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.

 

 

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!

 

 

 

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"

Aurora Sensation or not, as the case may be

 I had thought that the idiocy of local news stories featuring enticing headlines, followed by little more than what we serious journalists call "utter bilge", had reached its nadir with the big cat that wasn't story that featured a few weeks ago. How wrong I was! [Good strapline that, I shall save it for future use: Ed].

Today's snippet must rank amongst the most utterly pointless uses of a news medium since, I don't know, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle straplined "Monk finds Holy Grail" and followed it up with "According to a man who claims his neighbour heard about it from a passing minstrel who said his brother-in-law definitely heard a rumour about it at the Winchester Fair from a man called Ethelbert the Liar". We are used to finding garbage from the garbage websites mostly operated by Reach but this is worse. It was on the BBC website. And not the entertainment section either but the BBC News!! [Yes, two whole exclamation marks there and I utterly concur with their use on this occasion, and damn the expense: Ed]

Here it is. I've cut all bar the first sentence of the copy and that is more than enough, believe me.

source: BBC

This is the entire story, bar some stuff about how she went onto social media that is of no consequence. The BBC news department regarded "slightly disappointed" as good enough to record the incident for posterity and to take up valuable disk space on their servers.

There might have been a decent story here. Suppose the content was something like this:

The woman, aged 53, with three childen and a gerbil, became so distraught with worry after telling all her friends on social media about the wonderful aurora that she has left her family home, taken up residence in a beach hut near Sheringham and has changed her name to Boudicca the Unforgiven. She has vowed never to speak again until either seven years have elapsed or she receives an apology and a year's supply of tomatoes from the factory, and has launched a website called FakeAuroras.co.uk which has already attracted no fewer than 14 visitors, including two from Canada who have written supportive messages that they frequently mistake the lights from the local disco as being messages from space aliens.

As it happens, she was just "slightly disappointed". Come on, George King (and when you fill official forms that have the surname first, does it seem odd naming yourself after a monarch?). Not "massively" or "overwhelmingly" or the ever-popular "incredibly" but just a little bit, hardly at all really, in fact she's already forgotten the whole thing, or would have had not a journalist with absolutely nothing to do and a deadline to fill stumbled over her Facebook page and thought "This is it, Georgie-boy, this is the big one, next stop Panorama and look out Amol Rajan, I'm coming for you". Now the whole sorry episode has come back to haunt her and her name is being plastered over the media (but not in this column because we respect the identy of innocent citizens plagued and pilloried by the paparazzi) [I had one of those last night, the cheese was a bit off if you ask me: Ed].

How easy it would be for me to create a few bitingly-satiric spoof pieces such as "Red traffic light changes to green and utterly baffles pensioner" or "Local footballer misses a pass and fans regret it" or "Two teenagers went into a shop to buy something but it wasn't in stock, although it had been last week". I don't think I will. I don't think I can outdo the inanity of the original.

Shock! Horror! Local!!

 Now that my friends at Google know I live in Warwickshire, they are keen to flag up stories of local interest to me and today a snippet from Worcester News was featured.

 

 This is not the time to ponder the difference between a major and a minor milestone, or to write a begging letter to the lucky owner of the unusual coin. Our attention has to be focussed on the big cat story. This is one of the great recurring themes of local news across the country  - there is always a breathless eye-witness, a few seconds of seeing something that always runs away, never to be seen again, and no other direct evidence apart from a blurry photo now and then. I was drawn to it, however, because of the "face to face" element and had a look at the story. And this was what confronted me:

Worcester News

Terrifying, is it not? Er, no, not really. For what we have here is a stock image of a black panther, an animal indigenous to South-East Asia, and not Worcestershire at all. This is not a photograph taken by the woman in the story. It is not even claimed to be what she saw. It is just a photograph, supplied by Getty Images, that the paper chose to publish immediately under the headline.

 It turns out that this "terrifying" moment was in 2013. The woman in question was driving in the country and glimpsed, no less than 20 yards away, something big and black that moved like a cat. The animal ran off at once and vanished. No trace of it was found. 

I do not doubt that the lady saw something that disturbed her. My fascination with this classic example of crap local journalism is the the way that the newspaper has attempted to sensationalise it. She did not have a "face-to-face" encounter - she was in her car and it was in the field some way away. It did not leap on her bonnet and snarl at her through the window, flashing enormous blood-stained teeth, whilst its razor sharp claws slashed deep grooves in the paintwork. It took one look at her and was off. Perhaps it was the animal that was terrified - the motorist may have been startled. A bit.

Anyway, if you want gripping stories with a local interest that have a searing, must-read, headline that bears little resemblance to the content, read on, gentle reader, read on.

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My Inferno Nightmare - Local Pensioner's Lucky Escape

A fire somewhere else

 Grandfather of two Norman Maltravers has told us of how he narrowly missed first degree burns and loss of 95% of his skin when he visited the chip shop in Lower Bishop's Nodules. "I'll never forget it" he told our reporter "There I was, queuing up for a small cod and chips same as every Thursday when it happened! I saw one of the assistants put some fish in the deep fat fryer and I thought - Blimey, if that lot goes up, we'll all take one hell of a pasting and no mistake. The whole shop will go, I shouldn't wonder, if not half the ruddy street.". 

Fortunately there was no explosion of boiling, rancid fat to splatter flesh-tearing gobbets of liquid terror over the plucky pensioner and the two other customers. "By some miracle nothing at all happened" said a still shaken Mr Maltravers "We got out alive and with our fish suppers still intact. I went home and gave thanks for my deliverance. To this day I believe that it was the blessed Saint Peter himself who looked after me - he's the one who covers fish bars, isn't he?"

Later Mr Maltravers explained that this near fatal incident occurred "sometime in 1995, I think, or anyway round about the Queen's Jubilee celebrations". He founded a support group for others with similar experiences and is hoping to have someone join it one day.

Road Horror Heroine 

A tanker similar to the one in the crash

Keen bowls player and owner of two cats, Deirdre Flint of  Great Silage is counting her blessings today. A terrifying accident between a truck full of high explosives and a petrol tanker brought traffic to a standstill on the B347 just moments after she backed her Morris Minor into Abattoir Lane. "That could have been me" said a quivering Mrs Flint "and it was pure chance that this red-hot vortex of destruction happened on the B347 in Santa Maria province, Argentina, and not here in peaceful Warwickshire"

"If it had happened here and I was caught up in it " the battling housewife went on "I would have had no hesitation in driving away as fast as possible before phoning someone to tell them to do something about it"

Local Man Nominated for US Presidency!

 

Bumford born and bred Hartley Harrow, 47, has been nominated for the top job in America and may pose a serious challenge to Donald Trump at the Republican convention. He remains in Bumford doing his day job as assistant vice-secretary to the Bumford Allotments Society but is bursting with enthusiasm to fly to Los Angeles and start "mixing it with the Hollywood jet set and the rest of those guys".

Mr Harrow was nominated by his wife, Hilda, who wrote his name on the back of a breakfast cereal box and sent it in four months ago. "He's the right man to lead the Republicans" she enthused "He has a baseball cap and a badge that says 'President', which I made out of tinfoil and some sticky-backed plastic".

We asked if there had been any contact from the Republican party. Mr Harrow seemed doubtful but his wife pointed out that it didn't matter in the least. "You just turn up and say you want to run, and next thing you are on the platform and everyone is cheering and bursting balloons. I've seen it on the telly"

Mrs Harrow is organising a jumble sale and kids face painting to raise the funds for the air ticket and says there has been a surprising amount of support from the neighbours. 

"I'm really surprised there has been zero interest so far" she told our reporter "But that's bound to change now that the national press have picked up the story".

When it was pointed out that the convention was in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, over 2,000 miles from Los Angeles, Mr Harrow remained undaunted "One of those film stars will give me a lift, they all want to be friends with America's next president". 

Asked about his policies, should he win, Mr Harrow was emphatic. "No US air base in the Bumford allotments, that is right out, I'm putting my foot down on this one. A cultural exchange between Bumford and San Francisco. The CIA to 'take out' those bastards from Great Silage who park outside our village shop on Wednesday mornings. Er, that's it for the moment.

The good wishes of all our readers go with this gallant contender.

They're Out There. Aren't They? I Mean, They Must Be.

 A recently-published scientific paper has caused some interest amidst those who believe there are alien civilisations watching us and indeed, amidst those who believe that, if you write any old garbage but dress it up in academic language, someone somewhere will take it seriously.  

Source: Futurism

 

 Provocative it certainly is. And if you want the reaction of someone who has been well and truly provoked, then just read on, my son. All in a spirit of epistemic humility, of course [You have no idea what that means and, to be frank, neither do I: Ed]

So, did these scientists study mysterious artifacts found on the Earth and show they are made of exotic materials that could never have existed naturally here? Did they identify from animal or near-human remains traces of DNA that have amino acids not found in nature, or an utterly alien cell structure, perhaps with three intertwined helixes? Have they a list of sightings of unidentified vessels leaving the surface of the Moon or streaking through our atmosphere? [All excellent questions: Ed]

Nope. It's all just made up and pretend. There may be an unknown civilisation hiding here (perhaps taking part in some inter-galactic contest of hide-and-seek and, if they last another 28.000 years, they beat Tharg and go through to the semi-final). But saying may is a cop-out. I could say it with exactly as much scientific credence (ie none whatsoever). Science needs something on which to anchor speculation before a hypothesis is worth investigating. What we have from Harvard's finest is exactly the same as the "What-if" scenarios that power a thousand pointless YouTube videos. What if singularities do not exist?¹ What if the planets switched position? ² What if the moon crashed into the earth?³ What if gravity suddenly switched off?⁴ What if aliens are hiding in your dustbin?⁵ What if you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy?⁶ What if England had a really good football team?⁷  Anyone can make these and they add nothing to our knowledge because they are not based on knowledge, only on speculation.

There is nothing wrong in my book with speculation. Philosophers have been doing it for centuries and sometimes their ideas point the way for the physical sciences to follow The idea that aliens are here, unknown to us, is the stuff of many a worthy science-fiction novel.  But the Harvard mob are supposed to be "researchers", not egg-heads musing over a pint and a pipe. I wonder how they made their application for the funding of this "research"?

Scene: An office just off Peabody Street, Cambridge, Mass. Enter Professor D. Crockett, Professor H. Burger and Professor P. Mason, examiners and Dr. A Einstein (no relation) and Dr J.C. Maxwell (no relation), heads of research team.

Crockett: Sit down, gentlemen. Let's have some coffee. Now then, Dr Einstein, we've glanced through your application but why don't you explain it in your own words?
Einstein:  It's ALIENS. They're here. They're hiding on Earth. They have a secret base on the moon. And they may be in touch with mysterious ancient civilisations also hiding on Earth, but not in the same place, probably. They walk among us, possibly, wearing trousers that cunningly disguise their tails, and when they go into bars and say "568 milliliters of your finest fermented barley and water mash flavoured with hops, earthling" NOBODY NOTICES. That is what we need several massive grants to research, gentlemen, BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE.
Burger: If you could stop shouting, you're making my dentures rattle
Einstein: Sorry.
Mason: This does sound very important work. Have you a digest of observations and evidence to back up these claims?
Einstein: Ah. My colleague can cover this.
Maxwell: What?
Einstein: You know, what we talked about in the bar.
Maxwell: You mean the...oh yes, of course the evidence. Yes, indeed, the evidence. That's definitely what we've got and I am going to show it to you right this minute, gentlemen. Erm, is there any more coffee?
Burger: You do have some evidence, Mr Maxwell?
Maxwell: Yes. Yep. Yes indoody. And here it is (whispers to Einstein) You told me to do it.
Crockett: Well now, I may be just an old-fashioned particle physicist and a bit tired after several ground-breaking experiments, nine best-selling books and a Nobel prize but that does look to me like a napkin.
Maxwell: A paper that we researchers use in our research, sir.
Mason: Looks like a napkin to me. It's got "Eat at Joes" printed on the side, a smear of tomato ketchup and has been crumpled by someone who probably wiped his hands with it, then tried to flatten it out in order to write, in biro if I am not mistaken, "Aliens are here" on the corner.
Einstein: miserably Yes, that's it
Maxwell whispers I told you it wouldn't work
Crockett: This...this is simply incredible.
Burger: My God! I had no idea. This is a real bolt from the blue These young men have done what we never thought possible.
Mason: I never dreamed ... they really do exist? I'm finding it hard to believe what my own eyes are telling me but surely...
Crockett: You are right. I wish you weren't but there it is. We are scientists. We must act on irrefutable facts. And this will confirm Harvard as the world's greatest institution for academic excellence and rigor. It gives me great pleasure to support this research application, to allocate you as many graduate students as you need and to award you thirty million dollars, to begin with. And believe me, gentlemen, there's more where that came from.

Footnotes

1. This is a real YouTube video
2. As is this
3. And indeed this one
4. Probably real
5. I made this one up but I think I will get away with it as nobody ever reads these footnotes anyway
6. Music Nat D Ayer, lyrics Clifford Grey
7. The subject of every newspaper's back page

Election 2024 - Sunak: The Riches to Riches Story

 The news story overshadowing the launch of various party manifestos is the astonishing revelation of prime minister Rishi Sunak, who has laid bare the deprivation and misery of being born to a family who could only afford to send him to Winchester College for his private education. Here is The Guardian's take on it

The Guardian (picture removed)

Now it all falls into place. The young Sunak naturally took up politics, keenly aware of the injustice of wealth ownership, filled with a burning anger to fight for social justice and determined to better the lot of his fellow citizens, Never would he forget the privations of his younger days when he pressed his nose against the windows of the houses of neighbours, eyes wide as he realised that yes, there were indeed more than five channels of television and yes, the one that he was unable to see featured non-stop ¹utterly non-rigged American wrestling .

My eyes teared up on reading that his parents "wanted their kids to have a better life". It seems incredible that any parents could think in such a way. Surely all normal parents want their kids to suffer, to work even harder than they did, to grow steadily poorer and until, in despair, they trade in their fancy 68" HD 4k televisions and go back to a black and white set that you have to thump on the back to get it to switch from BBC to ITV. Or was that just my family?

I too was deprived of Sky. Although, to be fair, this was through my own choice. I decided that I had no need to subscribe to Sky One (bringing you fifteen hours a day of non-stop American wrestling) nor Sky Two (another twenty hours of the bits of non-stop American wrestling you may have missed on Sky One) nor Sky Sports (All the big stories behind American wrestling), Sky Movies (coming soon, American Wrestling III, the grunting continues) nor Sky Arts (Those American Wrestlers costumes - we reveal how they get the sequins to stick on) nor indeed Sky News (All those all-important results from the American wrestling). But I can see how little Rishi must have yearned for the glamour and excitement of watching wrestlers pretend to be hurt as they bounce off the ropes, or surprised by a lethargic drop-kick, or angry at a forearm smash that didn't actually connect with them. Here were a bunch of actors making good money by prancing around for the cameras without actually doing anything. What an inspiration for an aspiring politician.

I look forward to more revelations - the days he was picked up from school in just a Range Rover because the family Bentley was being serviced while all his classmates looked on and sniggered, the awful holidays in Mauritius, New Zealand or Monte, having to keep his old iphone going for a month after the latest model was available - the voters need to know these things. We need to understand better the fire burning in his belly to ensure that no child will ever undergo these dreadful things again. 

Incidentally, the ITV interview, that is the source of this story, is the one Sunak dashed back to London to film instead of standing with other world leaders at the D-Day 80th anniversary commemorations last week. Draw your own conclusions.

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 Readers! Join our Buy Rishi a Sky Subscription Appeal

Let's all dig deep and give our leader the best present he could ever have - a year's subscription to Sky, including all the wrestling channels. Send whatever you can afford to the usual address and we will ensure that not a moment of all-American canvas-pounding action will be missed by a man who, if the opinion polls are to be trusted, may have a lot more time on his hands to watch it all come July 5th. Let's end the years of suffering right now and do the right thing for Rishi!

Footnote

1. Commercials and trailers for yet more American wrestling on various Sky channels included, of course.

The Blight of the Lawyer

 I reproduce a news story in the Daily Telegraph that is sparking so many ideas in my head I can barely sit still - see if you concur

This story is all too familiar in these days of unrestrained global capitalism. A big firm threatens to sue a tiny one for a breach of copyright, knowing that the costs of even a small court action will be disproportionately large for the defendant and therefore seeking to intimidate heedless of the justice of their claim. In this case the big firm, Campari, has a brand called Skyy Vodka. The little firm, owned by Steve White, is a microbrewery selling Dark Sky beer. Campari market their drinks around the world. Dark Sky beer is only available in a handful of pubs in the north of England. 

Campari's lawyers argued that, and please put down any hot drinks before reading on, you don't want to splatter it all over your clothes, "consumers might get confused between its vodka and Mr White's beers". Yes, indeed, easy to mix the two up. Here they are, side by side.

Skyy vodka            Dark Sky beer

I suppose these lawyers are reasonably intelligent and are only acting on instructions. Nonetheless, they could have told their aggressive client that they were just being bloody stupid. No, they took their fees and went to court and to his great credit Mr White refused to be bullied, fought his case and won.

I am inevitably reminded of another lying lawyer, convicted felon ex-President Trump's friend Rudy Giuliani and somehow, given that Skyy Vodka's base is the US, it does seem that we are destined to have another eavesdrop on the American legal system.

Scene: a courtroom in California. US flags, policemen wearing sunglasses, palm trees waving gently outside in the breeze from the Pacific.

Clerk: Yo there, dudes, show some respect and give it up for his honor, Judge D. Crockett
Crockett: Sure is hanging looser here than in my previous courtrooms. Okay, okay, let's all get mellow and see if we can't finish up here before the surf gets up. This is some sort of brand copyright issue, am I right?
Hamilton Burger: Your honor, as usual I represent the plaintiff, in this case the Skyy Vodka corporation of this very state, and my colleague Mr Mason is appearing for the defendants from England, some two-bit moonshiners who aren't even American.
Crockett: Looks pretty bad for you Mr Mason, even before the get-go, whatever that is.
Mason: Your honor, I shall be vigorously contesting this case and I reserve the right to call at least four surprise witnesses at the last minute, as usual.
Burger: Damn.
Crockett: Proceed, Mr Burger.
Burger: I show the court this bottle of my client's vodka, and this bottle of beer from England. It is our contention that the beer has stolen my client's brand name and appearance and it is impossible to tell the difference. Anyone going into a bar anywhere in the world wishing to drink my client's excellent white spirit short drink and having forgotten what it is called, will inevitably see this beer and order it instead. Or if they are aware of the name of Skyy Vodka and wish to order it, will find their tongue twisting to say "Dark Sky beer" instead, everyone knows this happens all the time and my clients are losing literally billions. Every day. At least, I think they are. I mean, aren't they? They told me they were, or might be, or something. Billions. If not more.
Crockett: Mr Mason?
Mason: Your honour, the plaintiff makes a very strong case. I can see that, using the same argument as my distinguished and honorable friend, that anyone wishing to watch Sky TV might well find themselves downing a few shots of vodka instead, having confused the two. Indeed, I have referred this matter to the legal advisors for Sky and they tell me they are going to sue Skyy Vodka for, consults paper at least forty-eight squillion dollars, plus costs, for stealing their name but they are not concerned about Dark Sky beer because, in their words, only a drooling moron could confuse TV and beer or indeed beer and vodka.
Burger: Oh, shi...Your honor, may I have a recess to consult with my clients?
Crockett: Take as long as you like, young feller. Mr Mason, Let's have a beer at the bar, I hear they got a new one called Skyy.

Grotesque Exaggeration of the Week

 At the conclusion of the Mastermind 2023 series on BBC Two earlier this week, presenter Clive Myrie declared that the achievement of the winner, Stuart Field was "absolutely incredible".

The abuse of the once rather useful word "incredible" by people in the media has long been a source of pain to those of us at Ramblings, who believe that words ought to have some sort of integrity, and who reject Humpty Dumpty's famous dictum that "When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less". ¹ We have tried to adapt to some modern usages. But Mr Myrie has taken Dumptyism² to a new high.  Mastermind is a quiz show in which whoever scores the most points wins. That the winners  often painstakingly research subjects of zero interest to the rest of us - Mr Field chose the BBC TV show Extras as his special subject - does not tarnish the result. It doesn't matter if the other candidates in the final score just one point and someone scores two - that person will be declared the winner.  Therefore there is nothing whatsoever in the least remarkable, in any way, that someone won. And therefore that achievement, in itself, is not even incredible, alone absolutely incredible.

What therefore compelled Myrie to reach for the super-superlative to express his inability to put any credence upon Field's memory for television trivia? Did Field utterly trounce his rivals and score more points than has ever been known in the venerable history of this show? No. The scores were 20, 22, 22,24,25 and his score was 28. A good result, certainly. Possibly impressive. But not incredible. 

Perhaps Field had to battle obstacles hitherto unknown to Mastermind contestants? Did he have to learn three obscure foreign languages within a month? Did he have to memorise the contents of the West Yorkshire (he is from Sheffield) telephone directory for March, 1958 and cross-refer each name to whatever their descendants are currently doing? Was he compelled to travel from his home to the TV studio by pogo-stick, blind-folded and being harassed all the way by Rottweilers? No, I don't think of any this applies, fascinating though it would be to watch.

Does this therefore come back to the obsession in the media to build up every TV moment as special and as better than the last? Will next year's winner be greeted by "That's so staggeringly incredible I'm going outside to jump off Tower Bridge"?  Wouldn't it be nice if Myrie simply said "You've scored 27 points, everyone else scored 26 so you are the winner, jolly well done and now, for an encore, you can pogo-stick your way back to Bolton. Nigel, release the Rottweilers!"

Ah, well, must break off. I'm going to have an utterly unbelievable cup of tea, the weather is simply amazingly normal for this time of year and I shall soon watch some World Championship snooker, a pastime to which "incredible" is, on occasion, le mot juste

Footnotes
1. Alice through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
2. [Must we? Ed]

Parting the Waves

 One of the minor joys of the past couple of years has been following the YouTube videos put up by a handful of camera operators based at Rufford Ford, Nottinghamshire. The ford is where a minor road crosses an old mill stream, (the mill is now a heritage centre), and is normally easy to cross. But sometimes after heavy rain it rises to two or three feet deep and should not be crossed by normal vehicles. This message seems to have eluded the good folk of Nottingham. Although the ford only cuts off a few miles from perfectly good roads on either side, many seem determined to hurtle through it no matter how deep the water. And the YouTubers are there to catch the huge waves that break over a delighted crowd of onlookers, and better still (for us), the moments when the engines cough and die, the electrics fail and the hapless drivers remove their shoes and wade out to seek help.

Confidently in...

 

... And assisted out

Pics courtesy of Tom Sunderland

These videos have been a huge success and seem to have made running the gauntlet of the ford a challenge for every hard lad in the vicinity. The road is actually a residential, 30mph street and often there are signs warning of closure, but the presence of the cameras seems to be a greater incentive and they hit the waters at maximum speed. Whether they think this helps or they are just maddened by the anticipating crowds, who knows? The joke is that many vehicles that have successfully made it to the other side leave little souvenirs behind, smashed off by the force of the waters - number plates, bumpers, sections of engine housing - all of which are gleefully gathered up and dumped in a pile at the side of the road.

Sometimes the police lie in wait to file a few tasty charges - speeding, dangerous driving, not being in full control of a vehicle, being a total berk - but the council have had enough. Much to the chagrin of the crowds and the YouTubers, and very much to the financial detriment of every recovery garage for miles around, they have closed the road.  

Warnings that that the road was closed due to flooding have not deterred morons from driving into it in the past. I wonder if they will continue to brave the waters, like some sort of ancient coming-of-age ceremonial test of manhood, come what may? In which case we can look forward to more encounters such as this one, where a gentlemen in a small car took one look at the watermark showing three feet of water and put his foot down, only to float gently downstream.

Bow wave over the engine? No worries.

Prepare to abandon ship

 Pics courtesy of Tom Sunderland

Chat Show Fame, Here We Come

 I received the following missive on the horrible direct messaging system that Facebook employs, Messenger. It is from somebody I don't know (and I thought only Friends could send dms) but anyway this is what it said:

Dear Author AnthonyG¹,   would you like to come on SKY TV  to talk about yourself and your book/read a review or an excerpts, or what you prefer. My name is Carol Azams, myself with Award winning Author David P. Perlmutter are starting Books & Authors TV  to support authors by promoting their books on Sky Television.  Pls reply for if interested for more details. Thanks
Today at 12:13
 

 Gosh, "Author AnthonyG". How flattering. And how odd. For though am I indeed a published author, as my reply below confirms, I find it impossible to believe that I could have been deliberately selected from the vast number of more popular authors who actually have books in print/digital rather than me with my academic effort from 45 years ago. 

There is a real Carol Azams who presents a TV channel, and a real David P Perlmutter, an author who lives not too far from me. I assume the message is genuine, albeit perhaps sent out as part of a huge batch by an intern (Yes, once again, and why not) and that they will sift out the most interesting and photogenic respondents to come round for a cosy session on the sofa and a nice cup of tea and biscuit in the green room afterwards. There is no way I would be chosen out of this process.

I must admit the idea of being whisked off in a stretch limo, to be flattered under the studio lights while a rapt audience struggled to hold back waves of applause did, for one infinitesimal moment, hurtle through my cortex before an gang of neurons from the "Don't be so bloody stupid" department laid into it. And then with common sense prevailing I submitted this reply

Dear Carol, what a wonderful invitation. The only book I have actually had published was "Financial Accounting", Hodder & Stoughton, 1978 and I know the chapter on inventory valuations under current cost accounting is one that people still argue fiercely about in pubs even to this day. Alas, a planned C4 documentary on "Great undiscovered accountants of Middlesex" fell through quite recently but I am confident that the ratings for any show with me in it will be off the scale. Depending on how big the scale is, of course and whether it goes under 0.

At this point, because I was typing on a real keyboard, I hit the space-bar to insert a paragraph. Bloody Messenger interprets this as the Send Message instruction so I had to add a coda
 

Sorry for pressing the enter key too quickly, I really hate using Messenger. All the best, Anthony.

And there the matter rests. Ms Azams (or Taz) has yet to reply, which does seem to make the use of a direct messaging system pointless. I am rather hoping to be invited to join them as one of the chat show hosts, perhaps doing the Cyril Fletcher role as seen on the much-loved BBC show That's Life. Cyril, as I recall, lolled about in a comfy chair and inserted short and pungent witticisms after Rantzen and Co had routinely blasted the Gas Board, or British Rail or BL or other reviled British enterprises for failings in their dealings with the public. Certainly beats actually trying to write another blasted book.

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Other chat show presenters! If you wish to join the bidding war for my services, now is the time to contact us at the usual address and submit your plain brown envelopes complete with tasty contents. Terms and Conditions apply and are fully covered in my latest trilogy Terms and Conditions: The Beginning, Terms and Conditions: The Editor Strikes Back and Terms and Conditions: The Reckoning (complete with itemised bill, VAT and non-discretionary Service Charge).

Footnote

1. My real name was used but I've redacted it to match my blog id

Patronising Tweet of the Day

 This little gem appeared on my Twitter feed the other day

How awfully kind of those nice chaps and lady chaps at Mastercard (an organisation with which I currently do no business whatsoever). Let us examine the two elements of this, thankfully short, exhortation.

 However you spend each day with Debit Mastercard - what a delightfully laissez-faire, mellow and friendly attitude. We don't care what you do with our card, they seem to be saying, you can stuff it in your pocket or use it to sculpt pottery¹. Perhaps grip it tightly between two knuckles to add extra bite to your forehand jab when street-fighting, or try flicking it sideways and see if you can decapitate a pigeon, Oddjob-style.   It's entirely up to you. 

Note the intrusion of the word "day". I mean, I have credit cards and use them now and then but I don't exactly spend the day with them. I have my life to lead and doubtless they do their own, plastic², thing, perhaps being condescending to my loyalty cards whilst having a mutually respectful relationship with my driving licence. I don't wake up and think "It's a lovely day, how shall I make best of it?, I know, I'll go out with the cards, it'll be such fun". If I need a credit or debit card, I extract it grudgingly from my wallet, plonk it on the reader and then put it away before it starts having ideas about the two of us going for a drink and having a really deep and stimulating conversation.

Anyway, the "however" makes the first phrase somewhat otiose anyway, because clearly it doesn't matter what I and the cards actually get up to. So onto the meat of the gist.

"Spend it doing what matters most to you".  Yes. Sure. I wasn't going to. I thought I would do a few things that really are utterly repugnant, then some irrelevant stuff and finally maybe ask around on social media for ideas about what matters most to others. But Mastercard have cut clear through the fog and put a glaring searchlight on the crux. I should do what matters to me.

I really don't know what the people³ who compose these homilies do all day. They obviously don't inhabit the world that you and I do. They must actually think that, unless they give some instruction in how to live, we would make a hash of it. I have news for them. I shall do what matters most to me and and I shall do it whether they tell me or not. Not only that, I shall do it without spending a single instant of my day with my Debit Mastercard, because I don't have one and I am certainly not going to apply for one, because then I would be doing something that doesn't matter most to me.

The end result of this tweet has been to irritate me and to antagonise me against the brand of Mastercard. Well done, guys. You only had one job and you blew it.

 -&-&-&-&-&-&-

 Footnotes

1. This is a real thing, I went on a pottery course years ago and cards were highly recommended for moulding wet clay.

2. I so wanted to use the word "plasticky" here but it doesn't seem to exist.

3. I assume our old friend Taz has got himself another summer internship

Pointless Tweet of the Day

 I make very little use of Twitter. I mainly follow my local football club and a few individuals whose tweets interest or amuse me. But I have been on the system for about 15 years, long enough, one might think, for Twitter to have some idea about the sort of adverts that might attract my attention. 

No, of course not. They haven't got a clue. This is what turned up in my feed today,

I suppose, given the mention of "pharma" that GSK might be GlaxoSmithKline. But then again, who knows? They haven't bothered to actually put their proper name (even though there was plenty of room) and I'm not going to waste my time clicking on their twitter hash, cunningly named @GSK (and therefore telling me nothing additional by way of help).  I am trying to feel a frisson of vicarious excitement that they have won some sort of award but I have no idea what ESG means and I don't know what putting the # in front does, either. 

 I have no idea who or what DJSI is (but I have a horrible feeling it may be the Disc Jockeys' Social Institution, a ghastly club where middle-aged men pretend to like the music that appeals to 13-year olds and who are unable to listen to anything longer than 3 minutes without interrupting with a "dedication" or a "motoring update"). No award that these parasites issue is worth anything.

Anyway, hearty congratulations go to @SPGlobal, apparently and no, I don't know who they are and what their connection is to the DJs or to the pharma industry or to GSK.

And now you are undoubtedly thinking to yourselves "Did he click on the link in order to learn more?". No. I did not. I would, in fact, be happy to learn less. I do not need to know who has the leading score in the pharma industry, whether judged on ESG (sorry, #ESG) or not. And really, Twitter, you should bleedin' well know that by now.

The Uxbridge Effect

 One must feel sympathy for the hapless family who found their dream holiday in Cornwall metamorphosed into something unusual - a hotel in sunny Uxbridge. The Guardian took up their case to reveal the usual web of agents and hotels blaming each other for incompetence, and leaving the customer to suffer.

What, of course, concerns us is the fascinating idea that the agent, Booking.com, could consider that Uxbridge (which The Guardian maliciously describes as "a London suburb close to Slough"¹) might be some sort of acceptable substitute for the golden beaches of north Cornwall. Booking.com is a Dutch organisation but presumably has some knowledge of UK geography. They must surely know that Uxbridge, just four miles from beautiful Ruislip, is sufficiently far from the coast that any seaside jaunt that starts from these parts requires either a re-mortgage to pay for the exorbitant cost of train tickets or hours spent in a hot, cramped car jammed onto a motorway, as the flasks of tea cool and the impatient kids in the back seats dig their feet into one's back.

Of course, it is possible that one of the Dutch researchers came here on a day-trip a few years ago and still cherishes happy memories of buying cheap chocolate bars in Poundland, admiring the many office blocks that have all but strangled the historic town centre and finally taking a train a few stops east to stroll blissfully up Ruislip High Street for a spiritual recharge by the duck pond. It's not exactly a fun-filled family day out but maybe there was sufficient magic to make Uxbridge the obvious choice when it became apparent that there was a cock-up with the Newquay booking. 

Footnote:

1. I have covered the "part of Slough" calumny before, in a searing and contempt-laden review of Facebook's disgusting practice of branding Ruislip as part of the hellhole ten miles to our west. I have explained why right-minded citizens should affirm a belief that Slough remains a place to avoid as part of my series 101 Things I Refuse To Do Before I Die.

Taking the pss

 Many years ago I took out a personal pension through a well-known institution in the market - Standard Life. In 2006 it floated on the London Stock Exchange and I subscribed for a few shares. I have held them ever since.

Standard Life merged with another institution, Aberdeen Asset Management in 2017 and the new entity traded as Standard Life Aberdeen. 

This year the old names have been jettisoned. The business is now known as abrdn. Yes, you saw it right. Out goes the old fuddy-duddy capital letter at the start of the name. Out go any unnecessary vowels. We must now think of this organisation as something both ungrammatical and unpronounceable.

Here is how the business news portal Bloomberg reported the change, in April this year:

Standard Life Aberdeen Plc decided it was the vowels holding it back.

One of the U.K.’s largest asset managers is changing its name to Abrdn -- pronounced “Aberdeen” -- in a bid to attract a younger client base by mimicking the naming approach of some startups. In a major rebrand complete with its own video, the company created by a 2017 mega-merger announced the new name Monday.

The rebranding is “modern, dynamic and, most importantly, engaging,” Chief Executive Officer Stephen Bird said in a statement. “Our new name reflects the clarity of focus that the leadership team are bringing to the business.”

 Incidentally Bloomberg got it wrong. It really is abrdn, not Abrdn. I know because they wrote to me today to tell me they have changed their share registrar.

So "abrdn" is pronounced "Aberdeen". Well, that clears that up.Yes, those pointless and frankly rather irritating number of e's in the name made life so complicated. Now we can phone them up and not waste all that time and instead pack in a lot more investing.

I am however bothered that abrdn still employs a Chief Executive Officer. How old-fashioned. That's never going to cut it with today's youth. Something far more dynamic, with greater clarity of focus, is surely demanded. How about Top Dude? Head Honcho? The Boss Groover? And what's with this "Stephen" nonsense? None of the modern young client base will stand for that. Stv. That's all the letters a modern, thrusting and dynamic Groover needs for that all-important engaging with the kids. Stv Brd. Rolls off the tongue, does it not? Pronounced "Dickhead".

 

1000 UP!

 This is the 1000th post. It's taken more than 16 years. Some might think I should mark this solemn moment with carefully worded reflections on the state of the world, the work of the blogger and perhaps the changes in the commuting landscape, especially since the covid infection has knocked the stuffing out of public transport.

But sod that. Here's something of much greater importance.

Source: BBC

 

The voters of Pontiac, Quebec, must be proud of their representative in parliament. Taking a phone call with colleagues, Mr Amos was seen unclothed, protecting his modesty with the phone itself. His explanation - "My video was accidentally turned on as I was changing into my work clothes after going for a jog".

 Insert your own "Member" of Parliament joke here.

The Civil Servants and the Time Warp

 Those of us of a certain age and with particular interests in popular software have been having a quiet chuckle as some of the details buried within the UK-EU Brexit trade deal come to light. It appears that the civil servants who drafted it have been locked in a cupboard for the past twenty years, for the document makes explicit reference to Netscape, Mozilla Mail and Outlook as leading technologies. The kindest commentators have suggested that it was getting very late, there was pressure to complete a section on security in IT and someone did what they always do in such circumstances, dig out the previous file and copy the most likely looking bits.

It's funny because, of course, if they had applied this to other sections of the document, then it would been noticed and edited before being released to an incredulous public. Let me give you some examples of errors that would, one hopes, have never seen the light of day.

Transport: - Heavier than Air Flight
Hot-air Balloon stations shall be maintained at the frontiers of each contracting party with adequate supplies of heated air so as to facilitate the onward journeys of the aeronauts.

Fishing: - Whaling
Supplies of sperm oil, baleen and blubber are to be zero rated for tariffs

Alcoholic Beverages:- Tariffs
A maximum import tariff of 10% of the net landed cost may be applied for Mead, Sack, Finest Rhenish and the true, the blushful Hippocrene. Beakers of the Warm South must not exceed 15ltrs. Libations poured to the gods before commencing a journey are exempt.

Opiates and similar controlled drugs: - Sale conditions
Opium, morphine, laudanum, cocaine and related narcotics may be sold freely provided that
a) They are sold in bottles  with labels showing reassuring, full-bearded, gentlemen drinking them.
b) They are branded as "Dr Fields' Essential Remedy for all Household Ills" or similar.
c) They are labelled as "Absolutely harmless"

Computers and electronic equipment: - Security
Babbage Calculating Engines are of strategic significance to the British Empire UK and to the High Contracting Parties of the Congress of Vienna EU  and the export of same is forbidden.

The Knitware of the Baskervilles

Stories about large wild animals roaming around the British countryside crop up regularly. Monsters in lochs. Big cats in Surrey and the "Beast of Bodmin". And, as we move into what they used to call the "silly season" (but is now so stuffed with hard news we need a new name), so we have yet another mysterious and unexplained sighting that has left the boffins baffled. Step forward the elusive and legendary big grey feline of Horsham:-

Pic: Sky News

Only this one did not fool the experts for very long. No sooner were the fine lads of the West Sussex police despatched to investigate than the mere switching on the headlights of their car to the animal in question revealed a large and utterly inert soft toy clinging to the bench for dear life.

End of story? Not in these parts, buster. Just the beginning ....

1. A Visitor from Devon

Mr Sherlock Holmes and I had barely settled down to our landlady's excellent breakfast of scrambled eggs and devilled kidneys before there was a frantic knocking on our door. Before Mrs Hudson could announce him, a young man dressed in country tweeds burst into our room.
"Mr Holmes, you must help me, sir. I have rushed up from Dartmoor by the milk train to seek your advice. My good friend, Sir Charles Baskerville, who has recently inherited the family estates at Baskerville Hall, was seen in the village charity shop - buying a knitted dog""
My friend rose, pale and brows knit in thought.
"Watson, we shall pack at once - to Dartmoor!"

2. A Warning

We arrived in Dartmoor as the sun was sinking below the sinister outline of the granite tors that overlooked Baskerville Hall. Our visitor - who had announced himself as the local GP Dr Mortimer - stared up at the grim rocks.
"All the evil comes from there, Mr Holmes. There is an ancient legend that the fluffy cats and the teddy bears so beloved by our children do come to life at the call of those with the knowledge and carry out their master's fell wishes"
Even as we paled there was heard a shrill cry as of some carrion bird. Holmes blenched.
"Have you your service revolver to hand, Watson? I fear we may need it before this night is out".

3. The Baronet

Sir Charles was waiting for us in the great hall. Even his naturally ruddy complexion was an unnatural white.
"Mr Holmes, thank you for coming. I laughed at Mortimer's fears about the soft toys but now - I fear the diabolical curse that hangs over this house will shortly alight - upon me!"
I paled. "What can it all mean, Holmes?"
"Courage, Watson" said my friend, looking alertly around "We shall seek out the root of this mystery and it shall have no supernatural cause, believe me. Now then, Sir Charles, tell me about the charity shop at which you purchase these totems?"
"What Mr Stapleton's Emporium? It is the most charming of  establishments and I frequent it with much delight"
"It is as I feared" said Holmes "Sir Charles, you must, on no account, venture out to that shop tonight. You are in peril of your life"
"Indeed, I shall do as you say" stammered the baronet "But surely you will permit me one last indulgence, one final teddy bear to complete my set"
"Not one" Holmes affirmed "Watson, remain here whilst I visit our friend Stapleton".

4. The Peril on the Moor

I watched the grey mist curl down from the menacing tors and realised, with a start, that Sir Charles had slipped quietly out into the night whilst I was thus dreaming. I followed at once, with Dr Mortimer close behind and we raced into the darkening gardens. At once a great scream shocked us to our very marrows and we reached the thick hedges at the boundary of the Hall to find a huddled form slumped to the ground with a hideous bright yellow plastic doll over his face.
"Just in time Watson" It was my friend, emerging from the moor, as pale as ever I had seen him "This is that devil Stapleton's doing. He is out there now, thinking himself safe, but we shall have him yet. See to Sir Charles" and he wheeled about and was gone. I found that the baronet was not dead, as I had feared, but merely stunned. Whilst Dr Mortimer and I assisted him back to the Hall we heard one more terrifying scream.
"My God"  I gasped, turning white "Is it Holmes ...has he...?"
"I am safe Watson" and my friend emerged from the gardens to join us, as blenched and white-faced as any man could be "We grappled on the edge of the mire. He ran off, dropping a Sonic the Hedgehog toy and fell into the depths of the swamp. He is gone and with him his villainous scheme to so bemuse our good friend here with bears and cats and dainty mice and the like that surely the baronetcy - for he was a distant relation - must fall into his grasp as Sir Charles went utterly and irretrievably mad. Now all that remains is to seize his stock-in-trade and burn the lot"
"Mr Holmes, thank you" It was Sir Charles, struggling to his feet "I owe you my life."
"Eschew the soft toys from henceforth" admonished my friend, gently wagging his finger
The baronet paled. "I shall, Mr Holmes. I shall"

The End.

The Fake News that Wasn't.

There's nothing quite like being cheered up first thing on a Monday morning by a news story about someone else's terminal stupidity. Today we have the heart-warming account of the Texan who deliberately exposed themselves to covid-19 and died as a result. And why take such a risk?

Source: The Independent

Yes, of course, a disease declared by the World Health Organisation and the governments of every country (even his own) to be a serious threat justifying closure of air traffic, mass quarantining and the stockpiling of drugs and medical equipment, was really a hoax. Oh, those jolly japesters. They certainly didn't fool our gallant hero anyway. He knew better.

So, that's one fewer Trump supporter and maybe the Texas gene pool will improve a tad.