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.