The Pithlyiffion one of Naturer's Fantastic Beasts

The Pithlyiffion is a strange and wondrous beast indeed, one of the truly Fantastic beasts of history and one not to be trifled with (yes its one of those odd British sayings again) and one not to be put in a trifle either.  And its rather bizarre attributes were summed up in a poem by the great Samuel Taylor Coleridge that went as follows

Beware the Pithlyiffion, the strange and wondrous beast

Sitting high up in the Forrest trees

With its poisonous and deadly lick

And although it resembles some ancient mythical bird

It has a rather strange defensive trick

It falls to ground wrapped in its wings

Like a rather large house brick

Of course as you might expect of poems from the founder of the Romantic Movement, the poem goes on for at least half an hour and involves all sorts of things from seagulls and sailors to dancing with Victorian women in clearings in the woodland.  But the key points about the Pithlyiffion are well covered by this short extract.  You see the Pithlyiffion has a very poisonous lick indeed and although in general people recover, should you be unfortunate to be licked on a scratch or open wound then death is a distinct possibility. Some say that Coleridge had a pet Pithlyiffion and that it was to blame for his untimely death.

And as the poem says, despite the fact it has wings and does look like a bird its wings were made of an almost indestructible membrane which it would indeed wrap round its own body. In this way nothing could hurt it. It had no real enemies in nature, except the usual one mankind, who discovered that by boiling the beast for several hours it became an incredibly useful paste that could be used to seal the boilers of steam engines. What was unknown was that the Pithlyiffion only bred once every ten years and lived for almost two hundred years. So by 1873 with the loss of its breeding habitat in the wild the last Pithlyiffion died.  Unlike the Dodo which lent itself to being stuffed and displayed in a glass case, a popular Victorian pastime the Pithlyiffion once it died would turn to fine dust which would blow away in even the slightest of breezes. A fact that led to it becoming a creature of legend rather than fact. There are some who say the dust from the body of a dead  Pithlyiffion has substantial magic powers and that many of the legends of magic from mans history are the result of this, but we will probably never know for sure.  All we can say is that it must have been a truly fantastic Beast.       

The delemma of the Master Criminal

Maharajah Raj Ranbir Singh lives quietly in his house in Knightsbridge, it is not a small house in fact it is a huge house bought by his family just after the war for a modest sum. Its Victorian Gothic façade restored many years ago, its garden sprawling over two to three acres is almost entirely unknown to the majority of Londoners. And despite efforts by many to entice the Maharajah to sell some of the land for huge sums of money he has always rejected all approaches as he has a temple in the grounds that he allows Sikhs to visit on a regular basis.  And of course the garden has many secrets that the Maharajah is happy to keep secret.

You see although a quiet and humble man of peace the Maharajah has his own dark secret unknown to the world. He is what would be termed a master criminal these days, but he is not the sort of master criminal that most people would think of. He would never use violence or destroy or break things to achieve his ends because he is after all a Sikh Maharajah and it is important to comply with the principles of his beliefs.

He has conducted many spectacular and cunning crimes around the world that have left the authorities both perplexed and puzzled with no clues where to start their investigation. Crimes such as the Ghost Train Incident of 1973 where an entire London underground train vanished from the Circle Line never to be seen again.   There was the theft of several Crowns from the Tower of London, a crime that has still not been admitted too by the British government. And then of course there was the very odd case of the theft of over one thousand flamingos from London Zoo and two Elephants.  And at least one very large Swiss bank has lost huge amounts of gold as well as a number of paintings and bronzes by some of the greatest artists of history.

Of course as Maharajah Raj Ranbir Singh gets older he has pondered many times the dilemma of committing the perfect crimes knowing that he was never suspected. And this is the great paradox of being the perfect master criminal; no one knows you are a master Criminal.  Some folk may have suspected over time but it was always a passing thought.  After all the lake surrounding the sheikh temple has a huge flock of flamingos on it as well as two Indian Elephants. And the Marinara’s garden pavilion is a converted London Tube train full of jewels and many exotic things.

So how do I know this you ask, well I was having a long philosophical discussion with the Maharajah admiring this rather good copy of the Mona Lisa, (which looks just like the real thing to me) about how we perceive our fellow man based on the fact we only know a small amount of what each of us think and do.  And the Maharajah was explaining the dilemma of achieving these things but being unable to tell anyone.

Of course I have explained to Maharajah Raj Ranbir Singh that his secret is safe with me and no one will ever know. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .AH DAMN

At least I did not mention the eight lost Fabergé Eggs and the Amber Room . . . .PHEW.

Here where has my watch gone. . . . . 

The tale of Badger Hopson. . .The King of the Skies

A short story for Mr Squid McFinnigan

Badger Hopson had always wanted to be a pilot ever since he was knee high to a grasshopper and spent many a happy hour forging his pilots licence and flying history so that he could get a job. He dreamed of flying shiny posh passenger planes across the Atlantic into Europe so that he could chase women, gamble and drink and stub his cigarettes out on the heads of European cats. . . He hated cats.  

Badger even supplied his own outfit and to tell the truth that was his downfall. You see he bought it in an old Army surplus store and although there was no denying it was warm and cosy it was not exactly the image Pan-Am or any of the other airlines were looking for. Poor old Badger hit the bottle hard for a time and threw all the empties at unsuspecting passing cats, who would scurry off and then leave dead mice in his boots for revenge.

Then one day when the winter winds were at there worst, not that it worried Badger Hopson, he was no fool he had bought the flying suit with the heated boots and double knit thermal underwear. (Hang on I got distracted there . . . back to the point). . . Yes one day in the wild winters wind an old mate said he had heard of a flying job going with the US MAIL and it looked just the job.  Well this was exciting news for Badger and he quickly applied and was interviewed and surprisingly got he job. In fact for the first time ever they said they were very impressed with his flying outfit and that it was exactly what they were looking for.

So it was that Badger Hopson became King of Skies and got to fly his faithful but knackered Douglas DAKOTA C-47 / DC-3 transport aircraft delivering mail to Anchorage Alaska three times a week.  He did get to chase women, gamble and drink but there were no cats just Polar Bears and that of course was his final downfall, because you should never stub your cigarette out on the head of a Polar Bear.  Amazingly he survived the attack saved by the padding of his flying suit, and the electric shock the bear got from chewing his battery powered heated boots. But with one arm, one leg and one ear he was classed as unfit for flying and pensioned off.

He was however a content man, not many folk can say they have flown to Alaska in an old Dakota drunk, gambled, chased women and put their cigarettes out on the heads of Polar Bears. So he settled down, got married and told of his many adventures as the King of the Skies. Making a few extras up to impress the kids, his old flying suit now chopped up and turned into a stuffed Python for reasons that are far to complex to explain here.        

A Fairy Tale about Politics and Pointy Sticks

A fairy tale

Once upon a time there was a princess who lived high in the mountains in a posh castle and did many things for the people of the kingdom, she was quite left wing which is rather unusual for a princess and she did many good deeds, like make sure all the children in the kingdom had school books and were looked after. Then one day the King (her father) increased the taxes and there was much grumbling and discontent. The princess was not happy, what with being a bit of a lefty and the like so went off to see the king in his private chambers.

Why have you put up the taxes she asked as she entered adding AND what is that THING?

AH yes its my new 58inch television with a 3d option and cinema quality surround sound . . . its well cool.

Well I hope you have not put up the taxes to pay for that monster of a television said the princess

MMMM well it was very expesive you know replied the king

A few days later when the princess was in town she met Mr Larkin the Butcher and she told him that her father (the King) had spent all the taxes on a huge new television.  Mr Larkin was not happy and shouted leapt about and moaned and said he would lead the masses to form a free independent state. Then when she got home she told the King (her father) that she had told Mr Larkin all about the television and he was talking of forming an independent state. The King was not happy and he shouted leapt about and moaned, but he did then say he would reduce the taxes if it was making life difficult for folk and he was not keen on the idea of a folk forming a new independent state  

The following day the princess went into town to tell Mr Larkin the good news because she was also not keen on the idea of independence either.  Knocking on his door she got no response, but she could hear the voice of a man who sounded just like that Jeremy Clarkson chap from off the tele. Keen to pass on the good news to Mr Larkin she entered the house and found Mr Larkin sat in front of a new 58inch television with a 3D option and cinema quality surround sound.

AH he said I know I said times are hard but it is a very good television and I added a few pence onto the price of sausages so folk never noticed anyway.  

As the princess left she met several of the local villagers and told them all about Mr Larkin (the leader of the Independent Movement) and how he had increased his prices to buy a huge new 58inch television with a 3D option and cinema quality surround sound, and they all shouted and leapt about.

As darkness fell that night there were folk shouting at Mr Larkin and folk shouting at the King and the King was shouting at Mr Larkin who was shouting at him and folk said it was all the princesses fault for being on the political left when she should know her place as one of the well off elite and that no good comes of trying to help folk. Some folk were still demanding independence and some wanted a 58inch television too.

Meanwhile the princess had gone into the forest to stab a pointy stick into a large wasps nest, she did this sometimes because she always said no one is perfect. As the wasps swarmed and flew about manically being grumpy and shouting she headed off home past all the grumpy folk shouting at each other and running about manically. Smiling to herself as she watched the fleeing massed crowds flapping their arms about and running as fast as they could from an angry swarm of wasps. The princess you see was a very good princess but she did have a bit of a devilish streak in her and could never resist prodding things with a pointy stick. Well we all like pointy sticks don’t we.

The End  

More Writers Block, More Gibberish, Another day on King Street. . . . . and a Polar Bear

I have spent the day in a grey office not the sun so Persistent Writers block has become Chronic Writers block. It may be the other way round depending on which you think sounds worse. But I feel I am left with little option but to revisit the good folk of King Street; a street where little happens of interest allowing me to write more gibberish.

Very little of interest happens on King Street so it did not go entirely unnoticed when Mary or Auntie Mary as she was known to all on the street was seen pushing a large fibreglass Polar Bear balanced precariously on an old pram. Do you want a hand Auntie Mary said Mrs Jones her next door Neighbour, the pair of them struggling to get the life size Polar Bear up the stairs and into Mary’s bedroom.

As they sat it down looking out of the window Mrs Jones’s curiosity finally got the better of her. . . What exactly do want a life-sized Polar Bear for? she asked.

Well its that Mr Hamilton over the road he keeps peering at me at night through his windows  so I got this, I know he hates Polar Bears. And I have had it modified in the watch repairers in the high street. . . .

Modified ? Replied Mrs Jones looking with interest at the huge beast.

Yes it has lights in its eyes Look. . . Mary turned a switch on the side of the bear and its eyes glowed a sinister red. . . .

Its Winking said Mrs Jones it must have a dodgy connection in the wiring.

AH . . . WELL it growls as well said Mary turning another switch

But as she did so, rather than growl it made the sound of a large cuckoo clock. . .Are you sure that is right asked Mary rather alarmed by the sight of a winking Polar Bear going cuckoo . . . . cuckoo . . . . cuckoo . . . cuckoo . . . cuckoo . . . cuckoo

It was the nearest thing to a growl the watch repairers had in the shop was Mary’s response.

And it appears to be smiling said Mrs Jones   

 I know it a bloody nuisance that, but I could not find one that snarled said Mary

That night as darkness fell and Mr Hamilton wandered up to bed and he went to close his curtains he noticed a face. Well I should point out it is important to know Mr Hamilton has terrible eyesight and hearing so it was hard for him to work out who it was. It was certainly Auntie Mary’s bedroom window he thought and whoever it was, was smiling at him. Waving back he was responded to by winking and a muffled sound of Cooooo . . . . . Coooooo  . . . . well it was a bit of a shock as Mr Hamilton thought Mary had always disliked him.  So it was that the following morning as Mr Hamilton headed off to work and spotting Mary he felt confident enough to give here a cheeky wink and a quick pinch on the bum.  Well Mary was so annoyed that she went up to her bedroom and attempted to kick the Polar Bear down the stairs.

Later as she was approached by the doctor at the hospital he asked her what had happened to which she said. I kicked that bloody Polar Bear of mine and we both fell down the stairs. I broke my leg and all it did was wink at me bloody thing, luckily Mrs Jones heard it shouting cuckoo. . . . cuckoo . . .  cuckoo and she phoned for the ambulance. And then they refused to enter the house because the polar bear was smiling at them. I’m going to demand a refund once I get back home. . . That Bloody polar bear has done nothing but cause trouble.

The doctor smiled and quickly moved to the next patient who had swallowed a goldfish called Derrick. 

And I still cant think of anything to write about yet. . . . .  

Total Gibberish Caused by Persistent Writers Block

George had moved to King Street because of his obsession with all things connected with space and aliens, in fact it was this obsession that led to him painting his wife Mavis green. She did not object too much although she did say later that she would have preferred to have been warned in advance rather than wake up in the morning covered in green paint.  George himself said that he had never entirely understood Mavis and by painting her green she made a very good Martian, and he was working on a Martian Phrase book. Although Mavis was convinced she was speaking English and told George that everyone else understood her perfectly well.

It was rather ironic then that several weeks later George received a text message from Mavis to tell him she had been abducted by humans who were planning to do terrible experiments on her.  In reality she had run off with Mr Clark the librarian to Spain because the stress of being a Martian had become to much and as she told Mr Clark, George was completely mad.

Several houses along King Street at No24 lived Harold Beckman famous as the first British man in space, who spent several weeks on the International Space Station until the accident where he uttered those famed words HOuston we have a problem. . . . Again?  Since then Harold always kept a small can of oil about his person and insisted that his door hinges were oiled once a week.  As he told the postman on many occasions as he oiled the hinges of his front door . . . Nobody wants a squeaky door on the air lock. . .  He often referred to the front porch as the air lock. It was his four days trapped in the airlock of the International Space Station that had brought this way of thinking about, and his early retirement was finally thought for the best after he started to wrap his head in Kitchen foil and was found oiling the wrong end of the cat.

After Mavis was abducted (ran off) George spent many hours discussing this with Harold who said the Aliens were everywhere sabotaging all the critical doors around the world so that one day when they invaded folk would find they were immobilized by jammed doors making mankind useless and unable to defend themselves.

Their friendship however came to an abrupt halt when a young assistant at Boots the Chemist handed over some photographs he had developed for Mr Harold Beckman of them (George and Harold) both dressed as Penguins in a state of arousal. It was a great scoop for the local press but not so good for Harold, George or the assistant at Boots the Chemist who was sacked for breach of confidentiality.  Harold kept his front door locked after that and George ran off to Spain to escape from sniggering neighbours, where he found Mavis working in a tapas bar. She told George that her mind had been wiped by men in white coats so she had forgotten about him. They got back together after a bit and are now often seen scampering along the Spanish beaches wearing Penguin suits and giggling.

I hate Writers Block. . . When will it finally go. . . .AAAAuuuuuggghhhhh.

Harry Potter and Newt Scamander or the Fantastic Beasts as they like to call themselves.

Having been involved in DIY knocking down walls moving the living room and now completely rebuilding the kitchen it is clear that I have succumb to the terrible affliction of Writers Block. I mean the nice Mr Steven Spielberg is not interested in DIY as he can afford a chap to do stuff like that, and the film opportunities are limited. Although I could have found an old doorway leading to a vast chamber underground housing a dormant UFO which I have accidently started up and now have folk doing all sorts of stuff as they try to find the UFO and its strange contents and discover the terrible secret that is hidden within.

Sadly this has not happened and I have spent the day in the sun cutting loads of grass pondering what to write about. Being a slightly dishevelled and scruffy mad looking chap which I am sort of a bit, I am generally given a wide berth because that’s what folk do when you are scruffy. But as I pondered while cutting the grass someone wandered slowly past. I looked up to see a chap who was also dishevelled and looking scruffy and who had plainly seen better days. . . .

Its Harry Potter I said rather surprised

He looked towards me annoyed and giving me pointy looks O God its Rob Z tobor he said And I thought things could not get any worse . . . DAMN.

Have you fallen on hard times, I politely enquired?

No I’m resting.

Pining for the fiords then, I added

WHAT? He snapped back

Anyway we sat down and chatted and I apologised for saying he was rubbish at science and had a funny walk. And he said that he was sorry that he called me a complete IDIOT and would not recognize a good spell if it was written on the forehead of a white rabbit that was smiling at me from inside a top hat. And then he told me about his problems. You see he is not the young chap he used to be (tell me about it) and he is worried that a new young upstart called Newt Salamander was going to pinch all his street cred. I did point out it was not Newt Salamander but Scamander and that a salamander is a scaly lizard but he just said EXACTLY.  

I did also say it was his own fault for reading ‘Strange Beasts And Where To Find Them’ in the first place and that at the end of the day it was a bit like the chicken and the egg and which came first. A point I think that was lost on poor old Harry who seemed to be more concerned about why the chicken had crossed the road, as he followed it and vanished round a corner. 

As it happens J K Rowling has sort of done the dirty on Hermione Granger  as well as there is a new witch called Porpentina. . . I think that’s an Italian Pudding, but I’m not sure. So if the two of them meet in a dark alley or Hollywood party I suspect there will be more pointy looks and words will be had.

The result of all this is I may have managed to get the grass cut but have nothing to write about and the terrible Writers Block sits on my shoulder like a huge wooden parrot . . . . . . still. 

The rambling words of a Newt Keeper

It has been a couple of days since the last post posted on this blog which was about hard working families and the reason I have not posted a post is because I have been working hard on you know what. Yes the Kitchen, you see I discovered that a couple of pipes from the range cooker sort of went where I did not want them too, so I have been sorting it out (sort of). Anyway it means that the problem will now look like it was all planned and when folk look I will say. . . . . . . . Oooooooo it was all quite easy really and everything went as expected. . . . Which will be a lie as houses do like to fight change, as do people generally.

It has rained today which is not nice but I guess it does keep all the plants (and us) alive and the ponds filled up and the newts and toads happy. I had to move four toads and a couple of Great Crested Newts yesterday that were living in a tarpaulin in the part of the garden that has the apple trees in. They did not have it propped up like a tent and were not huddled round a fire to keep warm toasting the odd fly on a skewer complaining about hard times. The tarpaulin was lying on the ground and rotting and needed to be moved and the little critters were making the most of the perfect conditions to chill among the fruit trees.

 I saw a huge hornet at the same time . . . it was huge and I mean really giant sized huge,  in fact it was run away screaming huge shouting what the hell is that thing. . . .  It was the largest hornet I have ever seen outside of a scary sci-fi movie about man eating hornets.

OK back to the newts, because while at the Friday market in the village I was informed that it is illegal to handle a newt in the UK without a licence. What was particularly odd about finding this out was it happened before I found the newts under the tarpaulin. As the subject of newts had arisen in connection with another unrelated issue to do with other folk in the village, who as it happens would like a couple of our newts.  But we do have loads of them and a bloody huge Hornet. . . AAAAAauuuuuuuuGGGgggggHHHHHH.  

By now you might be thinking what the hell is he rambling on about why has he told us about newts well the fact is I have reached one of those moments known as writers block and no one likes writers block when you spend hours looking at a blank sheet of paper.  Well with all this kitchen building I don’t have time for writers block so I writing freestyle with no idea of where it is all going to end, which ironically is NOW.

OOOOOOooo just to say the picture has no bearing on the words but she might be shouting . . .  AAAUUUUGGGGGHHHHH A HORNET. . .

The Politics of Hard Working Families, Raymond Baxter and the Romans

I was listening to the wireless this morning and the Prime Minister was on at some point talking about something and he mentioned that little phrase that really annoys me . . . . HARD WORKING FAMILIES . . . . . It is a term that all politicians regardless of party seem to use and it does annoy me, as I have just said, so that’s twice now so it must be true.  During the election all the politicians were very keen that all these hard working people and families should vote for them. They clearly did not want the lazy folk who sit about having a good time all day to vote for them O NO they were of no importance and are clearly the demons of society that should be hunted down and made to do things . . . . Like eat ice cream. . . .

WHY you might ask is it annoying. . . Well consider what it implies, do we really want a government that is out to ensure that we all work hard our entire lives, the age at which folk finally get their state pension will be 69 in a few years time. So folk will get to work hard until they drop dead, OOOOoooooo yes we all want that don’t we.

Many years ago there was a TV show called Tomorrows World hosted by Raymond Baxter on it they showed all sorts of fancy new devices and told of the future when folk would work twenty hours a week and retire when they were maybe forty.  A world where robots would do all the menial work and us humans would live a life of decadence and pleasure like the Romans use too. Only they had slaves who did all the work. Well strangely we are entering such a world where the super rich and the political elite have a life of decadence and pleasure and the slaves are now the ordinary folk . . . . Ordinary HARD WORKING FAMILY’S. . . .

So you can see it is not good; politicians should be working hard in order that families can have a life that does not involve them having to spent it working hard in order to survive and many now having to work until they are nearly seventy before they get to retire if they are lucky enough to life that long.

I really should not listen to the wireless in the morning, the other day it was Einstein waking me up with all this talk of a Mathematically Structured Universe and today it was David Cameron annoying me by insisting he will help everyone to work hard. . . . .  At least one spot of good news the Solar panels on our roof generated 28 kilowatts today, that means it was sunny and I got to sit in it (the sunshine) for a while being very lazy, pretending I was a Roman.

Lazy Days, Kitchens, Takeaways, Huge Birds and a Fox

I have had a lazy-ish day doing a bit in the kitchen and eating a not so good Chinese takeaway. I think they mean well, but dissolving that much sugar into your meal is a bit off putting. It’s a damn shame because it’s a nice shiny place now and they all smiled, but hey ho and tickety boo such is life in the country, the options are limited.

Anyway I have discovered pipes behind a couple of the old units that are being ripped out and replaced with the new IKEA shiny red ones. This is a slight problem no one likes pies (sorry pipes) where it would be so much easier to get on with stuff if there were no pipes. I can’t move the pipes either as they attached to large lump of metal the size of an average range style cooker. As it happens that is exactly what it is, it provides hot water, central heating and will cook stuff, although its ability to cook depends entirely on the mood it is in and we have long decided it is too temperamental to be trusted with meals.

So I will be pondering and will need to modify the new units a bit in order to make everything look like it was all planned in the first place. I suspect this is the name of the game in the world of assembling a Kitchen, behind all those neat rows of doors in every kitchen in all the world lies a myriad of bodges and tweaks to make it all look as it should. I am confident it will all be OK as there was a huge beast of a bird sat in the apple tree the size of a small sheep while I ate my takeaway. It was being pestered by a blackbird which sat  on the same branch a couple of feet away shouting and leaping about, which was brave considering it was no more that a snack for the big beast. Anyway the blackbird won as the big beast got fed up with all the noise and flew off.  I saw a Fox as well today scurrying across the road and looking like it was up to no good. It was an adult so must be a true cunning fox because about 90% of the folk in these parts will point guns and shoot Mr Fox no questions asked. . . . . 

Einstein, The Theory of Relativity, Chaos Theory and a Chicken

While listening to the wireless this morning there was a little article on about Einstein who as we all know was a clever chap. I did not hear all of what they were saying because it was before 9.00am and far too early for me to focus on Einstein or even the cat at that time of the morning.  Anyway I sort of heard someone say something about how his theory of relativity resulted in a rational structured model of the Universe.

Well it was that statement that finally woke me up, well when I say woke I grunted and sort of pored tea into myself and waved at a terrible blinding light, which turned out to be a bed side light.  You see saying the Universe is structured and rational fails to take into account something rather important and that is time.  OK yes I know what you are thinking, saying Einstein has not thought about time is like saying the Chicken has never thought about crossing the road.

But the key point is not so much time, but the rate at which time passes or the time, time takes to pass. Think of a car crash if you slow it down so that the few seconds it takes can be watched over a period of several hours then it becomes a predictable event. We can watch things fly about hit one another and predict the outcome.  Well the Universe is basically a car crash in slow motion, our own life span is so short relatively, that we only see a tiny fraction of the event and it all looks rather structured.  If it was speeded up millions of times it would just appear to be a rather chaotic and disorganized fireworks display.

So consider the following options

If I was to say the Earth will be destroyed in ten million years folk would say Gosh well that’s OK and carry on without a worry.

If I then said the Earth will be destroyed in one thousand years folk would say well that’s not long is it, but hey I’ll be OK.

If you tell folk the Earth will be destroyed in one day’s time folk will run about panicking and eating ice cream.

You see it is not the event that is scary but the timing, tell a Mayfly the Earth has only one day left and he will say that’s an entire lifetime, Phew that is lucky for me.  It is a known fact that Andromeda and the Milky Way will collide in about four billion years and that the moon is moving away from earth at about two inches a year and will one day vanish off and cause chaos in our own solar system. Plus the sun is due to become a Red Dwarf and will swallow the earth up. You see the Universe is just Chaos theory in slow motion so when I heard that Einstein’s Theory of Relativity was been used to suggest the Universe was structured I thought Noooooooooooooooo the Universe is chaos. . . . Well mine is most of the time.

Anyway don’t panic the Earth will not be destroyed for at least a few more weeks yet so there is loads of time . . . . AH well a bit of time and as I have already said time is entirely an abstract idea.

The Quest for Glory in a Very Quiet Library

The world of blogging at least for me and gone remarkably quiet, as quiet as the quietest thing in the quietest room of a very quiet library with a lot of signs in it saying Please Be Quiet. It is to put it bluntly very quiet indeed. So what has brought about this lack of activity in the areas of cyberspace that constitute my blog what has changed recently that might have caused this disturbing event. An event that has made me question the very essence of what is all this blogging all about.

Well the Conservatives recently won an overall majority in the General Election and they do know that I am a bit of a lefty. Well when I say they know the local MP thinks I voted conservative; well its not my fault that one of his workers jumped to the conclusion I was going to vote Tory, I never said who I was voting for. But maybe they found out and are now reaping revenge for misleading them which is rather unfair as I did not, I just did not correct the error of the person I spoke too.

FIFA has also recently hit the headlines with stories of bribes and unethical practice leading to some folk becoming rather wealthy on the back of who gets to host the World Cup.  Well they are aware that it was I that exposed the use of Androids in the last World Cup and the whole affair was staged so that the Knights Templar could squirrel away the cup, or as they like to call it the Holy Grail.

Well revealing news like that can make you enemies and FIFA may be blaming me for shining the spotlight on them which has brought about their downfall. And there are folk that owe them big time so they are out to get me.

Add to all this the fact that bloggers are falling by the wayside like flies. . . . . I have never seen a fly fall by the wayside but they do tend to die on the window sills of our windows from time to time. I do try and save the little critters but they don’t understand windows (no not Microsoft Windows but glass windows) . . . . . . (actually they are rubbish at Microsoft windows too).

What I will say about all this blogging into the oblivion of cyberspace and the empty and very quiet library of fate is that I am a hardy beast and will continue my quest towards blogging glory with my head held high and my pointy stick pointy at the road ahead. Onward and upward taking everything in my stride. . . . . . Well until tomorrow when I may reconsider and write more gibberish due to stress.  

How to time travel though time using a blog and cyberspace and a large rope

Two years ago today I posted this post and it is rather interesting because I make the point in it . . . . . . . .. Would my diary exist if it was an item of pure functionality with no need for the frivolity of imagination and un-practical reams of gobbledegook; you see my diary is just like this huge monster rope (Note Mr S’s shoes by the rope) of no practical use and frayed at the end. . . . . . . . . . .. A point that is even more valid today (two years later) than it was two years ago, so I thought I should repost the post to make the point  and the post of greater significance. 


So let us travel back in time exactly two years to 5th June 2013 . . . . . .  



It has been a funny old day, the weather here was very overcast and sort of OK but not like yesterday or tomorrow (I have kicked the weather machines side panel) hot and sunny, and my day has sort of ticked along with the usual quantum physics and woodwork plus the rather more useful lesson of locksmithing,  and the skills of unlocking locks that prefer to remain locked. Of course this is a huge area of expertise because not only does it include the humble padlock but of course there are many unseen mathematical locks, things that appear to be physically locked to something by forces unknown.  

For example Miss I and Mr S have told me that they were unable to collect a huge rope from the beach because if was locked to the beach by fate and the Micro God of Beaches, and apparently it was also very heavy.

But using the great skills of Locksmithing it would be possible to untangle the forces that held the huge rope to the beach and transport it many miles to me, where I would look with wonder upon the huge rope while the massed masses looking would say WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THAT . . . . . . . . . And I would reply AH?

People do things like this all the time when folk stumble on artefacts of wonder which are of no practical use what so ever, they ask but what do you intend to do with it. But you see this is what makes us humans what we are, the ability to appreciate the great possibilities of completely useless items. Would my diary exist if it was an item of pure functionality with no need for the frivolity of imagination and unpractical reams of gobbledegook, you see my diary is just like this huge monster rope (Note Mr S’s shoes by the rope) of no practical use and frayed at the end. Well when I say of no practical use I lie as it is my long term memory,  well when I say long term I mean more that three days ago.

Farwell rope I hope the world treats you fairly and does not just string you along . . . . . . . . . .HAHAHAHHAH hahah ah ah haah hahha hah ah hahahhahah hahahah hahahahhah ahhah ahahhahahahaha

it’s a joke but Knot a good one  HaAHAHAHAH ah hah ah ah ah ha hah ah hah ah ah ha hah ah ha hah ah ah ah ahha a   

Almost Gibberish or Life is a Strange and Twisted Road

Mrs Javelin had always preferred blue and had no time for anyone that disagreed. As she pushed her way to the front of the queue past the Russian cosmonaut, his space suit glinting in the sunlight and a young mother with a pushchair piled high with babies and vast quantities of the required paraphernalia babies require. Mrs Javelin turning back quickly to comment . . . I'M old you know I cant wait all day.

Can I help you madam came the  voice from behind the counter

Mrs Javelin looked deep into the eyes of the Butcher pondering

Are you alright MADAM he said

Yes its your eyes they reminded me I need to get some rat poison for the cellar on the way home she relied

High above in the deep blue sky a young Dutch parachutist was gently falling toward the ground aiming for the white X marked clearly on the ground below him. He would not be going to the butchers shop, he had long felt that as a parachutist he was now at one with nature and the birds and the thought of eating chicken seemed wrong when he spent so much time frequenting their world up in the clouds.

Now in the Post Office Mrs Javelin was demanding three pounds of sausages and a tennis racket and despite several people trying to help and explain that it was the Post Office she was not having any of it and swung her handbag at a large chap wearing hand made alligator shoes. He fell to the floor with a large thud, you see Mrs Javelin was a bell ringer and had rather good upper arm strength and besides she always kept a large house brick in her handbag just in case.  But with the mention of the police she vanished sharpish.

Mrs Javelin had been involved with the police before and had no plans to become ‘The Most Undesirable Member of the Community 2015’ making it four years in a row with her picture on the front page of the Upper Gaswold Gazette.

Taking a shortcut across the park her continuing  shopping trip was suddenly interrupted by a large flock of chickens feeding around a large white cross on the grass.

Bloody Chickens she said

Duck said on old gentleman sat on a park bench

Don’t be stupid you bloody old idiot she said they are bloody Chickens.

At that very moment a young Dutch parachutist landed on her with a great crash sending rat poison everywhere.

Mrs Javelin went mad after that and the chickens all died from eating rat poison and the young Dutchman never really got over the shock of the death of all those chickens. The old man on the park bench died from a heart attack, a result of laughing so much as he watched the whole affair unfold. It also transpired that the old man on the bench was the last man in Britain who made handmade Alligator shoes.

Life is a strange and twisted road.

Written in the style of Mr H . . . . only not quite as good.