Recognition

Belated recognition of my work, if a little cautious, has now arrived from Fermilab. I had faith that the scientific community would appreciate my efforts although 'er indoors was scathing of my attempt to broadcast my idiocy.

This might develope..... and who knows, perhaps a Nobel prize ?
S. Camelus

The Nature of Reality

Prompted by a recent Horizon programme I have sent a letter to the
"boffins" in America which introduces them to my research.
Exciting stuff, I'll keep you informed.

Yet another exciting adventure

Thought you might like to see the most recent photo of me and my navigator on our trip to the Jovian moons on Sunday.

She's a nice girl but has no sense of humour!

Merry Christmas

Struthius, 7of 9 and, of course, the Memsahib, wish, those who may be interested,

A very Happy Christmas

In view of the economic crisis, Struthius and “7” decide to “Christmas” on the moon

He wasn’t invited

N.B. the portable containment field around “7 of 9” stands at a struthical density of 3.79 Gigaparticles per cu. Cm.

De Profundis (yet again)

I shall start by being frank ;let’s face it, I’ve tried just about everyone else. It has been a bloody awful year here in the Struthius household, a fact that has led the Mem to dub it (in Queenly fashion) our Anus Horriblis. Forget Annus, Anus best emphasises the fundamental arsey- ness of the past 12 months.
I have only been spared from lapsing into complete insanity by my expeditions in realis secundus with my travelling companion 7 of 9. Together we have toured the Galactic rim and would have travelled further had she not inadvertently sat on, and broke, the Trans Galactic control knob atop the gear stick in the “Flying Ostrich.” Oh, how we laughed.
The Mem ever a dampener has, as she puts it, “kept me grounded” by maintaining a constant litany of complaint against my unworldliness. This invariably starts (Rob Wilton style) with the question, “What good are you?” and continues with a recounting of my failures; as she points out, it must constitute some sort of record that anyone could have existed, (she has a cruel tongue) into 7 decades and still remain so ignorant! As I point out, however, I’m always able to reply promptly and without equivocation to any question put to me; I simply reply, “I don’t know.” It was ever the motto of the “Ostrich Club” that “Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.”
I am called to attention by “herself” who, in return for a cuppa, requires me for domestic duties. Time for 7 of 9 and I to get that knob mended!
I enclose a photo taken by the remote camera of my recent (September) trip in the “Flying Ostrich” to Sigma 9 Draconis; a wild and unstable planet with frequent seismic anomalies.




Needless to say my understandable mistake soon became apparent!

Struthius on Mars

Thought that you might be excited by this recent Mars image. We (yours truly and 7 of 9) weren't even aware of being photographed!

Hadrons and Black Holes

Todays worrying event at CERN has occasioned my departure from the planet together with 7 0f 9. Surprisingly, and thankfully, the Mem has refused to join us.

I send you greetings from Deneb Prime where I shall remain with aforementioned 7 of 9 cruising a sea of heavy hydrocarbons and other gooey material until this particle business is proved safe.

 Sincerely as ever,

 Struthius

Merry Xmas Struthians...!

The lamentations of Struthius (struthio camelus)

A reply to “Biddster” ref. Jovian real estate.

You show great foresight in wishing to invest off-world. I cannot, however, recommend Ganymede for golf for I fear that your balls will freeze. In addition, the containment field that you mention will, given the current state of development, be insufficient to support a large enough area to allow the proficient golfer to drive his balls further than 120 metres. You, I feel sure, will appreciate that to support a containment field using the struthical particle will require a greater energy output than is currently available. The 12 v. car battery that I can carry on board “The Ostrich” coupled with the solar panels designed by Miss 7 of 9 can only support a Putting Green. You may be interested in the fact that I shall shortly be undertaking a further trip to Mars where I believe I shall be able to offer suitable land for sale at the base of Olympus Mons.

I must point out that interest in my Mars mission is being shown by a Mr Quark (pictured above) who is already offering 300 bars of gold latinum/acre for a site around Olympus Mons in order to build a Gambling House and bar (subject to planning permission). Replying to your question concerning the transportation of your clubs Miss 7 of 9 assures me that she will happily accommodate your niblik, driver etc. in her hammock. She failed to mention your balls. I enclose a further picture of my travelling companion aboard “The Ostrich.”

I should say that 7 of 9 is, perhaps, of Scandinavian origin bearing the surname Borg but is not, apparently, related to the tennis player. She assures me that the Borg family (they appear to be a pretty bright lot) have the technology required to terraform Mars and she intends to write to them for more information. I shall, therefore, after my next Mars mission, be in a better position to advise you further on the matter of investment. Confidentially, I feel a little uneasy about Mr. Quark and his business ethic which is based on the Ferengian “Rules of Acquisition.” Whatever they are!

In conclusion I would again further address myself to “Junket” ref. my shaky monopod. Miss 7 has examined my current support and feels that with a little manipulation she can probably make it more rigid. As she points out she won’t have to open her legs so wide in order to steady it. Bright girl!

All suggestions gratefully received.

Sincerely, Diogenes A. Twatt.

The lamentations of Struthius (struthio camelus)

Struthius in Space, a response.

Before my next blog I must thank Junket and Biddster who responded to “Struthius in Space.”

Firstly, in response to J. I take your point, dear reader, but what Struthius did not reveal was that my monopod is not of the stoutest construction and the camera that I use is a Lancaster ½ plate with adapter for ¼ plate sheet film. This magnificent fotoaparat is constructed of the finest mahogany with brass fittings and weighs mightily. Miss 7 0f 9 is a lady of robust stature and good firm thighs but, that being said, I feel that to ask her to grip my shaky monopod and existing camera is asking too much. The space within the craft does allow for the tripod with Miss 7 of 9 lying in supportive pose and Struthius under the focussing cloth.

Secondly, responding to Biddster. Dear fellow, you will, by now, be in a good position to understand my views on Europe and Brussels (ein moment bitte whilst Struthius cleanses his mouth). I give not a gnat’s knacker for Euroedicts and, neither does my travelling companion Miss 7 of 9 who, like me, enjoys thrusting to warp 8. I wish to point out that neither of us suffer from Thrush, just in case that was a Freudian slip.

The lamentations of Struthius (struthio camelus)

Middle England’s Finest!

The storm is upon me, the calm is ended and once more Struthius stands indicted, charged with offences against literature, social sensibility and grammatical laxness!

It appears that Struthius’s last communication was, for some pedantic anally retentive Europhile, one step too far, for, within hours of my blog being posted, the Mem was texted and apprised of its content together with the web site upon which the Struthius blogs can be found. I have always kept this knowledge from Mrs. C. (the Mem) but, in a moment of carelessness, I must have revealed it to an acquaintance, a latter-day Mrs. Grundy, a self-appointed guardian of the public good and educational standards.

Well, madam, the cheeks of my arse, I wag my willie at you and say, “Phoo” in the Gallic manner. I care not that I fall into typographical error. It does not concern me that I do not abide by the rules governing grammatical exactitude neither do I give a wizzle’s dick that my Latin lacks polish.

That you find offensive my references to European sanitary ware and to what are now, apparently, simply referred to as European Commissioners is a matter of complete indifference to me.

You upbraid me by saying that it is dishonourable to speak disparagingly of the dead (ref. to former P.M. Mr. Edward Heath). Why? Madam, I have frequently spoken disparagingly and openly of Ghengis Khan, Adolph Hitler, Jo’ Stalin, Jack the Ripper, Alastair Crowley, to mention but a very few. Are you going to find fault in this?

Your complaint of my use of the occasional vulgate vernacular and, what you claim are my oblique sexual references to my good friend and fellow traveller 7 of 9 leave me unmoved.

In short, I shall not abide by the piss-ant restraints that you seek to impose upon me in your newly appointed roles of Malleus Illiteratum and Keeper of the Common Good.

I remain,

Your good friend,

Rev. R Scrotum-Tite.

Beware, the Eurocrapper cometh!

Dear reader, it had not been my intention to hold forth on lavatorial matters, but a recent incident* compels me speak out.

Bear with me as I set the scene.

In February, during this year of grace, Struthius, ever compliant with family wishes, found himself incarcerated within the confines of a European style leisure compound; an erstatz environment surrounding an overlarge greenhouse.

In the concrete cell block to which family and I had been directed there existed a strange insanitary device apparently, intended for use as a W.C. Now, most God-fearing English folk will know that the standard W.C. consists of a pedestal bowl and seat and, directly under the seat, water.

Under the seat of this lavatorial porcelain was a concave shelf the purpose of which was to catch the steaming contents of the user’s bowel and/or urinary tract where it lies stinking prior to later flushing. It came as no surprise to Struthius to discover that this device was of European design and manufacture.

* The recent incident

Mr. Michael Palin (sometime Python, traveller, presenter and writer) in a recently televised trip to the expanded Europe visited the former East German city of Dresden where he visited a large porcelain factory now given over to manufacturing Eurobogs; a sad comment on the city’s former manufacturing glory.

When questioned by M. Palin on the reason for placing a shelf just beneath the shitter’s arse an apparently surprised guide explained that this is what most Europeans now expect.

It turns out that Euroshitters, particularly the older ones, feel driven (for health reasons!) to examine their freshly evacuated poo.

At this point the minds of most right thinking people will, for the preservation of sanity, close down or go on vacation. The mind of Struthius is, however, made of sterner stuff and has allowed him to pursue this matter.

What in God’s name are they looking for, diamonds, emeralds or just pearls of socio/political Euro-wisdom that they can send to the Common Market Commissioners in Brussels for use in future mindless edicts?

Do the elderly (and young) of Europe really stoop over the lavatorial china mumbling and drooling after each bowel movement entranced by the sight of their steaming faeces? Do they congratulate themselves on presentation and colour?

Perhaps they sort through it in the hopes of finding enlightenment or ano-mystical divination through splatter pattern or disposition of the turds?

Are the people of Britain going to be required to follow this Eurofad, this anal preoccupation which Struthius has always considered to be a prerequisite of Continentals i.e. anyone east of Grimsby and south of The Isle of Wight?

Will we each soon be required by Euro-edict to be in the possession of a Eurocrapper and Home Poo Pathology Kit for full analysis of each and every stool?

These and many more questions arise in the mind of Struthius.

Oh, how I wish that that crapulous organ playing yachtsman politician who greased Britain’s entry into the Common Market (or whatever it’s called today) had had the foresight to see the consequences of his action.

Sincerely,

Alponse Ulysses Crapnasti

To come:-

Struthius and the men in black.

Being a paranoiac epistemological examination of the universe

The flight of “The Ostrich”

Dear reader/s, I have been asked to report on my recent space flight to Ganymede aboard “The Ostrich.”

I am happy to say that the flight went according to plan although both my navigator/science officer Miss 7 of 9 (pictured below) and I agree that we could have packed a couple of extra jumpers and a little more underwear.

I am happy to report that despite the rather chilly conditions aboard the craft we were able to keep ourselves warm around the electric fire. Miss 7 of 9 and I whiled away the hours until planetary insertion by playing strip poker which we play by Struthius rules i.e. I get to score at the end of the game. Miss 7 of 9 has accompanied me on most of my space flights and, once again, proved herself most satisfactory when I went for orbital insertion. I have, however, had occasion to reprimand her for the disconcerting habit of crying out, “Yes, yes, Captain Janeway” (whoever he is) whenever I applied full thrust.

Problems arose with the outside thermometer which froze and, as I had forgotten to pack my E.V.A. suit, I couldn’t go outside to warm it up. Predictably, several nails around the containment field came adrift but this did not cause too much problem with the handling of the craft.

Points to take on board before my next flight from realis primus include:-

a) take on board an extra electric fire and blankets.

b) less nails and more screws to withstand full thrust.

c) remember E.V.A. suit and pyjamas.

d) allow 7 of 9 to win the occasional hand and keep some clothes on.

I have been able to select a site for the Jovian observatory (now nearing completion in my back garden) which now only requires decent grade roofing felt and some more screwing which Miss 7 of 9 has offered to help me with.

On our 3^rd. orbit I was able to take a photo of the future landing site (see below)

For photographic anoraks out there I can reveal that it was taken on ¼ plate sheet Ektochrome film (200 ASA) at f.5.6 1/30^th sec. with my tripod firmly clasped between Miss 7 of 9’s legs to avoid camera shake.

Well that’s it for now except to convey the sad news that my old friend Professor Prem. (Omigosh) Chukabhutti passed away during his trip to India. Details of his death are still sketchy but it appears that his revolutionary low temperature car climate control system ran amok during a demonstration around Calcutta.

Reports reaching me indicate that he’d stopped his car in the middle of the commercial area to allow a cow to cross the road and within seconds he froze to death at about 50 degrees above zero absolute. He and his old colleague Mahatma Khote BSc.(university of Jolliphur) failed, physicist, guru and part time cloak room attendant, had to be chipped out of the vehicle by a specialist retrieval crew wearing protective clothing. It will be some time before the remains can be sorted and reassembled prior to funerary rites on the river Gunges.

Well, that’s all the news for now so it only remains for me to say,

“Transmitte mea sursum Caledoni.*

Sincerely,

Theophanus Throte.

* “Beam me up Scottie.”

Struthius in the City

From the Book of Struthius.
Struthius in the wilderness of Brum. Ch.1 V.1

And it came to pass that on the sixth day the Mem spake unto Struthius saying,

“Behold the season of Joy and Tinsel approaches, therefore, let us to the city and the highways and byways of the bazaars and souks, wherein, dwell the purveyors of jolly festive junk that we may buy merry presents for friends and family.”

And Struthius upon hearing these words fell into a deep anguish and called upon the God of copulation and misfortune crying,

“Oh Fuck please not Christmas shopping again!”

But Fuck heard him not and so with a heavy heart did he go forth with the Mem upon whom lay heavy the Spirit of commerce.

And in the hours that passed did Struthius spend many years gathering unto him much festive junk so that he became laden as an ass and hung like a donkey. And the time drew nigh when the Mem wearied of her time in the city and said,

“We are grown weary of our labours and it is time to leave the highways and byways of commerce let us therefore repair to our own land and sweet refreshment.”

Upon hearing these words did Struthius, now grown old and round shouldered beneath his burden, offer thanks to the God saying,

“Thank Fuck for small mercies!”

But Fuck again cocked a deaf one to the trials of his servant and in the fullness of time the Mem and Struthius fell amongst the distributers of good news and religious tracts.

Now a certain man, a shitite of malodorous presence and upon whom shone the light of the happy simpleton, accosted the Mem and Struthius saying,

“Friends do you believe in eternity?”

And Struthius, now fallen prey to foul mood, walked past the simpleton saying to the Mem,

“Ignore the prat for he will delay our journey and my knuckles are grazed by the sidewalks as my arms are greatly extended.”

But the Mem took pity on the poor simpleton and urged Struthius to respond. And Struthius wearied by his labours replied thus,

“Verily I say unto you I have been joined with this woman for more than forty years and if that does not constitute an eternity then I know not what does.”

The righteous simpleton was, upon hearing these words, disconcerted and addressed the Mem thus, saying,

“Are you not offended by the words of your spouse?”

The Mem, upon considering this question, fell silent as befits one who wishes not to further inflame a fraught situation.

Then the malodorous simpleton turn back to Struthius and asked,

“Do you believe in your soul.”

And Struthius now thoroughly pissed responded thus, saying,

“Good simpleton, to which do you refer, Arse or Immortal?”

Upon hearing these words the righteous simpleton fell into a state of great discombnaculation and raising his hand heavenward declared that to mock ones soul was to condemn Struthius to an eternity in hell.

Upon hearing the warning Struthius responded thus, asking,

“Shall I save my soul so that I might spend eternity with likes of you for I say unto you that I would rather spend eternity walking the highways and byways of this commercial centre with my scrotum and its contents removed with a hacksaw and the sharp end of a pineapple inserted in my rectum!”

Then the Mem fell upon the hapless Struthius and belaboured him with harsh words and demanded that Struthius look kindly on the righteous simpleton and offer up words of apology.
But Struthius, now driven to near distraction by his year in the wilderness of Brum, heeded not the discomfiture of the Mem nor the confusion of the righteous fool and proceeded upon his journey

And in the fullness of time did a great silence fall upon the house of Struthius.

For it is written that there is a calm before the storm!

Sunt sua cuique vitia !

It has often been said of Struthius that he has achieved failure without the need to exert effort. For some it is necessary to strive but for others (including Struthius) it is as natural as breathing.

I have pointed out to my detractors on many occasions that were it not for failure then there would be no point in success and that were it not for failure then life would be the poorer.

The author Mr. Stephen Pile was able to see that failure can be, and often is, heroic; a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly concur.

Since my early youth I have held in high esteem 3 persons who have achieved singular failure and I make no apology for bringing these wonderful people to the attention of my readers, (if I have any).

William Topaz McGonagall 1825 -1902 aspiring poet and actor

If ever a man can be said to be completely unaware it was McGonagall; indeed, his degree of self-belief borders on genius. His magnum opus is generally agreed to be his poem based on the Tay Bridge disaster of 1879
which starts,

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath of 1879
Which will be remember’d for a very long time

The poem contains the memorable couplet,

And the Cry rang out all around the town
Good heavens! The Tay Bridge has blown down.

As an actor he also achieved fame as the worst Macbeth ever. In a theatre in Dundee during a performance of the tragedy he, fearing that the actor playing Macduff was intent on upstaging him, refused to die when stabbed by Macduff and kept the scene going for so long that the management finally had to bring down the curtain much to the delight of the audience.
In 1892, following the death of Alfred Lord Tennyson he walked from Dundee to Balmoral in atrocious weather (60) miles to personally ask Queen Victoria for the appointment of Poet laureate.

He was turned away and had to walk back home.

Florence Foster Jenkins 1868 – 1944 aspiring soprano

American born Miss Foster Jenkins was to music what Hitler was to Mother Theresa. Heiress, born of a wealthy family she was so obsessed by self-belief that she failed entirely to acknowledge (or understand) the rules of musical notation. Her dreadful performances were only matched by her flamboyance. Often appearing on stage with a rose in the teeth, (which did nothing to improve her voice) or carrying a basket of roses which she would hurl into the audience (sometimes with the basket) she presented an awe inspiring spectacle of inappropriateness.

Her voice, once described by a music critic as the “sound of a distressed cockerel” together with her refusal or inability to stay in one key (occasionally the key intended by the composer) and, therefore, only rarely coinciding with that being played by her accompaniment made her a favourite amongst audiences. On her farewell performance at the Carnegie Hall in October 1944 she disappointed her audience by starting with 3 correct notes but was soon back on form by abandoning stave, pitch and key and ending her concert so far from the orchestra (musically speaking) that she received a standing ovation!

Pedro Carolino 19c aspiring phrase book writer

My personal hero! In 1883 he compiled an English-Portugese phrasebook despite having no knowledge of English. He had a slight understanding of French so circumvented his linguistic shortcomings by translating Portuguese first into French by means of a Portuguese-French dictionary then from French into English via a French dictionary. The results border yet again on genius.

English as she is spoke

The first part contains familiar phrases for use by the Portuguese traveller to England e.g.

I have mind to vomit
He go to four feet
That pond it seems me multiplied of fishes
Dress your hairs
Undress you to
Exculpate me by your brother’s
She make the prude
He has tost his all good

He then moves on to useful dialogues? E.g.

For to ride a horse: “Here is a horse who have bad looks. Give me another. I will not that. He not sall know to march, he is pursy he is foundered. Don’t you are ashamed to give me jade as like? He is undshoed, he is with nails up.

Under anecdotes he gives us one guaranteed to enthral any listener.

“One eyed was laied against a man which had good eyes that he saw better than him. The party was accepted. I had gain, over said the one eyed; why I se you two eyes and you not look me who one.”

Under proverbs and idioms we have,

Nothing some money, nothing of Swiss.
He eat to coaches.
A take is better than two you shall have.
The stone that roll not heap up not foam.

Pedro leaves us with this gem

“To craunch a marmoset”

If you are still with me, thanks. Isn’t failure wonderful?

Sincerely,

Artemus Pratt

De profundis (secundus)

It has been decided that the Mem and I should take a short holiday to recuperate from the stresses of our divergent realities. Thus, upon the weekend, we will be travelling together and in the company of understanding friends to our divergent destinations; she, the Mem, will be spending a pleasant week on the Northumbrian coast whilst I will be visiting Ganymede and testing the viability of the Struthius Warpdrive as well as seeking a suitable site for erecting the first Jovian system observatory which is currently taking shape in my back garden.

I have received a communication from my old friend and mentor Professor Premchandra (Omigosh) Chukkabhutti whose work in ultra low temperature physics has inspired the “Struthius Warpdrive”; he asks me to point out that should a failure occur* in the struthical containment field it will probably be due to the nails and poor quality glue that I have been forced to use as I ran out of screws - and not his design for the freezer unit!

He further points out that I have not made it clear that the nature of the “struthical” is so strange as it does not and cannot exist in nature and can only be described by a mathematical model involving the Clausius-Clapeyron equation modified by a string of sub-variable trans-ordinal Hamiltonians.

The good professor is due to visit India to lecture at the University of Jolliphur on his research into more efficient local climate control systems and will demonstrate the modified system fitted to his car.

We wish him well.

Well, there it is then, a week away existing in two mutually exclusive realities, the Mem in realis primus and I in realis hedonis. I’m buggered if I know where our friends will end up but that’s another day. I must sign off now as my cork leg has swollen due to the damp weather.

Sincerely, Klaus W. Schmellingpantz


* heaven forefend!!

De profundis

In my previous communication it was mentioned that Struthius was facing a further charge - which is that he has lost his grip on reality! Now, this rather begs the question as to the nature of reality. I (change to 1st. person) submit that I have, over some 50 years, been able to take a different and more all-embracing view of the subject and having been, from early youth, made aware of the philosophy of David Hume, Bishop Berkeley and others of the idealist school of thought I am convinced of the mutability of reality and time; a view perhaps supported latterly by A.N. Whitehead.

Now, it is a fact that from an early age it became evident to me that nature had equipped me with a mediocre mind and a lack of physical fortitude which, being the case, meant that the chances of my living a life of any interest or significance was minimal.

It was the historian/philosopher Diogenes Laertius in the 2nd c. A.D who tells of the anchorite Onan Tosoffalotides, a follower of Simeon Stylites, who in order to gain insight into the nature of reality mortified his flesh for 37 years in the desert living off a diet of grubby chitinous creatures, mushrooms and cactus. By his 12th year of solitude, no doubt helped by his diet of cactus and mushrooms (Probably a species akin to psilocybe semilanceata) he found himself living on his pillar with a friend Angus who cooked for him 3 times a week a meal which amounted to a menu of Petit porc roti avec pommes de terre nouvelle et legumes du jour et biere glacee avec un gros figment de l’imagination.

Given, therefore, that the mutability of reality has worked for others I see no need to apologise for creating what Suetonius has called realis hedonis. It has enabled the oft beleaguered Struthius to lead an enviable and fascinating life.

In my early 20’s I was able to follow in the footsteps of Hanibal and then to visit the Dalai Lama who was still in Tibet.

I have fought as a mercenary in the Congo where I was held prisoner by the pygmie Fukawe tribe. I lost my left leg to an enraged crocodile and was only saved by the fact that a passing contingent of St. Johns Ambulance volunteers (Hasting’s Branch) happened to be carrying a cork prosthetic which they were able to fit after some gruesome surgery.

I have enjoyed a passionate relationship with Miss Shirley Eaton, Miss Deborah Kerr (dressed as a nun), Miss Julie Andrews (dressed as a nun), Miss Mariella Fostrup (dressed as a nun) and Mrs. Margaret Thatcher (dressed as a woman). I still remember the nights of carnal delight with Samantha (I’m sorry I haven’t a Clue)

I have, created a spacewarp drive following my discovery of a particle to which I have designated the name “struthical”. It possesses neither colour nor charm and unless contained within a force field will move in ever decreasing circles finally disappearing up its own fundament.

Finally, in addition to finding some use for the Clausius-Clapeyron equation I have solved Bodger’s last theorem!

Well, there we are, I rest my case.

Worrying, isn’t it?

For better or for worse

It’s been a strange and difficult time in the Struthius household leading to tensions between the Mem and myself.

I have grown used over 40 years of marriage to dismissing Mrs. C’s moithers concerning her appearance and weight in a manner least likely to cause misunderstanding or offence. Thus, in response to the oft asked question, “Am I getting fat?” the wisest response is, “No dearest heart, of course not.”

Following, however, 2 rather large post prandial brandies I fell victim to that hiatus between brain and vocal apparatus that occurs following copious alcohol consumption and feeling in the playful mood that usually precedes unconsciousness responded, when the matter was yet again brought before me, by saying, “No of course not dearest however,.....and here lies the root of the problem,…. I am constantly amazed at how far the human skin will stretch.” Bad Mistake.

Now, and with the benefit of sobriety I realise that given the fact that the Mem had posed the question just prior to retiring and herself in a state of dishabille it was not a good time to attempt levity.

The ensuing barrage contained not only the usual restating of my foibles and failures but an attack on my current tendency to blog which, I learn, only goes to show the world at large what sort of idiot I am (she apparently has more than one category). After several minutes of unbroken criticism she concluded with comment on my alcohol consumption.… “You’ll carry on ‘till it kills you and I’ll be left a widow!”

I, reasonably, pointed out to her the axiomatic nature of the first part of this statement (unless of course she knows something that I don’t, perhaps there is an afterlife) followed by the incorrect assumption contained in the second part which is that I have within my gift the power to leave her something in my will that I don’t possess. What I can leave include, a collection of “Boys Own Comics,” followed by 3 dozen copies of, “Spick and Span” circa 1960 plus my photos of Miss Shirley Eaton both of which assisted me through the delights of night manipulation during puberty. There are my slide rules, one 6” flat and one circular (a reminder of our wedding day). What I cannot leave is a widow!

Time has, however, healed and I’ve been allowed back on the Babbage engine. During this week a further charge has been laid before me but I shall the sad details until the next blog.

I leave you with this thought, “in vino veritas”

Sincerely yours, P.J. Cobbledick

Further lamentations

Peritis in sua arte credendum (Beware the know-all)

An event this morning has convinced me to enter into a diatribe against the self-styled expert, the enthusiast, the driven fiddler and tweaker for whom life's entire raison d'etre is the improvement of all that they happen upon.

Jerome K Jerome in his book "Three Men on the Bummel," makes clear his own antagonism towards the dastardly self-assured (the bike improver).

My own sad encounters with these blithe, excremental do-gooders began in the first year of marriage
My first T.V. set, cheap, second-hand and cheerful an excellent instrument until it fell under the scrutiny of an electronics expert, a visitor whose immediate reaction upon seeing it was a sharp intake of breath through pursed lips, "Oooh, your wobbulator's misaligned and the focussing coil needs re-setting, it'll just take a few minutes." Sadly the bastard didn't die when the set did; his excuse, "It was on it's way out anyway." So was he and 4 months elapsed before I could afford another T.V.

A year or two later, the story of my mortice chisels, sharp enough for D.I.Y needs and in a pleasant red plastic case. Enter stage left another bright bastard, again the required sharp intake of breath as I hacked a hole in the back door, "God knows how you can work with these, let me have them I'll have them sharp in no time." I was still young and green so instead of saying, "Thank you for your concern, fuck off," I relinquished them to the mercies of this enthusiastic Chippendale. After 2 weeks of phone calls their remains, now a good 3/4" shorter, were delivered back to me minus (of course) the hardened edges which now lay as filings beside this f***pig's* grinder. His excuse, "Had a little trouble with these, this is what comes of buying cheap tools and I'm sorry I've lost the case." Oh dear, 3 fucking useless lengths of soft steel and he apologised for the case!

Time heals, and so it came about that 4 years ago I fell foul of the smooth and convincing tongue of another enthusiastic fiddler. I had just finished cutting my grass when a former neighbour had the goodness to inform me that the motor on my mower was missing. I pointed out, quite reasonably, that had this been the case it wouldn't have started and in any case it was evidently still in place.
"No, no, no I mean that it's running unevenly, if you don't adjust it the grunge wheel will cause wear to the spigot drive, you'll ruin it, I'll adjust the carburettor for you."
Now, a brighter and more worldly person would, at this juncture, have simply stabbed him in the throat with the garden fork; I am kinder and stupid. The later cost of professional repair ran to £45!

This mornings encounter with a "Skoda" enthusiast on ASDA's car park who, in return for me opening the lid of my machine, was prepared to "advise me" on certain "improvements to the setting of (again, the carburettor) which would improve the m.p.g. of my motor. This led me, after an initial good natured refusal, to become quite scathing of experts and enthusiasts. He seemed a little put out at the thought of having his scrotum and its contents boiled and departed in a huff. I'm learning.
P.S. My self-appointed proof reader (the Mem) informs me that I owe any readers a missing word from my last Lamentation - "where"- Last paragraph. Satisfied?

* An appellation brought to my youthful attention by a certain Drill Sergeant W. "Billy" Wright which, he assured me formed the backbone of his descriptive vocabulary, used to describe the indescribable, the f***ing excremental and the totally f***ing useless. His words not mine but how apt.

Lamentations amd Punctuation

Dear readers, you, will, I'm sure have noticed that I employ a goodly number if commas, parentheses, semi-colons, interjections and other minor punctuation marks in my text.
For this, I make no apology.

I stand accused, close to home, of superabundant, even, dare I say, plethoric use of these devices; even my own "Babbage Engine" has turned against me chiding me thus:- ( this sentence is fragmented consider another option) Sodding cheek! "Infamy, infamy, they've all got it in for me." *
Well, the cheeks of my arse to my detractors!

I hold the view that if the Almighty had intended simple sentences then SHE would not have given us punctuation. What, I ask, is the point of all these little delights if they are not going to be used? Do my critics fear that they will run out, become exhausted through overuse?
Why do we have subordinate clauses and other grammatical sub-constructions if they are going to left in the drawer like unwanted gifts?** How would we successfully parse a sentence without guidance from the little buggers?
If complex sentences were good enough for Dostoevsky then they're fine by me.
Of course, I realise that there is some virtue in using punctuation correctly and I freely admit that my enthusiasm for giving it an airing oft supersedes care but "ARSE" I will not see these grammatical devices left unused.

I, further, hold the view that punctuation is truly Universal, indeed, that The Creator (Bless Her) has put in place a continuous creation of commas etc. (were Hoyle and Wickramasinghe almost right?) a veritable cornucopia, and that in all civilised societies including that on the small, but nicely marked, planet of P'tong in the constellation of Orion highly intelligent grubby little bastards are merrily puctuating with The Creator's (Bless Her) plenitude of grammatical gifts.
Well, that's it then, I suggest a collective noun for punctuation - a proliferation? What think you m'learned friends?

Finally, my thanks to "Junket" and "Biddster" for supportive comments (if they were) over the last week and the wizzard Rincewind wishes it to be known that his centipedal wooden familiar is never far away.

* Mr. K. Williams as Caesar.
** Who did buy us the Korean travel clock that plays the Korean national anthem, apparently backwards at warp speed?

lamentations and slide rules

Do slide rules, as I remember them in the mid to late 60's still exist?Am I right in thinking that the truly avant-garde amongst the young carried a circular slide rule?

Lamentations continue

I'ts been a funny week, again.
Tensions in the Struthius household have been exacerbated by the following:-
1. An invitation to watch a friends play with their wee.
2. Upsetting the Memsahib (my dear lady-wife) by recounting a story of our wedding day
3. Failing to read the instruction booklet accompanying my latest car.

Last weekend found the mem and I visiting good friends where we were invited to play with their wee. Now, this is not a gross perversion for consenting adults involving bodily waste; it is a game (almost certainly Japanese) which requires the participant to hold a handset and flail his (or her) arms and generally cavort in front of the television in order to simulate sporting activity, (in this case tennis) following which, the machine gives an assessment of the age of the participant.
Considerable prompting and cries of "party pooper" eventually persuaded me to "have a go". It will come as no surprise, therefore, to those who know me that an assessment of my age based on speed and agility finally translated as being a few years older than "Heinrich" the 307 year old moribund tortoise of 17, Acaia Crescent, Galapagos! The mem is mortified.

An amusing but innocent story which I later recounted caused a frosting of marital harmony as I had not realised that the "D" notice slapped upon it 40 years ago by the mem. was still in place. It involved me, the mem, wedding photographs and a 6" slide rule, (do slide rules still exist?) I had intended to tell the story at the recent troglodytic wedding but given the reaction of "She who must be obeyed" it's a bloody good job that time ran out. I am, consequently, in the domus canem; woof woof.

On Wednesday I returned my car of 2 months (The Popemobile) to the salesroom with a faulty air vent. This slot on the dashboard had failed to produce wind since day 1. It is with a certain discomfiture that I must report that the "air vent" turned out to be a record machine for compact discs. This boob was well received at the garage who, to the mem's further mortification, have promised to treasure this story and recount it for the entertainment of future customers. My precarious intellectual standing in the eyes of the mem has dipped to an almost all time low.

On the whole, not a great week,
regards, A Pismo Clam B.Sc (Gt. Wittering) failed

Lamentations and Questions

This week I have re-read after 50 years, "An Imitation of Christ" by Thomas a Kempis. This and the accompanying commentaries has, left me wondering why, in my youth, I was so impressed by the the views of this mystic Divine, particularly, his emphatic view on humility a quality that, then as now, was never my strong point; in short I am, and always have been an arrogant bastard..
It is interesting to note that in recent years I have re-read Dostoyevsky with the same result. What is it that so impressed me in my youth that I learnt Russian just to read him in his own language? Why don't I enjoy with the same sense of wonderment "The Idiot" or "The Devils"? Why is it that today I would much rather read Terry Pratchett?
Is it just a matter of changing emphasis in my life as I enter old age or is it a fundamental change of philosophical and literary taste? If the latter, when did this change occur? Does everyone experience such profound changes of thought and outlook as they get older? Is it, perhaps, that memory plays me false and the enthusiasm of youth just never existed?
Bollocks!, does it matter?
Sincerely,
Algernon Quim (aka Rincewind)

The Lamentations of Struthius

Well, here I am in the the 21st. century still equipped with a 19th. century mind. In my dotage I find myself "Blogging". Now, over the last 65 years I have in all honesty done and even practised (usually unsucessfully) some strange pastimes but blogging never!

It's been a funny old weekend rescued only by the company of good friends. On the home front I have been under siege following my return from Crete. I stand accused of being a humbug, a dissembler, a deceiver, a tartufe; this calumnous slander of my veracity I vigorously deny.

Well, say I to the accusing shitniks, Arse. I really did see the posted ad. for the Cretin night and the fact that it was almost 11 of the clock p.m. is the reason I did not have upon me my camera to add supporting evidence, short of purloining a board measuring about 2ft. 6" by 4ft and carrying the sodding thing back to the hotel with the attendant risk to life and limb by enraged Cretins I could only expect to have my story believed. Further, the refusal of my detractors to visit the site of the restaurant in the cold light of day the following morning only reinforces my sense of betrayal. The fact that these same doubters plus a coachload of others saw the later ad. outside Heraklion (Real Greek Food) has not softened the opinion of Mrs. C and others that I am tantamount to being a lying toad.

Sincerely, Eustace Mc Gargle