A Trivial Pursuit

Ladies and gentlemen, please find below a hitherto unknown and unreported cornucopia of facts recently discovered behind the radiator in the original offices of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. These were uncovered during a routine tea-drainage check of the premises at Dickenspot Lane and appear to predate the original compilation of the encyclopedia in the 19th century.

Necks: The longest known neck in the animal kingdom is that of the cameleopard. The author recommends the use of .50 calibre rounds.

Speed, Aquatae: The fastest recorded mammalian (air-breathing) speed is displayed by the Capybaras rodent of the Spanish Americas. The author recommends the use of a Benchley & ffyfe breech-loading smoothbore scatter-ball rifle.

Wingspan: The largest wingspan ever recorded belongs to the Greater Southern Albatross, known to frequent the frozen wastes to the south of Van Diemen's Land. The author recommends .357 rimfire rounds in use with a repeating rifle.

Sloth: The laziest form of life in the animal kingdom is the Irishman. The author recommends use of hollow-point ammunition from .32 to .577 (service revolver) calibre.

Something Something Something Bullshit

I like Family Guy. I like the Star Wars movies. Ergo, when 'Blue Harvest' was released I was ecstatic with joy. Likewise, when Dec 23rd rolled around I couldn't wait to head to JB Hi Fi on my lunch break and pick up the second installment, 'Something Something Something Darkside'.
I needn't have bothered. While I have only seen a few episodes from the latest season of FG, from what I see in this movie there's been some shark-jumping going on in a major way.
Family Guy has always pushed boundaries: that's why I love it. But until now they've always used the crudities they use in very witty ways. In BH, for example, when Darth Stewie starts making diaper jokes then magically pulls out a list and says 'I could go on, i've got hundreds of these', that's funny and a great moment. By contrast the moment in SSSD when Stewie starts doing 'Darth farts' is just crass, and far less funny. There are some good gags, don't get me wrong, but on the whole it not only feels forced, it feels MEAN, like the writers really wanted to stick it to everyone in a major way. It really made me feel like I was watching some dickhead rant about how much he hates Empire and pointing out all of the plot holes. There are constant cheap digs at gays, blacks, gays, hispanics and gays. Did I mention there are a LOT of gay 'jokes'? The whole thing goes just way too far. I can put up with watching jokes about race and sexuality when they're witty and good-natured, but this was simply too juvenile and unnecessarily harsh and as such, unfunny.
It's a pity. BH was fantastic. What the hell happened?????

2012: A Review

When I first heard that "2012" was coming out I was very excited and couldn't wait to see it. However, now that I have seen it i'm sorry to say that the naming convention is almost the only thing that connects this movie with the first two in the fanchise, "2001: A Space Odyssey" and "2010: The Year We Make Contact".
Initially it looked good, opening with some nice shots of the sun and Saturn, and I thought we were going to see a repeat of the end of "2010" when Saturn gets turned into a second sun. However, it appears that this has now been retconned, and the power of our original sun has just been increased, with some rather disastrous results for the Earth I must say!
Most disappointingly there is no HAL, no monoliths and no space travel. There's barely even any Heywood Floyd, but when he does show up at the end he's played by the original Nite Owl and is now the captain of a boat. Odd.
I simply didn't see the reason for this sequel as it just seems tacked-on to the series, particularly when you consider that there's a perfectly good Arthur C Clarke-written sequel in "2063: Odyssey Three".
Oliver Platt was good though, as always.

In Which I Behave In The Manner Of A Character From A Charles Dickens Novel

Today I officially entered the 19th century, as I made use of the services of a Cobbler for the first time. As I have now started work at a job that requires nice shiny shoes, my old boots looked a bit shabby. I polished them and found that the leather is still really good but the heels had worn down. Unwilling as I am to throw some otherwise perfectly good (and expensive!) boots in the bin, I hunted down a strange and wizened Cobbler by the name of Mr Minit, who NAILED some new heel pads on. How cool is that? I now have hob-nailed boots.

I am not a Dustman, however, because I fail to refer to them as 'daisy roots'.

That is all.

This Is Just Plain Cool

As an amateur gemmologist with delusions of grandeur I was poking about on the PIRSA (that's Primary Industries and Resources of South Australia to you) website looking for new fossicking grounds, and I found this:

http://outernode.pir.sa.gov.au/minerals/earthquakes/recent_earthquakes_in_sa

How cool is that? I know that SA is fairly unstable (heh heh, I live 5 houses down from the Darlington Fault Line) but I had no idea that SA experienced shocks and tremors with this sort of regularity.

A Message From Our Sponsor.

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Hyundai Announces Production In Alabama.

Pyongyang: Ginormous Automotive Chaebol Hyundai have opened a new production facility in Birmingham, Alabama, and have promised that the move will not inhibit the lack-of-quality for which the brand is reknowned.
"This is a very exciting move for us," announced Hyundai spokesman Yay Wee Suk at a news conference, "Until now, consumers unhappy with their purchase have always been able to be given the standard excuse 'What did you expect? It's made in Korea'. However, recent advances in education and standard of living in Korea have now made this excuse untenable. Now, when a consumer drives down the road and his or her door falls off and their seat explodes they will be told with a shrug and an embarrassed grin 'Well, it is made in Alabama...'. This should solve a great many problems."
Consumer groups have welcomed the move, with automotive lobby group the Ku Klux Klan embracing wholeheartedly the return of profitable industry with low expectations. "Toyota din't like the way we'all did things 'round hyar," Klansman Hyman T Spunkfelcher III reported, "They came in hyar wit all they highfalutin' idees bout sheeit actually workin'. But these here Hyundai fellers, I seen the kinda crapola they'all want, an I think we'all kin work together, us and they'all, even if'n they is a bunch o'commies.
In light of Hyundai's announcement local Australian manufacturers Holden and Ford re-eiterated their commitment to continue to build at Elizabeth and Geelong.

Random Doobings

Goodtime Slim pulled the binoculars from his eyes only with extreme reluctance. "Oh my g'quan," he breathed slowly.
Next to him Captain Doobie sat peering out of the front window, but without the benefit of any form of visual augmentation he was at a loss to know what would cause such a reaction.
"What?" he asked Goodtime Slim, "What is it? What do you see?"
To Captain Doobie's consternation his housemate merely shook his head. "I can't tell you," he replied, "You wouldn't believe it."
Captain Doobie, who was even more prone to irrational belief than an Electric Monk, was nonplussed. "I might," he challenged.
"No, really, you wouldn't."
Captain Doobie was hurt, as this was his reputation on the line. "I would!" he cried, "remember that time that I accidentally superglued myself to the TV and ended up believing that the guy on the Flight Centre ads was a real pilot for a whole week?"
Goodtime Slim nodded sagely. That had been a bad week all round. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you just wouldn't believe it. The Flight Centre guy was nothing compared to this. The Honey-Making Powers of Wasps was nothing compared to this. The time I got you to believe that Jeremy Clarkson was the new British Prime Minister was nothing compared to this. If I were to tell you what i've just seen you'd spend so muct brain-power trying to believe it that your brain would simply explode and i'd get muck on my lapel."
"Lapels," supplied Captain Doobie, indicating that Goodtime Slim did indeed have a plurality of lapels on his person at this time.
"Lapel," repeated his housemate, indicating that his use of the singular implied that one would be all that was necessary in this instance.
Captain Doobie's mood had plummeted from 'curious' to 'high-dudgeon'. "So you're not going to tell me?" he grumbled.
"No."
In reply Captain Doobie booted Goodtime Slim really quite hard in the arse. His housemate flew forwards over the Occasional Table, banged his head on a doily and went down for the count. In triumph Captain Doobie grabbed the discarded binoculars and looked through them, hurriedly fiddling with the little focussing thingie in the middle of the bendy bit.
"Oh my g'quan," he breathed, "I don't believe it."

You Might Be A Fascist Dictator if...

1. You wear peaked caps and aviator sunglasses with a regularity above that which is currently considered excessive.
2. Bono organises charity concerts for your population whilst never actually setting foot in your country.
3. You own at last one gold-plated firearm.
4. The official currency of your country is unknown.
5. Dirk Pitt has killed you at least once.
6. Your first name is also a military rank.
7. There exists a preponderance of statues of yourself in your country.
8. You have released a book which every single person in your country has bought.
9. You own some form of Citroen.
10. You look good in Khaki.

It's A Thanksgivin' Hootenanny!

Today is the American holiday of Thanksgiving, so if you're wondering why all of your favorite websites haven't been updated in the middle of the week, that'll be why.
But what, really, is thanksgiving? As a holiday, it can be hard for those portions of the world who aren't America* to comprehend a holiday that doesn't involve the birth/death of a deity or monarch/despot, or a horse race. This shouldn't be a stumbling block, as Thanksgiving is really quite easy to get your head around. All it requires is a little knowledge of American history, like what I have got.

Thanksgiving: In the Olden Days some people from Europe with funny hats discovered America. Though many people with funny hats had discovered it beforehand (Phoencians, Egyptians, Romans, Vikings, Basques and the Irish) they didn't count. The native Americans, or Injuns, did not appreciate the intrusion and tried to Sioux them, but their hats were only made of feathers so this didn't count. As the native Americans were displaced by the new native Americans they began to have reservations. Unfortunately the new native Americans had even bigger hats by then and they all got shot by John Wayne. Four-score and seven years ago everyone started driving Cadillacs and were pretty happy, so they decided to give thanks by walking on the moon. They asked George Washington to have a lie down and he chopped down a cherry tree with Abraham Lincoln. That is why every November they carve shit into pumpkins.

*Basically, the Communists and the British Empire.

On Pulp

I love pulp fiction. I recently read Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep", and my literary horizons have been astoundingly increased by the discovery of Robert E Howard's "Conan" stories (not to mention Solomon Kane and Sailor Steve Costigan). The only problem is of course that the Golden Age of Pulp is well behind us. I still pick up Asimovs' Magazine when I see it, and I've read my was through a few of the paperback westerns from the newsagents, but otherwise i've had to rely on comics to give me that good old short-story, punchy plot, hard-edged fiction that I crave.
However (and I guess you've been thinking since the start that there was always going to be a 'however' coming up somewhere) today I found in my local newsagents a small a5 chapbook (some a4 sheets stapled on the fold line) of about 60 pages or so. It was called "After The World: Killable Hours", and across the top of the cover was emblazoned the motto 'All-New Australian Pulp'.
I bought a copy. It turned out to be quite a well-written piece about the inevitable zombpocalypse* occurring in Melbourne, and a young lawyer who gets caught up in it all. I'm quite taken with it, and from the looks of things it's going to be the first in a series novellas all set in the same universe, but otherwise not linked. There's no word yet on when the next installments will be out, but if it follows the procedure set out by Black House's earlier release "The Dark Detective" comics it should appear monthly.
It only cost me $5, it's a good story and it's a change to help both Australian writers and a new Australian publishing company. I can't think of anything more worthwhile to get behind.

*yes, its a word.

Crikey O'Trousers

Bloody hell. It's been longer than simply ages since I updated this rotten thing. You'd think I were dead or something, judging from the smell. So, long story short, there is no story. I'm just here because i'm feeling guilty about not supplying my legions of fan with any new material, and thus am forced to do one of those tricky (and slightly nauseating) actual blog posts about life. My life, to be precise, because I can't think of anyone else's worth a damn at the moment.
So, to recap the events of the last few weeks:
Stories published: 3. Surprisingly good, if I say so myself. Harper-Collins may not be beating a path to my door, but other people are. Two stories being published in a South Australian crime anthology (despite one being set in rural Pomgolia and the other in Paris, Frograq); and one being published in an English humour anthology (despite being set in Straya). Go figure.
Competitions won: Sort-of, a bit. I ended up coming second in this year's Burnside Literary Awards for a story about Robin Hood. This marked my first attempt at writing something arty-farty in order to please judges and it worked a fair-to-middling treat. The fact that it was peer-judged by Malcolm Walker (of The Stone Crown fame and all-round jolly nice chap) was a pleasant bonus.
Novels published: 0. A dissapointment on this score. However, the relentlessly-commercial "Shannon Stone" vampire opus is currently being read by Curtis Brown, and hope springs eternal. I saw a pig flying the other day, so it all bodes well.

A Public Service Announcement

Due to poor planning Movember has been shifted into early 2010, where this time it will be known as Mobruary. Thank you.

Landaulet Country

Being the noble tale of Edward of King's Wood.

Chapter the First, in which Edward returns home;

Yoo-hoo, i'm home - How was your day - bloody shambles of course - oh dear, what has happened now - where's me paper - in the loungeroom - oh.

Chapter the Second, in which visitors arrive;

Heydy-hody everybody, here comes the party - it's Bob - shutup Bob - and Merle.

Chapter the Third; in which a man of Continental descent is addressed;

Buonjiorno wog - yeah yeah sure Ted - did you park your Valiant in the driveway - can I have a beer - money on the fridge wog.

Chapter the Forth; in which miscellaneous catchphrases are utilised;

Pickle me grandmother - ha ha Miss Smarty-emu-drawers - here we go again (too right we go again) - The Kingswood - You're not taking the Kingswood - grubby little Datsun dealer.

Ruddy Heck, That's Torn It

Well, its been a while between drinks, but today I got the news that another of my short stories is being published. In recent months i've been a contributor to the Short Humour site (www.short-humour.org.uk) and they've just emailed me to say that they're publishing a second compilation of articles from the website (following on from their rather successful 'People Of Few Words' compilation) and they want one of my pieces in it! Naturally I jumped at the chance. I don't know when it will be released yet, but i'm sure i'll find out more details soon.

Things I Think About When I Should Be Working #45

Oka, so i'm in line to shake hands with the Queen right, only when she gets to me I get the great idea to high-five her instead so I shout, "Hey little Queenie, make with the slappy!" and she's all into it and does, but it's only then that I suddenly realise i'm an amputee and my arm's gone at the elbow and the Queen's got nothing to slap so her momentum carries her over the edge of this big abyss that I totally forgot I was standing in front of and she just falls and falls and then explodes like Emperor Palpatine, all blue and shit.

Thoughts On The Earth Sciences

Because i've been a collector of gemstones and a keen amateur lapidary for several years now, i've found myself drawn in the last few months to the meetings of the Field Geology Club of SA. In order to keep up I recently purchased an excellent book, "The Amateur Geologist" by Peter Cattermole. As illuminating as this book is it is the rear of the dust cover which has caused this enblogulation. On the back of the book it lists other books in the series, such as 'Amateur Astronomy', 'Naked-Eye Astronomy' and perhaps most intriguing of all 'The Practical Amateur Astronomer'.

This last book by its very existence posits the existence of the Impractical Amateur Astronomer. But what are the hallmarks of the impractical astronomer? Are they:
1. Blind
2. Allergic to telescopes
3. More than two connecting buses away from the nearest observatory
4. On fire
5. Werewolves

I include this last observation because the thing with werewolves has always been that they 'turn' when the moon is full, i.e. when the most light is being reflected from the lunar surface. It seems to me that if they were looking through a telescope at the moons of Saturn (for the purposes of example) they'd be getting a great deal of moonlight beamed straight into their eye. And that can't be good, really. Everyone else would get eaten, and that's not terribly practical at all.

I Failed To Buy A Book Today

Lest the above title appear extraneous, let me explain. Not only did I set out to buy a book today and not do so, but the circumstances in which this occurred caused me acute discomfort and embarrassment.

This evening I went late-night shopping, as is my wont of a Thursday. In particular I was looking for a new pair of shoes, but that's by-the-by. When I reached the shopping centre I decided to pop over to the secondhand bookshop and pick up a cheap, fun paperback to read whilst eating my planned yiros.
It was not to be. In the bookshop the minutes lengthened to quarter-hours as I, spoilt for choice, agonised over my decision. After half an hour I had an epiphany of sorts, and I looked at my behaviour through the cold, sterile eye of reason. Here I was, a man of not inconsiderable means, agonising between Harry Harrison's "Montezuma's Revenge" and a box set of 4 of Richard Gordon's "Doctor" books. Both of these items were retailing for the princely sum of 50 cents.
I felt disgusted at my own inanity. I put both books down and left the shop, returning instead to the car where I retrieved my copy of Clive Cussler's "Black Wind", which I read over dinner instead. My chagrin pervaded the rest of the evening and may have influenced my subsequent decision to buy a pair of purple/white gingham Dunlop Volleys.

Magnum!!!!

That's Leslie Goddam Phillips To You.

For those of you who have no idea who this is in this picture here, it's none other than Leslie Phillips, star of Doctor In The House, Doctor At Sea, Not Now Darling and many other fine British comedies no-one under sixty has ever heard of.

Bunch of philistines.

Enough With The Goddam Literary Crapola Already

This afternoon whilst out shopping for cravats I espied the latest release in what appears to be a series now by Quirk Classics. Yes, "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" now has a stablemate: "Sense and Sensibility and Sea Creatures".
Which will tank. And i'm going to sit back and watch. For I well remember the heady days of this last autumn gone by when breath was held by all (yours truly included) in anticipation of the release of PPZ, and I remember even more the realisation ten minutes after buying it that i'd just wasted twenty-five smackers on a slightly-polished turd.

There were three phases associated with reading PPZ:
1. Real, actual laughter. This soon morphed into;
2. An appreciation of the cleverness of the concept, which in turn became;
3. "This is just one joke repeated over and over. I'm only ten pages in and I want to bin it. It's not funny any more and i'm so bored I could eat my own earwax."*

I don't often give up on books but I did on this. I've already read Pride and Prejudice, and I don't need to self-flaggelate by reading a dismal half-parody. I suppose a sequel was inevitable given PPZ's runaway (and quite unexpected) success but I can't help but think that the publishers have got their market research all wrong. A lot of people bought PPZ but not many finished it, and most people got pretty cheezed off with the whole concept. So my hopes aren't high for the success of SSSC. I might eventually buy it for the novelty of having it on my shelf, but only in a few months when it's out for $5.

*And we all know how horrid that tastes, right kids?

They were all there, gathered around the table. Madam Blavatsky, Pierre Medellin, Guru Shwami, all had come in response to the summons they had recieved.
Davenport Rockefeller, last scion of the Long Island Rockefellers, gazed cooly at each of them in turn while he chewed on his ever-present cigar. "Thank y'all for comin', " he drawled around the cheroot, "y'all know why your here, don'cha?"
Medellin was the first to talk. "You believe the house to be haunted," he replied in his exquisite Parisian accent.
"Darn tootin'!" Rockefeller replied, "and y'all is gonna help me. The feller that owned this house died right here, an' you folks are gonna help me talk to him, kapish?"
Medellin fingered his natty moustache. "That should be no problem," he replied.
Madame Blavatsky nodded, her fat jowls cascading with the rythym. "Mere child's play," she said in a lofty tone, "hardly worth our time."
"Bullpucky!" Rockefeller cried, "Listen lady, I didn't haul your fat Ruskie fanny halfway around the world to listen to you yap." He sized the three mystics up with an appraising eye. "I ain't got time for this shit," he declared, "damn well git on with it."
On with it they got. All three sat around the small occasional table, hands linked. They began to chant, softly at first and then louder, with greater intensity, until with a roar that sounded like thunder their heads snapped back with mouths open, an eerie blue light cascaring from their open mouths. From their mouths also poured steam, a heavy mist redolent of sulphur and decay. As Rockefeller watched the mist coalesced into the cruel, thin visage of a man cruelly pulled back from the very abyss of death itself.
"What do you want, Davenport?" the apparition sneered, "I had little enough time for you in life, what makes you think I have any more for you in death?"
"I moved into your old house in Boston."
The ghostly face seemed surprised. "Lake Street?"
"Fifth and Main."
"Oh, the Lloyd-Wright."
"Yeah, and I got a question."
The face nodded. "Ask what you will. You have summoned me, and I will answer."
Rockefeller smiled. "Good," he said, "What the hell is up with the hot tap in the upstairs latrine?"
"Turn it on and off quickly, then slowly turn it on again. It always was a bugger for banging."
"Thanks, buddy, i'll try that. Say, while you're here, what are those trees out back? I asked the gardener but he says he can't recall when they went in."
"Dutch elms," replied the face, "They'll need pruning in autumn and a good mulching in the early spring."
"Hot dog, thanks a bunch. You're a pal."
"Anytime," the face said, "was there anything else?"
Rockefeller thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Boy, i'll say, I plum forgot. When's bin day?"
"Thursday," the head intoned gravely, "Friday if there was a holiday Monday."

Day Without Cats

The creative team behind The Impertinence Of It All would like to state for the record that although this blog has never shown any cat-related content, they would like the organisers of the infamous 'Day Without Cats' to take that fucker of an idea and ram it where the sun don't shine.

Repeatedly.

We now return you to your scheduled programming.

List No. 459

People I have Heard Of Who Have Freaky Doubled-up Names.

1. Boutros-Boutros Ghali, Former Secretary-General of the United Nations.
2. Robby Robby Roenfeldt, former host, "C'mon Kids" (Formerly former host of "The Channel Niners").
3. Dee Dee Bridgewater, Jazz Musician.
4. Kris Kristofferson, legend*.

*The legend of Kris Kristofferson has yet to be verified. Despite a personal eyewitness sighting by the author in Melbourne, the Government of the United States of America still will neither confirm nor deny the existence of Kris Kristofferson to the public at large.

I Can Haz Nyalarhotep?

Horse Noises

Viking Rock

Today my iPod lists a new genre of music: Viking Rock. I was previously unaware of this genre, having only made it up this afternoon. However, once I had made it up I discovered that there were several examples of it which had been extant since the early 1970s.
Viking Rock is just as it sounds: rock music by, for, or mainly concerning Vikings: those Scandinavian sea-pillagers of yore. Actually when I think about it they weren't really sea pillagers as they only pillaged land. Perhaps I should say via-sea pillagers just to take the curse off it.
Anyway, rather than bore you with etymology, as fascinating as it is to me and the International Society of Pedants, here are some sterling examples of Viking Rock:

'Immigrant Song', Led Zeppelin
'Cold Wind To Valhalla', Jethro Tull
'Lady In Black', Uriah Heep
Everything ever written, performed or recorded by 'Saxon'.

Doctor What and the Pot Noodles, by Terrance’s Dick.

“Sir! Sir!” The young UNIT soldier came crashing through the door.
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart looked up from some random paperwork on his big important desk and ruffled his otherwise-impeccable moustache. “What is it man?”
“Brigadier, sir, you asked to be told instantly the moment that anything strange happened,” the young soldier answered.
“Yes, I remember,” mused Lethbridge-Stewart, “Well, what of it?”
“Sir,” continued the soldier, “there’s…there’s…there’s Pot Noodles™ in the vending machine.”
The Brigadier had seen many things in his time but at this his blood ran cold. “Great Scott!” he cried, “Has anyone told The Doctor?”
“No sir,” said the soldier, “I thought it best to come straight to you.”
“Good man,” agreed the Brigadier, “but I expect he’ll want to know immediately. Come on.” Pausing only to grab his special Brigadier’s hat he swept out of the office and into Unit HQ.

Looking for all the world like an old police box, the familiar shape of the TARDIS stood in the corner of UNIT’s main Hangar One, where it had stood more or less ever since the Doctor’s enforced sojourn on Earth had begun. Stepping forward the Brigadier rapped smartly on the door.
It was answered by a complete stranger who for all the world appeared to be Peter Cushing. “Can I help you?” he asked the Brigadier.
“Who the heck are you, and where is the Doctor?” demanded Lethbridge-Stewart.
“He’s on holiday,” replied the Peter Cushing lookalike in a pleasant tone, “I’m a locum. My name is Doctor What.”
“What?”
“Yes,” beamed the Doctor, “That’s right.”
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t risen through the ranks to command the finest UN-based anti-alien brigade in the BBC by being slow on the uptake. “Holiday, eh?”
“Yes. Skegness, I think. Or Weng Chiang’s house. One of the two. Now, did you want anything in particular? Lethbridge-Stewart, isn’t it?”
The Brigadier would have been pleased that his reputation preceeded him had he not caught this new Doctor peeking at a “Jane’s All The World’s Moustaches” behind the TARDIS door.
“That’s right,” he replied, “and I’m here on official business. Something strange has cropped up and we thought you should know about it. Something in this very base.”
“Hmm.” The Doctor frowned, “You’d better show me.” As he stepped out of the TARDIS the Brigadier could not help but notice that he was followed by what appeared to be a robotic duck.
“What is that?” he asked coldly.
“That is Quark,” replied the Doctor, “Is there a problem?”
The Brigadier frowned. “The other one usually has a dog.”
“I know. I wanted that but he was ahead of me in the line. I got old Quark here, and a jolly fine robotic duck he’s turned out to be I must say.”
The Brigadier mulled this over. “Quite,” he said, “Maybe I could borrow him someday?”
“I don’t know that I could spare all of him,” the Doctor frowned, “but I could always send you the bill.”
On this note it was decided that time was a-wasting and that the world in general would be better served if they went and had a look at the vending machine.

“Hmm,” said the Doctor in a tone that didn’t really inspire confidence, “yes, I see what you mean. Very mysterious.”
“It certainly is,” agreed the Brigadier, “Pot Noodles don’t belong in a vending machine! Good god, this isn’t Japan for heaven’s sake!”
There was a longish pause.
“Well?” asked the Brigadier.
“Well what?”
“What do you think it is?”
The Doctor looked a bit blank. “Oh,” he said, “Um, well, could be anything really.”
Behind his back the Brigadier felt his hands clench. “Would you care to take a guess anyway?” he said through gritted teeth.
The Doctor appeared to pick up on the way the wind was blowing. “Right,” he told the Brigadier, “Well, let’s see. It could be…I don’t know…the Zarbi?”
The Brigadiergot the distinct impression that this had just been pulled straight out of the Doctor’s arse.
“The Zarbi,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, beaming absently, “classic Zarbi behaviour, that.”
“The Zarbi,” repeated the Brigadier, “a peaceful insectoid race who live in the caves of their homeplanet Vortis, who are largely non-technological and have never developed space and/or time travel.”
“Yes.” The Doctor looked a bit uncomfortable, “they’re the ones.”
The Brigadier sighed. “Look, why don’t you pop back to the TARDIS and catch up on some reading,” he told the Doctor, “I think we’ll handle this one from here.”

Random Doobings

"So what i'm wondering," said Captain Doobie to his doctor, "is whether it would be possible to drink a VB with a VC and catch VD whilst driving a VE."
The doctor considered this. "It's certainly possible," he said, adjusting his glasses, "just not very likely."

My Footwear Takes An Unexpected Turn

I am aggrieved to report that despite their strong start the Rivers Chuck knockoffs have lasted but a scant month before developing the old enemy, a tear in the fabric where it meets the rubber strip at the ankle. I don't know why this plagues chuck knockoffs but not chucks themselves. I get the feeling that even without this their days would have been numbed. Their soles were wearing at a prodigious rate, faster than any other knockoff i've worn, and I think that the sole would have worn through in another couple of days regardless. This was a pity as they were certainly the most comfortable of the knockoffs i've worn, and the closest in feel to actual Chucks yet.
Having now exhausted all of the chuck knockoffs on the market I was going to declare the investigation closed and buy the pair of Harlem Globetrotter-branded Chucks that i've been hankering, but I decided to give the other type of Rivers chuck another try. Regular readers will remember that I picked a red pair of these up the day before I went to Melbourne for the Grand Prix and go so disgusted by them that I threw them out and bought other shoes after three days. I decided to give them another go, mainly due to the fact that the three days was a period of abnormal usage (I was constantly on my feet) and that I could have made them more comfortable by putting some insoloes in them. I didn't test them until they broke, so here I go again. Also, the first pair were made out of a horrible type of stiff polyester-style material which didn't breath. My new ones are made of good old cotton, but are in every other way identical to the ill-fated pair of Grands Prix gone by. theyre black, and the best way to describe them would be that theyre what chucks would look like of a 5-year old drew them in crayon. They're wider than normal but stubbier, almost squared off at the toes. They are also the only chuck knockoff to deviate from the normal production pattern. Normal chucks are, as you may know, made of a sole, a canvas upper, a rubber toe and a strip of rubber around the circumference of the sole which holds it all tobether. The new Rivers chucks comprise of canvas uppers enclosed within *one single piece of extruded rubber*!!!! This piece is the sole, toecap and sidestrip combined. It is designed to still look just like a normal chuck. What advantages or disadvantages will this novel method of contruction bring? Only time will tell. They feel quite sturdy, but it's early days yet.

Somewhat Self-Explanatory

Michael Jackson Dead In LA

LOS ANGELES- Pop singer and recluse Michael Jackson died today of heart failure after collapsing at his home and being rushed to LA’s St Elsewhere Hospital.
The County Coroner’s office reports that Mr Jackson’s death was 'unlikely' to have been accidental. Police are following up several leads, but it is believed that sunshine, moonlight and good times have been ruled out as suspects at this stage. Detective Superintendant Ron Pfarch told press that: “Until further investigations can be made and evidence of it’s innocence is uncovered, we will continue to blame it on the boogie.”
Jackson was famously reclusive in later years due to allegations of child abuse and a long-running paternity claim by alleged former lover Billy-Jean.
Jackson is survived by his sister Janet and her boyfriend Willis, a train wreck named LaToya and a small rat named Ben.

Rol Fol A-Dillo!

Warning! Graphic Images!

The Contest Continues

The Botswanan Chucks didn't really work out. To their credit they were the longest-lasting non-Converse Chuck i've owned to date, coming in at a staggering month and a half (45 days) of wear before they developed a hole in the fabric above the left heel instep. This seems to be the achilles heel of most Chuck knockoffs, with both the Levi Horse and K-mart pairs going in the same spot.
The most annoying aspect of the Botswanan Chucks (apart from the price, being more expensive than normal chucks) was their apalling ergonomics. Don't get me wrong, i'm for anything that gives Botswanan people an income and prevents them from sitting around all day chewing qat, but they really do need to have some sort of inkling as to what shoes are for. the seam over the knuckle of my left toe (mentioned in a previous post) never wore away, which meant that for the last two weeks wearing them was an agony and the right side of my big toe was permanently numb.
So the Botswanan Chucks from Etiko are out, consigned to the dustbin of history, and they have been replaced by a serious contender for the crown. This is, however, something of an upset. Readers will remember my scathing remarks regarding the Chucks from Rivers earlier this year. I wore them to Melbourne for the Grand Prix and threw them away after 3 days due to extremely poor ergonomics, crapy construction and poor cloth choice. Well, I ventured into Rivers the other day to discover that they have changed the design. I bought a new pair straight away and they have performed exemplary service ever since. They are hardier then the K-mart knockoffs and could very well end up breaking the actual Chuck record of two months. At the present sole wear is looking likely to be an issue (very soft rubber) but only time will tell. In the heady game of Chuck Taylor knockoffs anything can happen, and probably will.

In Which An Explanation Is Requested.

Recently I trotted down to the fdlicks to see the new Terminator movie, Terminator: Salvation. I've been a big fan of the series throughout it's lifespan, but I must admit that this time around, the new movie DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE!!!!!! I've read several reviews and no-one has mentioned this fact yet. Tsk tsk, the sorry state of journalism today etc.

Consider:
1. In the first Terminator movie Kyle Reese is about 30. This immediately dates the moment that he travelled back in time to at least 10, probably closer to 12 years later than when we see him in Terminator: Salvation. T:S is set in 2018, making the point from which Kyle and the T-800 were sent back from about 2030.

2. No-one except Kyle (before he died), Sarah Connor and John Connor knew that Kyle Reese was John's father. I will allow here the possibility that Skynet, having seen him go back in time after the T-800, *may* have put 2 and 2 together, but boy is that ever a leap.

3. There was no time travelling in T:S.

Putting 1, 2 and 3 together, why did Skynet in 2018 want to kill Kyle Reese? Why did they put his name on the list, and why did they go to such lengths to track him down? Until 2030 Skynet should have been completely unaware of his existance.

I'd like some answers, please. Someone is responsible for this. I can't sleep.

I've Had It Up To Here With You People

I was taken to task on Monday night. Yes, me. Yes, taken to task.

Why, I hear you ask, was this colossus of industry treated in such a derogatory fashion? Why, for marking my page by folding the corner over in a book. Aparrently this enrages some book owners even (and i'd like to make this point quite clear) when the book belongs to me in the first fucking place.

According to these OCD suffering, niggling pedants, books are not there to be used in any fashion but are to remain pristine and, I assume, unread. To do anything more than place them in a bookshelf sullies them, or somesuch tommyrot.

Well let me tell you something, bucko. I read. Constantly. And you know what? I fucking well read books however I please. If I want to *shock! horror!* bend the odd corner over, I will. If I want to keep it in my bag and read it in my lunch break and get a bit of mustard or whatever on it, I will. I paid for it and if I want to use it to wipe my arse on, I will. Thankfully I no longer read Kevin J Anderson so this last step is rarely necessary.

Furthermore, I like my books with character. I remember reading the first of the Lensman Series (Triplanetary) and every pages was dogeared and yellow from age. Fantastic! There was a book that had been well-read and loved. It hadn't spent it's life taking up space on some arsehole's holy sterile bookshelf, watching him force people to use coasters, take their shoes off before entering the house and sit on the plastic-covered couch.

There. That's you fucking telt.

Random Doobings

Gootime Slim awoke to the sounds of cursing. Of all of the sounds he could have awoken to, this was his second-to-least favorite. His least favorite, awakening to the sound of an axe-wielding serial killer, was probably forgiveable.
He rolled over in bed and looked at his alarm clock, which to his eyes positively reveled in it's 3:30ness.
In the morning? the recumbent slacker thought.
He stumbled out to the source of the cursing, the kitchen, to find a tousle-haired, pyjamaed Captain Doobie flicking through the Yellow Pages.
"What the ruddy ding-dong is going on here?" he demanded.
Captain Doobie looked up and fixed him with a glare. "Aha! You might know," he told him, "How do I get in touch with the Postmaster General?"
While it really shouldn't have (given Goodtime Slim's long association with Captain Doobie's wierdness) this statement took Goodtime Slim by surprise. "What?" he asked, "Why do you want to get in touch with the Postmaster General in the middle of the night?"
"I've got something to ask him."
"Couldn't you ask him in the morning?"
Captain Doobie shook his head, unwittingly dislodging a piece of cake from his hair. "I can't get to sleep until I find out. To tell the truth, I haven't slept in tree days."
Goodtime Slim was somewhat uncaring about all this. "What," he jibed, "could possibly be so compelling that you have to ring up the Postmaster General at 3:30am to ask him?"
Captain Doobie looked at him resignedly, the bags under his sleepless eyes looming large under the kitchen bulb. "When the postie opens the mailbox, does it have a little light in there like the fridge does?"
Goodtime Slim began to scoff, but then felt with growing dread the enormity of the situation he had now landed himself in. "You bastard," he breathed, shaking his head, "give us the phone book. Maybe he's under 'Essential Services'."

Random Doobings

After a breathless Goodtime Slim had rushed through the front door, Captain Doobie slammed it shut and locked it, even drawing across the small chain and snib. His hands felt the door shudder as the forms of several of the pursuing zombies piled into it on the other side. Both men looked at each other, worried.
"What are we going to do?" Captain Doobie cried, "they'll crack our skulls open and eat our brains!"
"You should be alright then," Goodtime Slim demurred.
"Oh, ha ha," replied Captain Doobie acidly, "Yes, it must be at least five minutes since you made that joke last. Now be serious. What are we going to do?"
"Don't worry," Goodtime Slim told him, "it's time we brought out the big guns."
Caoptain Doobie was aghast. "You don't mean..."
"Yes," replied Goodtime Slim, stepping aside to reveal a bright red 44-gallon drum with a picture of a sailing ship on it, "It's time to use the weapons-grade Old Spice we bought on the black market."

Swine!

I haven’t been at all well lately. I should probably say that right from the start. It started with a fever in the middle of last week, but there wasn’t much I could do about it at the time. Jobs like mine don’t stop just because you’ve got a sniffle or, in this case I suppose, an oink.
Turned out it was Swine Flu. Yes, the one you’ve all heard about. Turns out I was the first person to bring it into the country, then I spread it around. So, if anyone has died, they can blame me.
I didn’t mean to catch it. I haven’t even been to Mexico or wherever it started. I just like chilli. A friend of mine found a small stash of mega-hot chili in tins at the local discount store. I ate one, then the next morning I had the sniffles. I put my clown makeup on and went to work, handing out balloons to small children at the Zoo. It’s a living, but I should have called in sick.
The next morning I woke up thirsty, and hungry, and with a welter of large green spots where, to my best recollection, I’d never had spots before. This unnerved me somewhat, but the clown blouse covered the worst of it and I headed for the zoo again.
Big mistake. They say that children pick up these things more easily. I should have thought of that.
By lunchtime my big red clown nose had become somewhat superfluous given the pig’s snout that had grown underneath it. More disturbing was the hair on the palm of my hands and the small curly tail which now poked out above my coccyx.
At the time I took some small comfort in the fact that I was not the only one. By the afternoon the zoo was filled with small children who bore a close relationship to piglets.
I know that Swine Flu encouraged a metamorphosis in adults, but I don’t think anyone expected its effects on children. I’m no doctor, but I suppose it was a consequence of their faster metabolisms that the children didn’t just become hungry, they became ravenous.
In the absence of any other reliable food source, in children ranging from small infants to tweens, cannibalism soon became an option. Soon most unaffected adults (apparently it takes longer to incubate in adults) had been eaten, swallowed by the porcine aberrations that were once their progeny.
When the adults had been consumed they turned their bloodstained little faces to me, entreating the only authority figure they had for more food.
I did what I could, but I did what I shouldn’t have done.
“To parliament!” I cried, “there’s good eating on a politician!”
Through the zoo gates a tide of little pig-persons swarmed like locusts, eating everything in their path. Hobos, parking wardens, little old ladies out for a walk, all were relentlessly consumed by the pink tide.
I won’t continue with the details. Suffice it to say that I recovered, as did most of the children, before the week was out. The only detail I wish to add was that in no way did the Swine Flu engender any form of merciful amnesia in child or adult. We stand now, safe in our humanity once more, the taste of human flesh still uppermost in our children’s minds. Can these children, whose teeth have rent and swallowed the flesh of their fathers ever go back to the innocent pleasure of baked beans on toast for tea? Probably not.

New Zoo Hullabaloo Over Great Ape Caper

Adelaide Zoo: Zookeepers have today admitted that their strategy for catching the escaped Orangutan was fundamentally flawed.
Head Zookeeper Namby Treehugger said in a prepared statement today "The capture and rehousing of escaped animals is not a task that zoo staff are trained to do. When a proposal was put forward by a local firm claiming expertise in this area it was considered our best option. However, we now concede that the proposal should have been read in full before a contract was signed."
Security footage of the Zoo after dark has revealed a man dressed in a large banana suit and a man in a large pith helmet and wielding a large net, hiding behind a bush. Police have positively identified the two men as employees of DoobieSlim Enterprises.
While fottage of the capture attempt cannot be located, later footage showed the pair being chased over the Zoo's outer fence by an enraged Orangutan.
A spokesman for DoobieSlim Enterprises, the contracted firm, could not be located, although a woman claiming to be Mr Slim's mother has offered to leave a message for this reporter.

The Case Of The Feathered Filcher

“Stop that bird!”
The cry, strangely effeminate in its stridency, reached my ears just as I was about to tuck in to my usual corned-beef and mustard sandwich.
I looked up from my lunch only to see a large, camp individual running my way. As he ran waves of motion rippled across the broad expanse of his belly, which was clad in a light, tight shirt of silk. He appeared to be wearing jodhpurs, and a beret to boot. This ghastly apparition ran across Victoria Square, interrupting a bevy of lunch-eaters who, like myself, had chosen to partake of luncheon outside, a fine day as it was.
Sandwich forgotten, I simply stared. He ran up to where I sat and halted, about ten metres or so away. “Psst!” he stage whispered to me, “grab that bird!”
I stared at him, incredulous. “What bird?” I asked.
He winced at the normal volume of my voice. ‘SSSSH!” he almost screeched, “Not so loud, or you’ll frighten it off!”
All through his speech he seemed to have been pointing to the vacant part of the seat next to me, and I turned to see quite an unexpected sight. Next to me, quite unconcerned about the hullabaloo it was causing, sat a pigeon, cooing softly and wearing around its neck a necklace that even to my untrained eye seemed worth a bit, encrusted with precious stones as it was. I turned to the fat man. “Is this yours?” I asked.
“Yes!”
“Why is it wearing a necklace?”
“I was doing a photoshoot for the new Tiffany catalogue,” the fat man wailed, “we thought we’d put the bracelet around a birds neck, but the bloody thing flew away!”
“Right,” I said, “Worth a bit of money, is it?”
“Yes!” hissed the fat man, “now grab it!”
Gently, I put down my sandwich. The bird began to peck at it in an idle fashion. I slowly stood up, and took off my jacket. While the bird seemed distracted by the sandwich I held my jacket out in front of me like a matador’s cape. Sensing what I was about to do, the fat man drew a nervous breath. Behind him, a small crowd had gathered.
Swooping, I lunged at the bird, which in an instant went from eating a desultory lunch to being airborne. I landed heavily on the seat, feeling beneath me my sandwich, now thoroughly inserted into my jacket lining. The bird took off towards King William Street, chased by the fat man and the small crowd, who were madly hulloing up to it and trying to run whilst keeping an eye on its progress. They disappeared towards the end of the square as several car horns started blaring. I lay on the bench, my role in the affair forgotten.
I straightened back up and began to scrape the sandwich from my jacket, dislodging as I did so several hundred carats of sapphire, ruby and diamond bracelet. Idly I picked it up, then glanced down towards King William Street. The fat man and his entourage were no longer insight. I sighed, pocketed the bracelet, gingerly put my jacket back on and went to Macdonalds for lunch instead.

He...has gone.

Regular readers of this emblogulatory entertainment will know that occasionally I will take the time to deviate from the usual hearty chuckles I give out to address a more serious topic. Today I was saddened to learn that Dom Deluise, the original jolly fat man, has passed away.
While I enjoyed Dom in many movies, such as Smokey and the Bandit Part 2, both Cannonball Run 1 and 2 and the immortal (and much searched for on DVD) Hot Stuff, I will forever remember him for his wonderful cameo in Blazing Saddles. Watch me faggots...

Stick out your chest,
poke out your tush,
hands on your hips,
give 'em a push,
Don't be surprised you're doing the French Mistake!

I think that if all you're ever remembered for is making people laugh, you've done something wonderful.

Note To Self:

Never buy a pair of shoes made in a country where the general population do not know what footwear is.

In my quest to find the perfect pair of Chuck Taylor knockoffs, I recently expanded my search out of Asia and bought a pair of Etiko hightops from the Oxfam Shop. This was the first time I have ever bought shoes made in Botswana. I think there is a reason for this. The shoes are undoubtedly well made, and show every indication of doing very well on the "Days Worn Before They Break' chart (below). However, the Botswanan cobbler responsible for shoe construction has completely failed to take into account the knuckle of my big toe. I know this because right where my knuckle is, he (or she, let's not deny it) has put a whacking great seam, a fold of fabric which stands proud of the lining and has since Saturday been digging into my foot like a bastard. Still, it's lessening, and I wouldn't dream of letting them go now when they look like breaking all records for Chuck knockoffs.

The Chuck Taylor Knockoff Standings (days worn before developing tears and rips)
Actual Chucks (for comparison): 3 months (90 days)
Levi 'Horse' Red Tab Denim: 20 days
Hot Chilli (K-Mart): 11 days
Rivers Hi-tops: 3 days (and good riddance!)

An Excerpt

From my upcoming novel: "Country Mouse Vs City Mouse".

"Hello," said the City Mouse, "My name's City Mouse, but you can call me 'Cit' if you like."
The Country Mouse thought about this. "My name is Country Mouse," he replied, "And i'd rather you didn't shorten my name."

Doobie And The Bandit

"Look, dude, I admit," said Captain Doobie, "In the past, I may have done you wrong. But I promise, I will never do you wrong again."
Goodtime Slim pulled the pillow over his ears. "There ain't gonna be no more Captain Doobie and no Goodtime Slim," he told his housemate, "You understand me that? I gotta go down to the shop and pick up a bag of fertiliser."
Captain Doobie grimaced. "Shitty job."
Sensing the he wasn't going to get any further sleep that morning Goodtime Slim crawled out of bed. "Well I got a news flash for you," he told Captain Doobie, "you take those Cadbury Creme Eggs east of Mount Gambier, and that's bootleggin'. And that's against the law."
Captain Doobie treated his housemate to a wide grin. "Well who gives a turkey" he asked expansively, "when Captain Doobie and Goodtime Slim are doing the driving?"
Goodtime Slim fixed him with a baleful stare. "Why?"
"For the money, and for the fun. Mainly for the money."
"How much money did you say again?"
"Seventy-five thousand Spanish doubloons."
This made Goodtime Slim's mind up. "Wynette!" he yelled.
Captain Doobie turned to look in the direction he had yelled. "Who's Wynette?"
Godtime Slim stared at him, puzzled. "You know," he scratched his head, "I have no idea."

The Hunt For Atlantis - A Review

As I am currently writing my own archaeo-adventure novel about Atlantis, I thought i'd better read 'The Hunt For Atlantis' by Andy McDermott.
I wish I hadn't. Note to Mr McDermott: have a point. If you're going to send an archaeologist, her bodyguard and a wealthy philanthropist around the world hunting for Atlantis whilst being pursued by a sinister ancient brotherhood, try giving everyone some form of motivation prior to the showdown at the end of 600 pages. It makes it so much more exiting for the reader than a bunch of nice people trying to get somewhere before the not-very-nice people do for NO APARRENT REASON. A billionaire throws money and resources at the project, for what? Kicks?
Adding plenty of gunplay does not stop this from being a very boring book. Especially since when they reached Atlantis they blew the place up before anyone got to see it. Oops! Spoiler warning. Well, it would be if I was encouraging anyone to actually read this. Bloody hell.

Tongue Like A Sock Puppet, A.

I'd just like to say that if anyone discovers that they have wisdom teeth, and the dentist plans to remove them even though they're not causing you any pain, these people should punch their dentist in the cock.*

I failed to take this extraordinarily simple precaution last week, and now i'm at home spitting blood everywhere and living on Cup-a-soup. Ever since my day surgery in the Wakefield Hospital on Thursday, i've been a quivering mass of dextropropoxyphene, paracetemol and easily-swallowable MSG.

This enforced convalescence has it's upsides, of course. I'm not at work, and I'm reading voraciously. I've already finished off the tail-end of Perdido St Station (an excellent work which I avoided for far too long). I've also made short work of "A Practical Guide To Racism" and "Conan The Bootylicious"**, and i'm about halfway through Clive Cussler's "Atlantis Found".

I just wish I could eat chocolate, that's all.

In other news, the first draft of my new vampire novel has been finished. It's on hiatus while I'm up on blocks, then the redraft will begin in earnest.

*or fanny, as the case may be.
** or similar. They all sound the same anyway, and Conan belts heaps of people.

Sequels That Never Caught On.

War and More War, by Tolstoy
Duke of the Bangle, by JRR Tolkien
Bridge Going The Other Way Over The River Kwai, by Pierre Bouille.
Knitting Circle, by Chuck Palahunik

Random Doobings

And so it came to pass in the house of Doobie/Slim that Goodtime Slim didst awaken one morning, lo, and he didst remove himself hence to the loungeroom where he did espy Captain Doobie peering intently through an empty toilet roll.
"What the fuck are you doing now?" He didst spake.
And verily didst Captain Doobie reply, "This is my dickhead telescope."
And Goodtime Slim was filled not with mirth but with great sadness, and he did say unto Captain Doobie, "For fuck's sake."
Whereupon Captain Doobie didst commence to peer upon the countenance of Goodtime Slim, announcing "Yes! It's working perfectly!"
And it came to pass that Goodtime Slim waxed wroth and took the Dickhead Telescope from Captain Doobie, peering through it himself unto the other's visage, declaring, "Yes, it fucking is, isn't it?"
Here endeth the lesson. Amen.

The Credible Hulk

"Don't make me pedantic.
You wouldn't like me when i'm pedantic."

Dr David Banner, librarian, grammarist, searching for a way to tap into the hidden literacy that all humans have. One night, working alone in his lab he is subjected to an accidental overdose of grammar radiation. Now, whenever Dr Banner hears incorrect usage of the English language a startling transformation occurs. The creature is driven by pedantry, and pursued by an investigative reporter. The creature is wanted for a dangling participle it did not commit. David Banner is believed to be dead, and must let the world believe that he is dead until he can learn to quell the raging beast that resides within him.

He is: The Credible Hulk.

A Geological Report On The Music of Boney M.

When one thinks of the 1970's harmony supergroup Boney M, one generally thinks of peppy, upbeat disco music. However, lyrically the band who sang such hits as 'Daddy Cool', 'Rasputin' and 'Painter Man' also displayed a remarkble propensity for geology. For example:

"Sunny", arguably the band's biggest hit, is quite specific in this regard. The lyric couplet 'My life was tossed like the wind-blown sand/and the rock was formed when you held my hand' can refer to nothing less than the formation of basalt through surface vulcanisation. I say basalt only with the caveat that the song does not specifically mention pressure of any kind being applied during the process of vitrification, which would result in the formation of crystalline or crypto-crystalline substances being formed (dependant upon the pressures involved and the time period allowed for the process overall). It is also possible where vulcanisation is concerned that the rock may have been pumice, this being the aereated form of basalt.

"Brown Girl In The Ring" does not specifically mention any types of rock but rather a geologic process. The line "cuttin' a way to wash my clothes" may refer to either the forces of glaciation or erosion on soils and substrates, in this case specifically to form a river valley or bed suitable for use as a primitive laundry facilty.

"Rasputin", nominally about the Mad Monk of Czarist Russia, contains the lyric "he wanted Russian land but never mind the Czar/but the Kozakchak he was really wunderbar" clearly refers to the desire for the acquisition in the early 1900s of large tracts of Russian real estate. This would have been an astute move for Rasputin geologically, as the initial years of the 20th century saw some of the richest mining activity in Russia's history. Alexandrite (the Russian national stone named after the Czar himself) was being mined in the Ural Mountains, and several kimberlite formations were discovered in Sibera (home to the Kozakchak) which would go on to yield 1/3 of the world's total diamond production.

The Force Delusion

Professor Richard Dawkins, holder of the Charles Simyoni Chair for the Understanding Of Science, has seen fit to assail all and sundry with his non-belief in his new book, 'The Force Delusion'.

In his book Dawkins seems to miss the essential point of belief in The Force; that is, that the existance of The Force is essentially unproveable, and has been proven many, many times over.

While it is true that none of the known facts about The Force can ever really be known, those that are known are irrefutable. If we look at the source material, "Star Wars Episode 4: From The Adventures of Luke Skywalker" we find a great many of these things inside. Indeed, in reading TFD, one finds oneself wondering if Dawkins has even ever read SWE4:FTAoLS!

In maintaining his skepticism in the face of unknowable imponderables, Dawkins casts himself in the mould of a fundamentalist of the worst kind, demanding 'facts' when the balm of knowledge is all around him, surrounding him and binding him, if he would only open his mind.

Dawkins would do well to remember that not only is his rational skepticism completely irrational, but that in identifying himself as an unbeliever he allies himself with those oppresive regimes of the galaxy whose members also advocated aforceism: Darths Malak, Revan, Palpatine and Caedus all spring to mind, not to mention Exar Kun and Karness Muur.

Most unsettling of all is Dawkin's assertion that teaching a belief in the Force in young children is child abuse. Mr Dawkins, the Jedi Order does not kidnap children, we merely forcibly seperate them from their parents at birth and raise them in a communal environment to have no knowledge of their former life. To call this behaviour abuse is surely overreacting to a huge degree.

In short, Professor Dawkins' new book has the smack of fundamentalism about it. I'm not accusing him of destoying planets with a space-based superlaser, but if the shoe fits Mr Dawkins, then wear it.

The End...Well, Almost

...and as Luke stood by his father's funeral pyre, the noise of the Ewok celebrations close by, Han and Leia joined him and led him back to the party, and they all lived happily ever after.

The End...

...except for the Ssi-ruuk invasion, Prince Isolder, the Black Fleet Crisis, Grand Admiral Thrawn, Kyp Durron and the Sun Crusher, Joruus C'Baoth, Admiral Daala, the death of Anakin Solo, the Darksaber Incident, Mara Jade, the Yuuzhan Vong invasion, Jacen Solo becoming Darth Caedus, the Second Galactic Civil War, and the next exciting chapter set 40 years ABY concerning YET ANOTHER fucking 'crisis that shakes the galaxy to it's core', ad infinitum.

There, fixed that for George.

Fun With Words!

Car Names That Are Palindromes.

1.

Car Names That Would Be Palindromes If It Wasn't For One Miserable Bloody Letter.

1. Toyota
2. Viva
3. Tata
4. Honorable Ancestor Most Glorious Beauty Leopard (in Chinese).

New Novel Ideas

White Line Nightmares: After the apocalypse, entire population of the world are zombies, except the vampires. The vampires are starving due to lack of good eating in zombies, so fight each other over the last few remaining blood-cows (humans). Focus on hero-vampire driving through the outback in an 18-wheeler petrol tanker full of blood, ala Mad Max 2. Unsure whether autogyros will be involved at this point.

Mr Flopsy Has An Adventure: The ancient greek tale of Ulysses, retold using a group of suburban cats who get accidentally taken across town in a delivery van. Note: cats do not wear waistcoats and/or hats.

Dashed Odd People In The Earlies: In 1850's British India, Colonel and regiment anschluss a northern maharaja only to find thuggees and the cult of Kali operating on their patch. They begin to eradicate them, only to discover that the whole thing is a cover for the return of Yog Sothoth.

Where Did You Get That Hat?

Here on The Impertinence Of It All, I like to help out with the very latest in fashion advice, so i've decided to add a regular column wherein people may ask my advice about hats.

Dear The Impertinence Of It All,

I have recently invested in a rather smashing trilby and wish to know the correct angle to wear it at? I do not wish to appear a poltroon.

Yours,

P G Wodehouse (deceased).

Well, Plum, it just so happens that the very latest issue of 'Briar Pipe' magazine has the answer for you in the following chart*:

10 degrees; dashing
15 degrees; raffish
22 degrees; jaunty
27 degrees; rakish

Anything over 27 degrees is never to be seen. Chico Marx regularly wore his hats between 50 and 70 degrees. I think this speaks for itself.

*all angles are measured between the brim and the horizontal plane.

Local Men Get Swedish Message

ADELAIDE AIRPORT: Local identity Captain Doobie and cohort Goodtime Slim have been arrested following an incident at Ikea, at the Adelaide Airport. The pair were first charged with Behaviour Likely To Cause A Breach Of The Peace, to which was later added the charge of Resisting Arrest.

Police spokesman Superintendant Farch told assembled media that Police had first received a call from frustrated Ikea personnel. When officers attended the scene they apprehended Mr Doobie in what appeared to be a lion costume, and Mr Slim in what appeared to be a witches’ outfit, replete with broom.

The pair were said to be known to the officers attending.

According to bystander’s accounts the pair had entered the furniture store some hours earlier but had then disappeared. They were not seen again until an elderly customer, Miss Eileen Pooffe, inspected a large wardrobe whereupon the two men leapt out and attempted to force upon her an unknown substance, later discovered to be Turkish delight. The two men were then detained by store security until police arrived, whereupon they attempted to evade capture by leaping from wardrobe to wardrobe, a tactic which failed when 'Captain' Doobie's tail got spectacularly caught in some loose wainscoting.

A spokesperson for the pair, Ms O’Trousers, corroborated this version of events and stated that “They’re fluppin’ eejits, the pair of ‘em. I hope they get locked up!”

A bail hearing has been set for this afternoon.

Copper Kettles?

As my mother is awfully fond of saying, there is little in this world which cannot be solved with a nice cup of tea. The truth of this statement has become readily obvious to me as I have slowly but surely come under the spell of the dreaded weed. I mainly drink it at work, it must be said, and recently I noticed something rather strange, almost incongruous if you will, regarding the work kettle.
The work kettle is one of those industrial-size wall-mounted urn affairs, nothing more than a white box on the wall with a spigot attached to the lower part. Its always hot and raring to go, and many a jolly decent cup of char has been brewed thereon. It was whilst brewing a thoughtful mug of formosan recently that I noticed something that had always been on the kettle, but that I had never noticed. It was one of those stickers instructing people of the number for police assistance.
I mean, really. How often do I look to the kettle during an emergency situations? For succour and solace certainly, but not whilst being chased by homocidal maniacs with chainsaws. The idea is frankly preposterous. Its a given in my life that any situation requiring tea will not require the intervention of the constabulary. I keep those facets of my life seperate, and intend to continue.

The Impertinence Of It All Proudly Presents:

Her Majesty The Queen in,

More Tea, Vicar?

Prrrpt!
“Ey say,” pronounced The Queen from her end of the dinner table, “ey’m sure there was no need for thet!”
“Sorry m’dear,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh, fanning the air about him with his special Duke’s hat, “I’m afraid that dinner tonight was rather rich.”
The Queen had to agree. Although born and bred as royalty even she had to admit that tonight’s turkey stuffed with goose stuffed with swan stuffed with pheasant stuffed with chicken stuffed with bantam stuffed with spatchcock stuffed with quail stuffed with finch ( a turgooswaphechbaspatquanch) had been particularly filling. As she delicately dabbed at her cakehole with the royal napkin, she gave a little belch.
“Aha!” cried Prince Philip and the Duke of Edinburgh at the same time, being as they were the same person and all, “that wasn’t me this time!”
Parp.
“And neither, m’dear, was that.”
“Ey say, ey em most terribly embarrassed,” said The Queen, giving the royal wave, “still, et least this doesn’t look et all suspicious.”
“While you’re at it, wave this one around,” retorted the Duke, curling out a blinder that made the corgis leave the room.
“Oh ey say, you are most terribly awful! One must remember not to layt ey metch!”
“Yes,” said the Prince, leaning back and contentedly enjoying his own brand, “I’d give it about ten minutes if I were you.”
It was at this inopportune moment that the doorbell to Buckingham Palace rang.
“What?” cried The Queen in alarm, “whomsoever could thet be, end et this taym of neyt?”
Quickly The Queen leapt up and ran to the throne room, returning with a can of Glen 20 which she liberally sprayed about the place, finishing just as Jock, the royal retainer, strode into the room, kilt a-flapping. “Ma’am, you have a visitor,” he intoned, “The Archbishop of Canterbury”
“Oh no!” cried The Queen, “How unlucky ken ey get? Just when mey husband end ey get ey dose of the parping great trumpets, the vicar comes to tea!”
One of the few advantages inherent in being The Queen was that rather than hobnobbing with the ordinary clergy, your local vicar was the Archbishop of Canturbury. This came in particularly handy in The Queen’s case as she’d been working on the Archbishop for months, trying to arrange to have Fergie excommunicated. The Archbishop had been pretty firmly in the negative camp at first, but a few evenings of nude Twister at the Palace with Zara Phillips had soon sorted that out and The Queen suspected that tonight was the night and he was ready to sign on the dotted line, as it were.
“Show him in,” The Queen told Jock, then whirled around and shot a warning glance at Prince Phillip, “End ey would strongly edvayse you to put a blummen cork in it.”
“Why?”
“He’s en Erchbishop,” The Queen replied gravely, “he has been raised only on the faynest of things. Were he to ever smell one’s botty-coughs the shock could very well kill him, and thet would be you-know-who’s excommunication up the Swannee, wouldn’t it?”
“But m’dear,” reasoned Prince Phillip, “I’ve been chuffing them out constantly for the last five minutes! I can’t hold my nipsy for that long! My ruddy council gritter will explode!”
“You’ll hold it,” replied The Queen cooly, “until I tell you to stop. Ey’m related to Henery the Eighth, ey em. Besayds, ey’m in the same situation as you.”
At that moment Jock returned, with the Archbishop of Canterbury in tow. “Delightful to see you, The Queen,” the Archbishop began. The Queen hustled him to a seat and began to shovel Albert Cake into him. The Archbishop liked Albert Cake a lot, even thought it took him days to comb all of the crumbs out of his beard.
The evening went well. The conversation began with the latest Formula One gossip, then headed around to the ever-popular subject of Zeppelin design, before The Queen was able to get it around to the red-headed strumpet.
Down below, however, things were not going quite so well. The turgooswaphechbaspatquanch was not sitting well, and the royal ringpiece was taking quite a hammering. The Queen looked across the table to where Prince Phillip sat with his legs and eyes crossed and his face all red.
“And so you see,” mumbled the Archbishop around his third slice of Albert, “I’ve given it a lot of thought and I’ve decided to…”
He was cut off in mid sentence by the loudest cutting of cheese that he had ever heard. Long, deep and sonorous, it sounded like nothing so much as a funeral dirge played solely upon the tuba. On and on it went, reverberating around and around the royal dining room like a sparrow that had gotten in through the window which the Queen was madly chasing with a broom. All up, it lasted for about 35 seconds, with aftershocks. These followed an acute silence.
“More tea, vicar?” asked the Queen to no avail.
The Archbishop had fainted.
“Quickly,” cried the Queen, “Get the embulence!”
“Don’t be silly,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh, “we haven’t got an ambulance.”
Under the sensible guidance of Jock an ambulance was called. As the Archbishop was loaded into the back like so many sacks of spuds, he motioned to Prince Phillip. “Now I know,” he whispered in a scratchy voice from underneath the oxygen mask.
“Know what, old chap?”
“Why you call her ‘cabbage’…”

A Tip-off...

Jimmy Carter's bicycle has been stolen from a sports centre in Atlanta, Georgia. However, as horrific as this may be, this is not the first time something similar has happened to President Carter.
During the last days of the Carter Presidency, if I recall correctly, the Presidential Limo made an emergency stop in the small Georgia hamlet of Hazzard, so that the driver could have a jimmy riddle. Whilst the limo was stopped at the Boar's Nest, an inhabitant of Hazzard, one 'Cooter' was seen making off with the car, which then took 45mins (plus ads) to retrieve.
'Cooter' then went on to become a United States Senator, but has since retired. If I were the FBI or the Department of Homeland Security or whoever is searching for the Carter Bicycle, i'd be checking the barn out on the old Duke farm, just quietly.

Just A Thought

Why don't they name more cars after rocks? The only one that I can think of is the Triumph Dolomite. I mean, I know thaat 'Monaro' is supposed to mean 'a pair of small hills' (nudge nudge wink wink) and I seem to remember the HSV Avalanche, but I don't think they count.
Likewise, the Suzuki Ignis and the Lancia Stratos: close, but no banana. Why don't we get some cars named:

Scree
Malachite
Chert
Boart
Hornblende

The History of Stuff, an ongoing serial

Tea.

The earliest traces of tea have been found in an ancient mineshaft in Mbekegwanaland, Nairobi, dated to 7000bc. It was here that scholars believe that the first raw tea ores were mined. These ores were the first tea consumed. It is believed that the first teas were made by dumping the ores in a river and then drinking from downstream, as the earliest known teapot has been dated only to Ancient Sumeria.
As the process of tea-drinking refined, so too did civilisation. Eventually the peoples of Babylon found that adding bauxite to the tea ore at the smelting stage resulted in an entirely different beverage that we know today as coffee.
Tea spread throughout the world, becoming an important commodity in many ancient civilisations. Rome traded tea with India to such an extent that tariffs had to be placed on kettles.
The next real step forward in the world of tea came in 1764, when Earl Grey married Sir Thomas Lipton. Their third child, Dilmah, patented the world’s first teabag. Weighing in at twenty five kilos and only available in 25-bag packets, teabags soon became the number-one cause of hernias during the Regency.
Today, tea is consumed the world over. Tea refineries can be found in many countries, but the massive stripmines of India and China still dominate the industry. The importation of Tea to the west is strictly controlled by cartels headed up by the controversial ‘tea barons’. These callous profiteers carefully control the supply of tea, always ensuring that demand is slightly greater than supply. While the UN has called for greater freedom in the distribution of tea, it is rumoured that the Tea Barons are contolling supply to shield the world from the reality of a dwindling supply. A British company, TeaCo, has recently set up the world’s first undersea tea dredging operation in the North Sea. While returns are small at present, this advance may see a return to the cheap and plentiful tea of the British Empire.

An Apology

Those of you who read the comments upon this enblogment may notice that since my last post regarding 'Nuking the Fridge' it has been visited by none other than the creator of the phrase himself, a man named Jason.
Jason informed me that he was not 'an overgrown child' and I am inclined to agree. Where I blogged the phrase "overgrown child pining for a film to take him back to when he was 5 years old", I should have said "a callous entrepreneur willing to sacrifice an entire film crew's hard work to make a quick buck".
Ever made a film, Jason? Tried writing scripts, have you? Or would you just prefer to make fun of films in order to, as you say, "laugh all the way to the bank"?

Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Jason. It's all you'll ever get.

Another Open Letter

Nuking The Fridge: The point at which a movie franchise becomes tired and unbelievable.

An Open Letter To The Genius That Thought Up The Phrase 'Nuking The Fridge'.

Dear Sir,

In your opinion, was the scene in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in which the fridge gets nuked more believable or less believable than:

Indiana getting his father's book about the holy grail autographed by Hitler.
Sean Connery making a BF-109 crash using an umbrella.
The Nazis faces melting off when they opened the Ark of the Covenant.
The entire existance of both the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail in the first place.
Club Obi-Wan.
The wierd flying wing that the Luftwaffe had in Egypt.
The Luftwaffe even BEING in Egypt when it was a British protectorate in the 1930s.

I could go on, but I won't. You are clearly some sort of overgrown child pining for some movie to take him back to when he was 5 years old watching Raiders of the Lost Ark for the first time. Get with reality: it's not going to happen! And the same goes for everyone who didn't like The Clone Wars. Grr.

An Open Letter

An Open Letter to the Keepers Of Public-Houses In the Fair City of Adelaide.

Stout Yeomen,

There has been a great deal of unhappy talk recently regarding the rise of glass-related crimes within licensed venues. I humbly venture within the confines of this enblogment a solution.

A casual perusal of the crime statistics for the entire Viking era (650-980AD) shows no 'glassings' at all. This is because the Vikings, though reknowned for their drinking prowess, did not use glass at all. What did they use, I hear you ask? Something far more manly: cow horns.

As most vegetarians are wont to rabbit on about ad nauseam, cows bugger up the environment and give everyone herpes*. Thus, two birds may be killed with one stone. Lightly slay a few thousand head of prime beef, lop their horns off and use them instead of schooners. You could even use little baby horns for the poofter drinks.

*or something.

Fun fun fun with piratical puns!

Q. Why are there never any aspirins on pirate ships?

A. Because the parrots-eat-'em-all.

Arr.

Random Doobings

"Right!" cried Captain Doobie, leaping forward, "we'll soon get to the bottom of this!"
While Goodtime Slim pinned the old man's hands securely to his side, Captain Doobie peeled off the latex mask to reveal none other than...
"Adolf Hitler!" both men cried in unison.
"Correct!" roared the Fuhrer, "I'm back!"
"Crikey," commented Captain Doobie, "it must have been a long road back, what with the Russians and escaping to South America and getting punched in the cock and all."
"What?" queried the nasty little man with the stupid moustache, "I conquered all of Europe, but I never got punched in the cock."
"Oh, sorry," replied Captain Doobie, punching him in the cock, "forgot."
The small figure writhed on the floor. "And that," Captain Doobie told him, "was for the Jews, and World War Two, and...and...and well, just bloody everything!"

Year Of The Zeppelin

Its has been brought to my attention that this new, current year (2009) is not actually the year of anything. Usually every new year we're treated to a slew of tweely well meaning 'things' that the year can be, for example:

1997: The Year of the Volunteer
2002: The Year of the Environment
2003: The Year of Not Blowing Up Orphanages
2010: The Year We Make Contact

You get the idea. This year however (notwithstanding my not bothering to check in the slightest) this year appears to be the year of nothing. So i'd like to proclaim this year to be the Year of the Zeppelin. Let's face it, dirigibles have had a pretty bad run in the last century, what with the bombing raids over London and the Hindenberg Disaster and all, so I thought it might be a nice gesture if we all got together and let the old gasbags know we're still thinking of them. Lighter than air travel: it's the way of the future (and Nazi Germany).