Random Doobings

"So let me get this straight," Goodtime Slim told Captain Doobie, "it turns out that your grandmother was incredibly rich?"
"That's right."
"But she was also certifiably insane."
"Yup."
Goodtime Slim pondered this. "You know, technically that makes her a supervillain," he said.
This time it was Captain Doobie's turn to think and eager to show that he was up to the task, he ploughed right in. "Wow," he said, "I suppose she was. Who knows, she might have gone around wearing a stupid costume and trying to kill Jesus."
Goodtime Slim sighed. "We've had this conversation before," he said wearily, "Jesus was not a superhero."
"Pig's arse he wasn't! He could fly and everything!"

Merry Christmas To All My Readers

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
and after the movie,
not a creature was stirring,
except Captain Doobie.

Goodtime Slim had long gone to bed,
With visions of sugarplums lodged in his head,
Or something otherwise suitably twee,
That kept him asleep at a quarter to three.

But the good Captain stood in anticipation,
Waiting for Santa to stop at the station,
Marked ‘Doobie and Slim’, that he’d put up on the roof,
Whilst spreading the araldite to trap every hoof.

But after a while Santa didn’t appear,
Captain Doobie doubted he’d ever get here,
Then just as his head it started to nod,
There came from the roof, “You stupid old sod!”

With a gasp Captain Doobie rushed out to the rope,
(that had led to the roof since their brush with the Pope),
straight up to the roof he struggled to climb,
and when he got there, what should he find?

There was Dasher and Dancer, Donner and Blitzen,
And Santa himself, who got quite the shits when,
He spied Captain Doobie climbing over the gutter,
So he started shouting and yelling and being a nutter,

“I should have bloody well known it was you!”
he cried, “when the reindeers landed in all of this glue!
Then one of the reindeers started to yell,
“Don’t tear strips off of him, it’s your fault as well!”

“Who’s the smart bastard who decided to stay,
For an hour and a half at that beachhouse in L.A.?
Don’t stand there and blame it all on some slacker,
When you’ve been off chasing little miss Christmas Cracker!”

Well old Santa blushed crimson right down to his beard,
Then sighing he mumbled, “it’s just as I feared,
I suppose it’s my own fault for planting the seed,
But you’re well out of order, this is mutiny, Queeg!”

But then Captain Doobie excused his involvement,
And pulled out a tin of industrial solvent,
And got down to work to unstick the hoofs,
Hearing several muttered “Wanker”s and a couple of “Poof”s.

When he was done he went over to Santa,
And said, “Well, they’re free, now they can gallop and canter.”
But the merry old fellow just shook his grey head,
“It’s no bloody good now, we’ve lost it,” he said.

Naturally Captain Doobie asked him why,
And when he told him there came a gleam in his eye,
And he dashed off downstairs to look in the cupboard,
While Santa and Co stood and recovered.

When he returned Santa looked a bit glum,
But the Captain smiled and whispered, “Don’t worry, chum,
I’ve got something here that will do just the trick,
You’ll finish the job off particularly quick.”

And with that he walked behind every reindeer,
Who nervously shouted and whinneyed in fear,
Then Santa jumped on his sleigh and flew off like a rocket,
And Captain Doobie slipped something back into his pocket.

The very next morning, ‘midst Coco-pops and Milo,
As Goodtime Slim was admiring his new Christmas biro,
They saw on The Advertiser the heartwarming sight,
Of Santa (with reindeer) photographed in full flight.

“It says here that Santa was very late on his round,”
read Goodtime Slim as he shovelled his cereal down,
“And they say he might even have not made it through,
except for the last hour when he really flew.”

Goodtime Slim wondered aloud, “but how could it be,
When reindeers already fly magically,
How could anything possibly hurry them up?”
But Captain Doobie simply kept his mouth shut.

For it was a secret known only to him, you see,
(and some in the greyhound racing industry),
but as he looks across the room we know what he sees,
the jar on the mantle, half full of chillis.

Things Willis May Have Been Talkin' 'Bout.

1. The time Mr Drummond tore off his false moustache in front of the slapper he'd picked up in a bar.
2. The time Arnold shaved his head to look like Mr T.
3. The kickass Cleopatra Jones-style bodyguard that Mr Drummond once hired.
4. The time that he and Arnold pimped it up and their friends from Harlem got the shits.
5. Pearl.
6. Adelaide.
7. Mrs Garrett.
8. The frankly rather tiresome crossover episodes with Mclean Stevenson's stupid sitcom family.
9. The time that Dudley almost got rooted by the guy who owned the bike shop.
10. Kimberley in a bikini.

Trouserial Mysogyny.

It's not often that i'm given to bouts of introspection these days, but one such bout recently overtook me.

I'm a fairly well-adjusted sort of a chap who, it must be said, has worn frocks on stage. On stage only, mind you. There was a valid artistic reason, and that was as far as it went. As Laurence Olivier once said, "it's a fine line between good natured horseplay and homosexuality. It's rarely crossed and when it is, it's only ever in the dressing room."
But I digress. Having established my red-blooded, beer-drinking credentials, I found myself wondering the other day what it would be like to wear a dress. Not so much the actual wearing as such, but what would it be like to wake up every morning to have the option of what to wear on the lower half of one's body?
It's a choice that I really can't concieve of. When I arise in the morning and Scrotum, my butler, has laid out my walking-suit, I never stop to consider the possibility that there may be other options out there. I am a man, and therefore I wear trousers. It's as simple as that. Imagine trying to make the choice every morning? You'd go potty in short order. Perhaps that explains the general behaviour of the female population.
Mysogyny is a great thing.

Protocol!

Well, who'da thunk it? Today my short fan fiction 'Protocol' was published on theforce.net in their fan fiction archive. You can e-trundle along and see it at http://fanfic.theforce.net/ if you so desire.

Versus!

Versus!

Here on ‘The Impertinence Of It All’ it’s time for a new segment that I call “Versus!” in which everyday objects with similar sounding names are pitted against one another in an arena which is totally judged by me and yet is at the same time completely fair and impartial. Our contestants this week are:

The Digital Set Top Box “Versus!” The Tennessee Flat Top Box.

Well, the competition is open and either one of our contestants stand poised to win the Impertinence Crown. Let’s take a closer look at both of them:

The Digital Set Top Box is a device for converting digital television signals for use with an analog set. It was developed several years ago by people I neither know nor could care less about. It runs on electricity and has buttons.

The Tennessee Flat Top Box was developed even earlier by hillbillies, possibly named Jed and/or Chet. It is somehow involved in the making of country music.

Well, there they are. Let’s see how they go in a few simple tests…

Round 1: The ability to store and disperse digital media. DSTB 10/10; TFTB 0/10
A disappointing start for the Flat Top Box, with its total lack of pluggery. The first round goes to the Digital Set Top Box by a mile, as it enabled me to watch a rerun of The Nanny whilst cutting out every annoying scene. 10 seconds later, the Set Top Box was a winner.

Round 2: The ability to be played by Luther Perkins. DSTB 0/10; TFTB 10/10
Country guitarist and member of the Tennessee Two Luther Perkins was (I’m reliably informed by a Johnny Cash song) something of a virtuoso on the Flat Top Box. Sadly Luther died some decades ago, so it’s unlikely that he ever used a Set Top Box. Even if be had, the best musical sound I ever got out of a Set Top Box was when I dropped one. It’s hard to imagine ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ or ‘Jackson’ being made like this.

Round 3: Place of origin. DSTB 5/10; TFTB 5/10
Well, a real thriller here with both sides coming out neck and neck. The Digital Set Top Box was made in far-off Cathay, or Khitai if you’re reading this in the Hyborian Age. As I’m not altogether sure if this place really exists, the Set Top Box is forced to accept half-points. Then again, the Tennessee Flat Top Box originated in the Deep South; the land of talking rabbits, tar babies, Burt Reynolds’ moustache and the Dukes of Hazzard. As such, I’m going to have to mark it down as well.

Round 4: Ease of operation. DSTB 0/10; TFTB 10/10
A complete upset this round with the Set Top Box scoring zero as I don’t speak Engrish. The Flat Top Box, upon which I was able after a few scant minutes to play ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’, was a clear winner, although it seems to have attracted the attention of Michael Flatley.

Total: Out of a possible score of 40, the Set Top Box has scored a lively 15, while the Flat Top Box scores a whopping 25! There’s no denying that in the years that follow, sales of Tennessee Flat Top Boxes are set to soar, while the Digital Set Top Box will become little more than a footnote in the history of human endeavour.

Harder To Get Rid Of Than A Bastard On Father's Day

By cracky, here we are again. Things have been a bit on the downside blog-wise recently. As followers of this humble enblogment will know, some time ago things got thrown cock-a-hoop by my employer's decision to block blogspot from the work servers. This was countered by my setting up some sort of email posting thingie that I don't quite understand. That said, it worked quite well until about two weeks ago when my employer abruptly became, well, not my employer. As I only had access to email and the net in general from work, this put the kybosh on things right sharpish.
However, in the space of four working days I had managed to secure employment once more, and have decided to bow to the pressures of the late 20th century and have the internet at home, from which I am now blogging. Hopefully this will mean a new era of teleblogual entertainment and increase the chances of my being sued by Lucasfilm. Only time will tell.

On Thermal Detonators

Although it may not seem it to some, spending an entire afternoon scratchbuilding a replica thermal detonator like the one used by Leia/Boushh in Return Of The Jedi is extremely worthwhile.

Working for a company that injection moulds plastic float valves certainly does have its plusses, particularly when said float valves are either exactly the right size and shape as a thermal detonator, or are exactly the right size and shape as a Sith probe droid. The detonator was started yesterday, the probe droid will start as soon as the setonator is finished. A local junk shop has provided the myriad switches and buttons required (they just have a big tray full of old buttons and dial switches from VCRs and 1970s tape players!) and everything should be in order soon.

Some would say, of course, that there were better things I could have been doing with my time. Working on the next chapter of my new novel, for example. The Red Baron has just appeared in his capacity as Otto Skorzeny's next-door neighbour up at Hahndorf, the Professor's cat has started to talk, and the next chapter is a flashback to 16th century Ireland. The vampire Reuben tries one last time to gain control of the Shannon Stone, only to find that a coven of witches holds sway in the town and stands between him and his goal. I like the idea of two evils battling. This might get written tonight, now that i've started thinking about it. Damn.

Top Gear: Australia

Last night saw the end of the local production of Top Gear. I've been a fan of the British show for some years now and was one of the 4000 or so people who submitted a DVD audition for the new local show.

Since it began i've only missed one episode in the entire run. Most people hate it. I like it. I'll admit that it was slow to start, but it got better as the show progressed. Shows like this need time to settle in (does anyone remember the first two seasons of Top Gear with black Stig? I thought not) but most people expected TG:A to be great straight away. Then again, the most numerous arguments levelled against TG:A were:

1. They're trying too hard to be like the English show.
2. They're not enough like the English show.
You're never going to escape logic like that. You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. One of the stupidest pieces of criticism I heard was on a message board when the black Ferrari crashed into the stobie pole up at Walkerville, and one poster wondered if it was being driven by the guys from TG:A, because "they can't drive either". I guess he'd never heard of Charlie Cox's touring car career, or Steve Pizzati's job as a high-speed driving instructor...

That sort of unenlightened, boorish, ill-thought-out, knee-jerk criticism has been about the norm. Hopefully, SBS don't bother listening to it.

Star Wars: The Lost Scripts

Aboard the Tantive IV
Stormtrooper: Sir, the Death Star Planms are not in the main computer!
Darth Vader: Are you sure?
ST: Yes, sir.
DV: You've checked all the drives? What about 'My Documents'?
ST: Um...
DV: Aha! Well?
ST: There was a file under 'My Documents' labelled 'Death Star Plans', but...
DV: But what?
ST: It had no little dot-thingie at the end and when we tried to open it we just got a list of programs.
DV: What, like a list of windows things?
ST: Yep. We tried to open it as an internet document but that didn't work.
DV: So, use something else.
ST: We can't! now it just defaults to Explorer every time we try to open it.
pause
DV: Fine. Everybody out.
ST: But what about the plans?
DV: We'll reboot the ship.
ST: My lord, I...
DV: I know what i'm doing! I am more machine now than man, you know.
ST: Yes, but...
DV: No buts! Save everything then get back to the Star Destroyer.

News!

I'm actually quite excited by this news, but I don't really know why.

NASA has been orbiting Mars for some time now looking for water or evidence of past water. Taking a lead from conditions in Central Australia, they decided that the best way to find if water once flowed on Mars was to find opal. Opal is formed when water permeates silica in a low pressure environment. As there's a lot of silica on Mars and not a lot of pressure either, NASA figured that if there had been water, there would now be opal. NASA included on the latest orbiter a spectrometer that can detect opal deposits from orbit. And now they've found some!

As opal usually forms underground they haven't found a lot, only some which appears to have been uncovered by a landslide on the side of a cliff.

Still, it's official: Opals are found on another planet. They now join diamonds (found in crater edges on the moon) and moissanite (found in comets) as the only known extraterrestrial gemstones.

A Rememberance Day To Remember

NOARLUNGA: Local veterans were thrown into chaos yesterday as their annual Rememberance Day Service went horribly, horribly wrong.

Sources say that the veterans, who had hired local resident Captain Doobie to lead them in the minute's silence, were forced to stand to attention for several hours until they all got sick of it and went home. Captain Doobie remained in place for several hours more until it started to rain.

Doobie Industries and Tupperware spokesman Mr G Slim explained in a prepared statement this morning that equipment failure was to blame.

"Captain Doobie had begun to lead the veterans in the minute's silence. At approximately 11:00:45 his watch battery died. As Captain Doobie is a stickler for punctuality this meant that he could not move until the minute was finished."

Captain Doobie's watch, reported to be a Tag Heuer purchased during a trip to Prague for forty Schmeckels, was currently getting a new battery fitted as soon as one of the correct size could be flown in from the factory in Bali.

Captain Doobie was not available for comment, with some sources claiming that he was down the pub.

I Am A Tea Drinker.

After years and years of avoiding the stuff like the plague, I have started drinking tea. Not ordinary tea, mind, Formosan Green Tea.

It started last week, when I went to the health food shop to find a natural cure for this damnable indigestion which continues to plague me. There I found a herbal remedy, an INFUSION if you will, which seems to have helped. As a result, last night I bought some green tea with echinacea for it's powerful antioxidising qualities. A careful plotting of my indigestion symptoms on the calendar show that it is regularly flaring up on a monthly basis, which hints to me that it may be caused by a virus. If so, it's time that virus got the hell out of Dodge.

I was not looking forward to the first mouthful, I can tell you. I'd tried ordinary tea years ago (some of Mum's good old Lipton teabags) and hated it. I've always been a coffee man. But the green tea went down smooth. A whole new world of beverages has just opened up. I think i'm going to enjoy this.

It's All True, It Is.

A little known fact about the Melbourne Cup is that the appelation of 'The Race That Stops A Nation' is based on truth, albeit slightly distorted through the murky lens of history.

In the early years of the Colony of Victoria Governor Fitzroy was concerned about the manifold animal abuse cases which were rife throughout the environs. The car had yet to be invented and apart from the odd bicycle the horse was the preferred mode of transport for most people. Thus it was that Fitzroy decided to give all off the horses in the colony the day off. The day he chose was the first Tuesday in November. In addition to having the day off he also organised for a special penny-farthing race for the horses to watch. Horse owners from all over the colony were encouraged to bring their charges to the Flemington Field to enjoy a picnic and watch the race. On this day the industry of Victoria ground to a halt as all equine transport ceased. In the days before Federation each colony was considered a seperate country, and so began the phrase "The Race That Stops A Nation".

However by the time World War One began the days of the horse were numbered. Declining attendance numbers compounded by an acute shortage of penny-farthing parts* meant that in 1917 it was announced that the race was scrapped. Some horse owners, however, refused to accept this and  gathered at Flemington anyway, racing their horses against each other. In an ironic twist of fate this endeavour proved far more watchable for humans and the race grew and grew into the iconic tradition it is today.

*This was the Kaiser's fault.

7:15 on a Monday Morning

I don't believe it. It's 7:15 on a Monday morning, and I've been at work for 45 minutes.
I've been at work for 45 minutes because this morning I got up at 3am and watched the Brazilian Grand Prix, the final round of the world championship. Normally I don't watch Brazil as its on at such an awkward time, but there was no way I was missing this morning's race. Felipe Massa needed to win and Lewis Hamilton needed to finish 5th or worse, and Massa would win the World Championship. If Lewis finished anywhere higher than 5th, regardless of where Massa finished he would win the World Championship.

In the end it came down to the last corner of the last lap. I kid you not. Massa led the entire race, just got in front and never looked back. Hamilton on the other hand, lagged. At one point he was in 7th place, but mostly he just stayed in 5th. With 7 laps remaining it began to rain. Everyone jumped into the pits at the front but Hamilton didn't, bumping him up to third. Then, disaster! Sebastian Vettel in the Toro Rosso OVERTOOK Hamilton on the penultimate lap, putting him back in 5th place. Then, after Felipe Massa had crossed the line and the Ferrari team were celebrating the world championship, the third-placed Toyota of Timo Glock slowed almost to a halt, allowing Vettel and Hamilton to overtake him on the last corner, handing Hamilton 4th place and the World Championship.

There'll be recriminations over this. The topic will be endlessly debated for years: did Hamilton deserve the Championship? Did Glock deliberately slow his car? From where I sat it looked mighty suspicious. For the last 5 laps Glock had been running in the 1:18s, then on the last lap (with no interference from other cars and no change in the track) he ran a 1:44. He later claimed that he was struggling to drive his car in the wet.

But you know what? Whatever the way of the world, we now have a new World Champion and what's more for the first time ever he's of African descent. Formula One has never had many different races represented on the winner's podium. Winners have mainly been European, with the odd Brazilian thrown in. Now, however, Formula One can lay claim to being truly multicultural. And that can only be good.

Starting A New Story

Pavel eyed the sky nervously, noting the onionously-grey low clouds. "I thought you said it never rained at Baskunchak," he commented to no-one in particular.

From further back in the big khaki tent Boris, the engineer, grunted. "It better not."
Pavel remained staring out of the tent front. The tent was designed as a temporary repair facility for military vehicles in the field and was easily large enough to house the 5 men who were currently standing in it. As Pavel stared he could hear the wind pick up in intensity, causing the sides of the tent to rumple. He turned back towards Boris, of whom only the lower torso and legs could be seen. The rest was hidden by the Pioneer's bonnet, from which the engineer protruded.

"Is it ready?" he asked.
Boris withdrew from the engine bay and painfully straightened his back. "As it will ever be," he told the young mechanic, "Is the Captain ready?"

At 27 Erik Vissianarovitch was one of the youngest people ever to drive for the Land Speed Record, not only in Russia but the world. But this was not enough for Erik. It was not enough to be the youngest, he told himself, I must also be the fastest. At a time when most young men were recruited for the military Erik had (through his father's influence) escaped the seat in a fighter jet that his school teachers and cadet officers had earmarked for him. Instead he had found himself (through a combination of luck and determination) as test-driver for ZIL, the vast automotive combine that controlled fully one-half of all automobile production in the USSR.

ZIL made cars for the people, and for the apparatiks. And ZIL had a dream: to be the fastest. It was a dream shared by the Soviet Government, who saw the British in their Bluebirds and the Americans in their Goldenrods and knew that in the Land Speed Record, as in all else, the USSR could not be found lacking.

And so it was that Erik Vissianarovitch found himself in a tent on the vast salt lake of Baskunchak, with a streamlined teardrop of a car, and an engine so secret that even he had no idea how it worked.

Fishermen Have Friends Now?

Hmm. I just had a poke around on my desk (ooh matron!) and I discovered an open packet of Fisherman's Friends. Unfortunately their use-by date was the 17th of October.

Bugger it, i'm eating them anyway. Actually they don't taste too bad, a bit like almon

Random Doobings

"Ouch! Ouch! Quick, I need something to put this egg in that i've just hardboiled!"
"Right-o, i'll get the new Commodore wagon!"
"Um...."
"What?"
"It's a largish egg."
"Rat's cocks."

The Worst Love Stories Ever.

It is uncanny how many heartwarming, family films can be turned into utterly disgusting b-movies simply be the addition of "A Love Story" at the end of their title. And a colon.

Observe -

Smokey and the Bandit: A Love Story
Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man: A Love Story
Pat Garret and Billy The Kid: A Love Story
The Three Stooges Meet Snow White: A Love Story
Patton: A Love Story
Milo and Otis: A Love Story
Jason and the Argonauts: A Love Story.

Come to think of it, that last one is not too wide of the mark. Randy little sods.

Internet Stalking

The other day the subject of internet stalking came up. We all had a good laugh, but I know for a fact that internet stalking is no joke.

I knew a guy who bought one of those internet fridges and it started doing all of his shopping for him on his credit card. He'd leave in the morning and when he got home there'd be a knock on the door and a delivery service would be there with a load of groceries that the fridge thought he needed. At first he just thought it was a bit strange but he was kind-of enjoying not having to go food shopping, and then he began to get the feeling that the internet was gay. Over time he noticed that there seemed to be a lot more food showing up in his fridge that was, well, suggestive. It started with carrots and whipped cream, then some zucchinis and cucumbers and chocolate body paint, but when he came home one day to find the door of the fridge open and a 2-foot long chinese radish poking out at hip-height, he started to get a little scared.

He told his girlfriend all  about it but she just laughed, then all of a sudden all electronic traces of her dissappeared and he discovered that she'd been sold on the white slave trade via ebay.

I can't really tell you how it all ended because unfortunately the fridge surreptitiously ordered a bottle of tequila, the guy and the fridge sat down to have it out, one thing led to another, the guy got a little curious and now he and the internet are living together. It's not kinky, really, it's just one of those things.

Black Ships, by Jo Graham

This book is quite out of left field for me, as it was set as reading by the book club. I read it because I wanted to have a go at reading at loeast one of the set reading texts just to see what it was like.

Ordinarily I don't read books by female authors. This is not mysogyny, I just find that female books infuriate me and this was no exception. This book is a retelling of Virgil's The Aenid through the eyes of a slave girl, Gull, who becomes a priestess. Herein lies the problem. Everything simply happens TO Gull, not BECAUSE of Gull. All the decisions about where to sail the fleet, what to do etc. are decided outside of her control, and she is simply swept along with events. For me, a retelling of the Aenid should give me an insight into why Prince Aeneas decided to do what he did. I didn't get that from this book. This concept of simply being a passenger to the whims of fate is the impression I get from the great majority of female authors. Like everything else this feeling does not hold 100% true, but it holds true enough that I rarely get interested to read more than the blurb on the back of most female author's novels.

The novel seems historically accurate but Ms Graham has small lapses of attention which devalue the action. For example, the fleet of ships docks at the free port of Millewanda to buy back some Trojan slaves that were sold there. To do this they agree to escort a merchant convoy to Byblos because no ship has been able to make the voyage for several years without being attacked by pirates. This gives them the ability to buy the slaves and the motive to go to Byblos, as per the Aenid. But once this modus operandi is established, the threat of pirates is forgotten and they simply cruise to Byblos and never mention it again!

Ultimately I did enjoy this book. It didn't grate on me or slow me down, but it could have been better. A lot better.

A Most Auspicious Occasion

Tomorrow is the International Day of the Cravat. In honour of this auspicious day, i'd like to take the time to regale you with tales of the wierd and wonderful world of cravats.

The cravat first came to western Europe in the Napoleonic era. Jannissary troops from the Carpathian mountains, who wore woollen cravats to ward off demonic influences, mingled with British and Portugese troops during the Peninsular campaign. These backwoods troops proved unused to the streetsmart ways of the Westerners and soon lost heavily at cards. Their cravats were sent home to England and worn on holidays as spoils of war. Beau Brummel was reputed to be the first gentleman to wear a silk cravat. Many gentlemen soon followed.

The world's most deadly cravat was created in 1967 by Alistair Larkmede, a noted apiarist from Devonshire, Rhode Island. Alistair managed to train an astonishing 35000 bees to sit upon his neck in a cravat-like fashion for almost 3 minutes before he succumbed to the poison of 35000 stings and was subsequently eaten. Several jars of the resultant honey still exist and are much prized by collectors.

The first (and thus far only) cravat in outer space was worn by American Astronaut Hyman T Spunkfelcher during the Apollo-Soyuz hookup in 1974. While the cravat was ultimately well-suited to the rigours of space, Hyman did report that microgravity made it difficult to tie. Due to Hyman's subsequent death during re-entry it is not known if he was using a traditional overhand knot or a knot of a more experimental nature such as the 'Indooroopilly' or the 'Old Ma Bacon'.

Prince Phillip's cravat was the only cravat to see both royal and naval service. It is known to have come under enemy fire on at least three occasions, the last of these being the Battle of Bowman's Run, after which it was mentioned in despatches.

The Swords Of Lankhmar

In my quest (no pun intended) to read more fantasy novels, I recently picked up Fritz Lieber's "The Swords Of Lankhmar". This centres around two of Lieber's long-standing characters, Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser, as they battle a magician who can control rats. Heady stuff, i'm sure you'll agree.

As a 'bridge' between the heroic fantasy which I am used to reading and the questing fantasy to which I aspire, it was pretty good. The heroes were heroic, the villains dastardly and the plot quite thin. Scenes of wenching and quaffing abounded, and fans of the salacious won't be dissapointed either.

Lieber's magic seems selfconscious, and trying to get along well with science. When the Grey Mouser is attacked by sorcerous lightning he merely uses a long fire to earth his sword. When the Grey Mouser drinks the potion to shrink to rat size he becomes surrounded by a pool consisting of the bits of himself (described as 'various atoms') that had to vacate his body in order for it to shrink. This smacks of scientific toadyism to me, but I shouldn't complain as i've been a most vocal opponent of physics-defying magical feats in the past.

There is, however, one large hole in the book. Whenever a character sees the moon he always refers to it as 'gibbous' regardless of the time of month. At first I thought that this must be some in-joke that I didn't get, however later in the book Lieber uses the word 'decimate' where he means 'annihilate'. This is a pet peeve of mine, and leads me to believe that Fritz Lieber simply does not know what 'gibbous' means.

That is all.

Another Perfectly Good Saturday Night, Ruined!

Last Saturday night on a flight of whimsy I settled down with a beer to watch Alien Vs Predator, a film that I had not previously seen.

I was struck however by a logical inconsistency: how do a civilisation of hunters manage to civilise to the point of space travel?

Space travel requires many mundane things such as universities and nerds. This line of thought led me to murky waters. Can you imagine an Predator nerd? With glasses? What about an Predator forklift driver? How does the whole invisibility/cloaking device thing work with hi-viz clothing rules on the worksite?

This is why I don't watch sci-fi anymore.

News Update

KABUL: Recent fighting in the border regions of Afghanistan has left an Australian SAS unit surrounded, and without a functioning esky. Until relief supplies were flown in by helicopter this morning the troops were forced to survive for 3 days on only food and water.

Against The Day

Regular readers of this enblogment will know that I am rather addicted to the works of Thomas Pynchon, that elusive, reclusive American novelist. He only releases a novel every ten years, so it was no surprise when his new effort, Against The Day, weighed in at 1085 pages when delivered to me from Amazon last December.

I've just finished it. From the Amazon reciept which i've been using as a bookmark I can see that it was delivered to me the week before Christmas. That's over nine months it took me to read, and there's a reason: it's virtually impenetrable.

The subject matter is right up my alley. It starts at the Chicago World Fair in 1893 and follows a horde of characters including some never-aging child zeppelineers (the Chums Of Chance); The Traverse family of dynamiting anarchists (initially from Colorado); Yashmeen Halfcourt and her father; the British secret service operatives from T.W.I.T.; detective Lew Basnight; photographer Merle Rideout, Nikolai Tesla, millionaire Scarsdale Vibe and others. It's been said that this novel has 400 characters. Pshaw! I wouldn't say it doesn't, mind, but I seriously doubt someone counted them all.

The novel simply sprawls. It moves along at it's own pace, which is sometimes maddening, but it gets there. Inasmuch as it has a plot it's about anarchism, and how the radicals of the left (unionists) were displaced by the radicals of the right (Marxists). But that's grasping at straws as far as finding a plot goes. It could also be said to be about the Great Powers' search for the mythical city of Shambala, or simply a family saga about the Traverses. As in all Pynchon though, the plot doesn't really matter. Its the narative that counts. Pynchon is, as always, encyclopaedic in scope. If anything can be thrown in, it is. In that way it reminded me most of Gravity's Rainbow, except that it seemed much more cohesive. GR was a psychedelic trip, ATD seems more like a ride on a ghost train: the randomness and sheer lunacy are still there, but they're weaved in as part of the experience, not thrown at the reader higgledy-piggledy.

Did I enjoy the book? Yes. Every time I picked it up I was captivated. The problem was, it was so dense and impenetrable that getting the interest level up enough to pick it up was difficult, so it tended to lay around a lot while I read other books instead. Hence it taking me nine months. Taking it with me on my recent trip to the Cook Islands helped a great deal: a week on a desert island with nothing else to read provided a lot of impetus.

Would I recommend this book to others? Not without a word of caution. I like Pynchon and I like the times it was set in, and I like the type of gentle fantasy it contains. If someone didn't like all three of these prerequisites, this book would be a monster.

Captain Doobie, Goodtime Slim, and the Shed Police

The doorbell rang unexpectedly. It was always doing that.
Goodtime Slim answered it, as it was a Tuesday. The House Charter decreed that Goodtime Slim should answer the door on weekdays, and Captain Doobie should answer it on weekends. This might seem unfair until you realise that weekends are the chosen time for religious callers of all faiths. It is a testimony to Captain Doobie's rampant (and unrepentant) atheism and Goodtime Slim's rampant (and unrepentant) cowardice that both men felt they had the better end of the stick.

In any event it was a Tuesday, so Goodtime Slim opened the door to behold two men in their late thirties dressed in some sort of black paramilitary outfit. Goodtime Slim glanced downwards. His immediate suspicions were confirmed. Jodhpurs. This couldn't be good.

"Mmmmyeeeeus?" he intoned, trying out his new 'English butler' routine.
"We'd like to see your shed," barked the slightly taller of the two. The other, who looked like he'd recently been hit in the face with a shovel (because he had), said nothing.

"What?" cried Goodtime Slim dropping the act due to the randomness of it all, "why?"
The tall man leaned in close. "Because the government has decided to levy a tax on sheds," he told him abruptly, "$100 single bay, $200 double, $50 potting."

"What about carports?"
"$75. Why," the man's eyes narrowed in hungry suspicion, "have you got one of them too?"
"No!" cried Goodtime Slim hurriedly. His mind was whirling. He didn't have $100 and neither (to the best of his knowledge) did Captain Doobie. To make matters worse, his next available $100 was already earmarked to be spent on sundry crap. Goodtime Slim was rather fond of sundry crap.

He thought fast. 'We don't have a shed," he declared suddenly.
"Then what's that I saw when I looked over your gates?"
"Um, that?"
"Yes, that large, galvanised iron shed-shaped object." The taxman's voice simply oozed sarcasm.
Goodtime Slim did his best to look innocent. "It's a toaster,' he told them.
"It's not a bloody toaster!" yelled the taxman, "It's a shed!"
"It is so too a toaster!" Goodtime Slim yelled back in panic.
The tall taxman stood back and folded his arms in a menacing manner. "Prove it," he ordered.
Gulping, Goodtime Slim led them through the house and into the backyard, detouring through the kitchen to grab two slices of bread. Before they reached the side door of the 'toaster', the tall man stopped. "Why does your toaster have a louvre window in the side?" he asked in a nasty tone.

"Cooling vanes," Goodtime Slim corrected him, "not louvres."
"And why does it have a big sliding door at the front?"
"That's how we clean the crumbs out."
They reached the side door. Goodtime Slim had to admit that he was out of ideas. The plan at this staghe was to throw the bread in, comment on a cloud passing overhead that looked like Isla Fisher's buttocks, then jump the fence and leg it whilst the taxmen were otherwise engaged. As plans went, even Goodtime Slim had to admit it lacked a certain panache.

He opened the door, and threw in the two slices of bread. Then he shut the door and ambled back to the two taxmen, squinting up at the sky as he did so.

Unfortunately the sky was clear. He should have paid more attention to the weather report. The sky stretched in an unending cascade of cerulian blue from horizon to horizon. Goodtime Slim had no idea what to do next.

They stood in the backyard, a light spring zephyr gently rustling the leaves of the apricot tree behind them. The two taxmen glared at Goodtime Slim. The shorter one farted, whether from impatience or gastric upset Goodtime Slim was unable to tell.

"Shouldn't be long now," he told them nervously, "gosh, I hope I got the setting right."
Without warning, the door of the shed opened and with a sharp 'ting!' two pieces of medium-brown toast sailed out the door at just the right height to knock the peaked caps from both uniformed officers. The taller one leaned in towards Goodtime Slim. "Alright," he said, crushing the piece of toast he held in one large fist, "you've won this round, hippie."

The two tax agents stalked off. There was a pause, then they stalked back.
"How do you open your gates?" the taller man asked huffily.
"Just jiggle the peg," Goodtime Slim explained hurriedly, "It needs a bit of grease at the moment."
"Humph," the officer remarked, then left again. This time, his departure was also observed by Captain Doobie, who surreptitiously peered around the still-open shed door, welding mask pushed up on his head, oxy-acetylene torch in hand.

"Are they gone?" he asked.
"Yes," Goodtime Slim answered.
"Where's that toast gone then?"
Goodtime Slim looked at him. "They crushed it. Like a bug."
"Curse them!" Captain Doobie cried to the heavens, "Goddam shed fuzz!"

The History Of The English Language

Sitting Duck.

The term 'sitting duck' was not used in its current form until 1933, when Smilin' Mudguts Walker's song "Sitting Duck Blues" was released for the electric phonograph. Prior to this the phrase had been more correctly known as "sitting Ducs"; "Ducs" being the old French noble title for the overseer of a duchy.

Smilin' Mudguts, an illiterate Iowan corn-shucker, mistakenly believed he had lost millions on the stock market in 1929, and thus had turned to an itinerant life of blues music for solace and a source of income. "Sitting Duck Blues" captured the tenor of the times and was purchased in record numbers for the era, despite its obvious mispronunciation and misspelling of the key term, and musical encrapitude.

The original term "sitting Ducs" is thought to be a reference to medieval court doctrine which always seated the Ducs of any gathering with their backs to the open door, thus making them far easier to perforate with crossbow quarrels when they weren't looking.

Random Doobings

Goodtime Slim was nervous. After breakfast he'd heard nothing more from Captain Doobie, who had hoovered up a bowl of coco-pops and a mug of milo and disappeared out into the shed. Goodtime Slim hadn't really been that sorry to see him go and had settled in to do the crossword in the paper. However, over the space of the intervening two hours (he was stuck on 15 down: Goddess of tillage and corn) he noticed that Captain Doobie had made several trips from the shed to the road, his arms laden with detritus. Now, as the sound of hammering started to reach his ears from the end of the driveway, he thought he'd better have a look.

When he looked out of the front door he was greeted with a sight that was, on the whole, unexpected. He could see Captain Doobie crouched behind the agapanthus with a large dynamite plunger, peering down the road and poised to plunge. Wires trailed from the plunger to a large wooden arrangement consisting of a stand firmly anchored to the footpath (there'd be trouble with the council now, Goodtime Slim knew) and a lever leading to a large piece of chicken wire some 5 feet by five feet stretched between a wooden frame. The whole apparatus looked like nothing so much as a large fly-swatter.

"Oi!" Goodtime Slim called to his hunched housemate, "What do you think you're up to?"
He was then favoured with a look from Captain Doobie which told him that what he was doing should have appeared obvious. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he replied primly, "I'm catching the bus."

Gosh!

I'm very pleased to announce that my short story "Protocol" will soon be published on theforce.net fan fiction site. It took a great deal of work to get it accepted. Two editors had to approve it, then a panel of judges. However, i'm pleased to say that it passed muster, and it will be uploaded to the site just as soon as I organise some cover art for it.

Now where did I put those crayons...

Book Review

"Universal Foam: From Cappuccino to the Cosmos" by Sidney Perkowitz.

I picked up "Universal Foam from the Dymocks store in Marion. I was jonesing for something to read, and it had been discounted to the princely sum of $1. It is, with no exceptions, the most boring book in the whole of Christendom. I've read defrosting instructions of the backs of frozen chickens that were more entertaining.

I was mildly interested in the part where the authour looks at aerogel, but that was about it. The whole book is a random and frankly eclectic gathering-together of information, anecdotes and historical discoveries relating to bubbles in a suspension matrix. At 180 pages it works out to 1.8 cents per page, which seems about right.

I'm sure Mr Perkowitz knows a lot about foam, and from the section on beer i'd say he's probably a decent guy, but somewhere, someone convinced him to write this book. And that's just not cricket.

Unforseen Problems

The problems started roughly 15 minutes after the new vessel was commissioned. Captain Avareal, the New Republic's latest 'young gun', was standing on the bridge of the New Republic cruiser Advantageous (some days previously, the Imperial Star Destroyer Impervious). He had just overseen the arrival of the final crew compliment and was beginning the checklist for the shakedown tour when the intercom chirruped.

"Avareal here," he answered.
"Sergeant Bomin, sir," came a voice through the comlink, "Engineering. Er, we have a problem, sir."
Captain Avareal straightened his tunic. Upon recieving command of the recently-captured vessel he had resolved to tackle every crisis head on, with the can-do attitude that had got him far in the New Republic Fleet. "What is it?" he asked.

There was a pause. "Well, it's like this," Sergeant Bomin replied, "Several of the boys...would like to go to the toilet."

This took Captain Avareal by surprise. "Well, just go," he told the Sergeant blithely, "surely you don't need to ask permission for that."

"No, sir, it's just that there don't seem to be any toilets. Sir."
"What do you mean, no toilets? This is, for all intents and purposes, a Star Destroyer. There's toilets all over the place!"

"Human toilets, sir," Bomin stated politely.
Several pieces then clicked unpleasantly into place for Captain Avareal. "You're not human are you, Bomin?" he asked weakly.

"No sir," replied Bomin gruffly, "Me and all of the boys down here are Trabugs. Insectoid, sir. We find human toilets a bit difficult."

"I see." Captain Avareal seemed a little stumped. As he looked out across the bridge he could see the consoles of several communications officers light up. He turned to his second-in-command.

"Number Two," he asked, "roughly how many different races do we have on this ship?"
"Over 300, sir," said the jumior officer proudly, "Mon Mothma wanted this ship to be a beacon of hope and cross-species relations."

Captain Avareal looked again at the communications consoles, now all firmly lit up. Perhaps, he mused, it wasn't a good idea to serve all that soda pop at the launch party. All in all, he thought, discretion may be the better part of valour.

"Number Two!" he barked, "Time for a ship inspection!"
"Yes sir. Where shall we start?"
A worried look briefly crossed Avareal's face. "The escape pods, I think," he said quietly.

Correspondance I have not yet answered

Congratulations, and welcome to the Moustache Of The Month Club (TM).

Membership of the Moustache Of The Month Club is extremely excusive and limited to only 200 persons per year. If you are reading this you will have most likely been on our waiting list for some time. Now however, I am pleased to announce that your wait is over.

Membership of the Moustache Of The Month Club entitles it's members to twelve monthly periodicals. Chiefly these periodicals will contain the precise instructions on growing the month's favoured facial hair. These instructions have been carefully crafted over many years by our trained team of experts. In addition the periodical also includes feedback, a Club forum and currently an in-depth series of articles on moustaches in popular fiction. Of course, our Burt Reynolds spotting contest continues unabated.

Thank you for taking the time to cultivate an interest in moustaches and, hopefully, one day cultivate your own. From the beginner to the master moustachier, the Moustache Of The Month Club caters to all comers.

Happy Growing!

Mr Goodtime Slim,
President,
Moustache Of The Month Club Australasia PTY LTD

sniffIMPERTINENCE

LONDON: The world of satirical motoring websites was rocked this week after Sebastian Vettel's win in the wet at Monza marked the first Mclaren loss in over two years that could not be childishly blamed on a perceived Ferrari bias by the FIA.

"Normally whenever Mclaren lose there's a red car somewhere ahead of them, which makes it easy to claim that it's all a big conspiracy," said Sniff Petrol spokesperson Troy Queef, "however this time we're forced to say that Mclaren's loss is probably because someone else was faster than them."

Despite this obvious flaw the be-aviatored fictional motoring journalist was quick to point out that the website's editorial staff were frantically searching for any percieved Toro Rosso bias that they could possibly invent. "Think about it, Toro Rosso sounds a bit Italian, doesn't it?" Queef commented, "And 'Rosso' probably means 'red' or something. I don't think this one will take us too much time at all."

After Vettel's superb win the Toro Rosso team has been literally inundated with requests from Mclaren to let them steal the plans for last year's car, thus allowing their fans to wear an extra Toro Rosso hair shirt over the Ferrari one already firmly in place. At the post-race Mclaren press conference Ron Dennis told the media, "Anything we can do to avoid facing the fact that a British driver in a British car is just not very fast, we will do as a matter of priority."

Carcoat Damphands was said to be unavailable for comment.

Paid Advertisement

It is a sad fact that in Australia today more than two-thirds of all Elizabethan costumes will be stained with audience ejecta during the length of their stage life.

A recent study by the C Doobie Institute, "Why People Ditch Shit At Other People: A Treatise, 2008" has highlighted that over the course of it's performing life the average Shakespearian jerkin will come into contact with:

Fruit pulp
Paper and wood pulp
Feces
Lead shot
Pubes (unidentified)
Pubes (identified)
A mallet
Spit
Shoe leather
Vitreous humour

All of these items can substantially decrease the expected life of these garments. However, with regular spraying of Prof. G Slim's Patent Scotchguarding Tonic all of this can be avoided. A steal at only

$29.95 per can, it will protect your actor's clothing from the very worst that nature and disgruntled patrons can throw at them.

"Prof. G Slim's Patent Scotchguarding Tonic: It might smell like recanned Mr Sheen, but it isn't."

Random Doobings

The president of the Rotary Club looked sharply through his bifocals at the interruption.
"Kindly shut up!" he thundered down the meeting room table, shaking the portrait of the Queen hanging on the wall.
"No, I will not!" replied Captain Doobie, "I have something to say!"
"Oh really?" replied the president sarcastically, "Tell me, what exactly do you have to bring to the table, other than a face like a smacked arse and a cavalier attitude towards personal hygiene?"

Requiem For A Giant

Today is a sad day. Or rather yesterday was a sad day, because yesterday was the day that one of the true greats of Country Music passed away.

Jerry Reed, otherwise known as 'the Claw' for his distinctive fingerpickin' technique, died in his home after a short battle with emphysema. He was 71.

I first knew of Jerry Reed, as most people did, through his movies. Although he had already carved himselve a lucrative career as a country guitarist par-excellence, it was his association with Burt Reynolds during the filming of "WW and the Dixie Dancekings' that would lead to Jerry's best-known and most loved role: that of Cletus Snow in the seminal trucking saga "Smokey and the Bandit". Jerry also sang ever' damn song on the soundtrack, too.

Jerry's work was often eclectic and always electric. Songs like "Lord, Mr Ford" and "Amos Moses", with their driving guitar licks and non-stop vocals (performed by Jerry simultaneously) were little more than a wonder to behold.

Jerry stopped touring as he got older. He released what he felt would be his last album in 1996, pairing up with legends Bobby Bare, Waylon Jennings and Mel Tillis to produce 'Old Dogs', a fine album in any context.

However, he couldn't stop there. Although arthritis had limited his ability to play, in 2006 he released "Jerry Reed: Still (a)Live", from which all proceeds went to children's charities. He followed this up in 2007 with a new studio album, with all proceeds going to the Veterans of Foreign Wars Appeal (an American version of our own Legacy).

For me, Jerry Reed was simply one of the finest guitarists in the world. I remember several late-night, drunken conversations about who was the greatest, be it Clapton, Gary Moore, Martin Barre, Billy Gibbons, Hendrix and the like; but my money was on Reed every time. As I think Steve Earle once put it in his liner notes, "You think you're a guitar player, but then you stand next to Jerry Reed and find that son, you ain't nothing but a guitar holder."

Keep them wheels truckin', son, and don't let them county-mounties get y'all. Ten-four!

The Pitfalls of Telemarketing

"Hello, may I speak to Mr Deniro please? Hello, Mr Deniro, My name is John and I would like to talk to you about Teleco....yes, I am speaking to you, Mr Deniro...yes I am...well I don't know if there is anyone else there....yes, I am speaking to you....yes..."

The First Day Of The Bullpitt Prime-Ministership

9:05am Large refrigerator moved into the Foreign Payments (reciepts) Division of the Reserve Bank.
10:13am Holden Commodore renamed, now available in Premier, Kingswood and Belmont trim levels.
12:45pm Nuns banned.
1:18pm Small Nissan dealership in Goanna Heights compulsorily acquired for defence testing ground.

The Dragon's Eulogy

The boy started to talk, mainly about when he and Sir Michael first met. The dragon wasn’t terribly interested in this and idly picked his teeth until he became aware that the boy had stopped talking and was glaring at him.

“What?” the dragon asked, a bit self-consciously.
“It’s bad enough that you eat people,” the youth told him, scowling, “you don’t need to sit around picking bits of them out of your teeth during their memorial service.”

The dragon looked down at the talon he’d been using. It had a bit of helmet on it. “Oh, right,” he said, and wiped it on a rabbit who was passing, “Is that it then? Are you done?”

“I’m done, yes,” said the youth. There was a slightly pregnant pause.
“Well,” asked the boy, “don’t you have anything to say?”
The dragon felt slightly embarrassed. “Not really, no,” he told him.
“I thought you might like to say a few words.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything.”
The dragon looked at the boy. “I really don’t think I should have to,” he declared, “I’m sure it’s not really the done thing you know, eulogising someone whom you’re currently digesting. Not really cricket, and all that.”

The boy put his hands on his hips and glared at the dragon. “Look, Sir Michael is dead,” he stated.
“I know,” replied the dragon, somewhat testily, “I ate him.”
“Yes, so you can bloody well say a few kind words then, can’t you?”
The dragon sighed, a tricky operation when you consider that he breathed fire and all. “I suppose so,” he replied, then stopped to gather his thoughts. When he looked down again, the boy was standing with his head bowed, so there wasn't really any backing out now.

“Right. Well, I suppose I should say right up front that I never really knew Sir Michael as a man,” the dragon declared in the hope that this was a good start, “I only ever knew him…as an hors d’oevre. However, um…well look, I wasn’t going to say this but what he hell, spirit of the moment and all that, I mean to say that frankly, as an hors d’oevre, he was jolly good.

“Now, I’m not one who is overly given to eating humans, as a general rule. There’s the clothing for a start. Sticks in your teeth, you see, and it's a bugger to get out. And don’t get me started on the shoes! I mean, you eat them, you’ve got no idea what the stupid sods might have trodden in.”

The dragon paused to collect his thoughts. His stomach rumbled ominously. “In any case,” he continued, “I really don’t know what it was that made Sir Michael so delicious. Perhaps it was his courage in the face of adversity which, I must admit, didn’t do him a whole lot of good; or perhaps it was the fact that he tasted a bit like horseradish. Who can say? I know I can’t, and I flatter myself that I am something of an expert.”

He paused, right at the wrong moment, and into the silence came the sound of a violent gaseous emission.
“I say!” the dragon declared, going a bit red, “I do beg your pardon."
He thought again. "Although, perhaps I should really end this here. I’m sure we would all like to remember good old Sir Michael like that, er, going out on a high note, as it were.” He lapsed into silence.

“How was that?” he asked the boy after a few moments.
The boy looked up at him. “I’ll admit,” he said drolly, “I’ve heard better.”

Why Pirates Choose To Stop Being Pirates

1. Exorbitant cost of cutlasses.
2. Dismemberment in excess of what pirates traditionally consider excessive.
3. Finish gap year, become accountants.
4. Unable to think of doubloons without remembering that one time with Rosie in Port Royal.
5. The works of Gideon Defoe.
6. Lose hat.
7. Derision from piratical peers.
8. Join rock band.
9. Termites in pegleg.
10. Entropy.

Fantasy Novels

Recently I was invited to join a book club. I did so, but didn't realise that it was a fantasy bookclub. Under normal circumstances I loathe fantasy novels but I do read some. This has caused consternation and made me appear churlish so I thought it might be best if I set down once and for all my do's-and-don't's for aspiring fantasy writers:

What I like:
1. Barbarians: Call them Conan, or Brak, or just a load of vikings, I don't care. Just bring 'em on. In fact, anyone impossibly huge, even women like Lisamon Hulton or Mother out of the Scarecrow books.

2. Zeppelins: Anything involving Zeppelins will be fine. This also includes tales of stranded zeppelineers sans zeppelin.

3. Gemstones: Be it the Jewel of Gwahalir, the Kaiburr Crystal or the Eye of Set, any fantasy novel is instantly improved by large, easily-stolen gems.

What I hate:
-1. Trilogies: just cut it out, for heaven's sake. I want a book to read over lunch, I don't want to enter into a financial contract with the author for the next seven years or (in the case of Harry Turtledove) until one of us dies. Note to Mr Turtledove: I gave up on your books years ago. If you can't be bothered finishing them then neither can I.

-2. The standard plot. "A young boy/girl/dwarf named [celtic name] finds out from the old wizard/seer/witch [celtic name] that they have some gift which they must use to go on a quest to the land of [celtic name] to battle the evil forces of [celtic name] and bring peace and prosperity to the land of [celtic name]". Note: for tales of the Otori and other recent works please change [celtic name] to [oriental name].

-3. Modernisations of any sword-and-sorcery theme where magic takes the place of scientific progress.
-4. Vampires who conveniently don't get harmed by any of the accepted vampire lore.  If it's a vampire it can't go out in daylight and it hates the sign of the cross. If this gets in the way of your story, learn to write better. There are rules, dammit!

Clone Wars

Because i'm a geek I lined up outside Greater Union yesterday morning to see the first session of the new Star Wars film. I'm pleased to say that the new Star Wars movie, The Clone Wars, is A Good Thing.

That said, the animation will take a bit of getting used to. It's based on the animation from the 2D cartoon series, which was highly stylised. Seeing it in 3D rendering is a bit weird. Also, the addition of a new Padawan for Anakin was not really necessary. In the form of the Padawan (a sassy, feisty pre-teen alien chick) I sense the return of Jar-Jar Binks.

But they're only a few small points when the overall movie is considered. It remains canon, using the Sith assassin Asajj Ventress again: not really explaining how she excaped death at the end of the cartoon series but merely telling us that she did. Being all CGI the battle scenes (the entire movie is one long battle scene, more or less) are spectacular, and we get to see the Republic Commandos in action! We see inside Jabba's palace again, the Cantina Band is back, and i'll watch a computer generated Hayden Christensen over the real one any day.

I'd give it an 8 out of 10: 1 point off for the padawan and 1 point off because no-one fell into an abyss after any of the lightsaber duels. There are unwritten rules, dammit!

Elephants Ahoy!

The elephant sat perched upon the church steeply, braying loudly and swaying slightly in the light summer breeze. It was young Johnny Carter who noticed it first, taking time out from an important game of conkers to stare up at the magnificent sight. Soon the whole village of Lower Throckmorton was looking up in dismay at the unfortunate pachyderm.

First the vicar was informed. He immediately send for the town constable, who took one look and called for Alderman Ridleyton-Smythe. While below it a crowd assembled the elephant continued to stand upon the small roof, looking for all the world like an oversized weathercock, save that it did not turn with the breeze. There wasn't really enough room.

No-one knew what to do. While the first question that anyone invariably asked was 'How did it get there?", this was not nearly as important as the second question: "How do we get it down?"

The Vicar implored the Constable to do something. The Constable stiffly informed him that while its ledge was certainly precarious, the perched pachyderm did not appear to be breaking any laws.

This was a poser. Constable Blenkinsop was perfectly correct of course, and there seemed no further way out of it until the Vicar, in desperation, turned to the Town Charter and triumphantly told the Alderman that it was the duty of the Town of Lower Throckmorton to keep the church free from vermin. The news certainly presented Alderman Ridleyton-Smythe with a solution. If the beast was classified as vermin, he decided, then he was quite within his rights to return home, find his grandfather's elephant gun, and shoot the animal off the roof.

Upon hearing this Marjorie Dawkins, outspoken aminal rights activist and chairperson of the local RSPCA, could not have been more aghast. While she dutifully acknowledged that she knew of no other way to remove the elephant she did not agree that its slaughter presented a justifiable solution. Quickly, as the Alderman hurried home, Marjorie began to organise resistance. By the time the Alderman returned with his blunderbuss, solid ball-shot and a keg of black powder Margorie and her compatriots were already in place at the front of the parish church, with signs reading "Stop The Senseless Slaughter!" and "Elephant Rights Now!"

Despite them Alderman Ridleyton-Smythe clumsily loaded the gun. While he was not a sportsman in the clinical sense of the word he had always dreamed of 'bagging' an elephant, and this was a chance not to be missed. Ignoring the Animal Rights Activist's pleas he raised the gun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger in one swift movement.

The parish church of Lower Throckmorton was not a large affair. The steeple stood only 30 feet above the ground level, above the small bell tower. Even from that distance the Alderman's aim was not true due to a shoulder-tackle from Marjorie, and the shot went high, merely grazing the elephant's ear. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) the shot startled the magnificent beast and it lost its precarious footing. It toppled over in the fashion that you'd expect and plummeted to the ground, only to have its fall cushioned somewhat by the surprised forms of twenty or so of the village housewives, rallied by Marjorie for the animal's protection. In an ironic twist of fate the elephant survived the fall with little more than a scratch while the housewives were completely flattened. In the end it began to rain, and Marjorie was left in the unenviable position of deciding whether or not to press charges against the pachyderm while everyone else went home to tea and scones. The elephant was nowhere to be seen.

New TV Show

What with the Writer's Strike and all a few months ago, I thought i'd better plan for the future and come up with some new shows that I might like, lest the viewing public be swamped by horrid reality TV that makes the adventures on Walton Mountain look interesting.

'Allo 'allo: The Next Generation
After the destruction of WW2 Rene Atois moved his cafe to somewhere nice and safe: French Indo-China. By 1965 Rene is now the old man upstairs in bed as the Viet-Cong roll into town. Hilarious hi-jinks ensue as Rene's son Andre now has to hide two american airmen in the cafe and a radio beneath Rene's bed! The situation is further complicated by the arrival of Colonel Von Strohm and Gruber, who fled to the Foreign Legion after WW2 and are now in the Indo-Chinese resistance. If that wasn't enough, the local Viet Cong leader Wing-wang asks Andre to hide Mitzi (his stolen Panda from Hanoi Zoo) for the duration of the war while his effeminate aide Whoop Si, may have developed a crush on poor old Andre! Hilarity ensues.

What Comes Around...Goes Around.

Well I am absolutely tickled pink.

A matter of principle arose recently. Those who know me well will shudder somewhat at this, as it usually means that I ended up fighting for something long after the objective became redundant. However, this has a happy ending.

On Sunday, whilst shopping at a discount store I found (finally!) a copy of the 1981 Jerry Reed film 'What Comes Around'. I've been looking for this for a while. Not because it's a great movie (i've never seen it so I can't say) but because it stars Jerry Reed (Snowman out of Smokey & The Bandit) as a guitar player, it's probably got some decent live concert footage of the man.

However, when I tried to play the disc I discovered that the movie on there was actually 'StarHunter' with Roddy McDowell. I don't wish to disparage Mr McDowell in any way but it's not exactly a replacement. The disc only cost $3 and it would have been easy to throw it away, but I wanted to see the movie! So despite some very disparaging comments from almost everyone who heard about the project I found the company who made it, via the internet. Flashback Entertainment turned out to be a local company from NSW, and the staff were very sympathetic and helpful, and they've agreed to send me a new disc! So all's well that ends well.

And i notice on their website that Flashback Entertainment has just secured the rights to the entire Leyland Brothers DVD collection, so be sure to show them your support in the best possible way.

Future Novel Ideas

1. The Widgets In Spring.
Follows the lives and loves of a family of canines in a world where everyone is canines except for the army, who are all felines. Youngest Widget boy wants to become a member of the SAS. Fight for justice ensues.

2. The Remarkable Mr Clandestine.
ASIS agent is actually a shape-shifting dragon, as are all enemy agents. Battles ensue over ancient burial ground at Uluru.

3. The Howard Stone.
University Professor learns that the gemstones mentioned in Robert E Howard's "Hyborian Age" mythos are real. Battling enemy agents and the sinister Brotherhood Of The Wulf he finds them all.

4. The Miners Are Revolting!
Comedy set in and around the Eureka Stockade. Lots of people hunting for legendary gold strike. Merely a vehicle for puerile dick jokes ala the 'Carry On' series.

How To Build An Atomic Bomb

That's right: the hoopla about there being plans to build an atom bomb on the internet were quite real, I assure you. What's more, they can be found right here.

1. First, gather together a great many atoms. Uranium atoms are best, but if you have any spare plutonium or deuterium lying about the house this will do in a pinch. At this stage your atoms will be in a big fudgy mess a bit like play dough that glows in the dark.

2. Next you will need to build a very large complex in the Nevada Desert known as The Manhattan Project. This may take some time, so here's one I prepared earlier.

3. The next step, aparrently, is to find a dragon and tickle it. To be honest I suspect this bit might be made up. But i'm sure it's all very scientific.

4. For the final step you will need a Boeing B-29 Superfortress. These can be expensive to buy and if you're going to build one yourself get a big person to help you with the welding.

Congratulations! You now have your very own atom bomb with which to subjugate the nations of Earth into your new world order (except for everyone else who also has one).

DC's tip: It might be best if after you drop the bomb you could come up with a mournful saying quoted from ancient Vedic texts to show that in a split second you've changed your mind and now regret your life's work. Extra points will be awarded if this quote is later incorporated into a semi-religious ceremony involving Minbari on Babylon 5.

Frankly, A Rather Contrived Scenario.

Can you imagine what would happen if two brothers (a carpenter and a hypochondriac) lived together and somehow their mail got all mixed up, sending the carpenter to the doctor when he thought he was going to see his accountant. I think it might go something like this:

Carpenter: Hello.
Doctor: Hello, Mr Umbruglia. Do take a seat.
Carpenter: Thank you. What did you want to see me about?
Doctor: There's no use beating about the bush, Mr Umbruglia. It's about your stools.
Carpenter: What about them?
Doctor: I've examined a sample and I'm afraid that I can't find anything wrong with them.
Carpenter: I should think not!
Doctor: Well there's no need to be like that.
Carpenter: I'll have you know that my stools are the talk of the town!
Doctor: What? How very strange.
Carpenter: I've left three in the local pub so far and everyone who's seen them says they're spectacular.
Doctor: Do you usually er 'leave' your stools in the pub?
Carpenter: No, not usually, but recently there was a fracas and the publican asked me if I could come around and supply him with some more.

Doctor: A fracas?
Carpenter: Aparrently some patrons got out of line and started throwing their stools around!
Doctor: Thank heavens i'm not a drinker. Mr Umbruglia, how would you say you are at making stools?
Carpenter: I can make three or four a day if i'm lucky.
Doctor: Really? That many?
Carpenter: Of course, it's the shellacking that takes the time.
Doctor: I beg your pardon?
Carpenter: Well you have to shellac them, don't you, otherwise they won't last very long.
Doctor: No, I suppose not. Do you have any difficulty producing them?
Carpenter: No, I just pop them out easy.

I could go on all day, but I won't.