evil plots surround us everywhere. It is clear that we must all send a letter to Mr. Brown immediately demanding that he set strict quotas limiting the numbers of ladies entering our country. Perhaps even 24-hour security for twins everywhere. Is nothing sacred anymore. Incidentally, did you know Tom Thumb’s hat size was 3¾, cheap on material, but a bit fiddly steaming the brim.

Smoke upon Troubled Waters

     Dear reader as you may recall, I ventured to the Teapot the other day, at approximately 1 of the yard-arm to meet the genocidal Dr. Nemo, on a matter urgency. Let me relate to you the events of that day.

     On entering the aforementioned establishment, I had a brief encounter with Ernest T Jones, the part-time barman. After a brief conversation mulling over the weather, and the question of whether I had encountered any new pot holes and the like -it matters not –he handed over a vermillion envelope that had been left for me.  I retreated with my murky ale to my preferred snug.

I studied the envelope with newfound curiosity; it smelt faintly of kelp…

The Very Article in Question

Breaking off the wax seal with the image an amphibian melted into it- (a Nemotoad if you like –I opened the unexpected communiqué. What was the man doing in Spain?

I hope that's not octopus ink.

Let me relate what the anticephalopodic fiend had to relate:

“Dear Erasmus, I was surprised to hear from your after our last encounter ended on such a sour note. However, I understand that you have a mystery afoot. You be pleased to hear that I have adapted the energy-transfer mechanism of my minisubmaranic apparatus to suit your needs. Unfortunately I rather tied up with the infamous Cuélebre in Cantabria. I will be back as soon as I can….”

Just as I was reaching the curious reference to the legendary Cuélebre, I felt an eerie presence, almost 32 centimeters, North-Northwest of me by the Etherington Compass. Turning sharply, I drew my eyes upon a strange looking figure. Let me describe him to you. He was almost entirely enshrouded in an enveloping black cloak. His face was obscured by a pall of grey smoke, a panama hat perched awkwardly on his head.

“To whom do I have the opportunity of speaking?”

“I come not to speak, I come to smoke,” he replied enigmatically. As he finished his sentence, he unrolled a series of complicated blueprints in front of me. To my amazement I realised that the figure, whom I shall refer to as The Smoking Man, was the curious inventor of a type of flying saucer. Some of the details were beyond me, but it seemed gain its energy from special crystals developed by the smokey one. The purpose of these crystals seemed not only to be folding space-time, but also ironing it popping it in the draw. Now the stranger chose the time to talk.

“I am here to help you investigate you gaping chasm, Sir.”

I blinked, partly from the acrid smoke. It seemed that he was the very person that I required.

So, the game is a-foot!

Staying in for the Summer

You see things; and you say, ‘Why?’
But I dream things that never were; and I say, “Why not?”

George Bernard Shaw, from “Back to Methuselah”

     I was watching the Cathode Ray of the a.m. today & was confronted by the following information: The Powers that Be are going to inform us when it’s a heatwave. They’ve even made up little numbers to attach to them. Here they are:

http://www.dh.gov.uk/en/Aboutus/MinistersandDepartmentLeaders/ChiefMedicalOfficer/Features/DH_4135398

“Level 1: Summer preparedness and long-term planning(Green)
During the summer months, social and healthcare services need to ensure that awareness and background preparedness are maintained by the measures set out in the Heatwave Plan.

Level 2: Alert and readiness(Yellow)
This is triggered as soon as the Met Office forecasts that there is a 60 per cent chance of temperatures being high enough on at least two consecutive days to have significant effects on health

Level 3: Heatwave action(Amber)
This is triggered as soon as the Met Office confirms that threshold temperatures have been reached in any one region or more.

Level 4: Emergency(Red)
This is reached when a heatwave is so severe and/or prolonged that its effects extend outside health and social care, such as power or water shortages, and/or where the integrity of health and social care systems is threatened. 

     This is extraordinary. What ever happened to knowing the forecast temperature. All of a sudden that’s too much information to handle. No, now we are no longer trusted to peruse the old brass thermometer and mutter “Cor Blimey, Stone the crows, it’s a scorcher!” Dear boy, leave not the old abode as we’re on alert level 3! I particulary like the way that they haven’t quite understood the concept of the traffic-light system. Where the hell does yellow get off. I’m sorry sir your colour doesn’t appear to be on the guest list. It really is worth reading the advice. It’s beauracratic gibberish if you sit down & read the detail. Some of the advice is really great: Children are advised to stay out of the sun between “11am and 3pm” Great! Looking forward to the summer? Well, you can look but not touch little Johnnie. The advise for the crumblies is no better : “make sure that they know what they should be doing” There may be a hint of egg-sucking there.

Nope, no yellow

     It’s not just weather that we’re now being warned about. Everything’s being reduced to level and grades. Clearly, the old days of being able to simply “process” a piece of information is beyond us. They’ve done the same to terrorist to the tiny swine-flu virus. I notice the Meterolical Office also have the same sort of system for “extreme weather.” We can’t just have stormy or rainy : it’s got to sound really dangerous. What would Noah have made of it? I also note they use that yellowy traffic light too.

Now, some times this is useful. Some categories work. The fairer gender have always picked out their haberdasheries in “sizes.” Although, I’ve never quite understood where they came from. And why not men? Perhaps we like being measured too much. The fact that dress sizes change as well is a tad confusing as they based upon statistical analysis of the population. Ho hum.

Of course some are more peculiar than others. If you want to know your hat size, you need to measure the circumference of your head (in inches, Dr. Brunel) and divide by п. Just don’t ask. Abraham Lincoln was 71/8 don’t you know.

     Well, enough of that. I’m going to ignore advice & pop out. I have decided that the only way to explore the ghastly hole (see previous entry) is to employ the talents of the loathesome Tiberius Nemo. I shudder at the thought! He is the only man in England who can help me. However, mark my words, I will never see an octopus will ever cry itself to sleep because of me. Time for a trip to the Teapot.

Must be off!

Subterranean Terror in Suburbia

     Dear reader, I hesitate to writetype my account that I bore witness to yesterday. Yet, I must record the events, though it sears my very soul. Yesterday of the a.m. I had taken to tackling the hedge.

     As you would recall, I started this a few days ago, when I was rudely interrupted by Dr. Brunel. Secateurs in hand, I was a-pruning away when on reaching the very fundament of the shrubbery I started pulling out a few moribund weeds from the eternal hedge. A couple of startled hedgehogs made an escape bid, virtually tumbling me upon the turf. I swear one was wearing a monocle, but it was only a fleeting glimpse. It is my firm opinion (& Tristram Shandy agrees with me) that if left alone with suitable-sized attire, all manner of creatures will take to dressing themselves. No animal with a soul will truly wish to walk around naked. I conducted an experiment on said matter with Aubrey my trusty parrot. This was not, to put it mildly, a great success. One for the backburner I feel.

The monocled one

      Upon retaining my vertical stance, I sustained my weed removal. A few tugs here & there revealed…I can barely bring myself to explain. Before my very eyes, I scraped away the undergrowth to reveal a shiny brass disc. Embossed on this plate were the letters “PROPERTY OF DR. N. LESTA CORP” Immediately, I pottered off in the direction of ye olde shed. On returning wielding a crow-bar I took to prising the disc from its home. Once the platter was dragged eased out a deep dark tunnel revealed itself, boring deep into the heart of the Earth. I took a stone and dropped into into the depths. No sound resounded. Lord I waited & waited to gauge its depth. I took a larger boulder, with the same results. An idea struck me, dear reader, that sent me scurrying in the direction of my local hardware store. On returning, after a degree of haggling, I had acquired 300m (Dr Brunel be damned) of finest fishing line. I then assembled a crude pulley system to assist me in dropping the line into the ghastly abyss. I popped Benson & Hedges my erstwhile mice companions onto the end of my contraption. Into the eye of the obfuscation they dropped out of sight, deep into the crust of the Earth. 100 meters, 200 meters.. My adapted alarm clock read. At that point I dragged up my fromage loving friends. Slowly, steadily up I reeled the twine. To my joy my companions were safe & sound. Not a hint of stress or strain. To my surprise neither were they damp; surely such an abyss must have containing some mysterious underwater lake? Plunging them down the deep, dark hole, yet again – this time to the extent of the line. The thwang of the wire had hit the limit. No other sound came up from the fissure. Reeling in the extent of the thread I was chilled to discover Benson & Hedges were all ashes. The cage was intact. I shudder to think what had happened to my erstwhile friends. My rashness at risking their friends lives were, dear reader tugging at my heartstrings. I must leave the writetyper, as I am preparing to enter the abyss myself. If you never hear from me again, please never mention a word of this & never try to find this Ashmolean abyss.

Cross my Palm with a shiny Guinea.

Aries (20th March – 20th April)

Tension is in the air. If you are an international pilot, then beware of midair collisions. Lucky numbers are 747 and 12.34.

Love is in the air, if you have a brown door and forgot to put the wheelie bin out again.

 

 

Taurus (April 20th – May 21st)

Teapots play a large role in your life at the moment. If you have green eyes, blue hair and get about on stilts, you are a typical Taurean. Danger lurks around every corner today. Take my advice Stay in.

 

 

 

Gemini (20thMay – 21st June)

A typical Gemini trait is that you have an identical doppleganger. Always travel with a witness to make sure your evil twin’s not trying to put you in the shit, mate. Lucky hat: a straw boater. Where it to bed, and luck will visit your door.

 

 

Cancer (20th June – 21st July)

Be friendly to strangers wearing a red rose. You never know. You seem to be weighed down with paperwork today. Don’t let these things worry you. Throw a party, but don’t forget to let somebody else know about it. Luck hairstyle: perm.

 

 

Leo (July 20th – August 21st)

Sorry to hear that all Leos were wiped out in the accident at the weekend.

 

Virgo (August 21th – September 32nd)

You have been through a lot of stress recently. What with Aunt Maise, and that problem with Uncle Stan’s genital warts. Things are starting to look up on the financial front, however a close family member will be struck by a meteorite later in the week. Luck stone: granite.

 

 

Libra (10th green bottle – 5th gold ring)

 Time to get on that diet fatboy. You disgust me. Get some exercise whaleboy. And that shelf still needs putting back up. What a waste of space you are. Luck Organ: Pancreas. Wait till I get hold of you.

 

 

Marxist_leninists*(5th gold ring – 10,000th lucky customer)

Yes, brothers. Marxists have made great new strides into the zodiac this year. Don’t forget you have nothing to lose but your lucky numbers. Luck will soon be back in the hands of the people. Distribution, Production & Manufacture of probability will be ours. Love visits a blue door.

The Murky Depths…

     Dear Reader, I hope this digital document finds you in fine fettle. As you may very well recall;I hinted at a meeting with one Dr. Nemo. And so it was that, after a glance at the octopus clock revealed, that it once again time to avail myself of Shanks’ pony, out I ventured.

     Ah there you are! At the preordained time, I stepped forward in the saloon bar of the Teapot & Hearing Aid. After ordering a pint of the dubiously named Special from the part-time barman, I drifted over to one of the snugs and perused that morning’s Shire Bugle. Apart from an article about a papershophaving blown away, and an origami factory that had recently folded, there was very littleto trouble the Shire. On raising my eyed from ink to bar, I espeyed that my aquatic associate had arrived.

The Teapot & Hearing Aid,yesterday

     Dr. Nemo expounded on his new technological breakthrough. Let me tell you, dear reader, that I was astonished, flabbergasted, outraged & bedevilledsimultaneously. But not literally, obviously. My meeting was not a total success, but at least it crystallized what was impossible. Nemo’sfiendish plan was to build a fleet of submersibles, carrying passengers and cargo around the country. Thus, removing the highway of burdensome traffic. Apparently his prototype had been sabotaged by the Imperial Lego Company.  His plans where in ruins. As he poured over his blueprints, he explained more and more of his scheme. Then it hit me, the power source for the submersibles was indeed by tapping into the telapathic potential of octopuses. Quelle Horreur! The idea shocked me to the core. Genius on the teetering edge of madness. I stamped my tankard down on the wobbly table. (Not easy to get away with that one whilst still maintaining your dignity.) The madman was sent out of the hostelry with a flea in his ear (not literally, either -That’s enough of the Ed.)

     Let me confess to you. I have always had a fondness for oureight-legged friends. I event went so far as to teach one to play the violin (alas, that paticular venture ended in tears.) My father taught me the joy of the cephlapod as a youth. We would swim with the rare three-eyed Pillbox Octopuses in the crystal blue waters of lake Majova. There I learnt their mysterious customs, their worship of Javalot, their deity & their mating practices. This largely involves biting their own tentacles off and flapping about a bit. You, see octopuses are timid creatures, preferring to bugger off in a cloud of ink, than get involved with the affairs of man. The thought of their civilisation being  sapped of its’ sentient power made my blood hit a ton on the old brass thermometer. And poor Dorothy, sweet, sweet Dorothy. What she could do with eight arms was enough to make your eyes water.

They love zebras

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Can’t get around getting around

Boyle in the Bag

     Dear Reader. I had a close miss this morning. A horseless carriage veered down the avenue & closely missed an altercation with yours truly. I blame this on the fact that many people seem to gain licences in lucky dips. Of course, with so many of the beasts on the road these days there is a massive probability that one of them will spin off the street or hit each other. It’s simple kinetic theory, dear boy. Prof. Boyle would fully concur with my elucidation of the key problems of modern transports theory.

     In fact there is a simple solution to the problem. This is where we could take a note from our Danish cousins. Simply make all cars out of Lego™. A slight prank with Toad? Simply pop the pieces back on. Actual damage after a meeting with Mr. Knievel? Not a problem, sir. Lego bricks are incredibly cheap. Are you a dirty, rotten scoundrel? Need to maintain your famously low profile. Change your car colour without the needless expense of a whole new carriage. Why stop there, I here you cry. We could franchise out the whole idea to further fields. Ever dropped a glass: you guessed it. Might be a little leaky, thinking about it. I’ll take that one to the potting shed for a few modifications.

Before the era of crash-test dummies

     However, as you may expect any coherent Transport policy needs more than one strand. Once we have our fleets of brickmobiles we can turn our attention to the smaller highways & byways of old Blighty. Here, we need to develop carriage free zones. I suggest that every post-office has a collection of monocycles and penny-farthings for rental. Not only will this make our villages prettier it will mean that you have to develop new skills. Using a mobile phone whilst monocycling – try it. More accidents disposed of in one fell swoop.

     I know what you’re about to say? What about our skies? The matter, dear reader, is safely in hand. I propose hot-air balloons for short-haul flights, and digiribles for flights to foreign parts. There is one fly in the ointment in this plan, I hear you say. And, sage reader, I can accomodate you. Hot-air balloons are unpredictable beasts. How would you know know you would land? Not a problem, every trip a new experience. Have you never stepped off the beaten track; felt a curious tug down a country lane? Where’s your spirit of adventure?

     The aquatic world awaits us. I have a meeting with Dr. Nemo at 1 of the Clock in the local hostelry (The Teapot & Hearing Aid, if you’re ever passing through the Shire).