I have not gone away, but I am busy. It is also sunny, and has been for a few days. The feel of sun on my face, the pleasure of not having to dress up in five layers it sublime and the open road, with the open top is altogether seductive.
I am currently bored with the election campaign and hardly have given it a thought. Like most, I am tired and cynical and jaded about the state of politics, about the language of the political classes which bears no relation to normal speech, and the frankly pervy freakery of Gordon Brown and his henchmen.
I went to the beach with my house guests and ordered a round of 99's from the ice cream man. A medium 99 now costs £2.50, which is almost more than a medium 69. both of which require ones mouth to be wiped with a hanky afterwards.
Dr Weasel is back from Como. You know how shit little towns always have a memorial to the one, vaguely successful person to have had the sense to leave it and make something of himself? (Boston has Herbert Ingram, whose statue presides over the Market Place, and it's ten to one on that you will have to look him up). Well, the Comoans have a monument, nay a shrine
and a museum, to Senor Volta, the battery bloke. Next time you fire up the Rabbit think of Senor Volta and his Taj Mahal-like pad in Italy.
Any obscure putative worthies with monuments in your area? The inventor of flavoured knickers? Fruit Corners?
4 comments:
What about Perry?
One of the few reliable observations made by obsequiologists, a subvention of sociology especially mired in internecine spite-facilitated acceleration of early heat-death-of-the-universe onset, is that a decedent’s pre-cadaverous activities are inversely proportional in net cultural and societal worth, as measured by responses of non-counter-balanced nested nominal-scaling panels (e.g ‘Thank Goad he’s deid. He wuz pish), to the square-footage of the decedents’ memorials.
The oft cited example of the organic material that had once contributed to the phenomenon known as ‘Mozart’ being tipped into a potato pit, thereafter to furnish potatoes with nutrients also drawn from common criminals, represents merely an astochastic anomaly of anecdotal worth at best. However, it has proved useful to examiners in Third Year Obsequiology at the Harriet Harman Equality University of Disadvantaged Parts of Hampstead in identifying obvious student failures who lack the sense even to conceal their stark limitations, i.e. those who comment about Mozart, ‘decomposing’, and think they're original, in that it absolves the examiners of further evaluation of the student’s work prior to awarding that work an A-minus (aka known as ‘Fail’ in residual universities in which pre-obliterated fascistic attitudes to the differently-abled temporarily persist).
More representative, in the sense of non-asymptotal, is the Alte Freidhof locus of behavioural and cognitive cessation wherein Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen, resident of Giessen, of the Hesse region of what is now Germany, is now located.
Designed, in the patois of its zeitgeist to be ‘respectably modest’, shaded by low trees and adjacent to an unremarkable infra-thoroughfare or ‘path’, early assessment of the association of site with the utility, on the Stakhanovite index of pre-cadeverous effort, using the Hearst algorthim yielded a Dewey-corrected coefficient of 2.67 on the 10 point Xanadu scale.
This grading was, however , conducted before the now widely-known local reports of periphysical activity at the site began to attract the attention of the sociological sciences, compliations of which reports later became the subject of a presuccessful book by a widely known subpresuccessful intellect working as Court Correspondent for the BBC.
The reported nature of these periphysical phenomena is widely known (the grave ‘glowing in the dark’ at the winter solstice) and is beyond the scope of this analysis. The purpose of the present abstract is merely to note that sociologists, aware that truth is always subjective and a construct of societal pseudoreality, and aware that those who claim to 'see through' the reports to an attempt to boost tourism in December, are epistemologically pre-accurate, continue to debate the microrcultural significance of the refusal by the Giessen local authority to allow the estate of the late Ray Milland to erect a much larger memorial, to the actor, on an adjacent plot.
What about the inventors of Golden Syrup? They must have come to a sticky end somewhere. Weasel Wonderland? Stoat Hall?
Hamish, I shall set about an erection at once, by public subscription, to the lauded inventor of Golden Syrup, with a paraphrase of the original legend: He was soo butch, but a sweetie underneath.
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