Wednesday 28 February 2007

Removed Content

Video Removed, Content reported to be in violation of terms of use.
  1. First point. Who reported it to be in violation? Might be someone who is simply malicious?
  2. Is there evidence that the objector has any rights over the content. or evidence of a breach?
  3. Terms of Use? Search Blogger Help. Terms of Use. No. There are none. Terms of service, yes. Terms of Use no. How is the post in violation of non-existent terms?
  4. This was a linked video, from a site which freely posts html code to embed their player in a blog. The video is still there on that site. Slightly curtailed, but there
  5. Also on the site where I first found it.
  6. Also at youtube.
  7. So. If I committed a violation of the non-existent terms, please have the decency to explain what the term was, and what the violation was, and it would be nice to know who objected, and why.

Monday 26 February 2007

The Snail's Dream.

Minuscule - Le rêve de l'escargot

Removed by Blogger Control, without explanation.
Presumably someone objected on copyright grounds?
But nobody told me.
Futurikon's films are out there. On the web.
In the public domain. I'd see my post here as a free advertisement for them, I presume somebody feels that in some unknown way this is depriving them of revenue?
I doubt it does, or did.
But I leave you with this thought.
You can watch their animations because they themselves put them on the web.
And I found dozens of sites, including their own.

Even Snails Have Dreams.

Thomas Szabo and Hélène Giraud are the originators of this animation. It's part of a series, by Futurikon
Previously posted on Grit in the Gears.. Was this one, The Ladybird. No they killed that one too.
I'll post another.... soon. No I probably won't.

Funnily enough it's still available on the site where I found it.

I get this feeling about Memes

Saturday 24 February 2007

"Leroy", Family, 1973

(spoken:) "Leroy... and his Campus Queen, what she means, what she means"
Leroy was a cat, always knew just where he sat
In his rise up to riches and fame
The chick that he'd choose, would have dollars to lose
And a love, lotsa love in her heart for his name

One girl that he'd seen was the Campus Queen
She had looks and her Daddy had lotsa loot
So he made her his aim, in his heartless game
He had looks, he had nerve, boy was he cute

And a roof that rolled back for the sun
SPEED that says 160 and some, ah that's fast

With his charm and his poise, he out classed all the boys
In the race for her hand he secured
He met her Mum face to face, now she adored all his grace
His place at their table was assured
"My boy" said her Pa, "Now what you need is a car, call me Dad
Gee whizz, you're my son"
Get a 2 toned flyer, with white walled tyres, and a gas tank
You make sure it's got plenty of gun


Friday 23 February 2007

Unicorns, For Aurora.

"The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown
The lion beat the unicorn all around the town.
Some gave them white bread, and some gave them brown;
Some gave them plum cake and drummed them out of town."

Aurora is the daughter of Trollop23
She asked for a little more on the Unicorns and fancy creatures

I sent the story of the Industrious Mole to my friend in San Francisco. Here's what she wrote back:
"Elizabeth, Sophie and I enjoyed your story very much. Just the thing to share over hot cocoa after a full day of ice skating on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The girls were particularly enchanted with your Unicorn horn tips and immediately gathered paper colored pencils to design a few of their own. (They plan to actually fabricate these when our ceramics workshop starts up again in April, though in red Navajo clay rather than porcelain.) They totally identified with Unicorn vanity and excess, plus chronic tardiness for appointments due to the rigors of accessorizing. We wondered if Unicorn horns are twisty-swirled, like a narwhal's tusk and certain lollipops, and decided they must be and that the porcelain tips surely screw on one-way only, thus secured against accidental loss. Otherwise how could a fashionable Unicorn build a collection?"

I replied:
Unicorns are rarely seen by humans, and then mostly by girls under the age of twelve. Sometimes, only sometimes, they will allow mothers to see them, but the mothers must not move, or even worse, say something so stupid as "Oh look! A Unicorn!" because that would be a very silly and grown up way to behave, and a self respecting Unicorn would be so embarrassed at such a lapse of manners that it would immediately become invisible and vanish. It is said, in the old writings of Ersatz, that should a grown up lady wish to see a Unicorn, she should sit, quietly, beneath a blossom covered tree, wearing a white dress, and braid flowers into a garland, She is allowed to have helpers to pick wild flowers, but she herself must be quiet, calm, and without turmoil.
If her garland is sufficiently beautiful, and fragrant, (as should she herself be), a wild Unicorn, may approach and, watching the making of the garland, forget to be invisible to her. If the lady should then see the Unicorn, she should raise up the garland, and hold it before her, at which the unicorn may approach and lie down in front of her. And then, if she loops the garland gently over the twisted horn, the unicorn will be her invisible friend for all her life.
This doesn't happen often, and most people can not lose the bustling thoughts that scare Unicorns away; reading thoughts, the gentle beasts fear worry, confusion, and crossness.
A calm person, filled with peacefulness, sunshine, and smiles, is, to a Unicorn, nicer than chocolate.
The horn of a unicorn is always spiralled, like a Narwhals tusk, -how did those girls know that? most people think they are smooth and straight. But there is a problem they may not have noticed. Some unicorns have a right-hand clockwise spiral, but a rare few have a left hand, anticlockwise spiral. Which of course will not fit a standard right handed horntip. So they need specials. Made to order. Then there is the pitch of the spiral to consider, many twists or few.. The tips do screw on, but they cannot be too tight a fit, because that might hurt, so over the last thousand or so years, the practice of putting a sort of sock of silk over the horn has developed. This packs the space , like wearing socks in shoes, so they don't fall off.
On especially festive occasions, ribboned silk may be worn. And recently, ribbon with wires in, that can be bent to shape, has become very popular. this is best worn with a horntip which has ribbon holes or loops.
It is said the very rare North American Unicorns do wear red clay horntips, sometimes with pueblo designs. Little pieces of them are often found in big museums, usually wrongly labelled.
'Thimble?' 'decorative small vessel?' 'ceremonial votive object?'
Besides, what museum curator knows anything about a Unicorn?

Older and Wiser Now, the Lion and the Unicorn are Friends

"Lives and Ladies" -Family, 1970, from 'Anyway'

Written in the Vietnam era, but so relevant right now.

Family were a British band who produced a lot of distinctive and original work, but refused to bow to their record company's demands for catchy singalong chart numbers.
They toured in the US, but failed to break into the charts there.
It's rumoured that Roger Chapman's nearly decapitating Billy Graham with a flailing mic. stand at the Fillmore East earned them a bad press they never recovered from.
Were they any good? John Lennon said in 1970 "They're the best band around"

"Lives and Ladies"

People that you send to war
Who don't know what they're fighting for
Leaving their loved ones at home
Wondering if they're on their own
Oh, if they're alone

Mothers and fathers that wait
For news of their innocents' fate
Raising a son for some years
Only to end it in tears
Oh, only to end it in tears

You being masters of war
You never knew your fathers, that's for sure
Just counting the numbers that died
I hope that you're satisfied
I hope that you're satisfied

My friend he's a salesman up in Leicestershire
His wife and baby love him, to him they're all so dear
We got talking together about some rights and wrongs
And just before I left there, I heard him sing this song:

I love my lady and baby
And I'm sure that you love yours
We want to care for each other
That's what we're here for
Yes, I love my lady and baby
And I'm sure that you love yours
So don't go pulling your switches
We don't need your wars

My friend he's a tailor up in Leicester town
He works his own shop there, and I know he's alright now
He's got his way of thinking, and know's that I've got mine
There's mostly only one thing we agree on all the time

We love our lives and our ladies
And we're sure that you love yours
We want to care for each other
That's what we're here for
We love our lives and our ladies
And we're sure that you love yours
So don't go pulling your switches
We don't need your wars

He loves his lady and baby
And he's sure that you love yours
They want to care for each other
That's what they're here for
He loves his lady and baby
And he's sure that you love yours
So don't go pulling your switches
They don't need your wars

Wednesday 21 February 2007

The Industrious Mole

A report by our roving reporter, Bogus Cognomen.
(This being mainly a story for children)

Just North of Banbury, and a little to the left of Bicester, in the county of Oxford, England, lies a small and isolated village, bypassed by the main roads, and stumbled upon but accidentally by our correspondent in these parts.
This village has a population of 96 moles and seven dragons. Its name, though you’ll have a hard time finding it on any map, is “Much Scrabbling ('Neath the Turf)”. At the Northern end of the main street is a small thatched pub, the “Shovellers Arms”.
When our reporter entered the pub, he found, much to his surprise, a dragon in working clothes sitting by the window, toasting a cheese sandwich with gentle and judicious puffs, and opposite the dragon, a small mole, with dirty arms. Yes. At last our correspondent had tracked down the proprietors of the famed “Spinning Mole’ Pottery”.
Almost the entire adult population of Much Scrabbling (Neath The Turf) is employed by the Spinning Mole Pottery.
So he was very lucky to find Elijah Muldwarp and Llewellyn the dragon taking their lunch break.
After a few toasted sarnies- in fact rather a lot, as Llewellyn enjoys toasting sandwiches even more than he enjoys eating them - we were privileged to learn the economics and methods of the pottery.
The main workshop isn’t in a house as we know it, but rather in a bank.
No, not a Barclays Bank, nor a Lloyds, nor even a Williams and Glyns, but an earth bank, which is a fine place for a mole to live.
Outside in the sun a lot of freshly made pots were set out in the sun to dry. Elijah seated at his wheel explained the need for only the best clay.
Well, asked our writer, what is the best clay? The very smoothest replied the little mole. The very smoothest, and from each place comes only a little, for although humans use great machines to tear great pits deep into the earth, the moles are able to use only their small hands, and tiny shovels made from ground down tea-spoons. So they can’t go very deep, also moles are great perfectionists, and only the best will do, so they range far and wide, taking but a tea-spoon here, and a tea-spoon there.
“Where do you find the best clay?” “Oh well, hard to say really, but as a rule of thumb, stoneware clay for big pots is often to be had near river banks, under meadow fields, whereas porcelain, that now, there’s a difficult one. Almost always underneath cricket pitches, tennis lawns, that sort of thing. ‘Course, you have to tunnel a fair bit, and even then you might not get any,
Best to take all your diggings up top and make a nice neat pile, then you can sort through it and see what you’ve got. If aught looks promising, you stick another candle stump in your hat and down you go again. Scrwrawp, Scrowp, Scrawp, ‘till your barrow's full, then off down the passage-ways, till you can dump it onto the “Much Scrabbling Underground Railway”.
The railway runs from the village to workings all over the country, and for almost all of its length it runs underground. Using it, all the digging moles can leave home after a leisurely breakfast, do a full days work far from home, and be back with a cheery whistle (Wheep! Wheep! Wheep!) in time for tea. Of course, working underground as they do, there is always plenty of coal for the engine, but to stop the tunnels from getting dirty, and making one cough, the engine carries a large supply of paper bags - like vacuum cleaner bags - to fill with smoke. This way they can put all their smoke in the dustbin on a Friday for the bin men to take away.
When clay reaches the pottery, it is made into pots of many shapes and sizes by Elijah Muldwarp, and, as we have previously seen, the pots are set out in the sun to dry.
When dry the pots are carefully inspected for cracks, spider foot prints or other faults and coated with a mixture of powdered rocks, (which are collected and crushed from untidy places like rockeries, and the edges of garden paths), and then just as carefully, the pots are loaded into the kiln.
“The Kiln”, I said, but like most potteries, the Spinning Mole has more than one kiln.
For ease and clarity I have shown the small cross draught kiln. This one has the door bricked shut every time. Very time wasting, but, whatever was good enough for the moles grandfather is good enough for him. Actually he’s too busy, or too lazy to set to work and make a hinged steel door packed with fireproof bricks. A much bigger sort of kiln (as seen below) is built on the side of the nearby hill, it’s like a lot of separate kilns joined together, each one a little bit higher than it’s neighbour. So flames put in at the bottom travel through not one but seven separate chambers, which means that every chamber has a different heat, which means that the moles can make a lot of different glazes work in one kiln. This one is what is known as a “Noborigama”. In Japan and China there are Noborigamas that have been in use for over 500 years
The moles favourite kiln, though, is yet another design, it’s called an “Anagama”, which may give you the idea that it’s like the last one. Well it is, a bit, in that it’s built on the side of a bill, and has a long sloping roof above it to protect it from the rain, but an anagama has but one big chamber. In China, these are known as Dragon Kilns, and they were sacred. Anyone who damaged a dragon kiln could be thrown into prison for ever and a day.
This is where the Dragons work, Llewellyn is the leader of the group, and he does all the fire for the anagama on his own. It's hard work for a dragon, because you have to keep the flames going for 22 hours or more. Some of the Chinese and Japanese anagamas had teams of dragons working day and night puffing fire for up to seven weeks at a time, but mole size pots don’t need so long. The dragons start with a gentle flame but, as they go on, they take snacks of curry paste, jalapeno peppers, cough sweets, fuel oil, all sorts of hot things, even whisky. Of course most of these things would make a human very poorly, but for dragons they’re a different matter altogether, they even like the scrapings out of the bottoms of burnt pans. After puffing fire all day it’s quite common for a dragon to be a stone or more lighter, and very tired and weak- usually they just go home to their caves, drain culverts, castle dungeons, underneaths of beds, broom cupboards, etc, and sleep for three or four days at a time.
Dragons sleep very loudly, as you may have noticed.
Some towns have bylaws forbidding dragons from sleeping under people's beds. Which isn’t really such a mean idea as it sounds, because dragons under beds are a fire-risk, especially if there’s a lot of fluff that hasn’t been cleaned in a while. It has been known for whole houses to be burnt down because of dreaming dragons igniting carpet slippers and dustballs under the bed. The flames and smoke destroy the house, but the dragon snoozes right through it all, thinking what a nice warm snoozy place he’s got.
However, kiln dragons rarely do this, because after a firing their flame is so used up, they don’t have enough spark to light a candle, which state they are in for about a week.
After the dragons have fired the kiln, they sleep for three or four days, until the alarm clocks shrill and clatter, (usually at about 5 o’clock on a Thursday, just after the sun comes up). All the dragons stretch, polish their scales, gargle with fire water, and rush down to the pottery, where they mill around in excitement, as Llewellyn carefully takes the first bricks out of the door. As it’s still quite hot, the dragons all work together to start with, and unpacking a kiln is usually an exciting job, so you can imagine the scene. Seven dragons delving into a hot dark space and handing out their finds, bowls, bottles, cups, vases, teapots, casseroles, plates, all manner of new pots, all in bright colours and 100% clean and clear - cleaner than any washing up liquid, or even a washing up machine can make them. In the fire, that clay and covering of crushed rock has turned into something completely new, pottery that rings like a bell when you tap it with your finger.
Usually they do this bit early in the morning, before the moles get up, and the dragons chat happily as they go along.
Then at 8:15, after breakfast, the moles arrive and set to work to sort everything out, check for seconds, break any pots that aren’t up to standard, and pack other pots up to take to market.
By four in the afternoon all the pots are out of the kiln and some of the smaller moles go in and set up candles on the shelves while they check for glaze spots on the shelves, cracked bricks and so on, and generally clean any dust and grit out of the kiln interior.
They then start to fill it with pots for the next firing. whilst other members of the mole community take the pots off to market.
Pots are sold to all sorts of creatures, rabbits, voles and even stoats, weasels, foxes and badgers. Otters like long oval casseroles to do fish in. Bears, mostly the teddy variety these days, buy mostly honey jars.
Paddington bear owns a specially made marmalade jar, and a specially made square sandwich plate. Pigs buy decorated troughs and a very special part of the pottery's work is in decorative porcelain horn tips for Unicorns.
Unicorns are prone to poking and digging with their horns, and it does tend to make the ends rather tatty, but with porcelain all their troubles are over. Mostly they’re very vain, so its not unusual for one Unicorn to own over 50 different decorative horn tips.
This sort of Unicorn is nearly always late for appointments, due to the time spent in deciding which tip to wear.
Dragons, of course, require all their household crockery to be flame proof. This is a problem, but largely solved by the use of clay which, with mixed in talcum powder (Lily of the Valley smell), fires to produce cordierite, a material that can be taken off a red hot cooker and dropped into cold water without cracking.
So, now you know why cricket pitches, lawns, and tennis courts often have little heaps of carefully shovelled earth dotted about them, and if you ever hear scrabbling underneath the soil, and faint steam engine whistles, you’ll know what’s going on.
And this, for the moment, is the end of my story.

Tuesday 20 February 2007

Persian Love, Holger Czukay.

I first heard this over twenty years ago. Just a hauntingly beautiful sound.
Holger, better known for the experimental music group, "Can", was listening to crackly channels on a short wave radio. He heard this song on Radio Tehran, in 1979, taped it, and then set to creating the music, splicing and editing the voices...


But rather than me write the story, I'd recommend you read this piece from Alan Warner in Granta.

Sunday 18 February 2007

For Steve, To give to Lily

Steve, of Bullet Holes in the Mailbox has been, he says, chasing Lily, for the last six years. On St. Valentine's day he strewed her porch with candy love-hearts.

He's blogged her a poem, from 'The Last Unicorn', by Peter Beagle. I looked around my house, I thought... I have a Unicorn, somewhere, I'm sure. And if I could give that unicorn to Steve, for him to give to Lily, that might be a good deed.
It comes with a child who has inherited Queen Nefertiti's head, but she's no trouble at all, eats very little and is very quiet, and is of course a trained member of the unicorn-wrangler's guild.

Friday 16 February 2007

A legacy.

"But Sweetie, I couldn't salute you after what happened last night".

My great-uncle, my grandmother's brother, left me an envelope, filled with drawings, from the mid to late 1950s. They're all by an old friend of his, who I know only as 'Cull'.

All I know of Cull is that he worked with my uncle in an Air Ministry drawing office, in Harrogate, North Yorkshire, at that time. The drawings tend to be on the backs of blueprints, no doubt in their time, top secret material. Turn them over, and you find modification details for the wingroot of the Victor bomber, or the English Electric Lightning supersonic interceptor.

I wish I could find 'Cull's' relatives, I think these should really belong to them. Or at the very least they should have copies.

They're snapshots of an age, a little window into the lives of a small group of men with an important but boring job, and one of their number who lightened their days with fantasy and pranks.

To "Cull", then.

Thursday 15 February 2007

A Misadventure.

I've been absent, mentally and physically, and that's still the case. a few days of sickness and lethargy and mental fog. the mystery six-week illness that I'd been fighting, on and off, seems to have decided it wants me a bit longer. Or it's gone and has invited a friend to take over.

The result is that my brain is an alien place, everything i do needs to be thought out, but then the controls to all the rest of my workings seem to be running a different software.

I fell off a ladder on monday. on a roof. not far to fall, but onto fragile materials with a thirty foot drop if they broke.

As the ladder-foot slipped I was idly wondering in slow motion if I was above the piles of boxes full of soft toys, or above the concrete. Fairly untroubled as the brain couldn't be bothered to think it through.

The result was some bruises, and a spill of acrylic roof repair compound. A lot of cursing. Unfinished job. All would have been well up there if the forecast rain had not started a half-day early.

Tuesday was uneventful apart from the mental fog causing me to keep forgetting things and thus do a lot of trudging back and forth. Oh. And the doctor visit.... inconclusive..medications juggled, altered. blood taken. but no conclusions. I'm either not sleeping, or not waking.

Today I woke late, phoned work, said I'd be in later, my boss said go back to bed you don't sound well... So I did. And slept, not hearing any of the daytime noises, dreaming but nothing memorable except chocolates that played tinkling baroque music as you bit into them. I wondered how it worked, because it started the moment you bit... yet continued until the end... Big chocolates, four bites I'd think.

So, was it a single sound chip, edible? or a distributed mechanism, throughout the chocolate. I'll never know, because I ate it.

Then the phone, insistent.. Had to get out of bed, 7 in the evening. food might be a good idea.

So here I am. Briefly. Will go cook...come back or stumble off to bed.

I'll be back, i promise.

In the meantime, I apologise for not responding to messages and comments. I'm thinking more clearly now than I was, so maybe tomorrow the brain will re-establish communications with the rest of me.

Sunday 11 February 2007

An Adventure

I try to persuade my mother to start writing her memories, but although she says it's a good idea, she doesn't quite get around to it. Her father was the youngest son of a welsh mining family, near Swansea, in the south.
The family lived a hard life, and death was never far away in the coalmines. John's father, and all his brothers felt that he, the youngest, should have a chance to escape that life, and all agreed to put aside a meagre portion of their tiny wages towards his education. So, at the age of twelve, he signed on to the payroll of the mine. With his father and brothers, he toiled in the darkness and filth of the mine, but, each night, he had the first use of the one tub of bathwater that served six men, and then would go out to the mechanics institute, to study engineering. He became a pit engineer, a respected and privileged post, and after a few years, achieved the dream his family had for him, he left the mine, to travel to the seaport of Swansea, where he became an engineer on the docks. In this new life, he met a beautiful girl, Selina-Maria, and fell in love. But they were from different worlds, John Griffiths, a miners son, fiercely proud of his family. Selina-Maria, daughter of the manager of a large company, brought up in a big house with servants, and a stranger to want and hunger. Her father took John aside,and told him that whilst he liked and respected the young suitor, it would be inadvisable to ask for Selina's hand in marriage until he could afford to buy her a house of her own, in a suitable neighbourhood.
Devastated, John realised that he could never earn enough on the docks to meet that requirement, so, writing a letter for his beloved, he signed on as crew in a square rigger, and left his homeland on the evening tide.

The first voyage took him to Africa, the Gold Coast, where he found work as a mine engineer, but then left, along with three other adventurers, to seek gold in the jungles of the Congo, -one by one, the others sickened, John nursed them, then buried them, the african bearers killed and ate the dog. John slept with a gun in his hand, fearing he was to be next on the menu. One night the drums sounded through the jungle, and in the morning, the bearers were gone. John was never sure what time had elapsed before the day he staggered into a native village, delirious with fever, nor how long it was that the villagers nursed him, but by the time he was fit, he spoke their language. With their craftsmen he learned to work the little gold he had found, and from a part of it he made a ring, in the shape of two clasped hands, to send to Selina, before taking ship again, south to Australia.

For four years he travelled, working in mines, repairing steam cranes on docks, crewing square-riggers across the oceans, until he was paid off in Valparaiso, in Chile, where his uncle was a shipwright. He stayed there, working for his uncle, using his engineering skills, learning new ones. The uncle was childless, talked of John being his heir and successor.

Uncle wanted a commitment to staying, but John yearned for his beloved.

One day the two, uncle and nephew had a row. Harsh words spoken, not easily withdrawn.

John packed his sea-chest, and went to the docks. There on the tide, was a ship sailing for England. He signed on. The story goes that his uncle had men searching the town, frantic to find him and persuade him to return, but too late.

Apparently there is a statue to the uncle in Valparaiso... I've nevver been able to confirm the details, but it seems he was honoured as a hero, for warning the town of an impending attack by the Peruvian Navy...

The journey home was a bad one, the Cape Horn storms repeatedly drove them back, he described four months of gales, the ship beating into the wind but unable to round Cape Horn, four months in wet clothes, wet living quarters, rotten food, picking insects out of the biscuits they were fed, four months of shipmates lost swept overboard, of men falling from the rigging, men crushed by shifting cargo.
Eventually they broke free of the southern ocean, and sailed to the Falklands for repairs and provisions. John's skills learned in the shipyard earned him promotion from seaman to shipwright, and much welcome extra pay. He described bursting into tears at the scent of the land as they first approached the shore, to dock at Plymouth, on the south coast of England. When eventually, a week later, he reached Swansea, he arrived unexpected, and at first, unrecognised. The slight, nervous young man the family remembered was no more, At their door was a confident, tanned, weathered man, asking to see Selina. Her mother, puzzled and unrecognising, enquired who he might be and what business he might have, but was bowled aside by Selina, who knew just what business he might have.... The rest, as they say, is history, and I'm here to prove it. The stories are many that I have not written here, The first Motor Lorry in Uruguay, for which John was the engineer, driver trainer and assembler. The schooner found drifting with not a soul aboard, but a meat cleaver buried in the table as a clue. They need my mother to set them down."

I'll try update this, after further quizzing my Mama.

Saturday 10 February 2007

Pointless Things

I was musing about pointless things.
Like this: -the remote control for my car radio.
Why... What is the point? I sit within arm's reach of the radio, as does any front-seat passenger.
Who in their right mind would gift control to anyone in the back?
I wondered maybe stretch limo?
No.. They would sell a hundred thousand ordinary car radios for every stretch limo.

What's the point?

Leave a comment, enlighten me.

And tell me of pointless things you own.

Friday 9 February 2007

Sigur Rós:Starálfur

Artist: Sigur Rós
Albums: Ágætis Byrjun (1999)
Composers: Jón þor Birgisson
Kjartan Sveinsson
Orri Páll Dýrason
Georg Holm

Blá nótt yfir himininn
Blá nótt yfir mér
Horf-inn út um gluggann
Minn með hendur
Faldar undir kinn
Hugsum daginn minn
Í dag og í gær
Blá náttfötin klæða mig í
Beint upp í rúm
Breiði mjúku sængina
Loka augunum
Ég fel hausinn minn undir sæng
Starir á mig lítill álfur
Hleypur að mér en hreyfist ekki
Úr stað – sjálfur
Opna augun
Stírurnar úr
Teygi mig og tel (hvort ég sé ekki)
Kominn aftur og alltalltílæ
Samt vantar eitthvað
Eins og alla vegginna

I lived and worked in Iceland for a year.
I might post something about it one day.

Wednesday 7 February 2007

52 Vincent Black Lightning

Richard Thompson , from Rumour and Sigh .
Just a song, that's all.

Oh says Red Molly to James "That's a fine motorbike.
A girl could feel special on any such like"
Says James to Red Molly "My hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952.
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favourite colour scheme"
And he pulled her on behind and down to Boxhill they did ride
Oh says James to Red Molly "Here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man.
For I've fought with the law since I was seventeen,
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine.
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you.
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride"

"Come down, come down, Red Molly" called Sergeant McRae
"For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery.
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside.
Oh come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside"
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
He said "I'll give you my Vincent to ride"

Says James "In my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl.
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeves won't do,
Ah, they don't have a soul like a Vincent 52"
Oh he reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
Said "I've got no further use for these.
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome,
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home"
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride.

Tuesday 6 February 2007

Being an Accounte of a Straynge Journey in a Foreign Land

I am, as your majesties know by now, no straynger to that which is straynge. In the month of septembre 2003, I did encounter of a gathering the like of which no civilised person might imagine. I was travelling upon the Queens highway, that which is named M-One, when for divers reasons I did feel the need to stop for a leake, and knowing from an earlier ~incident, that to do so would invite rude behaviour from the constables who prowl these ways, as like unto footpads, they would seek to incarcerate me and fine me until my purse of ducats should be quyte empty, I did seek to find a bye road more suited. Whilst adjusting my breeks, I chanced to spy a sign that did say ~ '4X4 event', and being interested by the idea that the rustics of these parts might practise mathematicks I did follow these signs to a farm closely surrounded by clever but mostly immobile carriages. Beyond this farm, through a stone tunnel I came across a sight akin to a army encamped for a mile or so in the valley. I followed the noyse and smoake until I found a line of carriages, which at interval disappeared into the woods, dispatched by a group of bucksome young ladyse who wore curious yellow vestes. I enquired here as to the location of the mathematickers, but they seemed not to properly understand, and sent me instead to a tent or booth, where a man looking like the magician Merlin did magick away my ducats and take my signature. He told me this was not mathematick but contraptions called 4x4 carriages. This kindly man commended me to attend the Mud Hole. I so betook myself in that direction. What a curious people these are. All over the countryside were these horsefree contrivances, snorting and grinding through the woods and crowds of people, both peasants and persons of quality urging them on, and crying out raucous comments. 1 found the Mudde-Hole to be most aptly named, being a large hole filled with mud. Like the executions at Tyburn which I reported in an earlier dispatch.

This crowd did roar most mercilessly when one of the carriages did stop and fill with mud at the bottom of the hole. Then another navigator of the clag would descend into tile ooze to attach some sort of hawser to the stricken vessel and haul it free, in time for the next victim. Never have I seen a more stupid activity, yet in the glorious sunshine, it was strangely compelling and I did spend some time there, watching, and jeering and cheering with the crowd, for the multitude were not in the least passive, yet rather were they alike those at a festival .... But only were they fascinated by those strange carriages, and their brave navigators.

Becoming eager to learn more, I walked back to the main tented area, where divers hawkers and charlatans were to be seen haggling over rusty items.of no obvious value. One worthy I asked about this explained that each year at this fair, the people's object was to buy one of these filthy totems, usually against the strongly expressed wish of their dear beloved, and to then brag about the ‘bargain’. They would then take the item back to their hovel, and set it to acquire a denser patina of rust After a year, they take up their bargain, and journey again to Langley Farm, where they attempt to sell the item for about half what they paid for it. If they so do, they feel that they are now rich, and seek out another trader, to exchange the newly returned money for some other filthy trinket. A special glee is to be had when the new item goes home and is found to have a left hand thread, and to be incompatible with any of the vehicles littering their premises.

In fact, the absolute prize is to find a part that looks identical to the one on their vehicle, except all the bolt holes are a different pattern, and to find it fits only centre-steer land rovers built for export to Patagonia, As no Land Rovers of centre steer variety were ever known to be exported to Patagonia, and the one built is lost, this part is lovingly kept, and returned to Langley Farm next year labelled ~Water Pump 200 Tdi?—offers?' and sold again, at a loss, to the next delighted customer, who will laugh, and tell anyone who will listen, that it's not a 200 tdi part, but they spotted at once that it's the legendary roots supercharger off a Le Mans blown 80".
The most learned amongst you my friends will have noticed a change in my style of writing. I have employed a scribe. ~my olde boanes like not this cold aire of Engerlund, and I fear the goose quill quivers in my hand, so a slave, or strumpet need be imployed occasionally. But they do not wryte as do we, grinding oak gall for ink, but rather press along a board inlaid with inscribed ivory pieces. As they press magically the word is shewn on parchment in a dosed box, behind glass, and lighted from behind. The letters are not as written but are alike to the wooden type invented by herr Gutenberg, and coppied in Enger lund by the plagiarist maister Caxton.
I digress; Oh, yes, where better: could I gauge the mood of a crowd but in a tavern! In the field was a splendid canvas pavilion, within which a tavern keeper was plying his trade, to an eager crowd.
The beer was most welcome. I was bewildered by the sights I had seen, and overwhelmed by the gaudily clad revellers, in truth, I was afeared I was set so adrift from our world that I may never see reason again.
The multitude stirred, and rushed outside. There was a roaring and whistling along the field, and then upon us came the hugest contraption I have ever seen. I know the tales of travellers are oft discounted as whimsy, but I swear I do not lie when I say this contraption had no fewer than SIX wheels and was so huge as to blot out the sun. I recoiled in- well, I must confess it was a moment of fear, but as I peered cautiously upward I spied, to my amazement, a fine lady, dressed not in any outlandish mode, but even as our Queen might dress, with a fine brocaded dress, modest headdress, a properly starched ruff.

Oh, at last a sign of civilisation! The lady, or Queen as she was of these parts was attended by a fine gentleman, a charming baronet, I am told, one Blackadder-Bill Smith, it seems. Queen Helen had attended this affair before, when she was first captivated by the Knight of the Suzuki, resplendent as he was in billowing pantaloons. And this year, they were here to celebrate with the 4x4 abusers a blessing of their marriage on the field of Langley.
A worthy and somewhat rotund gentleman did conduct the ceremony, which was so moving a tear did escape my eye.
The couple were waited upon by a hideous and noisome churl, who betimes chew'd vigorously upon a turnip, ad threw sweets to children. I was told he was once a comely fellow, but I tell you he was so pox'd and scabby, It was hard to imagine.
When I came downwind of him, it was alike to being in the lee of a Turkish slave-galley; fearing contagion, I bathed as soon as I could in vinegar, or rather, non brewed condiment, obtained in hundreds of bottles from the chippe-oil.
I fear if that churl remains free there will be another outbreak of plague to punish these parts of yorwickeshire, It was with great amusement that I observed the any creature unafraid of this 'Lesbrearley' as the churl was known was a small dogge, which seamed also to have an eye upon his turnippes.

The Queen and her consorte being now within the tavern, a crowd of small childeren begged to clamber up onto the six wheel'd leviathan, and not a few adults, claiming they needs be aboard in order to safeguard the infants. I pleaded my status as a traveller in these beleaguered parts, and was allowed to climb up, to the top, then down through a hatch into the captains cabin and wheelhouse. Even the poorest of vessels in Suez has better accommodation for its master. This poor fellow has but a small space with three seats, and a multitude of levers and handles. The machine is capable of sailing the oceans, as well as careering over the land. But how the poor fellow sleeps in a storm is beyond me.

Betymes, he steered the giant around the fields, grunting and muttering in the yorewickeshire language, of which I could understand little. The carriage/boat is called a Stalwart, and IS a weapon of war. Indeed, I can well imagine how our camel cavalry might flee, faced with a troop of these, Even the elephants of Siam would seemly be daunted.
I was too overwhelmed to continue.
I slept in a small wheeled cabin they call caravan. Funny.
On the morrow, I breakfasted heartily, and betook of myself to the muddehole, where a handsome chap was running a pump to raise the level of filth for an eager publick. To my great delight, the fellow revealed that he was the celebrated alchymist, Soubriquet, recently come to the farme on a straynge contrivance of his own invention. He had exscaped from captivity, where he had beene chained uppe by an individual yclept 'Muck Moases'; aided by a ‘ladye' of little remorse’, who is known as "Gail". My new friend warned me that these were hardened codnippers, and not to he trusted.
Soubriquet- or "Ersatz", as I was privileged to call him, was deeply interested to meet me, a learned traveller from afar, he toald me it was refreshing to meet a gentleman of quality, and that he felt I was the one person to whom he could divulge the mystery of making gold from a bucket of yoreckeshire fog. I have paid all of my ducats for this secret, and am reduced to selling my buttons to live. But I have the bucket and other apparatus safely parcelled and am making all haste to return to my home in our civilised land. I confess I look foreward with happy anticipation to a future of riches beyond imagining. Soberquit has toald me to be not too hasty, and that sometimes the first few tries do not yield gold, but perseverance and practise will bring success.
He is a good and honest man, and to betoken this honesty has given me a 'Comet Extended Warranty' which in his land is a powerful juju. Also, if as soon as return hoam, I send him a gallon can filled with Rubies, he will despatch a new publickation of his, called "How to Build a Lan-Drover, for pleasure or profit"; he soald this before to some brothers called Wilkes, and they made a whole career of it.
I will build a Land-roaver, and return, next yeare to The Languley Farm 4X4 event.

I, Sire,
Remayne Your True,

Bogus Cognomen

Grand Vizier Pompousbogman said...

To Our Most Highly Esteemed Bogus Cognomen,
I have hearde talk of these great carriages, but dismissed them as fancyfull myth.
Please to send a specimen forthwith, the servant Hagenbrothe the Unusually Large and Strong shall carry it back to the palace.
Her Royal Divinely Illuminated Majesty Bibelot (May Her Beauty Delight This Land For One Thousand Years)has requested you also fetch one of those brayve knights who rides these noisy contraptions so that She may learn how to ride such an amayzing conveyance.
We are delighted with your tayles, Master Cognomen, and trust that as you traverse this foreign land we shall receive more fantastic accounts of your adventures.
Grande Vizier Pompousbogman
PS Her Royal Divinely Illuminated Majesty Bibelot (May Her Beauty Delight This Land For One Thousand Years)is also desiring that you send another crate of that which you call soda poppe. She finds these fizzy libations most ambrosial.

Monday 5 February 2007

We Have a Map of the Piano

Múm, from Iceland, from the album 'Finally We Are No -One'

Beeswing, Richard Thompson

BEES WING by Richard Thompson

I was nineteen when I came to town
They called it the Summer of Love
They were burning babies, burning flags
The Hawks against the Doves

I took a job in the Steamie
Down on Cauldrum Street
I fell in love with a laundry girl
Was working next to me


She was a rare thing
Fine as a bees wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child
She was running wild, she said
As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
And you wouldn't want me any other way

Brown hair zig-zag round her face
And a look of half-surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights
There was an animal in her eyes

She said, young man, O can't you see
I'm not the factory kind
If you don't take me out of here
I'll surely lose my mind


We busked around the market towns
And picked fruit down in Kent
And we could tinker lamps and pots
And knives wherever we went

And I said that we might settle down
Get a few acres dug
Fire burning in the hearth
And babies on the rug

She said O man, you foolish man
It surely sounds like hell
You might be lord of half the world
You'll not own me as well


We was camping down the Gower one time
The work was pretty good
She thought we shouldn't wait for frost
And I thought maybe we should

We were drinking more in those days
And tempers reached a pitch
Like a fool I let her run
With the rambling itch

Last I hear she's sleeping out
Back on Derby beat
White Horse in her hip pocket
And a wolfhound at her feet

And they say she even married once
A man named Romany Brown
But even a Gypsy caravan
Was too much settling down

And they say her flower is faded now
Hard weather and hard booze
But maybe that's just the price you pay
For the chains you refuse

She was a rare thing
Fine as a bees wing
And I miss her more than ever words could say
If I could just taste
All of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
Then I wouldn't want her any other way

RedDirtGirl posted the Lyrics, Steve requested the sounds.

Sunday 4 February 2007

Kargyraa Moan, Paul 'Earthquake' Pena, Kongar Ool Ondar

Blind all his life, the late Paul Pena was playing music by the age of five. He moved, as an adult to San Francisco and immersed himself in the blues, playing with T Bone Walker, Jerry Garcia,
writing, performing... Most people have heard the Steve Miller Band song 'Jet Airliner', Paul wrote it.
Listening one night to the static crackle distorting Moscow Radio, from the Soviet Union, he first heard the strange sound of throat-singers from the Soviet Republic of Tuva. He was hooked, had to know more...

He taught himself throatsinging... Went, after the collapse of the soviets, to Tuva, to hear the national singing competitions. As a musician, he was invited in, met some of the great singers, And sang! They were stunned that a westerner could sing Kargyraa, he went on stage, a blind, nervous american, and left to thunderous applause. His voice, his passion had earned him the nickname 'Earthquake' in Tuva. Paul lost his battle against diabetes and pancreatitis, on October 1st, 2005.
There's a film of his journey to Tuva, and a cd, both are called Genghis Blues.


Allman Brothers Band

Saturday 3 February 2007

Disorderly Sleep

Another film by Mitchell Rose

Love Will Tear Us Apart Again by Yat Kha

A Joy Division number, as covered by Outer Mongolia's Tuvan punk-rock throat singing star, Albert Kuvezin, and his band, Yat-Kha. From the album Re-Covers.

Listen to the other albums... If you ever get accused of having only mundane music tastes, Yat-Kha is the antidote!

Text below is from Yat-Kha's website

Moscow, August 2004.

Albert Kuvezin has just checked into a hotel having spent 24 hours on a train from Budapest as the result of having been forcibly deported from Hungary along with the rest of his band. Their passports had been stolen from the dressing room of the gig the previous day. Their plea for help from the Russian Embassy resulted in them being frog-marched to the railway station and sent home. Before he can relax he receives a phone call from his co-singer Radik Tiuliush telling him that he has had enough of the rigours of travelling backwards and forwards from Tuva (a 3-day journey just to get to Moscow before an international flight takes them to start a tour). There are only 2 days to find new passports and a new singer before they are due to begin a US tour. This proves impossible and Albert retreats to Kazyl where he is immediately hassled by mobsters and corrupt government officials. He then crashes his car and ends up in hospital.
Whilst convalescing Albert ponders his band’s future and listens to his record collection. Having spent many years being persecuted under the Soviets for listening to and playing rock’n roll he contemplates the long journey that his love of both Tuvan Folk Music and Western Rock has resulted in. He had toured the world many times playing at some of the great festivals such as Glastonbury, Roskilde, Bloomington, Monterey, Transmusicale, and Sziget. He had played hundreds of club shows and listened to and met some great bands along the way. Bands like his thrash heroes Slayer and folk heroes such as the Chieftains and contemporary artists such as Billy Bragg and many more.
And now Yat-Kha was due to travel to London in October 2004 to record a new album that Albert had been busy writing earlier in the year. As he lay there with music from all around the world blaring out from his newly- acquired PA system Albert decided that he would commit his musical and spiritual journey to tape instead of his new songs. His new album would reflect how music took him from one of the world’s more remote regions to international recognition. Remote, yes, yet central enough to pick up the currents of international music, even if the international music scene was not yet hip to the growling waves coming from Tuva. He would revitalise himself by re- engaging with his loves of country, blues, rock and just all things music. Although he was due to self-produce his new album Albert made a last minute phone call to the legendary world music producer Ben Mandelson who immediately made time to take over production duties. Justin Adams, producer of Tinariwen, joins him on a couple of tracks.
The band began by jamming many of Albert’s favourite tunes and from this came the new album Re-Covers.

This is what Albert has to say about the album.

 "The influence of rock on my music and life is obvious

but anyway I’ll try to explain a bit more why I have chosen these

songs for the covers album. Actually they are relatively to what

I try to do for long time since I began to mix Tuvan music and

my singing with Western rock." 
  1. When The Levee Breaks (Led Zeppelin).
     "It is just on of my favourite band of the all time and
    I wanted to record more of them though who can compare with
    them even today?".
  2. Man Machine (Kraftwerk).
     "Remember that time? They were very fresh and unusual
    between the dominance of rock and punk. Plus very progressive.
    It is about our relationship with machine world.
    Almost Folkloric."
  3. Ramblin’ Man (Hank Williams).
     "I don¹t like when there is too much text in songs
    but this one is just about my self and my brothers - musicians.
    It is very close to our souls and spirit of freedom.
    Actually we are all the travellers on this planet."
  4. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (Iron Butterfly).
     "Great song because it is simple ­ I respect talented simplicity.
    Good voice and a guitar riff which always make me interested as a
    guitarist my self."
  5. Love Will Tear Us Apart (Joy Division).
     "This band wasn¹t well known in Russia but some band made big
    name and good career during USSR time copying and imitating the likes of JD.
    I like the mood and guess our manager Jim likes them very much."
  6. Her Eyes Are A Blue Million Miles (Captain Beefheart).
     "Of course, 20 years ago I didn¹t know about this man but when
    got listen it for the first time I thought that it could be me if I
    was born in USA at that time. But luckily I live in Siberia and like to
    say: "Hello!" back to those funny days."
  7. A Song About A Giraffe (Vladimir Vysotskiy).
     "The cult figure of Soviet Culture. The actor, poet, and singer he died
    in 1989 but is still very popular in Russia. His songs are full of sarcasm
    and humour. They are about the defects of human society and full of love
    and pain when about native land. This song is just one of hundreds he wrote."
  8. Orgasmatron (Motorhead).
     "I always liked music full of energy.
    Years ago I liked such kind of lyrics and wrote such my self.
    Also this is good possibility to remind to politicians who they are."
  9. WillYou Go, Lassie, Go? ( Mc Peake Family )
     "When I played with the great Chieftains I began to like Irish
    music and found some similarity with some Siberian people¹s music."
  10. Toccata (Paul Mauriat).
     "When I was little boy this melody by the French composer and
    conductor was played by his orchestra on Soviet T.V. and radio every
    Sunday and that gave us a very clear and nice holiday emotion for the whole day.
    This is a kind of connection to that happy time."
  11. Black Magic Woman (Carlos Santana version).
     "One more my favourite artist. This song is somehow connected to
    Siberian black shaman women whom I like very much."
  12. Exodus (Bob Marley).
     "Again, I love freedom and independence which are also possible
    through the movement and travels.
    I love to read about historical peoples movements.
    Plus I like Bob and reggae."
  13. PlayWith Fire (Rolling Stones).
    "I never liked very much RS and even less The Beatles.
    In this song I got good motion that gave me feeling to play
    such riff in the style what I like."
  14. The Song of Mergen (Alexei Tchyrgal-ool).
    "The composer Alexei Baktaevitch Tchyrgal is a great of Tuvan
    Symphonic music but he also wrote a number of nice songs for different
    ensembles and bands I am lucky enough to have been working with him and
    living in his neighbourhood. This song was written for the first movie
    about Tuva ­ "People of Blue Rivers"."
Albert Kuvezin ­ Kyzyl , Tuva Feb 2005

Half Beastly!

333 visitors on the counter... thats all.

Friday 2 February 2007

Battle of Evermore

This one's for you, Steve

Led Zeppelin IV 1971

"Battle of Evermore"

Queen of Light took her bow
And then she turned to go,
The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom
And walked the night alone.

Oh, dance in the dark of night,
Sing to the morn-ing light.
The dark Lord rides in force tonight
And time will tell us all.

Oh, throw down your plow and hoe,
Rest not to lock your homes.
Side by side we wait the might
Of the darkest of them all.

I hear the horses' thunder
Down in the valley below,
I'm waiting for the angels of Avalon,
Waiting for the eastern glow.

The apples of the valley hold
The seeds of happiness,
The ground is rich from tender care,
Repay, do not forget, no, no.
Oh, dance in the dark of night,
Sing to the morning light.

The apples turn to brown and black,
The tyrant's face is red.

Oh the war is common cry,
Pick up your swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad
That mortals never know.

Oh, well, the night is long
The beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise,
Waiting for the eastern glow.

The pain of war cannot exceed
The woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall,
The ringwraiths ride in black,
Ride on.

Sing as you raise your bow,
Shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night
That lights the face so cold.

Oh dance in the dark of night,
Sing to the mornin' light.
The magic runes are writ in gold
To bring the balance back.
Bring it back.

At last the sun is shining,
The clouds of blue roll by,
With flames from the dragon of darkness
The sunlight blinds his eyes.


Desiree, from 'Only a Movie' Family, 1973.

Seam Crooked Sam, a poem, by Don Van Vliet

Seam Crooked Sam

The mule kicked off a new one
and the stockings ran up Seam Crooked Sam
bandana frock stuffed with smoke
and ears out flopped like bowlin' pins
hog troughs hocked and wallered in cool mud bins
and patent leather hooves
split in twos
rooms for rent down t' Ben's
Frendsa danced in a frenzy
choked a juke bird with froth glass ferns
and turpentine urns her sawdust daily keep
and whiskey creeps down her neck naked front
and red leatherette
peen button set where her fanny sweat
raised her wrist-a-fan and a mouse coughed cotton
through a screen door cracked sand
rooms rent only to friends
Hat Rack Hotel
architecture tincture of red Arkies pinched the southern belle
and splayed his cracked nail hand
grey fedora - snappy band
and the camel walls yelluh like damp dead chickens
beak down the hard wood floor
and the music - O the music
harp man blew his best lung white shirt
his feet worked like a monkey out the door
and Dora robbed a baby through a dark bebop
licorice lenses fogged in hot sorrow
through the floorboards at the general store
yuh foods still in the hot hand oven
apple pie cooked through a seed bruised stem eye
sticky in the window of Momma Frame Broke
rope bell dinglin'
"Children, I won't call yuh once more."

By the painter and poet once known as Captain Beefheart,
Who deserves more recognition as a poet.

Pink floyd, San Tropez

A languid ballad from Meddle, 1971, -Just peachy.

Time for a Work-Out

Red Rose Pictures present a film by Mitchell Rose
This team's short movies combine dance, grace, pathos, and humour: Poetry in motion

Thursday 1 February 2007

Something for the Ladies (but not the ones in Boston)

I think these would be very tasteful at a formal event, the opera, etcetera. There's more. Illuminated clothing by Janet Hansen at
(Via BoingBoing)

How about a glowing brain and nervous system?

I'm a Joker...

Steve Miller Band.

Is it Thursday?

Is it thursday? I didn't know, lost track. I would have said wednesday. Went to see the doc this morning... She asked a few questions, listened to my chest, looked down my throat, felt various bits, laughed, and described the symptoms of the last few days. I raised one eyebrow, like james bond does... She missed that and asked why my face was twitching. I said I was trying not to sneeze, Go ahead, handing me a superstrong aerospace kevlar-weave tissue. So I did. A really good one, y'know, where it feels as though half a pound of brain went too. She stretched out a hand for the tissue. I clutched it, looking for a bin.. But she spun out of her seat, kicked me lightly, left right, on the temples, and whilst i was stunned, grabbed the tissue... AND PEELED IT OPEN! ARGH!!!!
Green snot and clotted blood. She hit a button on her desk.... "Code 9!" she yelled. Two nurses rushed in and pinned me. Like hounds, but with scented starchy bosoms in my face. We men can endure hours of that. A needle in my arm, and I was floating. A bottle of blood taken, pressures, patch the needle hole.... Fluids, she yelled and they had me on a tea drip in no time. So, here i am, antibioticked to the gunwales, and feeling better. much.
I might have exaggerated a little there, but i was confused.

Gnomesville: A warning.

I'm a bit troubled here, The site counter is a clever thing.. I can find out all sorts of things from it. Like, how deep you like your bathwater, what you had for breakfast, and it lets me look out of your computer screen.... It tells me where visitors are (approximately.. the other bit was a fib... it narrows your location down a bit, I still can't quite tell which of several million people you really are)(except by looking out of your screen, of course)....
Anyway. This morning.
I've been checked out By the Western Australia State Emergency Services....
At 9:30 this morning a computer from there logged on to peruse my comments about gnomery.... As I've said, I deplore the Gnomesville Massacre, I believe it's time for a dialogue with the gnomes.... But I can't deny I'm a bit scared now. Maybe they think it was my earlier gnome post that sparked it off? Thwocketa Thwocketa Thwocketa.... Helicopters are coming, flying upside down... that means they're Australian Oh migod.. run, hide, panic, scrub the hard drives, special forces, abseil.... Oh, hang on. Helicopters. upside down. Phew.They haven't thought this through. Abseil. Rotor. eggwhisk. So, it's a stand-off then.If they land, the lawn gets a short trim. I think I may have time to tunnel my way out, emerge from a manhole down the street and stroll away.
If I don't post for a while, it means they got me, and are dragging me back to a land down under, (where the women glow and men plunder), That gives me an Idea.. (Ping!) vegemite... If I make a plateful of vegimite sandwiches, and open some beer. Cricket ball! Somewhere, I'll pretend I know about cricket, we'll be mates, my great uncle was at Gallipoli...
Surely they'll know I'm not a gnome basher? Surely. Dig? or sandwich? Oh god, they call 'em 'diggers', SwingKitty'd know what to do, but she's off the radar... Vegemite then.
If you don't hear from me, go to Amnesty International and report the circumstances of my disappearance, picket embassies, blog, oh, save me, save me, I'll never make fun of the cultural amenities of Dardanup, Western Australia, again, I swear it!

I think the Aussie Police should look into this instead:
To: "'*******@****'" (**************)
Subject: gnomes
Date: Fri, 8 Nov 2002 15:46:29 -0000 
hello I have just looked at your web page about the garden gnomes. I was one of the founders of the UHV AREA /G.A.C.B (gnomes against cigarette butts) my idea was to breed Daresbury gnomes to outwit smokers at the Daresbury Laboratory, with 01. It went horribly wrong one night in the lab, when we bred a smoking mutant gnome, which escaped, and went rampaging, and killing the others, we had to stop him quickly before he killed all the G.A.C.B. We tried the Daresbury lab cats but they was too fat living a life of riley on D/L food. 01 and myself (00) laid down traps but to no avail, so ended the last bastion of G.A.C.M.
We had a very very cunning plan in the pipeline and withheld it till last Christmas 2001, Santa's grotto was born to entice him in seeing Santa at work, Santa gave him his present, jelly gnomes laced with T.M.G.VIRUS. It was a horrible death but it was worth it. Now we have to wait, for the land is cursed, for a year and a day so smokers, beware! -the Daresbury gnomes will return someday.
Regards 00.