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.

Evidence of animal that moved 550 million years ago..

found in Canada. Reported in New Scientist Mag the worm like creature lived on the ocean floor and by all accounts was previously a fern. These pre-Cambrian ferns called Ediacarans swayed in shallow salt waters secured by a root or foot of some type. Evolution, ever the joker then developed this ability to move around hence the fossil trail pictured above. So far, this is the earliest evidence of mobility of any kind, anywhere on earth. The trail suggests that in the move from one place to another the creature was acting purposefully. Now then, there's no evidence a brain was involved but something lit up a ganglia of sorts in that tiny example of things yet to come, and off it went. There were no predators to chase the old thing because evolution was yet to develop fish and crustaceans. Maybe another Ediacaran also out for a wander got too close or the neighbourhood became too uncertain. Or maybe it was just that time of the day when a group of special cells decided to saddle up and light out for the territory.

It is fascinating that the modern scientific eye can gaze on evidence that is 550 million years old and make some sense of it. Equally astonishing is that 550 million years ago a creature evolved that could move under its own volition and thereby gain a distinct advantage over the other fronds who just hung about.

Giant pumice raft...

found in Pacific Ocean. Following a long meander the Manhattan sized edifice, by then awash with briny life will fetch up on Australian shores bringing hope and cheer to what's left of the Great Barrier Reef. And in these dark time there will also be briny life, oh yes there will be briny life. 

Giant parrot fossil found in...

New Zealand not far from the fossil of a giant penguin who disappointingly is not shown on the diagram. Note the mischievous bird is eyeing up the woman's purse.

One is forced to surmise such a creature's cage would take up half the average living room. And a cage would be necessary for this large bird especially if you were fond of your furniture.

There'd be no chuckling under the chin or fingers through the cage bars. And shrieks of “WHO'S A PRETTY BOY THEN!" would probably see off your modern eardrum.

The parrot's capacity to mimic language would also need to be carefully managed especially if every utterance was available to the whole street. After "WHAT THE FUCK MALCOLM" is bellowed a hundred times the wistful shrugs and wan smiles shared with neighbours might lose their potency and especially if local infants start to copy the parrot. It's a well known fact that 3 year old blasphemers are held back in nursery.

"Eating us out of house and home" is a phrase generally reserved for growing teenagers but what to say to that which eats your house and home. For this omnivore a haunch or two of venison might be more impactful at getting attention than whispers of "Please stop Polly" though whispering is a wise move as these creatures are notoriously nervous and have a hatred of sudden noise.

Finally, the rhythm slows and the long day eases with a light touch into those shallow moments just before sleep. The king size sheet, for so long at the bottom of the bedding chest is tossed never casually over the feathered funster and finally the house rests. Unless that is the damn thing talks in its sleep. And as the sheet billows the bird bellows, "PUT THE FUCKING LIDS BACK ON THE FUCKING JARS. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU."

That the giant parrot's stalking days are long gone must surely be a blessing to us all.

Mass brawl on a P&O

cruise ship has caused a stir in the British Press. A black tie event was spoiled when offence was taken to some wag arriving in a clown's outfit. Rather than congratulations for pricking P&O pomposity the clown was set upon by disgruntled passengers. In the ensuing melee the buffet was overturned, chairs were thrown and there is mention of a table leg though it's not clear what role that played. I'm assuming the leg was waived about as are such items in a fight.

I have visions of a camera slowly panning down a queue of men in bow ties and women in long evening dresses before pausing at the chap in a one piece clown suit and curly orange wig perched atop a white face with his bright red mouth painted into a scary grin. Everyone seemingly ignores this distractive element to an otherwise formal but relaxed evening little knowing that beneath the sang froid a pressure is building and ready to explode. Which of course it then did and over went the chicken drum sticks, the cocktail sausages and profiteroles. Up flew the vol-au-vaunts, the salmon and cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles with the crust removed. Away went the punch as punch after punch was thrown this way and that by Krusty the Klown on the one hand and assorted red faced cruisers on the other.  Only the crew’s swift work deploying liberal doses of CS gas and buckshot enabled a semblance of order to be finally restored.

A spokesperson for P&O said later, "Well, none of us saw that coming."

Chimpanzees bond best over a good movie...

or so The Guardian reports today. Researchers in the US studying the matter say chimps are more sociable after popcorn and a good weepie. Bit like the rest of us, then, methinks.

Racehorse shakes up bar...

shock. The overexcited European press got, well, overexcited recently reporting, as Horse and Hound Magazine so pithily described, a 'loose' horse paying a French bar an unexpected visit. Some years ago another horse was found where it should not have been, that time in the UK food chain.

One can only admire horsey enterprise even if it’s a little hit and miss sometimes.

Haworth in West Yorkshire...

on a recent and damp Saturday evening.

Our dog Benson...

on the Rochdale canal yesterday. A sunny and quiet morning but for the buzzing of insects and splash of ducks fleeing Benson's eager jaws. In the 18 months we have walked this path Benson has not come close to catching a bird. Methinks those wily birds are giving Benson the bird. Benson’s 100% failure rate has discouraged him not one jot nor dampened his enthusiasm for the chase which for him, I suppose, is the point. Oh but how he must also long for that ducky flesh, the tearing of the gizzard, the quack of despair. For Benson, the chase is a many layered thing or a many lumbering thing because the poor dog has no guile. He has enthusiasm in spades but at catching birds he might as well wave a flag. Of course he doesn’t need to eat duck what with the smoked salmon waiting at home.

Mid August and so far...

me and Lisa have picked 5 kilos of blackberries from the wild briar that lash and tumble over dry stone walls and down the vertiginous hillsides of West Yorkshire where we live. We baked those sweet dark berries beneath two crumbles and boiled the remaining into six jars of jam. There’s probably another fortnight of fruit yet to ripen before this year’s harvest is over.

Here's a poem by Seamus Heaney called Blackberry Picking.

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and it's flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea cans, jam pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat grey fungus, glutting our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

I am retired. After 49 years of work. Free at last... free at last! And just in time for the hottest UK summer in many a long year. Below is a panoramic photo from the Oban to Castlebay ferry.

I'd recommend Barra Gin and Isle of Harris Gin to any aficionados who like the Atlantic wild and Scottish sea air rich. Both gins are Outer Hebridean brews heady with the salt and tang of westerly blusters roaring and ferocious. To be truthful both gins are subtle and delicious especially over ice with a good tonic to crisp them up. Lisa and me have polished off a bottle of the Harris Gin already. Lucky we bought two of each. Wey hey!