Ancient Sperm...

found hidden in rock, shock. On seeing daylight the aged Sperm blinked and said. "I got lost, it was dark. Hey where are the guys? Billy, Trev, Arthur. We were swimming, down a long tunnel, it seemed long at the time. We were excited. We'd even practised... My God this place has changed. Last thing I remember was hitting my head. I hope the others are okay."

Depressed chicken loses will to live...

reports the Renfrew Gazette. This sad tale of maltreatment by a nasty farmer might have achieved another ending but for the vet who then broke it's neck. Freed from a lifetime of shit the poor bird glimpsed salvation for the briefest moment cradled in the arms of a kindly grey haired gentleman with warm but firm hands. A little too firm as it turned out. Squawk!

I'm inspired by my friend...

Guyana Gyal to post a link to the marvellous Penguin Cafe Orchestra. I'll say no more, just follow the link for a tiny bit of joy.

Oldest man in Tokyo...

been dead for 30 years reports the BBC. Local officials became suspicious after not seeing Mr Sogen Kato for 30 years. "30 years may seem a long time to some," Said one official, "But we've been busy."

A spokesperson for the records office said, "Mr Kato has now been stripped of his title and sash though he can keep the sash because it's holding him together."

A further spokesperson told Associated Press. "When dealing with the dead it pays to be on your toes. In this case we failed but then again so did Mr Kato whose toes fell off some time ago."

La Grande Bellezza...

or, The Great Beauty is a blisteringly good film about an elegant 65 year old Roman journalist specialising in art, culture and the ocassional catty put down. Rome looks, well, ravishing if a little wrinkled at the edges not unlike Jep himself. An event from the past reaches out to shake Jep's urbane cool and we then follow this quizical comical man who likes to party but wearies of partying. A living saint arrives in Rome whom Jep has to interview but instead she sleeps on his floor. Sipping coffee on his balcony the following morning amidst a gathering of strutting and preening pink flamingoes this dessicated diva archly suggests to Jepp that what he might lack is roots. Watching in astonishment Jep wonders if she might be right.

October...

in West Yorkshire and a bit of Basho...





autumn colors
without a pot
of red-brown soup






"Autumn is marching on: even the scarecrows are wearing dead leaves." -  Otsuyu Nakagawa

Vatican doves...

in release horror reports the BBC. Pope Francis who likes to be known as Francis last weekend released two peace doves from his bedroom window that were promptly devoured by a seagull and a crow. Microphones recorded the following.

Dove one: "I'm free, I'm free. What the fuck!..."

Dove two: "My god they've got Bertie. Fucking hell... Arrrggghhhhh..."

A spokesdove told Associated Press, "No one saw that coming."

Falling into a Black Hole...

is like falling into the fire, or so reports The Belfast Telegraph.

Ruminating over astronauts tumbling into black holes some chap called Polchinski "hypothesised that instead of being gradually ripped apart by gravitational forces, the event horizon would be transformed into a 'highly energetic region', and anyone who fell in would hit a wall of fire and burn to death in an instant - violating Albert Einstein's theory of relativity."

Rather than ripped apart you're burned to death. Phew, and here's me worrying over ripped apart.

Glucose in tears to be...

measured by Google or so claims today's Observer. I understand they plan next to measure orphan's tears for viscosity as a fall back for when the oil runs out. From weeping orphans to fuel security the bastard Tories will salivate even more the moment they grasp the connection. Hmmm, wonder what might be mined from saliva? Quite a lot given the amount currently drooling from the ruling class's sagging jowels.

I don't feel better for writing that... and it's only day 19... grrrr...












 

507 year old clam...

killed on birthday, shock. Or so reports yesterday's Independent newspaper. Having spent the previous half a millennium scratching beneath the cold Atlantic waves off Iceland Ming the Clam died in a pan surrounded by his friends. Chief Scientist Bill Chowder told the waiting press, "Ming gave his life for the advancement of both science and a good lunch. Some think it cruel to eat such aged creatures but we know from previous experience that hot crusty bread and a robust Chardonnay deadens any guilt. And let's not forget that Ming died knowing how old he was. So, another plus there then. Thank you all for coming. There'll be time for further questions after the second course."

Bio-degradable electronics...

only short time away or so predicts some clever professor in today's Observer. 

A simple wafer, swallowed as if at communion will open our innards to scrutiny. Innard data will pour forth with such uncontained force as to place passing children at risk of being bowled over. It will become impossible to stand in proximity to a radio or speakers or someone wearing an ear piece for fear that vital information from our vitals leak across. And who among us would want that?

Awash with tiny devices, up our nose, down our throat, in those hard to reach crevices we'll broadcast like a fucking beacon. What we eat, drink, excrete. Who we slept with, if it was good, if we were good, if we were shite. The particularly sensitive will no longer have to contend only with the chip on their shoulder.

Every morning a dilemma over what to take, every evening a crisis about what we gave. I'm bloody exhausted just thinking about the whole process. Finally though, and happily, these silicone slivers have limited life and dissolve inside of us to be then pissed away. Pissing away ones troubles, ah, if only.

And the madelaines? Apparently next month is the 100th anniversery of something Proust did.

To Manchester Jewish History...

Museum where a section of the Chagall Exhibition currently entrancing visitors to the Tate North in Liverpool is staged. Prior to WW1 Chagall spent time in Paris mixing with others of the Eastern Europe artistic diaspora and the tiny exhibition hosted by the MMJ shows works by Chaim Soutine and Sonia Delaunay and others, as well as Chagall.

By happy coincidence Elaine Feinstein about whom I know very little was also present and reading from her recently published memoir as part of Manchester's Literature Festival. Mrs Feinstein told anecdotes that made us laugh and read some of her poetry but she also read 'An Attempt at Jealousy' by the Russian Poet Marina Tsvetaeva which I thought wonderful. Here it is...

How is your life with that other one?

Simpler, is it? A stroke of the oars

and a long coastline—

and the memory of me

is soon a drifting island

(not in the ocean—in the sky!)

Souls—you will be sisters—

sisters, not lovers.

How is your life with an ordinary

woman? without the god inside her?

The queen supplanted—

How do you breathe now?

Flinch, waking up?

What do you do, poor man?

“Hysterics and interruptions—

enough! I’ll rent my own house!”

How is your life with that other,

you, my own.

Is the breakfast delicious?

(If you get sick, don’t blame me!)

How is it, living with a postcard?

You who stood on Sinai.

How’s your life with a tourist

on Earth? Her rib (do you love her?)

is it to your liking?

How’s life? Do you cough?

Do you hum to drown out the mice in your mind?

How do you live with cheap goods: is the market rising?

How’s kissing plaster-dust?

Are you bored with her new body?

How’s it going, with an earthly woman,

with no sixth sense?

                                                         Are you happy?

No? In a shallow pit—how is your life,

my beloved? Hard as mine

with another man?

1924

I loved the sarcasm and caustic wit but the poem's real power lies in the wrenching finale where Tsvetsaeva's gaze turns inward.

It's not often I'm introduced to two exceptional poets in one day. Lucky old me.

Top five physics discoveries...

chosen by Physics World mag makes today's headlines. In no particularly order these are:

Hadron therapy: Nasty for tumours good for us.
Quantum computing: or, at the quantum level all states can be achieved at the same time and therefore the right answer will also occur in there somewhere. Strikes me as overcrowding by another name, but there you go.
Graphene: super thin material no ones quite found a use for yet but will never make it as a blanket.
Superlenses: or glass beads for superseeing.
Kinetic energy harvesting: or, how flip-flops will light a city. 

Hadron therapy, quantum computing, graphene and superlenses demand we look down at the depth. KEH demands we look down at the shoe. Or, get a load of those shoes, or, more specifically, we can get a load off those shoes. It's best foot forwards from now on methinks.

  

Sundown over...

Matthews Lane. Everyday the sun moves further south and soon will set behind the house opposite.

Ancient flying reptiles reprieved...

or so claims today's Observer newspaper. Pterodactyls, or pterosaurs now called were not the evil bat like creatures with odd shaped heads and long beaks that could pierce the standard chest at a glance. Latest research denies pterosaurs as wilful cackling monsters roaming the Jurassic sky and suggests incredibly long lived and graceful creatures surviving 160 million years. It appears therefore that these hardy flyers have been given a very poor press by the likes of HG Wells and Steven Spielberg.

Yes, if turned suddenly or without warning that beak could have out the average eye and yes those teeth could tear out the average gizzard should the beast be standing on your chest. But times were brutal back then. After all, who of us can be surprised that alongside the evolution of eyes should also evolve beaks for poking them out. Evolution is playful. Before becoming too misty we should remember the pterosaur diet included insects, small dinosaurs and mammals. I'm not much stirred by the fate of insects and small dinosaurs but eating the mesozoic mammal was wrong. Small and furry I know but they were kin and we should not forget that.

Archaeopteryx...

so recently knocked off it's perch by archaeologists makes astonishing comeback in the late heats reports the BBC.

Howard Archaeopteryx, dabbing a fossil tear told reporters, "I spent 150 million years pressed into rock waiting for this day and I've not been so moved since the JCB ran over me head. Finally, I'd like to thank the fans and those who never lost faith, even after we were given the bird. Thank you so much. There'll be time for questions after the buffet."

People chase cheese...

down a Gloucester hill, shock. This weekend thousands of excitable cheese chasers met in leafy Gloucester atop a very steep incline. With no thought to life or limb these hardy souls plunged after said cheese with vigour. More than one race meant everyone could have a go. As I understand it broken limbs were minimal, broken heads minimum and broken jaws, mmmm, mm. In a much criticised move organisers used a fake cheese for safety reasons. It's clear from the photo below that a false cheese made all the difference. Next year they're hoping to arrange proceedings on a false hill. 

As usual local police took a dim view of the event with Sgt Jabez Knacker telling the press, "We take dim view of the event." The ambulance service, on the other hand, had an excellent day out and used up all their bandages.

Awakening after...

after 17 years underground in the US of A billions of cicadas emerge to focus on six solid weeks of sex, drugs and wild partying. 

Speaking for cicadas everywhere Joey Tremblewing told the New York Times, "While the frenzy of sex, drugs, noise, booze and wild partying might appear excessive to some we must not forget those who heeded  the UN's call to eat more insects by plunging into a vat of chocolate."

Eat more insects...

says UN. Marty Bodkin, spokesbug for INSECTS! the main European collective of Insectum and Allied Chitinous Groupings, pictured, told Associated Press, "Just because we're small it doesn't mean we can't love."

Marty, always one to provide a little colour was later seen gorging at the bottom of an unwashed jam jar while belting out that old classic, "If you think we are fucked clap your hands."

Another spokesbug for INSECTS! told the BBC sternly, "It's a disappointment to us that Marty is back on the jam."

Much controversy

at London conference entitled "Did humans come from the seas instead of the trees?" The orthodoxy challenging proposal speculates that humans are descended from apes living aside water rather than wandering Africa's dry savannahs. Professor Rhys Evans says "We are trying to discuss the pros and cons of the theory... But many of the things that are unique to humans - such as a descended larynx, walking upright, fat beneath the skin, and most obviously an extremely large brain - it seems can best be accounted for as adaptations to extended periods in an aquatic environment."

Not being one to jump the gun, so to speak, I can claim a little credit for highlighting some time ago evidence contradicting the standard notion that gorillas are fearful of water.

Dan Flynn, ahead of the pack. Odd I wasn't invited. 

Happily,

Edinburgh University have declared exposure to sun is good for us. Yes, there's a chance of cancer but who isn't willing to take that chance when the alternative is ricketts, scrofula, scrapie and weeping skin lesions only curable through an urchin's touch? Not many of us I'll be bound and especially since the urchin shortage shows little sign of relenting. Unless, of course, at the next election the Tories get in again. If they do we can add being buggered to that dismal list.


Such a miserable post Dan. What the fuck's going on?

Justin Bieber's...

monkey seized by officials. 

As he was led away the monkey shouted to onlookers, "I'm Spartacus!" A spokesperson for the tour said later, "We've no idea who this Spartacus is. Mr Bieber has never employed anyone called Spartacus and wants to distance himself from the monkey's claim otherwise." 

Of the genus Papio the monkey was later interviewed by Bob Smallbean for the BBC a transcript of which is below.

Bob, "Welcome. What shall we call you?"

"Call me anything you like, darling. You're paying for this."

Bob, "Yes, but you must have a name."

"Is it okay if I smoke? Another gin would be nice too. D'you mind? Where is that waiter. Alfonse! Over here darling. Another pink gin, yes darling, and easy on the pink this time. You're too sweet."

Bob, "Your name?"

"Now that's a difficult one. Us monkeys aren't given to naming each other. Not that far advanced you see."

Bob, "Justin must have called you something."

"He generally called me a little shit. Ah, here's the gin. Lovely, lovely. Sure you won't join me? No? Well, please yourself. Alfonse, before you go give me a light, will you? Thank you darling. Oh, and keep the drinks coming there's a love. The BBC's paying so there's no need to scrimp."

Bob, "Justin called you a little shit?"

"Only on account of the shitting darling. Can't be potty trained you see. Not that far advanced. Monkeys don't stand on ceremony when it comes to shit we just do it. Ha ha. I remember shitting in his Steinway once. Got my todger caught in the strings too. Did I mention my todger? Lovely thing, feels fabulous. Do you want a look? No? Well you're no fun."

Bob,"How long have you been with Justin?"

"I've no idea. No concept of time you see. Not that far advanced. Where's Alfonse? Here he is. Well done darling. You just keep lining them up. Now, where were we?"

Bob, "Was he a good owner? Did he take care of you?"

"In what sense take care, darling?"

Bob, "Were you fed regularly, did you have somewhere to sleep? That sort of thing."

"Oh, that taking care of. I though you meant like by the mafia. Being bumped off."

Bob, "Why would you think I meant being killed?"

"He bumped off a few before me I can tell you. Monkey one and monkey err. What comes after one darling?"

"Two."

"Yes and straight into the bin they went. Monkeys one and two. With every image change comes a new monkey. Sometimes it's hard to tell what day it is. We're not very far advanced you see. Did I mention that? Here's Alfonse. Be a dear darling and fetch me some of those canapes I spotted at the bar. Nothing fishy though. Fish causes havoc with my bowels and we know where that can lead. Ha ha. Fortunately, I noticed a piano on the way in."

Bob, "How does he do it? It must be distressing."

"With a huge gun, in the main. He's a lousy shot. You should see the state of his walls. Darling, try one of these canapes. They're delicious. Of course it pishes me off."

Bob, "Pishes?"

"Sorry darling. Am I slurring? Not eaten since I was seized by the cops and they only released me an hour ago. ALFONSE! OVER HERE DARLING. More canapes, there's a sweet. Sorry, was I shouting?"

Bob, "Will you be rejoining Justin's party for the rest of the tour?"

"I thought I was. There should have been a car to collect me from immigration but there wasn't so I got a cab. It's nothing to scamper up 15 floors from the outside and on reaching the balcony I see Justin with a macaque. A FUCKING MACAQUE. Can you believe it. He replaced me with a macaque. I was only gone a couple of hours. ALFONSE. THIS GLASS IS EMPTY. Thank you darling but you need to be quicker. I'm upset."

Bob, "Why are you upset?"

"I've been replaced by a macaque. Darling, wouldn't you be upset if they replaced you with a turd? Well, it amounts to the same thing. Macaques have no conversation, they have no manners, they're constantly plagued with fleas and don't get me started on that sniffing bums thing. Thank you Alfonse, you've started bringing doubles. Bless you. Did I ever say how much I love you Alfonse? No, well I fucking well do. I'll tell everyone. HEY, YOU MISERABLE FUCKERS. THIS GUY ALFONSE. I FUCKING LOVE HIM."

Bob, "You're upset?"

"Fucking right I'm upset. I had a job, I had a home. Don't get me wrong Justin's not the sharpest tool in the box but he was fun to be around. A fucking macaque, can you believe it. Still, at least I've not been shot so that's a comfort... Justin fucking Bieber. Wanna know a secret about Justin fucking Bieber? He only likes monkeys because we make him look bright. Ishh true. But I won't cry, stiff upper lip and all that, what? ALFONSE, DARLING, ANOTHER TINCTURE FOR THE BROKEN HEARTED. HMMM? And yes love I do mean me. Just look at him, Bob, see those tight buns? It's like watching two cats fightng in a sack. That man is a god."

Bob, "What will you do now?"

"Oh, I'll be fine. Got a bit of money stashed away. Not sure how much. Can't count you see. Here's Alfonse with another large gin. What a peach. Speaking of large ones, Bob, you know what I now need most? A shit. Where has that piano got to?"

Justin Bieber's...

monkey seized by officials. "It does the boy no harm to have his monkey seized ocassionally." A friend said later.

The weather has been...

crap.

White smoke seen...

above The Vatican. A friend wondered if they were burning the kiddie porn before being busted. Nothing was reported in later news bulletins so it looks like they shifted the gear before the cops kicked the door in.

Some weeks have passed since Francis One blessed those gathered beneath that cheap window high above St Peters Square, which, by the way, is not a square. It's hard to say, therefore, how the new man is bedding in, or who he's bedding for that matter. No doubt all will become clear in around 30 years or so. 

Incidentally, Francis reminds me of Phil Silvers once great as Sgt Bilko though Bilko was funnier.

Prior to Benedict the Umpteenth's election my mate Sean wondered if they'd break with tradition and elect a non catholic. I wondered the same this time but it was not to be.

Patti Smith...

singing "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

My friend...

Guyana Gyal notes that in one country horses and carts have been banned from the roads. G then asks what this might mean for the rickshaw but I can't see how you'd fit one in a can.

Ice Age art...

"arrival of the modern mind" is on at the British Museum in London and I'm gonna miss it! Boo hoo. Many items are carved from ivory or bone and show animals and imaginative half animal and half human creatures such as the 'lion man.' The oldest pieces are from 40,000 years and demonstrate in their beauty and craft that humans back then were capable like us of abstracting the world into symbols and signs. These ancients were closer to nature than us and particularly keen to represent and objectify the animals they observed, lived among, hunted, domesticated and ate.

Like us these ancient types were particularly fond of horse and this is ably shown through many horse sculptures including one labelled simply "Can". An abstract piece "Can" asks us to think of horse but in a can. We are challenged to imagine not only a can but within it a horse or part thereof. Are we so removed from our grizzled forebears sitting at the mouth of some damp cave carving shapes? Lips pursed in concentration to help them better classify food. This most prescient piece reaches across 40,000 years to ask a fundamental question as important then as it is now: just because it says horse on the label can we be sure it's horse in the can? Of course, the question today is one of beef on the label and horse in the can but I think we catch their drift.

Donkey found in

horsemeat, shock. A relative of the deceased, pictured, told the BBC. "Now look here. On Sunday he went for the papers now he's in the papers and as the family understands in the pies too. We always knew he'd go far just never thought it would be with gravy." 

Benedict the Umpteenth...

resigns, shock. Speaking to Associated Press a Spokeshorse for the Society of Canned Goods said, "We hope a limited edition will reach the shelves by Tuesday."

Horse found in...

lasagne.





Speaking for the bereaved family Neddy Big Horse said, "He was definitely told Bologna. Clearly, something has gone very wrong."

Dung beetles navigate...

by starlight says latest study.

"It's true." Says Valerie Dungbeetle, pictured. "Pushing shit can play havoc with the back which is why it's important to keep a straight line. And we've been in the shit business for a long time, so we know. Why only last week my cousin Vinnie Dungbeetle confused by the asteroid flypass stumbled, the ball rolled back, Vinnie got stuck in the moist and off they went down the sand dune, all antennae, flailing legs and crazy bug eyes spinning into the darkness. I mean, he wasn't a pretty sight to begin with. Not seen him since nor expect to. It's a tough profession. Some say it's shit. And they're right. It's why I'm a Darwinist, incidentally. No God, no matter how focused on the detail could dream us up."

The tale of Chicken Licken...

is also a parable of avian hubris. One day Chicken Licken whilst travelling to the woods is struck on the head by an acorn not much larger than his pea sized brain. Chicken Licken deduces from this that the sky has fallen in and therefore he must warn the King. Had the acorn fallen on any head other than Chicken Lickens the official record might have been kinder. However, this normally unremarkable happening set forth a train of events leading directly to Chicken Licken, Hen Len, Cock Lock, Duck Luck, Goose Loose, Gander Dander, Drake Lake and Turkey Lurkey being eaten by Fox Lox and his children in a wild flurry of feather, blood and crunching bone.

Many theories have been advanced to explain the strange belief that led to the fall of Chicken Licken and his friends. Dazzled by the dappled green wood Chicken Licken not only lost his way, some think, he also lost his mind.  So convincing was Chicken Licken that seven friends blinded by group think also lost their bearings. Whatever the speculation there was general agreement that by the afternoon’s end it wasn’t just Chicken Licken’s mind that had gone but so had the rest of him.

A board of enquiry found Chicken Licken's original deduction was in error and to conclude from one acorn that the sky was falling in showed a cavalier disregard for reality. The board was equally critical of Hen Len, Cock Lock and the others for sheepishly following Chicken Licken given his reputation as delusional. On the high attrition rate the board drew attention to the group's composition noting that eight such strikingly dim creatures joining in this manner was simply bad luck and could not have been foreseen.

Should fear of the sky falling in strike again, the board observes drily, look up. The enquiry also recommends upward looking as a solution to other problems like falling anvils or objects swinging by at head height. Had this advice been in place it is thought the death toll might have been smaller.

Yesterday, Nasa reported that in two weeks an asteroid of football pitch proportions will pass within 17,500 miles of the earth. Upward vigilance, watchwords for us all, methinks.    



 

Today's

Observer newspaper observes the human body would fit "into a cube less than 1/500th of a centimetre on each side" if all the space between the atoms was compressed out. What remained would be incredibly dense in a fashion similar to neutron stars. I too would become incredibly dense and very minute should all my space suddenly decide to vacate. Now, there's a sobering thought to mull with the morning's toast. The article fails to explore what the cubed me might think if this occurrence came to pass. Not a lot, I suspect. However, should my contracting consciousness manage a final utterance it will contain the phrase "Fuck me!"

The theme of human shrinkage is explored somewhat in The Fly from 1958 where the protagonist comes to a very sticky end by having his brains bashed in with a huge boulder. Well, it was either that or be eaten alive by a big spider. As a life outcome not much can comfort the getting tinier especially if bashed in brains or becoming spider food are the alternatives. I am drawn, therefore, to the unarguable conclusion that losing all ones space is best avoided and at all costs too.

Horse's head found...

in burger. The astonished horse, pictured, told the BBC "It came as much a shock to me as the kid whose bun I fell out of. Broke both his arms poor little bleeder. I think he was expecting the healthy option."

Bits of John Bosco...

are currently touring the UK sealed in a glass coffin and attached to a life-size wax figurine. With no hint of irony the Catholic Herald claims this event fulfils the saint's wish to visit Britain. That JB is dead and beyond fulfilment appears an issue they've magnificently avoided. I think it's fair to observe that some 150 years ago when the blessed JB expressed a hope of reaching these shores he assumed it would be in one piece. I'm confident a saintly eye brow might have been more than raised had the suggestion been put to him that, yes, he would come here but not quite in the fashion expected. And how might one have explained to the venerable John that this same sainted eyebrow, lifted here in puzzlement, would indeed visit the UK but not with the rest of him. The eyebrow of course is pure speculation because it's not clear from the publicity which part, or parts, of John are here. It is unclear how much of John actually remains. I've seen a hand mentioned but is it left or right? Does it matter? It no longer matters to John that's for sure and here dear reader, lies the rub. As John's reputation for saintliness has grown then so his remains have shrunk. Those legs that once carried this hardy Christian soul are now lost in the mists of time along with his trunk, shoulders, head, both arms and the other hand. Who needs such trivia when you've a bedrock of four casters supporting a good trolley? Not the Catholic Church and certainly not their long departed priest. As the hallowed remnants of our desiccated deacon are dragged up and down these martyred byways can we really declare the opportunity for digital mischief will not multiply? After all, even a relic needs a rest from the razzmatazz. Getting that hand through customs on the way out might yet turn into a nightmare.

Asteroid Apophis...

will miss earth by the considerable margin of 36,000 kilometres in 2036. And here was me worrying.

Yesterday a large doe eyed spider...

not dissimilar to our friend on the right became trapped in my bath. Well, it seemed doe eyed to me and most probably because I too was doe-eyed from the previous night's excess of beer. The spider tried repeatedly to climb the bath's steep and pristine sides but being unable to find a purchase it slipped back. Over the edge I draped a line of loo roll to act as a ramp. My arachnid friend was gone this morning. It left no note.

IBM supercomputer...

cannot speak slang, shock. Watson, named after Sherlock's sidekick presumably, is good at quizzes but not good at expletives. Good at answering questions on general knowledge not good at telling people to bugger off. The fluidity of language and meaning is beyond our chippy friend. Ask it to name the third highest Himalayan peak and quick as a flash it replies Kanchenjunga. Ask who won the 1958 US Masters and before you've time to inhale it shouts Arnold Palmer. Indeed, if asked to name the father of quantum mechanics, Watson, and no doubt with a sigh due to the question's insignificance will whisper, Max Planck. But ask Watson which of its human colleagues is the biggest tosser and no answer will come. Whilst idly polishing Watson's magnificent chrome should one mention that at last night's post programming party Billy from accounts made a right arse of himself the poor machine will not nod in sage agreement. Nor will Watson acknowledge that Billy's friend Moira, also half cut on cheap white wine, was right when she called him a prick for accidentally tipping into her bag a bowl of pistachio shells. For Watson there remains much that is puzzling about language and the way meanings are made. So, the clever old thing might know the answer to almost everything but at parties? Completely out of it's depth. Mind you, that's what comes when ones life is spent bolted to a floor.

Day 6...

of 2013 and I've spent most of it prone in the company of an unwelcome cough. Only ASDA's astonishingly cheaper version of lem-sips have kept my boiler alight, so to speak. A hacking cough precedes me to such an extent I've become known as Chesty Dan on Saggy Aggy Street where I live. When I leave the house children flee. Pensioners cross themselves and turn away. Small dogs look up, alert, like they're in danger though the only danger they face from me is the possibility of being gobbed on. Jeeze? Wheeze more like. I'm so congested my voice sounds like an empty crisp packet unfolding slowly.

Tomorrow I'm going to work. Be churlish to keep this thing to myself. Hurr, hurr, hurr...

The Ancient Egyptians believed gods...

were made of gold. With so much time having passed are Egyptian gods worth less now? The current gold price would suggest not. A recent news item caused me to ponder: how much is God worth? And what of polyathiesm or a god for every ocassion?  Lets not leave out demi-gods, sub-gods, part time gods, temporary gods, half time gods, job share gods. What of gods on temporary contracts? Does this bring down the cost? Neil Gaiman's novel American Gods posits that gods exist because people believe in them but as belief wanes then so do the gods. I like this notion. Recently my fridge started creaking and groaning. I said "Oh God, don't break". It broke completely. I bought a new fridge. The journey to the local dump with the old fridge was enlivened by a tiny wild haired fridge god complaining that no one ever listened.

I said "That's rich. You didn't listen to me".
It said, "You were whining."
I said, "It was a simple prayer. 'Oh God don't break.'"
It said, "You were exhorting. Where was the liturgy? Where was the style?"
"Liturgy? Style? It's a fridge." I said.
"It might be a fridge to you but it's nirvana to me." It said.
"Look." I said
"What." It said
 "The light went, the pump went, the thing flooded."
It said "So."
I said "You take no responsibility?"
It said "I'm a god not a mechanic. Take a left here."

Arriving at the dump I made to back my car towards a compound in which were fridges as far as the eye could see. Some large, some small, silver fridges, white fridges, chest freezers, side by side fridges, top freezer bottom fridge, bottom freezer top fridge, tiny fridges for cooling beer, medium fridges for galley kitchens. A bothersome of fridge gods jostled to see what was going on.

The fridge god said. "I'll guide you in."
I said, "Okay."
It shouted. "Back, back, back, back, back. Keep on coming. Back, back, back, back. Back, back, back, a little further. Back, back, back, back. Not far now. Back, back. Just a little more. Back, back, back, back."
"Your doing a crossword. I stopped ages ago."
The little god jumped."Fucking hell. Creeping up like that. Made me jump."
"Help me get the fridge out of the car." I said.
"Can't do that." It said.
"Why not." I said.
"After the Jesus debacle we won a 'no carrying of heavy items on final day' clause. It's here under 'Backs' on page 32." It waived a sheaf of papers.
"What about your friends." I nodded to the other gods.
"Ah, you'll notice some of them are a bit faded. No longer up to the job. Been forgotten too long."
"Suppose I'll have to shift it myself then." I said.
"Before you begin I've a question for you." It said.
"Ask away." I said.
"One word, seven letters and means to 'go abruptly'."
"Fuck off." I said.
"That's two words." It said.

Leaving the dump I could hear the fridge god calling to the crowd. "Three down. Nine letters. Begins with S. Means deliverance. C'mon. C'mon."

My new silver fridge arrived the following day and was duly plugged in. The motor hummed, the pump pumped, the door opened, the light came on and a voice said. "12 across. Renewed existence. Seven letters begins with 'R'. C'mon. C'mon."

Who needs gold eh?

Hello 2013...

and...










Take a seat. Make yourself at home. A drink maybe? Perhaps a gin at tonic? Ah, you've work to do. No time to sit and chat. Yes, I can see that. Best not keep you then. 2012? Oh, it left a minute ago. Was a grumpy bugger. To be honest we're all glad to be shot of it. Right, best foot forward then. That tune your humming? Carol King isn't it? "Will you still love me tomorrow?" Go on with you 2013, of course we'll still love you tomorrow. Make no claims for the day after though. Yes, I know your an optimist, so am I but life is fickle. Okay, got your flask? Sandwiches? Good. Feel free to call in anytime. Bye, bye. Missing you already. Now, where did I put that gin?

World due to end on Friday...

say followers of the Mayan calender. As a means of measurement the Mayan method has long ceased to be the cherry in history's pie. The Mayan baktun is as useful today as those Martian rocks Challenger keeps stumbling into. Honest, the bus timetable is more accurate a predictor of events than the ancient baktun. One forecasts the arrival of charabancs the other universal disaster but which has stood the test of time? There's plenty of buses but can anyone remember the last apocalypse? I think not. The timetable, however, predicts a bus is due and lo, here's the 192 to Piccadilly Gardens and in the distance? Oh, another 192 to Piccadilly Gardens and behind that? MY GOD IT'S ANOTHER 192. Giddy with excitement I'm now atop the shelter and peering through binoculars I see in the far distance OMG yet another 192. Let's hear it for the bus timetable a chart that just keeps on giving. Which is more than can be said for the Mayans.

If the world does end on Friday, mind you, I'll be the first to hold my hands up and admit I was wrong. And you can't say fairer than that.

 

Seaton Carew...

in County Durham on a freezing December morning. In the distance is Redcar steelworks and I'm reminded of the film Silence of the Lambs when trainee detective Clarice Starling visits the home of Frederica Bimmell who is Buffalo Bill's first victim. The scene begins with Clarice driving over a girdered bridge into the cold industrial town of Belvedere, Ohio. We see a barge hauling goods on a soulless river then Clarice's car beneath trees bare of foliage on a street of clapboard houses. Amber leaves lie all around. A freight train clatters on the elevated rail line before the camera cuts to a woman in buttoned coat hanging out washing beneath the gloomy grey sky. Mr Bimmell stands by his pigeon coop as nervous Clarice crosses a grubby lawn to meet him. The dull green coat Clarice wears adds to the sombre tone.

Arrival in Belvedere links a harsh industrial landscape with the weariness and pain in Mr Bimmell's sad unshaven face and is amongst the film's bleakest moments.

Last Friday, I looked south from Seaton Carew. To the right and out of shot is Hartlepool's nuclear power station and the huge oil and chemical factories of Billingham.

A beautiful beach diminished.








 

Largest black hole...

in universe is discovered. Last week I was driving down an old farm track and encountered some very large black holes. Nearly buggered my car's suspension.

Uncrackable code...

found in chimney attached to pigeon's leg.

"We don't know what it means." Says representative of GCHQ where Britain's premier code breakers work.

"We're not sure either." Says spokesinfant for SOOT, the Federation of Sweeps, Urchins and Allied Child Labour.

Klaus Von Boid, of the "Lost Pigeons of WWII" Cardiff East Chapter told Associated Press, "That code has stood the test of time which is more than can be said for the leg."

Detached leg...

of spy pigeon found in chimney 70 years after getting lost. Attached canister contained undelivered message.

"He adored that leg." Said veteran spokespigeon Klaus Von Boid whose great grandfather knew the owner. "Of course it looked a lot better back then, more fleshy."

Mr Von Boid, Chair of the "Lost Pigeons of WWII" Cardiff East Chapter told the press "Mind you those canisters were a bloody death trap. Bakelite you see, weighed a ton. Avoid chimneys they were warned and ledges. Damned things dragged many a good bird down that final squawking plunge. Found in a chimney you say? Well, it just goes to show."

* and the undelivered message? More of that later.

Man breaks four...

limbed sprint record, shock. Except the record Kenichi Ito beat was his own. Ken spent nine years training to defeat himself in this singular event. Being the only known non primate exponent of four limbed sprinting Ken congratulated himself on a job well done. Far be it from me to focus on the bleedin' obvious but coming first in an event of which you are the sole practitioner can hardly be a surprise. Watching the footage one wonders where those nine years went.

New Years Eve 1931...

and in  New York hopefuls parade their new season designs for Masonic regalia.

Unfortunately the post Crash depression forced a retreat from ostentation and return to the small pinafore but we can see that a bit of effort was being made. 

Sadly, none of the above is true, except of course the 1931 and Crash bit. These fellows are in fact architects wearing models of the buildings they designed.

Would that such a practice remained in place today because Anish Kapoor should be forced to wear a model of the monstrosity he designed for the London's Olympic Park. Mind you, he'd only trip over it, probably sprain something. Looking like an eruption of park railings the thing's clearly a neck hazard.

The structure's original brief called for Eiffel Tower elegance and Statue of Liberty chic. Normally, elegance and chic are big ball parks and hard to miss. However, the final design was passed unanimously by a committee of nine meeting regularly in an ivory tower overlooking neither Elegance nor Chic. And lo this circle of nine agreed a composition matched in ugliness only by its name: The ArcelorMittal Orbit.

Fortunately, and to prove we've all not lost our senses a Guardian Poll at the time recorded 38.6% for "Yes, it's a grand design" and 61.4% for "No, it's garbage"

I'm also cheered that "arse" is the first syllable of the bloody thing's name. 

Been meaning to get that off my chest for sometime.

John D Barrow...

speculates that our present Universe might not be alone and concludes "Copernicus taught us that our planet is not at the centre of the universe. Now we may have to accept that our universe is not at the centre of the Universe."

Bugger!

I'll return to this once once I've had a lie down.

The Stanford Love Competition...

uses MRI scanning to survey the brains of people in love, or not, as someone learns. Each gets five minutes to think and feel deeply about whom they love whilst the machine captures brain chemistry changes. Cold science maybe but in a very sweet film the winner is very sweet too. Ah...

There's something...

bloody odd about having an owl instead of the best man (or woman) deliver the wedding ring on that happiest of days. The Church Weddings Handbook begs to differ. More couples are breaking with tradition by using animals to convey those golden bands to the altar. Eagles, Vultures and Condors are not suitable given their propensity to eat the smaller guests. Being highly strung excludes cloven hooved creatures like gazelles and wildebeest. Not much point tying those darling rings to an animal geared for flight at the first crack of knee on pew. With twitching ears, pawing of nave floor, wide panicky eyes and snorting nostrils those beasts are built for neither patience nor the Christian liturgy.

Should marriage ever heave itself over the Flynn horizon my choice would see the rings borne aloft by hordes of soldier ants. Those tiny scurrying nipping creatures could also double to keep the congregation alert.  Ha ha, imagine the jealousy.

"Darling, I know the Komodo Dragon can be a problem but we need an outdoor creature since those ants ate the church. It's very simple really."

Archer fish...

spitting mystery solved, says BBC. Well, and here's me thinking they were just plain rude. In the UK spitting is sometimes called "hocking a loogie". Scientists have discovered that Archer fish don't hock loogies as previously thought but instead push water through their gills and mouth into a jet so powerful it could have your eye out. In piscine terms Archers are not happy fish and say a reputation for spitting has never really opened doors.  Federico Archerfish, pictured, told the BBC, "We're not happy. Spitting has never really opened doors. We're hoping that this scientific breakthrough will do for us what a previous study did for piranhas. Those guys eh? So, it's goodbye spitting and hello gobbing. That noise, Alfonse? Why it's the sound of doors opening. Yee Haw! Sssssspppprritttt...!"

Feathers go back...

a really long way, like really far back. This recenty discovered picture has lain preserved in Canadian shale for millions of years and proves feathers were decorative before they were practical. Ostrich sized Ornithomimids, for it is they, pre-date the animals that pre-date birds by quite some distance. Possessing a toothless beak, large eyes, long legs and tail these animals were particularly succulent when roasted. I've mentioned elsewhere the problems of forcing such creatures into the modern oven.

Ornithomimids were peaceful animals and not prone to fighting, even after a drink. Shorn of hands that might become fists, in a bar scrap, the Ornithomimid made like the peacock, astrutting and apreening, when with feathers for fingers they should have been arunning and afleeing.

Toothless beaks transformed into evolutionary handicaps  as these poor creatures learned that in a world of bone crushing mandibles the gum is not king. Ribald cries of, "Show 'im your teeth, Barry," only emphasised just how bitter the gum pill really was.

Even the Ornithomimids didn't think they'd make it through the early selections. Evolution, laughing like a drain.

Badgers reprieved...

shock. Brian May, sporting a badger said, "It is clear that nothing clings to the head quite like a badger."


A badger spokesbadger pictured below said. "Head clinging is an honourable profession. It's time for the persecution to end. Thank you, we'll take more questions after the buffet."

Approaching Manchester...

eastbound along the M56 I spotted a pheasant dithering on the hard shoulder. Deciding to cross the daft bird was promptly crushed beneath the wheels of a car.
 

What last thought might have fluttered through the creature's tiny head? It certainly was not "My, the traffic's busy today." It could have been, "Well, Lionel, best foot forward eh?"

The bird did not even look around. In my view that bird was COMPLACENT. 

"Tra la la la la. I'm a happy bird. La la la. Day twenty two and no guns. Ha ha ha ha ha. Fuck you Mr Hunter. I know, I'll go this wa_________________________________" *

The pheasant. Can any more be said?

* the shooting season began on 1st Oct.

 

My antipathy...

towards cats is boundless. Cats shit and piss in my plant pots. Cats give me asthma.

In the 1874 Alexander Graham Bell et al were developing a transducer to make sound from electrical impulses. With some success they used the tympanic mechanism from a human cadaver to generate noise. Years later two psychologists achieved better results with cats. First removing the cat's brain then wiring its ears produced an early MP3 device or so insists Jonathan Sterne. Accompanying the EMTY-CAT format streaming through kitty heads clamped to the skull also came the urge to shit in plant pots and piss on babies heads. Early baby netting was not the familiar white gossamer but instead a heavy gauze designed to repel streams of fetid urine. Netting became a de rigueur barrier since the wearer of these pioneering devices was unlikely to hear the shocked parent cry out.

Batteries the size of a modern fridge hampered mobility until the market leader began giving away urchins free with every device. However, innovation could not overcome the product's main handicap which is the cat heads limited shelf life. In winter this period might be measured in hours during summer they could rot off the ears before the satisfied customer even reached the till. Much thought was given to refrigeration as a preservative despite increasing the likelihood of death to the wearer from over-cooling. Some suggested the answer might lie in a smaller battery but the threat of an urchin strike stopped that line of enquiry.

Empty cat to MP3, who'd have thought?

Rock...

found on Mars, shock. Last week news was dominated by a rock. Scientists were aghast that Martian terrain might feature rock. "We planned for everything but this." Said an ashen faced engineer.

A local who would not give her name told  reporters, "Thank you people of Earth for this huge thing that's landed. We've no idea what it does. Send duvets next time eh? It gets cold this far from the sun, dontcha know."  Asked about the rock she replied. "Damn thing, people are always tripping over it."

I've dwelt previously on items...

that may become trapped in car grills. Decorative grills are not designed to catch the unwary. In Massachussets this dog whom we shall call for anonymity's purpose, Dim, was wedged for some 11 miles in the grill of sedan. A qualified mechanic, passing as they often are, safely removed the Toyota from the dog's head. Fortunately, damage to the paintwork was minor though the same cannot be said of the dog whose skull was fractured. I think the lesson is very clear. Fit bumpers.

Slave ants...

or, Temnothorax longispinosus have demonstrated that rebellion is a natural state of being. Put more pithily by Dr Susanne Foitzik, "Enslaved worker ants kill the offspring of their parasites and thereby improve the chances of survival for their neighboring relatives."

Rebellion, it's a DNA thing. Dontcha just love that? A little lesson for us all, methinks.

Missing the zeitgeist by quite some margin this ant from the species Selfish Bastardos has a lottery ticket.

Impressive image from...

 the Hubble Ultra Deep Field.

Some of the light has taken over 13 billion years to reach here. Hubble focused on a tiny spot below the Orion Nebula and discovered it to be full of stuff. Or rather, less empty than previously thought. The universe is huge, even bigger than big. So massive is the area between things the place is more empty than full. Extraordinarily empty by all accounts. So empty in fact that what's in it amounts to almost nothing. Lucky for us then that we've a little corner of almost nothing to call our own. Group hug, yay...

Raging storm batters...

UK shock. Foam covers Aberdeen suburb, shock. Professor says foam is plankton snot. All those tiny creatures, all those colds. Someone ought to complain.

Apparently...

this bit of old papyrus is causing quite a storm. The size of a credit card and written front and rear the text is a note from Jesus to his wife complaining that the chickens were crapping everywhere. The note concludes "Tell your useless brother John to get his head out of his arse and stop letting the chickens in the fucking house."

The argument goes that this note is proof Jesus was married.

The Vatican challenged the document's authenticity by reminding everyone the Son of God never married or used expletives. Cardinal Boniface Strokeachild told the world's press "It is well known the Son of God never married or used expletives." Asked to elaborate further His Eminence replied "In those days Jesus was a common name so this could be anybody." Asked about the chickens the Cardinal said "They can be difficult animals to keep especially if they get in the house."

The controversy is expected to continue. 

It's been a bloody awful...

summer in the UK. Days of torrential rain, whole towns bobbing merrily down temporary rivers. Mountains washed to the size of pimples by the downpour. The force of falling water stripping paint from house exteriors. The weather was so strange, one minute scorching sun (well, not that scorching nor that much sun) then afore you know it major floods.

Originally, these two went looking for sun screen, something with an emollient. Maybe they were crushed by a fickle summer and the driving rain because with backs bent they staggered home beneath 100 kilos of the finest marbled fat. Perhaps only the incessant morse of rain on noggin can explain a firm belief that Lard futures were poised for the upswing. Oh, how this summer nearly did for us all.

Here's amazing footage of the Mars Rover landing. Our first view is the craft's extremely heavy heat shield falling away towards the Martian surface. I couldn't help but think that if there are any natives they'll be really pissed off when that thing lands.

Last weekend enjoyed walking from Chapel en le Frith to Buxton via the path above Combs. It was so cold even the sheep were warning us to keep of't hills.

"Keep of't hills," they said.
"It's bloody cold up there." they said, nodding upwards.
"Aye, and keep of't moors." murmured one sheep.
Another coughed, hawked black spit and muttered, "Aye, ent moors... where's that back rub Jeremy?"
Then they all wandered off to hunt for Jeremy.

It's been some years since I encountered moorland sheep sticking their noses into my business.

Sunday's Observer...

newspaper published an article called "Making a silk purse from a goat's udder." wherein it reported how genetic technology now allows goats with spider genes to produce milk containing spider silk. David Cronenberg dealt wittily with the subject, well I laughed, in his film 'The Fly'.

Inverted goats bleating from the kitchen ceiling. I suppose it's progress, of sorts. 

Discovered this...

whilst looking for something else.

It's footage from 2008 of a man jumping off a cliff, or, basejumping. His parachute fails and he breaks his leg before a tree breaks his fall. Not in the least impressive.

My dad loved...

tripe. Tripe is the stomach lining of sheep and other ruminants, apparently. Tripe really is what it says, it's tripe. Tripe tastes horrible. Dad would poach tripe in milk with onions. Dad would eat tripe raw with vingar and salt. It seems a new book called "Tripe: A Most Excellent Dish." is not tripe.

Dad's lips would also smack for pigs trotters pressure cooked for 30 minutes or so. My childish face would look on aghast as dad chomped and slurped and burped his way through plates of tripe. The years have diminished my aghastness not one jot.