Sen. Cassius awarded Olympics Victor Ludorum Prize

In a suprising break with tradition, the organisers of the 2026 Olympic Games have awarded the coveted Victor Ludorum ("Winner of the Entire Games") award to Senator Cassius, Imperator of Rome, writes our correspondent hiding behind a pillar. The award was presented in a glittering ceremony yesterday in the Forum, even though the games are not due to be held until next summer.

Speaking to a specially selected audience of Praetorian Guards, the Chairman of the Olympic Committee said "There can be no doubt that Senator Cassius will win any event he chooses to enter. In fact, he will not be actually taking part but he has left me in no doubt that, if he wanted to, he could easily defeat any other competitor. Furthermore, we have been asked to consider moving the games to Italy, rather than taking place at Olympus in Greece as they have for the past three thousand years, because there are doubts about the security and in any case they all speak Greek there, which Senator Cassius does not speak, and he quite understandably said to me that how the hell could he know what they were saying about him when they all jabber away like that."

At this point one of the Guards was seen to whisper something to the Chairman whilst stroking the hilt of his sword. The Chairman drank some water, coughed a little and resumed

"As I was saying, the games will definitely take place in Rome, and any other cities in Italy that are pleasing to the gods, and Senator Cassius, as Pontifex Maximus, will of course inform me in due course of the gods' wishes.  In addition, all athletes from Greece, Macedonia, Parthia, Syria, Iberia, Dacia, Carthage (if it hasn't been destroyed by then), Gaul, Upper Rhine, Lower Rhine, Eqypt, and Britannia are disqualified for being foreign. The selection of the athletes to represent Rome and the Italian people will be made by Senator Cassius. The judging will be supervised by Senator Cassius and medals awarded to those who find favour in the sight of Senator Cassius. Long live Senator Cassius".

 In other news, Senator Cassius has been awarded the Golden Boot for the 2028 Football World Cup and declared as Man of the Series for the Ashes against the Huns (date to be arranged).

 

Name that Party

 Earlier this year Jeremy Corbyn, one time leader of the Labour Party but an independent since 2024, announced the formation of a new party, called Your Party. The cunning plan seems to be to propel himself and some like minded people back into power.

The Corbyn crowd are currently having a conference. However, the usual stuff of such get togethers - rousing speech by the leader, voting for composite motions and desperate scrums for the canapes at fringe meetings - have been entirely overshadowed by a huge row between Corbyn and co-leader Zarah Sultana about who can be a member. Such disputes are endemic to ultra left parties.

An even more fascinating question is what the party is to call itself: the monicker Your Party being something dreamed up in a hurry, apparently, and not necessarily intended to be the permanent name.

They have canvassed ideas and there is a short-list to be voted on. Whether the result will immediately trigger a split, a walkout or a furious media row is not yet clear. Up for grabs are "Your Party", "Our Party", "The Popular Alliance" and "For the Many". Rejected names include "It's My Party (and I'll Vote if I Want to)", "The Very Popular Party, Honest", "It's Party Time" and "The English People's Popular Front". The latter came under fierce attack from those favouring "The Popular Front for the English People", and a splinter group representing "The Peoples' Popular Front (England)" walked out in protest. Meanwhile, those favouring "The Party of the First Part shall be known as the Party of the First Part" attempted to walk in, but were barred for being too Marxist.

Questioned about his relationship with Sultana, Corbyn said he would be happy if she was co-leader but really he would be the main leader because, frankly, she was rubbish. Sultana said she greatly admired and respected Corbyn but if he thought she was playing second fiddle then he had even more screws loose than everybody thought. Corbyn announced an emergency motion that the Party owed a huge debt to Sultana and would she now kindly sod off. Sultana moved a composite motion to promote Corbyn to Honorary President and therefore to bar him from being leader. The debate continues.

Poor old George

 The following popped up on my tablet whilst I was browsing Facebook to see if any more people I had never heard of, and who had nothing whatsoever in common with me, wished to become "friends",  and as it seems to be important, I paid it a little attention.

 It is an advert but I have to confess that I don't know what it is advertising¹. The name is Penhaligon certainly, we've established that from the masthead, from the collection of boxes and packages being admired (in a rather creepy and smug way) by the smooth-faced young man and from the display of the same name embroidered on his sweater. But Messrs Penhaligon seem to be featuring the large bottle with the unfeasibly large, possibly quite dangerous, stopper which is named The Tragedy of Lord George.

The young man seems to be reclining on some sort of carriage in the outdoors, in a mountainous and snowy place. Perhaps it is the one-horse open sleigh we hear so much about at this time of the year.  

We are informed that the stuff in the bottle has "notes of warm rum, tonka beans and shaving soap". I think we can fill in the rest of the picture from here.

Scene: A raging blizzard engulfs Penhaligon Hall, time-honoured seat of the Penhaligons in deepest Cornwall. Enter young Lord George brandishing a bottle and old Tregorran, the family brewer

George: I've done it, Tregorran! They said I was mad, but I've perfected the formula. For years we Penhaligons have brewed whisky from the traditional ingredients of pasty juice and the runoff from tin mines. But now we have something to make everyone sit up and take notice.

Tregorran: Nay, young sir, you do be being headstrong. Tain't safe to meddle with the ancient formula. Handed down from father to son that be, and there's always been a Tregorran to make sure that naught was changed. I beg 'ee, sir, think again. Think of your father.

George: My father has always held me back, Tregorran. Laughed at my ideas. Scorned me in front of my friends. Well no more! This ends now. I'm taking this bottle to the brewery on Bodmin Moor and nothing's going to stop me!

Tregorran: Oh sir, there do be a raging blizzard a-blowing. The roads will be blocked. You'll be beset by enormous hounds, I shouldn't wonder, and they do say the Revenue Men be abroad on the A37. 

George: But I don't need the A37! I shall take the one-horse open sleigh. I shall skim across the fields and into the high hills, fortified by tots of warm rum, tonka beans and all the shaving soap I can stomach! Ha ha!  

He dashes off into the night leaving the faithful retainer aghast

Tregorran: Tis the curse of the Penhaligons! Alack that I should see this day. We'll be hearing no more about Lord George, that's for sure. Hmm, I wonder if I could turn his mixture into an Eau de Cologne or something similar. Could retail it for £245 to the fine folks up in London, I shouldn't wonder. Let's see, warm rum, tonka beans and shaving soap. Yes, just need to find a name for it...

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Note:

1. I looked it up just to be sure. Yes, it is a cologne sold to the fine folk of London all right. 

 

A Load of Old Rope

source: Stephan Friedman Gallery

 There was considerable media interest in the announcement this week that an exhibit of rope was on sale, under the guise of being an artwork, for £1 million (plus VAT). The artist, David Shrigley, said during an interview on the BBCR4 Today programme that he thought it suitable for the entrance at a bank's headquarters.

The piece was made to illustrate the old saying "money for old rope". There can be no gainsaying the concept - should anything at all be paid for it, then it will indeed be thus. 

The gallery exhibiting the pile makes the point that collecting, cleaning, preserving and arranging this load of tat took many months. 

I have to admit to being somewhat baffled as to how to approach this story. I analysed the meaning of "art" many years ago . Since then I have refined my views a little. I hold that anything that is made to stimulate the senses is art. But good art - Art, if you will - goes much further. It should transcend the medium (explained here) by which it is made, it should be original and it should fill one's head with ideas. Otherwise it is merely an exhibit.

This approach helps in thinking about a load of rope piled up on the floor. It does not transcend the medium - it is just a pile of rope, no matter how cleaned up and nicely coiled. Piles of old rope can be found (or used to be) in any fishing harbour or naval dockyard, not to mention the backyard of Arbuthnot Arkwright & Nephew, Ropemakers to the Gentry, Bootle.  Is piling it up original? No, because it is normal for rope to be coiled up in this way. Does it fill your head with ideas? Not really, except one might ponder having a nice spaghetti for lunch. Failing any one of my tests would disqualify something from being Art. This exhibit fails all three.

It is therefore not surprising that the artist hopes to find a bank as a buyer. They would have the cash, and the space, to spare and could treat it as an investment. Also they could reclaim the VAT. Probably their PR people would find elegant ways to use it in marketing - "We won't tie you up in knots with our executive mortgage" or "There's nothing ropey about our loans" or "Our accounts have no strings attached" perhaps. It is telling that all these cunning slogans are negatives - it is hard to find a way to make a positive statement that connects rope to banking. If you can think of something, do send it in to us at the usual address and, should we succeed in pitching it as the basis of a costly new ad campaign, there'll be a couple of sheep-shanks in 40mm Manila in it for you.

 

A Galactic Visitation

 

There has been intense speculation for weeks about the intruder into our solar system, the "comet" called 3i/Atlas. It has zoomed around the sun and is now on its way to who knows where. Many have speculated that it might be an alien spacecraft, on the totally reasonable grounds that everything we cannot fully explain must be of alien origin. 

Now the silence has been broken. A radio signal has come through, streaking across the ether, from this mysterious visitor.  Fortunately for science, the receivers here at Ramblings Towers picked it up loud and clear and we can reveal, exclusively on this channel, the contents of the broadcast. 

Signal begins .....

static.....And after the news, the Grabrlxfggs. Sz40 wants a word with Jorbajax and there's trouble brewing at the Dog and Snarklbeast. pip pip This is the 3iAtlas Radio news and William XXarble45 reading it. bing There have still been no signs of intelligent life on the third planet from the star we are currently approaching. Professor ZumbRk7r says that certain radio signals have been picked up but is unable to decode anything other than the meaningless words "Antiques" and "Roadshow" bing The evacuation of residents of the Cxlarbian sector is intensifying as it continues to evaporate into space bing Sports - the third test between 3iAtlas and Shoemaker-Levy has been abandoned as it seems that the visitors no longer exist....static

"It look like you are running a business. Need help with that?"

 I've frequently had goes at Microsoft. There is something so intriguingly gauche, possibly even jejeune, about their advertising. They make highly sophisticated products but somehow the marketing people either do not grasp how they work or they just dumb everything down because they think their customers are dumb. The title of this piece recalls the horrible helper "Clippy" that at one time popped up whilst using Microsoft software.

In 2014 I analysed their ludicrous claims about helping F1 drivers to win races. A few years previously it was fun to demolish their email offering, or at least the anti-spam feature. And I have moaned about Windows often enough. 

But this is 2025. AI is the big thing. Everyone is doing AI. AI is going to solve all our problems. Although, for Microsoft, finding cures for diseases, improving food production, making stronger and lighter materials do not seem to be priorities. Assisting gormless business people making presentations and showing them how simple documents work, yes, that has been the key element of the ads that pop up on my screens. Here is a nice example of what I mean.  

 Microsoft's AI offering is called Copilot. In the example above, we see a casually dressed, youngish, man staring at his phone while apparently requesting Copilot to explain something to him. What, my friends, can we deduce from this picture? You know my methods - I shall now apply them.

The man in the picture is, it seems, studying an Excel spreadsheet cunning entitled "data". Yes, that's going to a be big help when trying to find it in a few months time. Those of us who have actually designed  finance related spreadsheets  would name this something like "Mfg Division, 2025 Q3 Projection" so it tells us what it is. But this is to nitpick a bit. The fascination this image holds is that our bearded friend cannot work out the structure or formulas from which the calculations of profit (or "profit driver" in MS speak) are made.

He cannot see them or get into the details of the formulas behind them because, although this must be a fairly complex document (or he would not need help with it), he is trying to make sense of it whilst standing up and using a tiny phone. No financial analyst does this. They work on a big screen, the bigger the better and they will do so sitting a desk where they can consult documents, make notes, perhaps work simulaneously on other computer applications. You cannot do this on a phone, however smart, because either they only display one thing at at time or your big sausage fingers make typing a nightmare. 

So it is no wonder that to him it is just a needle in a haystack job (and why he keeps a small haystack on his desk, where it is in danger of spilling over into his coffee mug, is surely a question for HR). He is like a mechanic who, trying to undo a bolt, selects a small screwdriver and jabs it randomly at the offending fixings. 

I hold that, if this guy cannot see where the profits are being made, then he should not be doing this job. There is a job he could do instead - sweep up that bloody haystack. 

 

Fun on the Farm

 Mrs C and I have been living in Warwickshire for two years, but only now have we accumulated sufficient rubbish to make a visit to the dump recycling centre justifiable. Back in beautiful Ruislip one simply turned up.  Our new local authority, Stratford-upon-Avon, takes a tougher line and one must book a time. No problem, I went online and chose a convenient slot for last Sunday.

The online booking system was provided by Eventbrite. I registered, received an e-ticket, turned up at the right time, drove straight into the dump without apparently being checked by anyone and emptied my car boot.

The end of the affair? No. Eventbrite do not seem to know the services provided by Burton Farm Recycling Centre (the clue is hidden in the name). They think I have been to a gig. They sent me this

I am overjoyed with their good wishes in hoping I "had a good time". I sure did, guys, one of the best "go to the dump, chuck broken stuff in a bin and get the hell out" times I have ever had. Sincerely. I loved every minute. So did Mrs C. 

But it doesn't stop there. They want me to follow Burton Farm Recycling Centre.  Because I might miss out on things - premieres, exclusive viewings, chance to go behind the scenes and meet the stars, parties with celebrity dumpers, photoshoots with piles of crap arranged by Tracey Emin, weekend raves getting high on the fumes from leaking batteries... who knows what glittering gatherings might be in store if I subscribe? And if I do, I shall find out first about the next happenings, it says. Won't the neighbours be impressed?

As to their "Let's make more plans" plea:- No, thanks awfully,  I don't make plans for the disposal of broken vacuum cleaners, used packaging, failed lamp stands, printers without cables and the like. They gather in small groups here and there in the dark recesses of the house and, when the time is ripe, we call them together and rehome them. This activity requires no plans, just a response to being unable to open the door to the spare room because it is crammed full of boxes, bits of wood, disintegrating cd stands and the like.

I suppose the next communication will be on the lines of "You had a wonderful time at Burton Farm, now visit other great recycling centres in your area."   I won't be bothering. They're rubbish.

 

 

Sizzling Summer

 Yes, we have had heatwaves before. We've had hosepipe bans, photos of drained reservoirs, packed beaches, melting road surfaces and, most memorably, a Minister for Drought who took office one day and was nearly washed away the next when the heavens opened [Some perfectly acceptable exaggeration there: Ed]. What is new about 2025 is that we have already had two and, as I write, are midway through a third. It is only July. And there is no sign of the traditional thunderstorms that would bring the current one to an end.

[Saturday night] We have our curtains and blinds closed and it is still 28c inside at 7pm. It will just about be comfortable by the time we go to bed. There was a nice breeze this morning and we managed to give the house a decent airing before the incoming air became warmer than the insides and we had to close the windows. We are lucky not to have to work and not to be living in a stifling city environment.

[Sunday morning] It is strange to wake in the morning, open a window and think "That's a nice, cool breeze".  Because it is about 24c outside, not cool at all in old money, the sort of breeze that would be thought pleasantly warm most days. Somehow we are getting used to sitting around at 28c.

Sporting note: The England men's cricket team achieved their traditional midsummer batting collapse at Lords this afternoon. Some things never change.
Update note: England won the Test. Exactly as I predicted. The fact that I also predicted a narrow loss, a heavy defeat and a draw are not in any way material and I demand that they be struck from the record.

Down the Black Rabbit Hole

 This is about the scientific idea of black holes. Not holes made by black rabbits: Ed

 

A typical YouTube page 
when searching for Black Holes

 

There has been much excitement, and speculation, in the physics/ cosmology community in recent months about findings that suggest our universe is rotating. Let me summarise:

• Galaxies normally rotate. This is thought to be because the vast clouds of hydrogen and helium in which they are formed were rotating. Such rotations might have been down to random movements of stuff when the universe was way younger and hotter than it is now.
• It had always been assumed that nature had no preference for the direction of rotation. Therefore roughly half of all galaxies should go one way and half the other.
• Recent studies, such as this, show that about two-thirds of galaxies go one way and one-third the other. This variance is far too big to be explained by random factors. It suggests that the entire observable universe has a preference for a rotational direction.
• If this is so, then something at the start of space-time ( the "big bang") gave the universe a nudge.
• This implies something that included the universe within itself.
• Black holes are known to rotate and the physics of these things, twisting time and space around their, possibly infinitely small, centres, is so weird I am not even going to try to understand it. But the point is, was that initial nudge from a rotating black hole within which our universe is embedded? 

And there we have it. It is being theorised that our universe is bounded by a black hole because only a rotating black hole could be big enough to impart enough spin to our universe. A black hole massively bigger than our universe.

There are obvious, massive, problems that must be faced. Black holes are things where gravity is so strong it crushes matter into a form we cannot currently comprehend. Vast jets of radiation and particles are hurtled into space from the stuff that approaches and then whirls around, the event horizon, the invisible sphere within which nothing can escape the pull of the singularity at the heart of the black hole.

Where then are the mind-blowing distortions of spacetime that the universe sized hole in which we live must create? The galaxy ripping jets of radiation from the hellfire of its event horizon?

However my question is a bit more outre. If we are indeed inside a black hole, then what is that hole inside? Do we have an unlimited number of universes, each containing black holes that in turn contain universes. There is no reason to think our universe is special so why not? And are there universes within the myriad black holes within our universe? 

Quantum mechanics has long had its "many worlds" interpretation of what happens each time there is a quantum event with more than one possible outcome.  It says that every possible outcome creates a new universe. Given that massive numbers of quantum events happen all the time, this would create a number of universes so big it is probably not possible to compute it. So an infinite (or, at any rate, pretty damn big) number of universes, each nested in one bigger, is a respectable idea, rather than the droolings of a chronically tea-deprived hack columnist.

Trouble is, all this is just speculation. The YouTube videos with their click-bait titles and fancy graphics, are exactly the same as medievalists arguing about angels and pin-heads. We have absolutely no way of knowing.

A completely different approach is to assume each black hole creates an equal and opposite white hole in a separate but connected universe. Matter and energy gush out of the white hole in such a way that intelligent beings eons later will interpret it as a big bang. It's fascinating and once more we have absolutely no way of knowing. No actual white holes have been detected - quasars used to be candidates but these are either rotating black holes or neutron stars. However, maybe each white hole creates its own, unique, universe so we should not expect to see one except, of course, for the one that started us. 

 

Meanwhile we are being told variously that time is an illusion, that time has three dimensions and is fundamental (but space is not), that gravity is quantum, that gravity cannot be quantized and that scientists have succeeded in "teleporting" things back in time and that time travel is no longer a mystery, just an "engineering problem". Back in the real world of engineering, the most advanced spacecrafts of our time blow up on the launch site. The casual onlooker (me) hoping for a greater understanding of science ends up more baffled than ever. 

I wrote this piece because the torrent of speculation on YouTube and other media outlets is incessant and increasingly irritating. No sooner has a new piece of data been received than it seems that a new theory will be dreamed up and popularised, often with the utterly misleading strapline "Scientists prove ....". Nothing is being proved right now. Observations may assist in rejecting ideas that don't work but they rarely prove anything outright. A few months of no new theories being breathlessly announced would be really refreshing.

Auditors Ahoy

 A few years ago I found some pleasure in the story of the Vatican needing to be audited. I could relate to it, based on my own experiences in that field (auditing, that is, not the office of Christ's vicar on earth). Today another news item seems to remind me of the good old days when I worked for a small partnership of Chartered Accountants. But with this one we are no longer close to heaven but all at sea.

The fee for the audit will be a very significant part of the total income of the new auditors, a firm with just two qualified auditors according to their own website. Who the other two people are that make up the four mentioned in the news clip is not clear. One news report quotes the firm as saying they can pull in lots of staff as required.  I think we have enough material to be able accurately to construct how this tiny and makeshift concern will tackle the mighty P & O job.

Scene: Offices in Dover harbour. Gulls wheel about. Large boats slide in and out of the docks. The traditional cries of immigration officers, such as "There's one, Henderson, after him, my lad!" and "Excuse me, sir, I can't help noticing there are several people looking out of the boot of your car", drift up to a dusty back room. 

Enter Mr Farquarhson, manager, George, audit senior and Tarquin, trainee ¹

Farquarhson: Right, here we are. Let's not waste too much time. This is a very important job for the firm and the client has made it clear that there could be more, if we do it right. KPMG couldn't hack it but we can! Now, they are bringing all the books here. There's no need for us to visit any other of their offices or to ask a lot of unnecessary questions of their accounting people, they're terribly busy and I know we can rely utterly on whatever the directors tell us. Of course, we must show we are totally independent and that might mean doing a bit of digging.

George: Seems perfectly straightforward to me. They run some ships. We just need to tot up the takings, check a few numbers and do the usual systems review.

Farquarhson: The accounts are here, on the back of this envelope. George, run them through the adding machine, make sure it all balances. Young Tarquin, I have a special job for you. We need to verify the assets. P & O say they have eight ferries. Keep a close eye out of the window and write down the names of all the boats you see.

Tarquin: Golly, sounds a bit tricky.

George: Use a clean sheet of paper, list each boat on a new line and tick them off...green ink, I think, for this one

Farquarhson: Good choice, George. Now, they have a lot of duty-free stock that we need to count. Their MD has asked me to come with him on a test routine of the single malt whiskies, so I shall be out most of the day. You two can do the beers and so forth tomorrow.

Tarquin: There's one!

George: Just write it down, Tarquers, we don't need to know each time. And watch out for duplicates,  those boats go back and forth, you know

Tarquin: Gosh, really? That is awkward. I can see why KPMG walked away.

Farquarhson: As I was saying, let's have a good look at the stocks, count the lifeboats, you know the drill. And, George, on Thursday, we could post Tarquin on top of the cliffs, just to make sure there aren't any ferries sneaking out of any secret harbours. I've brought some binoculars and a folding seat for him.

George: That is smart. Makes me wonder if we should nip over to Calais, do the same thing  there

Farquarhson: No need. You know the firm can always bring in additional resources if required. We've engaged Les Auditeurs Superbe of Boulogne, that's Jean-Claude Baguette and his uncle, to have a quick look.

George: Crikey, Mr F., the firm has thought of everything

Farquarhson: We may be small but we can mix it with the best, George. Now there's one very important matter that needs to be addressed directly. Tarquin!

Tarquin: Mr F?

Farquarhson: Mine's a black Americano, two sugars

George: Large latte 

Farquarhson: Off you go, lad, the cafe is on the upper deck of Maid of Kent, moored over there, and for God's sake get off before it sails.

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1. Yes, it is the same crew who did the Catholic job and I make no apologies, it takes effort creating these wonderfully realistic and well-rounded characters and I'm going to recycle them every chance I get.

The Winner of This Month's Insouciance Award is ....

In an age of increasing specialisation, when candidates for almost anything from a job to a TV reality show are expected to show "passion" and "110% commitment", how refreshing to meet a man happy to take on a severe physical challenge for no particular reason.

Source: BBC

 I have edited the story to cut out some of the guff and concentrate on the gist. Mr Lynch, a citizen of landlocked Wokingham, joined a team of presumably experienced sailors, declared himself to be "not the right man for the job" and went on that he only applied because it "looked pretty cool".  Thinking about the challenge of sailing round the world he commented "I've had no experience in sailing and no interest, which is strange"

I wonder how his application interview went

Scene: Back room in a sailing club. Anchors and narwhal bones above the door. The walls are lined with maps of the South Seas marked "Avoid this bit" and "bloody windy round here". A panel of blazer-clad nautical types put down their pink gins and welcome the latest prospect to join them risking life and limb in the oceans: 

Bill: Come aboard, landlubber. Name's, Bligh, Bill Bligh. I'm the skipper of this voyage and joining me are Harry Nelson and Jazza Cook. Tell us why you want to put your life on the line to go round the world with us on a tiny boat.
Lynch: What, all the way round the world? Blimey. I thought it was just a day trip round the Isle of Wight. I mean, I know f-all about sailing, can't hardly find my way to the bedroom door most mornings, but you know I always fancied myself hauling on the mainbrace or whatever, pretty damn cool, right?
Harry: Have you had no experience at all then? Never sailed?
Lynch: Had a plastic yacht for the bath.
Harry: As a child?
Lynch: Well, until last week actually. Thing is, I don't have a lot of interest in sailing but you know, watching it bob up and down when I poured water from the soap-dish over it, that was always exciting.
Jazza: Now look here, Mr Lynch, we shall have to work this 60 foot rigger in some of the heaviest seas in the world. You'll be on deck at all hours, soaked to the skin, freezing cold and being battered in all directions by massive waves. Up to the challenge?
Lynch: Bloody hell, sounds a bit of an effort, not sure if I'm the right man for this. But, thinking about it, I got pretty wet the other day in Wokingham High Street in a sudden shower and you know, when I got home, I managed to towel myself dry fairly quickly so, yeah, I think I can cope. If I can be bothered, that is, because like I say, I'm not that interested in it.
Bill: That might not be the right attitude for this voyage, Mr Lynch. I'm not sure...
Jazza: Bill, we do need to find one more and there isn't much time left.
Harry: He seems pretty sound to me, that story about the bath was top-hole.
Bill: OK,  I'm on board. Mr Lynch, You're in! I'm very pleased to offer you a berth.
Lynch: Well, I couldn't really care less but I've got nothing on next week so, yeah, ok.
Jazza: That's the spirit, shipmate.

I believe the BBC are to make a documentary following the progress of the yacht, and are inviting applications from film-makers, provided they have never held a camera before, really don't like making or even watching films, and who only want the job because they fancy having a canvas chair with their name embroidered on the back.

Don't Panic. Universe Not Ending Just Yet

 

People of Britain! We used to think the universe was eternal. Then it was calculated that the last stars would evaporate in 10^1100 years. Now the boffins tell us we have but 10^78 years left. 

Yes, my friends this is grim news. But we have faced disaster before and come through, smiling. My message is one of hope. There is still time to bring in the washing. There is still time to take a weekend off. Indeed, you may plant those potatoes safe in the knowledge that you will be eating them in a few months.  For we will be around, not just this summer, not just for the next football season, but for bloody ages. 

10^78 years is measly compared to 10^1100. Yet it is a pretty massive amount of time, really. Enough time for those scientist johnnies to do something useful for a change, like designing a new and better universe which lasts longer and costs a lot less to run.  

Until we can all migrate to Universe 2.1, or whatever fancy name they give it, I say to you again Don't Panic. It will be alright in the end. 

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Readers! If you wish to do your bit to building a happier, safer and less noisy universe, then send your contributions now to the Ramblings Institute for Thinking So Advanced It Makes Your Brain Hurt at the usual address. You could win an entire supercluster of galaxies to do with as you wish. Send black holes skittering into densely populated galactic cores. Blast multi-coloured nebula across thousands of light years in ever pulsating patterns. Or just pick a nice little rocky planet with water and a favourable atmosphere and see if evolution can do its stuff all over again.

Terms and conditions apply. Winners may have to live at least 10^12 years to enjoy all the benefits. Should your bit of the new universe implode into a shower of antineutrinos and unbalanced quarks, there is nothing we can do. Winners will be selected by chucking all entries into the office black hole (aka the Editor's wastepaper basket) and applying dynamic Hawking radiation (whirling it around and choosing the bit of paper that flies the farthest).

 

 

 

Dr Commuter Recommends ... Wasp Therapy

 

Dr Commuter writes: All living beings experience anxiety. Sometimes these fears are well-founded, sometimes the concerns are irrational and can be greatly reduced by the right treatment. Take the case widely reported in the media yesterday. A swarm of wasps, terrified by their inability to control a simple two-wheeled vehicle,  vented their innate anger on an innocent man who, sadly for him, was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Of course, wasps are not known for their biking exploits; indeed, some can barely manage a bicycle or even a child's scooter. This may result in inferiority complexes, which can be managed with a suitable course of therapy and drugs. At first the wasps will sulk, unwilling to communicate and beating their heads against windows. Gradually they calm down, accepting spoonfuls of jam whilst a non-threatening vehicle such as a skateboard is introduced. Soon the bolder wasps will try riding the skateboard and this example encourages the rest. They begin to gain confidence and this in turn reduces their fear and the resulting outbreaks of violence. Of course, they will never master how to change gear or indicate a right turn on a motorbike, but they will no longer exhibit a psychotic reaction when they see a human doing so.

Wasps are just one species that can benefit from psychotherapy. Ants suffer depression when confronted with pedestrian controls for traffic lights; millipedes are scared by pogo sticks; spiders are morbidly attracted to drainpipes. It does not help when unthinking children laugh at them, or hit them with sticks. We should always encourage insects to stretch their abilities, not deflate their egos and compound the trauma.

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 Supporting these unhappy creatures is vitally important work. You can help. Send whatever you can to the Dr Commuter Clinic For Our Six-legged Friends. Your donation will enable important, on-going research to continue, in particular our studies of whether grasshoppers develop schizophrenia when a researcher samples single-malt whisky and why stag beetles are unable to cope with 9 course tasting menus at 3 star Michelin restaurants. Future projects (given sufficient funding) will consider anxiety in roaches on the French riviera and the best ocean cruises for ladybirds to relax on.  

A Summery April

 The sun has been shining steadily over South Warwickshire for a number of days and the heat has built up to a climax, with 26c being reached today. We have sat out on our little patio with the parasol up and enjoyed the near total silence of our sheltered retirement village. 

Late in the afternoon heavy grey cloud began to build, rolling in from the west, and a few lightning strikes east of Worcester signalled what was to come - a sudden blast of much welcome rain that has effectively ended this mini heatwave. It has been the warmest April ever and today was the hottest day over the UK. Fun while it lasted but boy! did we need some rain.

 

Dr Commuter Helps Out ... Biscuit Lovers Everywhere

 Dr. Commuter writes:

Millions of people suffer from a debilitating, mysterious and taboo affliction. Spoken of in hushed tones, if at all, and regarded by some as simply too horrible to contemplate, it has blighted the lives of generations. To many it is just "The Big B". Today I shall speak out openly about it and thereby put the minds of many of my fellow citizens at rest.  My subject is biscuits and how to eat them.

What are biscuits?
Forget the stories you heard in the pub or down the shops. Biscuits are normal, they are acceptable under most circumstances and - they are man-made. They are not sent to us through a miraculous process of divine intervention, as some religions continue to teach. We make them and we can control them. Never lose sight of this essential truth.
When should we eat them?
A biscuit - although perhaps we should use the plural as two or more at onc time is the norm - may be eaten at any time. Best with an appropriate hot - or even cold - drink, as a snack or at the end of a more substantial meal, at a time of your choosing. You are in charge here. You must not be intimidated by the effort involved in opening a new packet - specialist tools such as scissors are available if need be - nor the prospect of crumbs. These may be readily controlled by using what we doctors call "plates".
Are combinations acceptable?
Yes, you may mix and match. A bourbon and a custard-cream - a jammy dodger and a cookie - a ginger nut and a pink flakey sandwich thing - there are no harmful combinations.
How should I eat my biscuit?
This is the heart of our topic today. How many of us have contemplated a quick garibaldi or a fig roll with a cup of coffee and then shrank back in horror, thinking "How on earth do I actually consume this?". My friends, courage must be your watchword.
Take your biscuit in one hand and examine it. Remove any wrapper. No matter how tempting the shiny outer layer may look, it must not, repeat not, be eaten. Strip it away and bin it. Now, with the naked biscuit held close to your mouth, hold it correctly (see below) and take a bite. Chew and swallow. Repeat until the biscuit is consumed, using your drink to lubricate as required. When all is gone you may sit back, permit yourself a smile of satisfaction and consider enjoying another.
The Correct Way
The Commuter way is the correct way. Hold your biscuit (and I cannot stress this enough) horizontally to the ground. Do not hold it vertically (by which I mean that the longest side is at 90⁰ to the ground). In the case of a round biscuit, the disc of the biscuit should be horizontal to the ground and the edge should be vertical. You will find this technique, well known to the ancient Coachahuatual people of Central America, matches the natural dimensions of the biscuit to those of your mouth which is also horizontal with respect to the ground. (If you are holding your head at a silly angle merely to disprove my argument, then I am not interested).
The Two Sided Biscuit
Of course, some biscuits are round and present us with two faces, much as a coin has its obverse and reverse sides. When the biscuit is essentially homogenous - such as a plain digestive - then it matters little which face is uppermost. But when the biscuit is composite, as in the case of the chocolate digestive featured at the head of this column, then you may become confused by the choice. Chocolate side up or down? Wars have been started over more trivial issues. But I am here to cut through the obfuscations and the political agendas. My friends, IT DOES NOT MATTER. Eat it howsoever you wish. Once in your mouth all will be made as one in any case. Scientific studies conducted over many years in the Commuter household have shown conclusively that the enjoyment of the biscuit does not vary with the way that it is held, provided that the Commuter way (as outlined above) is adhered to.
The Dunking problem
This is not the place to investigate a different and far more difficult matter - the best way to dunk a biscuit in hot tea or coffee, especially when a two-sided biscuit is being used. Important studies, such as that carried out for the CBBC channel, have suggested the best type of biscuit for dunking, but have merely scratched the surface as to the best method to dunk. This may be the subject of a later dissertation in these columns.

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If you have any questions for Dr. Commuter, please write to the usual address. Terms and conditions apply to all material published by Dr. Commuter. Unfortunately, due to the imposition of 1500% tariffs, we are unable to supply copies at present, but this does not in any way invalidate their legality. Dr. Commuter can accept no liability whatsoever for any biscuit or baking-related consequences of following his advice and if you should become somewhat peaky, under the weather or a bit off after consuming biscuits the wrong way or by taking too many (if such a thing is possible, which we seriously doubt), then it is entirely your fault and nothing to do with us.

 

 

Why, Oh Why...do I still watch the Apprentice? (No 8 in this long dead and suddenly revived series)

 I haven't had a "Why, oh why" moment for ages. In fact the last one was ten years ago [and jolly good it was too: Ed] but nothing ever vanishes completely here at Ramblings, they just hibernate in the big filing cabinet which I really must get around to dusting some time. 

Last night BBC1 screened episode 10 of the 19th series of The Apprentice. Mrs C. and I have watched it since the beginning. It might have been episode one of the very first series. Almost nothing has changed. Yes, the prize is now an investment in one's business rather than a "job" with Lord Sugar, yes the "trusted advisors" have changed and there is a far greater emphasis on designing, branding and pitching to "industry professionals", rather than tasks that engage directly with the public, but we still have a handful of people doing utterly unrealistic things that can only be done because a TV company is paying for them, all under huge pressure so that they will inevitably make mistakes, Lord Sugar can routinely insult them and dismiss one of them for anything that takes his fancy. 

"You were disruptive"
"You were too quiet"
"You should have overruled the project manager"
"You should have supported the project manager"
"You didn't sell"
"I haven't seen very much of you" and if he has no real reason, but has to fire someone
"I've got an instinct we won't get on"

The latest task was as meaningless as the rest - create a "fashion house" by sketching out designs for three garments, concoct a name and logo and play a ridiculous game with real buyers for "how many units" of these non-existent brands they will "buy". Yes, I know I am using up an unsustainable amount of quotation marks but only in proportion to the ridiculousness [Sigh:Ed] of this method to assess whether the candidate is someone whose business warrants an investment.

Every episode features exactly the same elements:

• The candidates, who sleep jammed in a couple of rooms even though they have a twelve bedroom mansion at their disposal, are woken stupidly early in the morning by a phone call. The phone is not placed helpfully on the landing where they sleep. One of them has to go downstairs (filmed all the while, of course) to answer it. It is a different person each episode. Then, having been told where they are about to be taken and that the cars will be outside in 20 minutes (or maybe 40 minutes if they are having a lie-in), they must rush upstairs shouting "Guys, guys, wake up, we're going to Shoeburyness " (or whatever).
• There follows a minute of clips of young people washing, dressing and grooming before marching out of the house to climb into the four black taxis waiting outside. I have always assumed that they would wash, dress and groom anyway but the producers obviously feel this bit is terribly important and so they always show it.
• There follows some utterly pointless speculation about why they are going to Shoeburyness. 
• They arrive, line up, face the grim faced Baroness Brady and the impassive Tim Campbell and await either the entrance of Sugar or his appearance on a TV screen.
• "Well, you might be wondering why you are here on the old winkle-picking pier at Shoeburyness" his lordship will say "Shoes are a very important part of the economy, we all wear them, the market is worth £500 billion  and today you are going to design your own range of footwear, from sandals to slip-ons, from walking shoes to high-fashion dress shoes, plus Wellington boots, mountain climbing boots and football boots. Oh, and kids' shoes suitable both for school and the playground. You must then brand them, make a video and pitch it to industry experts and I'll see you back in the boardoom tonight where someone in the losing team will be fired" [A bit of exaggeration in this bit for heightened comic effect: Ed]
•  The teams then choose a project manager and a subteam leader, discuss their assignment vaguely and then march back to the cars to begin a hectic schedule of designing, filming and pitching. The two parts of each team are kept separated and only permitted one short contact, via a phone call in which it is customary for each to despair at the other's interpretation of the brief. The phone must be held horizontal to the ground and not, as intended by mobile phone designers, to the ear where it works most efficiently.
• The tasks finish to the accompaniment (on-screen) of a musical soundtrack with an increasingly urgent tempo and are edited to make it impossible for the viewers to understand which team is doing better.
• The teams file into the "boardroom", where there are insufficient chairs so that some must stand awkwardly behind those who sit.
• Lord Sugar emerges and always begins his opening remarks with "Well". "Well, today's task was about selling guns to insurgents in central Africa" or "Well, I laid on for you to run a whelk stall in Scunthorpe"
• When he asks his trusted advisors to reveal the financial results, he starts with Baroness Brady who always replies "Erm, well, Alan". Sugar then always says "Tim, the same question to you"
• We know, from what past candidates have said, that the boardroom sessions last several hours and involve very close questioning of how the tasks were managed. But very little of this is shown in the programme. Instead we must endure Sugar's weak puns which he delivers as though he was the third understudy in a failing pantomime who has spent the last five minutes frantically trying to learn them backstage.

There is one episode each series which breaks out of this stifling mould. The 11th is always the interview stage and here, with the candidates finally forced to explain what their businesses are about and why they want Sugar's cash, in front of four very able and determined appraisers. Most fans will relish Claude Littner's "It's a bloody disgrace" demolition of Solomon Akhtar in 2014 as the pinnacle of the art, but my favourite moment was in 2022 when Mike Soutar asked Kathryn Burn about the web site that was a key part of her business, and if she owned it. The candidate was not sure. Mike was. He had bought it himself when his investigation showed that the candidate had failed to register it.

I'm not going to bother discussing the final. If Sugar hasn't already decided which candidate and plan he likes best after the preceding 11 episodes, then clearly it doesn't matter which he chooses. And if he has decided, then the final is a sham. Either way, it is for me the least interesting part of the process. 

Is it worth sticking with the preceding 10 episodes to enjoy the demolition of the interviews? That is what we must ask ourselves. And each year I decide it is not but somehow, each year, I end up watching them anyway.

 

 

Thule is now Roman: Casca

Senator Casca, the close associate of Roman Imperator Senator Cassius, departed from Ostia this morning at the head of a fleet of galleys bound for Ultima Thule, writes our correspondent who just can't get the taste of garum out of his mouth. Speaking to a small crowd of dock workers and slaves, the Senator said he was going to wrest control of Thule from the Thulians and bring it under Roman control.  Pouring a libation to Neptune (and tasting most of it himself), he proclaimed that nothing could stop him. With banners flying, and to the triumphant sound of many trumpets, the fleet departed.

Two hours later the galleys returned and Senator Casca made a short address to a gathering of a few fish wives and donkey drivers. "We made excellent progress" he announced "but unfortunately nobody knows where Thule is, so we return to seek the guidance of the gods". He then sought out the leading importer of Greek wines for "important talks".

It is believed messengers rode swiftly to Rome and returned within the hour. People loitering outside the wine shop claim to have heard raised voices and the phrase "Cassius says get back out there or it will be your turn to get a dagger up the toga".

Shortly afterwards the Senator emerged on the dock, declared that Mars had shown him the way, drank several libations intended for Neptune and made his unsteady way up the gangplank to his flagship. The fleet then departed, under the Senator's comand of "Left hand down a bit" and a couple of bugle calls.

Towards the middle of the afternoon the galleys returned. Sen. Casca was assisted ashore on the arms of two Nubian slaves and stood weaving a little on an empty dockside (save for your correspondent) before proclaiming that Thule was conquered, Senator Cassius was now worshipped there as a god, and that he, Casca, was going to spend some private time on his estates. He then rode away to an unspecified destination.

Parthia: Not concerned about Thule

Reports from traders arriving from the East say that the Parthian authorities are "relaxed" about Rome's claim to Ultima Thule. Comments include "They can do what they want there", "Hopefully they will all drown at the ocean's edge" and "We'll take Syria, let them have Thule, Britannia and any other waste land they like".

Cassius: Massive leak of entire war plans "Not a problem"

 Imperator Cassius has dealt swiftly with those accusing his administration of "incompetence beyond even the Batavians", following the disclosure that a complete set of scrolls containing the entire Roman order of battle, plans for the invasion of Parthia and conquest of China, as well as the occupation of Ultima Thule, were handed over to the Parthian ambassador two weeks ago writes our correspondent, who is still trying to find someone to launder his toga. Senator Cassius, speaking in the Senate yesterday said "I don't know what the fuss is about. Those Parthians can't even read. They won't have the faintest idea what to do with the scrolls. Sure, there are details about how the XIV Legio will march east from Aleppo whilst the XII Legio with auxiliaries strike north up from Damascus but the gods will surely protect our troops who even now are assuredly scattering the enemy and laying waste their cities".

Asked if this meant Rome was now at war with Parthia, the Imperator said "I am dedicated to peace and will never break a treaty sworn solemnly before Jupiter. Those troops are simply there for our security and to prevent Parthians from illegally crossing the border".

Questioned by Senator Cicero as to how Parthians could illegally cross a border when Rome and Parthia did not in fact have a common border, the Imperator took some time to consult with a scribe, then accused the Senator of being a "bottom-dwelling scum of a journalist" and refused to answer further questions. 

---------Breaking News---------

According to sailors newly arrived from Antioch, the XIV legio has been wiped out by an ambush on the Aleppo road, the XII legio is surrounded by an army that "came out of nowhere" and the auxiliaries have mysteriously all resigned and gone back to being farmers. 

Pythons in Space

Customer: Good Morning, I wish to register a complaint.
Shopman: Sorry, we're just closing down for good, Space X down the road might be able to help you.
Customer: Never mind that, my lad, I want to complain about this spacecraft.
Shopman. Oh yes, the Athena lander.What's er, what's wrong with it?
Customer: I'll tell you what's what wrong with it. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. And when we launched it not two days ago from this very spacedrome, you assured me that its total lack of responsiveness was due to "Solar storms, unstable neutron patterns, a disturbance in the Force and the batteries running a bit low".
Shopman: No...it's just resting.
Customer: Resting? It's toppled over and has gone dead.
Shopman: The Athena works better on its side. Look at the beautiful lattice work in the upper control module.
etc etc

Welcome Home, Vowels

Here's a funny thing. In August 2021 the giant investment group Aberdeen Standard Life ditched nearly all of its name and presented a glittering, down-with-the-kids, cool, resonant and exhilarating new name - abrdn. That's right, out went the much respected Standard Life bit, the vowels were stripped away from the rest and they saved thousands of caps lock keys from jamming by binning the capital letter as well. 

This attracted much contumely from around the financial world but, most notably, in these very columns. The company became a laughing stock. My warnings went unheeded and the outcome all too predictable - employees of the unpronounceable enterprise found themselves publicly sneered at in the streets of the City, cat-called in coffee bars and satirised in the squash courts.  Matters reached breaking strain when the Chief Investment Officer declared that the risibility and jeers were "Corporate bullying". But he failed to draw the obvious conclusion and just doubled-down on the original, stupid, renaming decision.

All has changed. Today in a stunning U-turn, the company has gone rummaging through its waste bins, retrieved those long-lost 'Es' and resinstated them in their rightful place.

Source: AJ Bell

 

Should we let the church bells ring out and pop the corks in celebration of a victory for the English language? Perhaps. They omitted to find the capital 'A' and are stuck with the lower case. However they have added the word "group" to the name. Now this is going to increase the cost of typing and wear out more letters on their word processing keyboards [Do they still use those? Ed] and I would expect the markets to mark their shares down quite heftily once the implications sink in. Should I risk the Ramblings Retirement Fund on a quick flutter by selling their shares short, or should I leave it safely in the big blue-and-white striped jug on the mantlepiece?

That's What I Call History

 "Daddy, daddy, today in school we learned all about Queen Victoria"

"And what did you learn, my dear?"

"She was played by Judy Dench in a film called Mrs Brown or something, showing her joyfully regaining her humanity after her husband died, and also by Anna Neagle in 1937 in a little known film called Victoria the Great. And there was a depiction of her as a young woman by Emily Blunt, which was jolly good"

"Very good. That new history teacher certainly knows her stuff".

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Well, what else are we to make of this ludicrous story featuring a man, the delightfully-named Barton Bendish, who unearthed some Roman silver coins recently.

source: BBC

 

Actually the story is not at all ludicrous. It is the strapline to the picture that commands our attention and deserves all the derision that we may summon up this chilly night in March.  For someone, hopefully for the sake of her career not the reporter Ms Katy Prickett of BBC Norfolk, but an anonymous droid deep in the bowels of Broadcasting House, has determined that nobody looking at the picture could possibly have a clue who Marcus Aurelius was unless he had been depicted in a film by an actor sufficiently well-known that no further bio details were needed. We learn that Richard Harris (Camelot, A Man Called Horse, Harry Potter) played Marcus in Gladiator and now we know all we need to know.

Had a bit-part extra taken the role in some obscure film, then the strapline would perhaps have been something like this:

Four of the coins date to the reign of Marcus Aurelius, who was played by Carrington Crankshaft in the long-forgotten 1953 Ealing comedy "Gor Blimey, Mr Caesar", starring Sid James, Margaret Lockwood, Bob Monkhouse and AE Matthews, with Sam Kydd as Cassius; Crankshaft also featured as First Corpse in Murder in Mayfair (1959), man in bus queue in Any More Fares, Please (1961) and man in football crowd in Everton vs West Ham, Match of the Day (1967), with the earliest dating from AD166.

 I have not seen Gladiator, apart from the "Are you not entertained?" clip and I have never been sure if Marcus, played by Harris, was or not. Perhaps the link is that he threw Spartacus or whoever he was [played by Mel Gibson: Ed] a bag of silver denarii and it was those very coins that were safely squirreled away in far-away Britannia. Could he ever have imagined that Barton Bendish (played by unknown child-star B. Bendish in A Xmas Video for Grandma, 1995, private distribution only) would unearth them nearly 2,000 years later. I imagine not.

Meanwhile, at the Large Mammal Collider...

 I have long been fascinated by physics. The concepts of quarks and gluons, quantum entanglement, photons streaking across the universe for billions of years, time going backwards...it's great fun even though I don't really understand it and can't follow the maths. It's even more fun when scientists try to explain what they are doing, using easy-to-understand similes that boggle the mind even more than the original ideas. 

 And, if it's mind boggling you are after (and why not, it's perfectly legal and you don't need to spend a penny to enjoy it) then cast your mince pies over this beautiful specimen:

source: Interesting Engineering

 

 Scientists have long known that a seriously big force holds protons together, because they have spent about 100 years trying to break them apart. Indeed, so hugely massive is this power that it is known as the Strong Nuclear Force (distinct from its wimpy, little, bespectacled cousin the Weak Nuclear Force). The force holds three quarks inside each proton and it needs to be bloody enormous because these things are basically compressed energy formed during the very start of the Big Bang.

But just how bloody enormous, I am sure you will be thinking [I certainly was: Ed].  Up till now we had no obvious way to make sense of it. Not any more. We use Olympic sized swimming pools to measure bodies of water, Wales to measure land masses and a piece of string always comes in handy for most other things. I can now present to you the gold standard in measurement - the compressed elephant. 

One is not enough, though, for the proton. It takes ten of them. Okay, I get that. But so many questions inevitably follow. Top of the list has to be - how did the compressed elephants get in here in the first place?, closely followed by African or Indian?, and where would a woolly mammoth fit in on this scale? I hope we are talking adults here, by the way, because the thought of some endearing baby, still scampering around its mother as the herd progress majestically across the savannah, being taken away by cruel men in white coats who then ...no, I can't go on. Compressing an adult at the end of its life when the hyenas are licking their lips and the lions polishing up the cutlery, yes, fine, it's doing them a service really, they can die knowing they have lived a long and useful life demolishing vegetation and wallowing in mud and are now enriching scientific knowledge. Let's hope it stops there. I do not want to read about someone establishing that the pion [a light elementary particle composed of two quarks:Ed] is the mass of three compressed baby elephants, that would really put me off my morning muesli and yoghurt.

But to return to the main question. I suppose there is only one way to find out ...

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Scene: A lab somewhere below ground with loads of whizzy high-tech machines whirring away. Enter Dr. A. Einstein (no relation) and Dr. J.C. Maxwell (also no relation), who, fresh from proving that aliens are definitely here, honest, it's just that they are really, really good at hiding, have inexplicably been loose at CERN.

Einstein: I'm really worried, JC. That damn proton - it's sitting in that atom-smashing machine laughing at us. Just laughing. We put on a weight. Nothing. We put on a lot of weights. Zilch. I put a couple of old textbooks on top, just in case. Waste of time. I don't know where we go from here, and that research grant will run out in a couple of day.

Maxwell: I know, I know. I've been trying to find something heavier, but everything is so bulky. Just falls off the top of the machine. We have to get something bigger but yet smaller. It's a paradox.

Einstein: A bloody impossibility, if you ask me. Let's get back to aliens. You know where you are with aliens. You don't have to keep doing stupid experiments and writing down findings and all that peer-review business, it does my head in, you know? You just say that you did a thought experiment and everyone applauds.

Maxwell: Don't give up, Al. We need to look at this another way. Listen, call me crazy but suppose we get something pretty damn heavy and ...somehow make it shrink. 

Einstein: Can't be done. My shirts shrink. My bank account shrinks. Heavy stuff stays big and heavy, we all know that. 

Maxwell: But if we compressed it. Get it smaller. Denser. Then it would fit on top of the machine and we could put something on top. Maybe several heavy but compressed things. You see? There is a way!

Einstein. Yes, yes, but this is a proton we are dealing with. You know the sort of energy in that thing - it must be as big as ...as big as...

Maxwell: An elephant?

Einstein: Don't be so ridic...ok, let me think about that. An elephant...No, still not enough. Only about a tenth of the energy.

Maxwell: So ten elephants?

Einstein: Mein Gott! Ten elephants! Of course. But yet - so big.  So big and floppy and lumbering and those huge tusks .. we could never get them in the building, JC. You're a smart man but you know, a little bit crazy perhaps

Maxwell: But ten compressed elephants?

pause

Einstein picks up the phone  Hallo, yes, put me through to the zoo!

 

 

 

Brands, Out With The Old, In With The Same

source: ABC Australia

 Regular readers [Huh?: Ed] will know of my deep and undying respect for those who deploy the noble arts of advertising and public relations. They never let me down when I am scratching my head searching for inspiration for one of these little whimsies. I think this is the first one from Down Under to catch my attention and, judging by the standard, not only of the change in the brand  but the conviction behind the justification for it from the PR people, I need to pay more attention to goings-on Ozwise than has hitherto been the case.

 Australia has long been a major sporting nation but clearly their weakness has been their athletes, always falling short of greatness. Let an athlete pick up a javelin and they would drop it on their foot, with the lacklustre old "Athletics Australia" weakening their grip. High jumpers wobbled on the take-off, baffled by their inability to grasp the nature of the organisation that managed them; runners dropped off the pace, gasping for breath while sprinters from countries with better brands and meaner slogans forged ahead; the hurdlers would have done better trying to vault over a few salt-water crocs with their mouths open [the crocs' mouths, not the hurdlers: Ed ] compared to the depressing effect of the millstone from the past.

No more of that! Australian athletes can rejoice that at last they have a bold, new identity that connects to its storied legacy and sets its sights on an exciting future. No more must they put up with hackneyed, boring old initials"AA". Now they can pin the brand new "AA" plates on their shirts with pride. If anyone should ask what it stands for, it is going to be so easy in future. "AA, mate?" They will shrug nonchalantly "That's Australian Athletics. So much better than that old logo, fair dinkum to the chief executive, they've certainly kicked off a golden era"

I suppose a quick, mozzie-on-the-wall flashback visit to the offices of Bozo and Dunny, Practioners in PR, Sydney is in order....

Scene: A few months ago.  A backroom on the fourth floor. The blinds are drawn. Whiteboards covered in scrawls at one end, a table seating a few sweating executives  at the other. Enter Taz¹, a pommy intern who has somehow landed himself an internship though nobody knows how.

Taz: Sorry to interupt,  but Athletics Australia have phoned about whether we've got the new name yet.

 Rupert: No worries, mate, but damn, they've gotta cut us a bit more slack here. Jeez, you drongos, five hours and we still haven't got a name. They're counting on us. We've got to get away from boring old Athletics Australia.

Kylie: Taz, why dontcha read us out some of those suggestions. Might stir up some brain cells.

Taz: Oh, yes, gosh, er here goes. Athlete Australia. Athletes Australia. Athletes in Australia. Athletes Oz. Athletes Ozzy. Athletes'R'Aussies.

Rupert: Is that it? Stone the wallabies. Let's have a few tinnies and really focus on this, people.

Bazza: Athletics...Australia...it's so close. Australia..Athletics...Australia...

Kylie: Hold it, hold it. I think I may have something.  Rupert, can the budget stretch an extra letter?

Rupert: Dunno, maybe, but you're pushing way over the edge here. 

Bazza : Australia's Athletics? 

Rupert: Close, so damn close. Anything else?

Kylie: Australian Athletics?

Pause

Bazza: I think it's good. It is good. I like it!

Rupert: Good? That is effing brilliant! That is the answer! Well done, team. 

Kylie: Jeez, finally. And it was so simple, so bloody simple, we just couldn't see it.

Rupert: Taz, why don't you fill in the copy. Chuck in a few standard phrases from our blurb handbook. "Forward looking", "bold", "venture", "exciting", that sort of crap.

Taz: Something about "identity"?

Bazza: Yup. And "legacy"

Kylie: Make that "Storied legacy ", they'll lap that up. Worth another million on the fee. What do we think, guys? Five million?

Bazza: Been at it a whole morning. I say maybe six. 

Rupert: With that extra letter? I reckon they'll swallow seven point five. Invoice that, would you, Tazza.

Taz: Shall I round it up to ten?

Pause. Sharp intakes of breath. Smiles break out.

Rupert: You're a natural, kid. There's a place for you in this firm. You have the true instinct of a great PR man.

Footnote

1. Yes, it's our old friend, last spotted in these columns here

Going into Details

 

I do not live in Wales nor am I female nor am I a regular shopper at Marks & Spencer; however Google has seen fit to feature this blurb in the background page on my tablet (if you swipe right on the desktop). I doubt if a real person wrote this (clue: "It sees shoppers can save ..." is gibberish). As there is no actual content other than the price drop on a dress, the fact gets repeated and regurgitated in such a way that the entire article appears to be about nothing else. I did not bother to click on it to find out more but let my imagination fill in some of the rest (and if you are reading, "Branwen Jones", you can have them entirely for free for your next scoop.

• The saving on this dress is more than twice £12.50
• The price has been reduced by 43%, that's nearly half and a lot more than a third
• The mysterious difference between the £30 drop in the headline and the £28 saving mentioned in the copy is, no doubt, due to the machinations of a sinister force
• Shoppers who buy two dresses can save £56, nearly enough for another dress at the old price
• The dress sold for £65 before the cut, that's 75% more.
• If the dress had been on sale for £250 then shoppers could have saved £213. But it wasn't.
• Clothes often are sold at reduced prices during a clearance sale, savings of at least £28 on elegant yet practical clothing may be experienced, it sees.
• Is anybody really reading this stuff?
• No, didn't think so, I'm off to watch Wales getting thrashed at rugby again.
  

The Gospel According To Donald

 3.8... and as they were walking, Jesus pointed to a family of Moabites, dressed in rags and struggling to cross the river and he said "Observest thou these refugees. They have nought but the clothes on their backs and are in sore need. Now, what shall we do in such a matter as this?" His disciples looked at one another. Simon Peter said "Shall we not succour them in their hour of great need?

3.9 And they all nodded and murmered to one another in approval of his words. But Jesus gently shook his head, saying " This is not the way. Gather ye stones, and stout staves, and send these illegal immigrants back from whence they came, for such losers have no place in my kingdom. And let there be erected a strong fence so that we may not encounter such again".
...

5.1 It came to pass that Jesus began preaching to the people of Shiloh, and a large crowd pressed upon him, eager to hear his teaching. And his disciples tried to push them back, that he might be heard by all.

5.2 Bartholomew and Thaddeus did stand close to him, to guard his person, lest any should seek to touch him. But Jesus said to them "Those of good family, who are well-dressed and hath shekels to shew, these shall you admit to my person. And those with naught to shew, these shall not be admitted, my father hath no time for them, they count for nothing, let them depart"
...

8.14 As they stood at the shores of the sea, so Jesus turned his eyes northwards and observed the mighty cedars that crowned the hills. And he said "Is that not the place where doth begin the ancient kingdom of Lebanon, which cleaves unto itself and holds clasped to its bosom much treasure?"
Simon the Zealot, seeing his purpose said "It is, Lord, and some hold it should belong to us, e'en though that they are friends and bound to us by many sworn oaths of alliance".

8.15 Jesus grasped his hand and said " You are right, my son, it is a matter of national security and we must strive to seize that land, whether they will it or no, and there will be bountiful rewards for those who bring this thing about". But James, son of Zebedee, frowned saying "This seemeth a betrayal of those who are friends with us, and should we do such a thing to gain for us gold?"

8.16. And Jesus sighed deeply, saying "Have you learned nothing in my presence that you do cling, as do the limpets of the sea, to old and abhorrent ideas?"
James, who was stubborn, said "Surely those who follow the pursuit of money and the sword will never attain the kingdom of heaven?". Jesus shook his head, saying in lowered tones to the others "There's always one, isn't there?"

Some Frites With Your Branch, M'sieur?

 

   source: The Independent

  

 Let's make the most of this one

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 The chief surgeon at Bruges General Hospital shook his head wearily as he replaced the phone. To his waiting staff he said " Ward Three is full. Two more with twigs stuck in their throats. There's an ambulance arriving with a man who tried to eat two glass ornaments. Doctor Berckmans says he has an entire household who thought branches were fine if coated with chocolate.  We're going to need more stomach pumps".

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The well-dressed couple were shown to their reserved table at Brussels' newest restaurant sensation, Zuza. They took note of the strip of twinkling lights festooned around the ceiling, the huge photographs of out-of-focus gifts wrapped in colourful boxes and paper on the walls and the waiters, each sporting a Christmas hat and robe. The maitre d' handed them a menu 

"Tonight the chef has prepared a nine course tasting menu, M'sieur et Madame, together with a wine selection that perfectly mirrors the refinement of his conceptions. Voila - we have an amuse-bouche of little twigs. Then there is a bough on tinsel, a glitterball souffle, a branch steak served very rare, a fake-snow sorbet, a veloute of crackers, complete with mottos, paper hat and pointless plastic toy, inside a wrapping paper nest, a pithivier made from streamers and sticky-backed plastic and two exquisite desserts made from needles and wreaths. For the wines, we have sweet sherry, Blue Nun, a sickeningly-sweet chocolate cream liqueur and something from Hong Kong that the chef's uncle brought back and which nobody has dared to touch until today."

As he swept away to the kitchen, the man looked at his companion. "This is better than I had thought. I can see us awarding them two stars at least"

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"I just don't get it, Poirot". Hastings threw up his hands in bafflement "I mean, how could you possibly know that, out of fourteen house guests, one was an imposter?"

"I used the little grey cells, my friend" smiled the detective, twirling one of his impeccable moustaches "All of them claimed to be British, n'est ce pas? But yet someone had taken a bite out of the Christmas tree in the drawing room. 'A shame about that branch' you yourself said yesterday, observing the damage. But I looked more closely, saw the tooth marks and this afternoon, when you were all playing charades, I checked each bathroom. When I found the little pieces of wood that someone had cleaned from their teeth, then... then I knew. Only one of my fellow Belgians would do such a thing. Yes, Jean-Claude Artois, alias 'Colonel Thoroughgood', will not be enjoying his Christmas after all"

Key Ally of Sen. Cassius in Foreign Policy Upset

From our correspondent in Rome who has just about got over the Saturnalia celebrations

Newly installed Imperator Senator Cassius' key supporter, the richest man in Rome, M. Croesus Muscus, has beome embroiled in the relationship with the province of Britannia. Muscus has hitherto promoted the claims of the tribal chief of the Reformatio, Faragactacus the Unruly, saying that he was divinely appointed to be a staunch ally of Rome and that he should be made King of the Britons without delay, even if that meant slaughtering the four fifths of the population who were against him. Muscus has let it be known in proclamations, mysteriously headed "10" that have been nailed up in the Forum, that he has the ear of Sen. Cassius in such matters. 

However, in fresh proclamations read out at the Temple of Venus, Muscus now says that Faragactacus is a foul traitor, in league with Parthia and a follower of barbaric practices such as beer-drinking. "I curse his name" it goes on "and call on upon all true-hearted Britons to choose as their leader, er, some other person as shall be acceptable to me the gods and whose identity will be vouchsafed in due course, probably"

It is not clear which of these views is currently held by Muscus or, indeed, by the Imperator who is said by soothsayers to be distracted with a plan to purchase Ultima Thule. Nobody knows why this matters or where Ultima Thule is to be found. 

The ambassador of the Britons was said to have rolled his eyes to the heavens, clutched despairingly at his beard and shaken his head when informed of the proclamations. Reminded by his advisors that he was in public, he turned his face away for a moment and then smiled, inscrutably.

A Quick Taste of Winter

 There was some highly interesting weather over the UK this past weekend. A great chunk of freezing air sat over the north and a warm, wet front rolled in from the south. Where they collided heavy snow and torrential rain followed. 

This might have been purely of academic interest to me, but fate decreed otherwise. For Mrs C and I were having a few days away, staying in the unexpectedly delightful Llandudno and the weather bomb struck the night before we planned to depart homewards. Amidst increasingly dire warnings on the media, I made various contingency plans. If all the roads were blocked, with reports of airlifted supplies being dropped onto those trapped in their cars - we would stay put in our hotel. If it was possible to leave but treacherous conditions might be encountered en route - find a welcoming cafe and indulge in a really long lunch. Otherwise charge up the mobile phones, stock some food and water and drive on in hope.

We woke on Sunday morning to find the town under snow but rain was now in charge and there was a few cm of slush on the ground, neither the deep snow nor the glassy and deadly ice that I had feared. With nothing worse than wet trainers, I was able to drive out of the town and though the worst hazards were fog on the A5, coupled with idiots who insisted on driving in the middle lanes of the motorways despite the empty inner lanes up which I was bearing down on them, we made it home. 

We planned to go shopping on Monday morning. That one failed pretty fast because the rain kept up all night and all the roads into our little village were flooded. Environment agency live monitoring of the River Alne showed it to be close to a record high for the past 20 years. 

We were lucky. Had we planned to begin our trip on Sunday, we would have had to abort. Had the bad weather hit a few hours earlier we might have got to within a half mile of home but been unable to go further. As it was, I think we got away with it.