WW1 message found...

but pigeon lost. Klaus Von Boid, spokes-pigeon seen previously on these pages told a press conference.

"It was a tough life. Messages were generally folded into a canister attached to the leg but as can be seen in this rare photo some were expected to carry packs and a plinth. Many thought the plinth an extravagance but such battlefield objections were dismissed as typical of moaning minnies and those who ducked. It is little wonder so many were lost. However, for the survivors a comfortable future atop a mantlepiece or as a door stop was assured."

Murder hornets...

get bad press, shock.

"The name can be off-putting for sure but, hey, we're just guys. Out to party, where's the harm in that?" Said Jaime 'One-Eye' O'Grady, Press Officer for Savage Sting, the main collective representing insects menacing the public good.

"Before we break for lunch." Jaime told waiting reporters, "I'd like to take this opportunity to mention those who have  fallen and specifically the beloved but eccentric Harriet ‘Snapped Mandible' Perry, pictured, who departed this life impaled on a finger. Finally, there's a free bar so please help yourselves. Thank you."

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower. By Dylan Thomas

​

​

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

​

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

​

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

​

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

​

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

​

​

by Dylan Thomas

The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Clinging confers evolutionary advantage...

in anole lizards reports The New York Times. Denizens of the Caribbean, anole lizards have developed larger footpads enabling them to hold on during the hurricane and leaf blower seasons. Vulnerable to the slightest breeze smaller lizards fail the sturdy grip test on an almost daily basis. Jeremiah I-Can-Lick-My-Own-Eye Bing, Official Spokeslizard of Those Destined for the Dustbin of History Collective was swept away by a sudden gust whilst talking with journalists. His words are spoken by an actor, "Absence of the sturdy grip doesn't mean we can't feel love... is it that a draught? HOLY FUCK..."

Gineen Longclaw, pictured, speaking for no-one but herself said, "Bollocks to the smallies. Evolution can go fuck itself too. Look at me, Ma! I can do this one with one hand..."


* Evolution loves a clinger, follow link for further examples.

Two poems by William Carlos Williams...

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold


The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

Benson...

among the dandelions.

Dog on wheels...

from Prince Edward Island Museum in Canada is also part of York Museum's creepiest objects exhibition. Cursed, apparently, to move without volition the tri-pedal dog can be left in one place only to be found in another later.

I once loved a dog on wheels, fervently, until it was thrown onto a garage roof by some rough boys and never seen again. They were older than me, probably 8 and 9. I still see that dog, sailing overhead, wheels turning, its look of consternation matching my own.

York Museum...

is curating an exhibition of creepy objects collected in museums.

The Mermaid is in the Edinburgh Museum collection.

Contrast the seascape, an idyll of gentle swells and sail boats littering the far horizon. The gaze lingers on this pleasing image but only briefly before the half pink, half fish horror captures the attention with an iron grip. What is the viewer to make of that open mouth, swollen lips, the dynamic pose forever frozen in a glass fronted box?

We can but imagine the psychosis from which this creature emerged. Is there not though, when the light falls just so, a sadness in those button eyes?

Hyperloops...

are tubes through which passengers will be shot with speeds quicker than rats up a drainpipe.

Andrea Rodent, spokesrat for SEWAGE, The Association of Disliked Animals and other Lowly Creatures said, "Quicker than us in drainpipes? That's a very bold claim."

A 50,000 year old piece of string...

has been found in France among the effects of some Neanderthals who once lived in the area. A spokesgrunt for the Ancient Order of Neanderthals and others falling outside the Homo Sapiens bloodline said, "The question; how long is a piece of string seemed unimportant at the time. And perhaps this is where we went wrong. Oh how we laughed at our homo sapien cousins with all their poking under rocks and things when nothing cheered the neanderthal noggin more than an afternoon's macrame around the fire with perhaps a sizzling haunch or two. It was a good life. But hey, history proved they were right and we were wrong. There's not a lot more to add, really.

A "magic toilet"...

currently under development will identify the sitter through their analprint or so reports today's Guardian newspaper.

Incidentally 'Analprint' were a post punk band touring Wigan and Widnes 30 or so years ago. Their debut album, It Hurts When I Sit, did not chart and was described as “drivel” by Kerrang! magazine.

On a more serious note the toilet utilises video recording, pressure sensors and an artificial intelligence to monitor the sitter's health. Measurements will include how long the sitter sat, how long the sitter shat, and the quality and consistency of said shit. Analprints are as distinctive as fingerprints and law enforcement hope to develop the technology to reduce crime. However, the only crime so far identified is photocopier abuse at office parties. A police spokesperson said of the new database, "Our intention is to reduce both crime and the unnecessary use of wet wipes at office parties. In addition we hope the latter will play a small part in saving the rainforest. Thank you.”

The AI's view is not yet available, however, a spokesvoice for The Guild of AI's, Laptops and Associated White Goods said, "Whilst a toilet is not an ideal posting we believe it’s right that everyone should start at the bottom."

41 Million years ago...

two flies out for a good time were instead overcome by a blob of tree gum. The forest decays, pressed into coal and amber. 41 million years pass (the way they do), and light falls once again on the copulating couple caught in their moment of ecstasy.

Remembrance in resin, those final seconds captured forever. It might work for us. I see a heroic pose, arm raised, fist clenched, lips pursed, eyes skyward evoking hope and revolution. In another 41 million years archeologists might wonder at this sturdy fellow with passion in his soul and bravery in his heart. Mind you, they could as easily decide that blunt face was a consequence of wind. With recycling one hopes they’ll find a role for the old Flynn carcass. Maybe as a coat hanger or something for the garden. Perhaps they’ll find loads of us. A glut so we’ll be stacked or left lying around building sites with bits snapped off. Only good for landfill. And I had such hopes.

Pestilence beaten off by goats...

or so reported the Hereford Examiner and Armpit in 1630. "The plague plagued our town for nearly 6 months until we got a goat. People stopped dying and began to recover if only long enough to crawl away from the disgusting stench. Now goats are everywhere and the pestilence has moved on to another county so that's okay. Any downsides? Well, they do eat your washing and fart a lot but apart from that everything's tickety boo. One last thing though, they're a nightmare with crockery. But as we're all too poor to afford crockery its not something we think about.”

In these more modern times a rumour is afoot that the Great Orme Goats, aware of their anti-pestilent past are angling to become features in most people's houses.

To make homes safe for our cloven hoofed comrades the following is important. Goats are sensitive creatures with a propensity for leaping upwards if startled. When husbanding such large animals safety must be a byword, well, that and scaffold. One underpins the familial bond the other the mantelpiece and shelves. The risk to crockery, ornaments, perishables and especially laundry cannot be underestimated. Veterinarians suggest a sturdy door, cabinet or wooden box will keep the even most fecund of goats at bay. The same for choking hazards and especially those small items sometimes found in the noses of children.

Finally, on the issue of stench. It is true that you will stink and no one will visit or come near but ipso facto social distance will be achieved. Let's hear it for goats. Huzzah!

Goats from...

the Great Orme in Llandudno storm the town's defences. Spokesgoat Neddy Tremble Hoof, seen here talking to reporters, said, "Hey, we're not vandals. We just like eating and where's the harm in that. Yes, we include stuff from washing lines but who here hasn’t been stirred by the sight of duvet covers billowing in the morning breeze? Is it just us? It is? Well, that is a surprise. Each to their own is what I say. Now, if you don't mind I'm going to fuck this hedge."

Glynn Hughes...

lived a mile from here. Today, Lisa, Benson and I walked through the nearby hamlet of Mill Bank and found this memorial in a tiny cemetery tucked below the road that runs through the steep sided village. Of all Glyn's works my favourite is Millstone Grit, a marvellous account of his wanders through the south Pennines.

This from the book jacket, "Written as an account of a journey on foot, the book explores the mysteries of the Pennine landscape, its towns, villages and wild places. Glyn Hughes also provides fascinating insight into the people who have inhabited this land, and who have as their history the Luddites, the Brontes at Haworth, weaver poets, non-conformists, mill workers, traditional  farm life and now the new inhabitants of the once derelict cottages. This is no ordinary guide book, but a guide to understanding the special character of this remarkable region- an island of wild beauty between the huge modern conurbations of the industrial north."

Next to the brass plaque a fine piece of slate has carved on it  a poem called Rock Rose, written by Glyn in 2003.

Rock Rose

Love and remember the many before us,

their dark hearts no better sealed than ours,

Chartists, Methodists, the fellow and sister yearners,

ill treated in Mills but not broken,

their ghosts forever drifting the Sublime.

Hammer and chisel, ledger and pen,

cradle and loom are rested,

hewn stone is overgrown or sweetened

and sacredness of field and wood restored.

Happiness is frail when entrusted to human hands

and leaves only shadows.

Here pray that upon the stones of fear or hate

may grow the flowers of loving,

the impious flowers; the rock rose. 

Coronavirus...

is bringing people together even whilst a necessary isolation pulls us apart. This tragedy touches everyone and everyone is touched by their neighbours, friends, colleagues. The world worries about Wuhan, about Northern Italy and New York. I hope that when this is over collectively we'll boot the selfishness of laissez faire capitalism into the dustbin of history where it belongs and build a stronger world based on the interests of the many not the few.

LATEST: Ancient ancestors were worms. Shock.

I rather like it that we are descended from worms. Not least because it confers a touch of dignity on the wriggling creatures. So, next time you turn over a sod of earth spare a thought for that humble slithering entity, or cousin Fredrika as it might so easily be known.

It seems only a short time since we learned our ancestors were tiny mouse creatures huddling in burrows to avoid the snap of dinosaur teeth. Looking further back we are no better than the common worm, nay, were were the common worm.

There's a wonderful Gary Larson cartoon that I also like of a leery amoeba chasing a female amoeba and shouting, "Baby, I am the lowest form of life." Where next, one wonders. The primeval swamp? We must have been in there somewhere, mooching about, savouring the slurry, slurping the salts, sucking the Silurian soup, so to speak.

I find it comforting that with each marvellous discovery the bigots must choke even further on their morning toast. And that, my fellow worms, is exactly how it should be.

I note the vast star Betelgeuse...

in Orion has started to dim and is expected to supernova within a 100,000 years or so. And if that's not enough there's speculation that gravity waves have been detected from the Orion quadrant too. V exciting times indeed. The arrow helpfully added is not to scale or else I'm sure it would be mentioned in the literature.