Hello readers,
it, is not spiders.
Not like Valerie Singleton on Blue Peter in the 1960s. It, is horror. Staring, helpless, boiling misery caused by an event too unspeakable to describe. Although, one must try....
I must apologise because this anecdote came to me third hand, now fourth to you. It was shared by my Brother last time I saw him and he had heard it from his friend Ray.L.F who in turn had heard it from his Dad, who had worked many years ago in the steelworks.
In he past, since that is the time when Ray.L.F senior would have worked there, Steelworks presumably had numerous regulations to prevent death by explosion or other forms of combustion. It is plausible in fact that there was an outcome or procedure for every conceivable happenstance. One compensation claim advert themed rule concerned persons falling. Into a vat or huge container. Of molten steel. In addition to bursting into flames and being boiled alive from the inside, those unfortunate to be victim to this manner of incident could also rely on the assistance of their colleagues.
If one saw a colleague fall into a boiling pit of molten steel, there was a procedure. It was a stick.
The heaviness of the human body versus the thick gloopiness of the steel meant that anyone falling in would take a while to sink, and would initially float in boiling visceral agony. Survivors, it transpired, were not catered for. Because there would be none. Very quickly one would become broiled, setting aflame and quickly becoming soup. Even a few seconds in the molten hell would boil the insides before rescue could be attempted.
The advice therefore, was to helpfully push them under with a stick.
You know, to make them die quicker and lessen their agony.
There was a lot of exhaling and an awkward silence after this tale was shared whilst we drove home from Wee Fathas, before we both acknowledged that it was a sensible way to cut short the horror.
And I said, if I was witnessing this, I would use the the stick to shut their eyes first. I wouldn't want to stare into their agonised souls whilst the molten soup steamed them to death. And my Brother nodded, solemnly. And I said "assuming their eyes hadn't exploded by that time that is......"
Just another standard trip to Wee Fathas then....
Yanns
Showing posts with label Happenstances. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Happenstances. Show all posts
Saturday, 28 April 2018
Monday, 9 April 2018
An American TV show showing American show offs made by Americans, for Americans...
Am not anti America, by the way.
I just find this kind of tailored, overtly obvious, ultra macho TV dirge fest for the lacking in attention span dumb masses, an exceptionally stupid, hilarious and turgid affair, all at once. Here are some pointers as to why....
When I turn the TV on for the first time in a day, because the ancient set top box constantly wants to update, it goes straight to the last channel I watched, before spending 7 minutes failing to update. Hence, the above caveat excuses my, around 11 AM yesterday, finding myself confronted with a programme which wasn't, but may as well have been called " loud macho American men look for treasure in a far off exotic location where machismo matters". Because that is the premise which underpins Caribbean Treasure Hunters.
The obviousness and repetition of key facts is all encompassing. Its so obvious and repetitious that the obviousness and repetition of key facts is all encompassing. Its rigorously edited to make otherwise meaningless, but lets not forget, macho, statements, stand out, by repeating them in different contexts, lest its target audience of goldfish should perhaps be distracted by a shiny object or human being and fail to grasp the macho obviousness laid before them on a huge, shiny, loud, macho, salver.
Whilst diving in shark infested waters (alas no boiling geysers could be located in the Caribbean) they miked up the two macho divers. Prior to this breathlessly brave exploration they had forcefully laid out their intentions to each other, with both nodding vigorously and in a macho style, as if their craniums detatching fully and falling off was all part of the expected landscape of macho treasure finding. For men.
Diving in the suspected location, Macho chap A says "Oh my Gawd, I think I see an AAANCHORRR!". Macho chap B responds "Oh my gawd! What is that?!!!". McA "It looks just like a rilly hyuge Aaanchorrr" McB "Oh my Goodnesssss, its a rilly hyuge Aaanchorr!. Returning to the surface, MC's A and B go straight to their shipmate colleagues who ask "Hey, did yer fine anything worth seeing? Like a hyuge aaanchurrr?" They respond, in a surprising development for those of us who have yet to cotton on to the key fact in this segment "Yurherrr, it was a rilly hyuge aaanchorrr!!!!". So thats an anchor then. A large one. Just to clarify.
There are also repeated phrases about the key fact (the anchors were allegedly dropped by cappun Jim Bob where he dropped his treasure in the 1800s) such as another Macho but marginally more learned chap saying "there doesn't appear to be a cross section at the top, theres a section where it would have gone in to the metal frame but it was made of wood and having been in the sea 200 years will have rotted away." This phrase is repeated twice more during the same dive, then shown as part of a recap two lengthy minutes later, in case the water headed babies watching had forgotten the key fact, and also segued in as part of an early episode prelude as to what would happen in part 2, only ten minutes into the show. Thank Goodness! exclaim Billy Steve and Ringboab, at least we now know the material and potential aqual degradation of the top part of the anchors they are trying to locate! Thank goodness indeed.....
Then there is the deception aspect - the four huge muscly guys set up camp with an older wiser individual who advises them of the poisonous lizards ten feet long, and eye munching tarantulas native to the island. The very biggest guy, his accumulated weight obviously identifying him as the hardest and most fearless of the assembled freak show, pretends to be terrified and runs back to the boat crying. You see? His gargantuan mass does not protect him against his arachnophobia!! He's just like you and I! And yet he will still wake at low light and set off by himself to find the pirate treasure....
When said bounty is unsurprisingly unlocatable, all the assembled meat hills are quick to sound positive about their immense combined failure, even high fiving each other when they return to port to exclaim at how close they had been to an immeasurable underwater fortune just half an hour earlier. If you are macho, failure is fine, especially if there was apparently no expectation of finding anything in the first place. The themes of machismo and deception sit uncomfortably together in a giant man hug til the closing credits.
Am sure if I was a flat earth believing, fundie simpleton with a slack jaw and a clodpate I would find this invigorating exploration of pointless male self congratulation a delight to behold.
Its just that am not.
So I don't.
A big bare chested high five and cavernous guffaw to follow methinks!
Yannis
I just find this kind of tailored, overtly obvious, ultra macho TV dirge fest for the lacking in attention span dumb masses, an exceptionally stupid, hilarious and turgid affair, all at once. Here are some pointers as to why....
When I turn the TV on for the first time in a day, because the ancient set top box constantly wants to update, it goes straight to the last channel I watched, before spending 7 minutes failing to update. Hence, the above caveat excuses my, around 11 AM yesterday, finding myself confronted with a programme which wasn't, but may as well have been called " loud macho American men look for treasure in a far off exotic location where machismo matters". Because that is the premise which underpins Caribbean Treasure Hunters.
The obviousness and repetition of key facts is all encompassing. Its so obvious and repetitious that the obviousness and repetition of key facts is all encompassing. Its rigorously edited to make otherwise meaningless, but lets not forget, macho, statements, stand out, by repeating them in different contexts, lest its target audience of goldfish should perhaps be distracted by a shiny object or human being and fail to grasp the macho obviousness laid before them on a huge, shiny, loud, macho, salver.
Whilst diving in shark infested waters (alas no boiling geysers could be located in the Caribbean) they miked up the two macho divers. Prior to this breathlessly brave exploration they had forcefully laid out their intentions to each other, with both nodding vigorously and in a macho style, as if their craniums detatching fully and falling off was all part of the expected landscape of macho treasure finding. For men.
Diving in the suspected location, Macho chap A says "Oh my Gawd, I think I see an AAANCHORRR!". Macho chap B responds "Oh my gawd! What is that?!!!". McA "It looks just like a rilly hyuge Aaanchorrr" McB "Oh my Goodnesssss, its a rilly hyuge Aaanchorr!. Returning to the surface, MC's A and B go straight to their shipmate colleagues who ask "Hey, did yer fine anything worth seeing? Like a hyuge aaanchurrr?" They respond, in a surprising development for those of us who have yet to cotton on to the key fact in this segment "Yurherrr, it was a rilly hyuge aaanchorrr!!!!". So thats an anchor then. A large one. Just to clarify.
There are also repeated phrases about the key fact (the anchors were allegedly dropped by cappun Jim Bob where he dropped his treasure in the 1800s) such as another Macho but marginally more learned chap saying "there doesn't appear to be a cross section at the top, theres a section where it would have gone in to the metal frame but it was made of wood and having been in the sea 200 years will have rotted away." This phrase is repeated twice more during the same dive, then shown as part of a recap two lengthy minutes later, in case the water headed babies watching had forgotten the key fact, and also segued in as part of an early episode prelude as to what would happen in part 2, only ten minutes into the show. Thank Goodness! exclaim Billy Steve and Ringboab, at least we now know the material and potential aqual degradation of the top part of the anchors they are trying to locate! Thank goodness indeed.....
Then there is the deception aspect - the four huge muscly guys set up camp with an older wiser individual who advises them of the poisonous lizards ten feet long, and eye munching tarantulas native to the island. The very biggest guy, his accumulated weight obviously identifying him as the hardest and most fearless of the assembled freak show, pretends to be terrified and runs back to the boat crying. You see? His gargantuan mass does not protect him against his arachnophobia!! He's just like you and I! And yet he will still wake at low light and set off by himself to find the pirate treasure....
When said bounty is unsurprisingly unlocatable, all the assembled meat hills are quick to sound positive about their immense combined failure, even high fiving each other when they return to port to exclaim at how close they had been to an immeasurable underwater fortune just half an hour earlier. If you are macho, failure is fine, especially if there was apparently no expectation of finding anything in the first place. The themes of machismo and deception sit uncomfortably together in a giant man hug til the closing credits.
Am sure if I was a flat earth believing, fundie simpleton with a slack jaw and a clodpate I would find this invigorating exploration of pointless male self congratulation a delight to behold.
Its just that am not.
So I don't.
A big bare chested high five and cavernous guffaw to follow methinks!
Yannis
Friday, 8 December 2017
Peanuts
Hellall,
the woman next door has an insanely annoying yapping shit hound of despair called Bobby, or as I have named him, Be-elzebobby. This cantankerous oversized barking rat yaps himself into a coma every time I leave, enter or make any noise or movement in my house. This, after two years, is incredibly annoying. Her ownership and tolerance of the little twat poses a good number of questions, of which I will share two ( I can hear him yapping now, no doubt irritated by my the resonance of my loud typing through the thin pot walls of our houses). Where in the name of Satan did she find this wholly nauseating creature, and why does she not realise, and also tolerate, just how chuffing annoying the thing is?
She still tells it that there is nobody there and to get back inside whenever I leave which is fairly annoying in itself. And Be-elzebobby steadfastly ignores her every instruction. When she does see me she says hello and asks in a charming way if am alright. I have not yet answered " I will be, when your bloody dog dies" because I fear this may make me look intolerant or rude.
Thinking how unavoidably frustrating the creature's existence is I recall living in lower Walkley next to a lovely lady with a white curly haired miniature or Highland terrier who hated cats. We had three. I don't know what his actual name was but am willing to bet it was a male human one - like David, Phillip, or Rupert. I myself used Chinese and American Indian influences to name him " Yap ping shite". And our youngest and most agile cat, Bruin used to love dancing about high up on the walls and at the fence where the dog could see him but not get though, which sent the white woolly creature insane.
The above may suggest I hate dogs or have similar sounding issues but in fact we had a dog when we lived in Scotland, a black and white collie who stayed with my Granddad when we moved. Arriving in Sheffield in 1978 aged nearly four we took on a dog from the RSPCA who was a cross of an Alsatian and a non yapping terrier. My Mum called her Peanuts after a stray dog they had featured on Play School or Blue Peter, of the same name. Probably for the best, since as a four year old I wanted to call her seaweed. Am not sure WF or my granddad would have wanted that.
Peanuts had been a stray and just wanted to be loved, and loved she was. She had a trapped nerve in her leg which made it shake so she often looked frightened, and coupled with her soul meltingly big brown eyes and fragile shaking she was essentially adorable. Granddad took her for a walk on the Bolehills every day until she died. I also took her walking with me, when I was fourteen but Mumraaah advised that this was not a good idea as I walked far and fast in all weathers. I never thought of Peanuts as being old but I think she was twelve when we had to sadly have her put to sleep.
She used to like having her face licked and washed by our cat sweep. Even though after two or three nudges from peanuts sweep would scratch her nose, hiss and then run off. Peanuts didn't seem to mind.
Since I started writing this the incessant yapping and barking has stropped, however am confident it will restart once I dare to leave my house. The hateful squawking overgrown hamster of hell still has its noisy hold over my every breath, it seems.
Yannis
the woman next door has an insanely annoying yapping shit hound of despair called Bobby, or as I have named him, Be-elzebobby. This cantankerous oversized barking rat yaps himself into a coma every time I leave, enter or make any noise or movement in my house. This, after two years, is incredibly annoying. Her ownership and tolerance of the little twat poses a good number of questions, of which I will share two ( I can hear him yapping now, no doubt irritated by my the resonance of my loud typing through the thin pot walls of our houses). Where in the name of Satan did she find this wholly nauseating creature, and why does she not realise, and also tolerate, just how chuffing annoying the thing is?
She still tells it that there is nobody there and to get back inside whenever I leave which is fairly annoying in itself. And Be-elzebobby steadfastly ignores her every instruction. When she does see me she says hello and asks in a charming way if am alright. I have not yet answered " I will be, when your bloody dog dies" because I fear this may make me look intolerant or rude.
Thinking how unavoidably frustrating the creature's existence is I recall living in lower Walkley next to a lovely lady with a white curly haired miniature or Highland terrier who hated cats. We had three. I don't know what his actual name was but am willing to bet it was a male human one - like David, Phillip, or Rupert. I myself used Chinese and American Indian influences to name him " Yap ping shite". And our youngest and most agile cat, Bruin used to love dancing about high up on the walls and at the fence where the dog could see him but not get though, which sent the white woolly creature insane.
The above may suggest I hate dogs or have similar sounding issues but in fact we had a dog when we lived in Scotland, a black and white collie who stayed with my Granddad when we moved. Arriving in Sheffield in 1978 aged nearly four we took on a dog from the RSPCA who was a cross of an Alsatian and a non yapping terrier. My Mum called her Peanuts after a stray dog they had featured on Play School or Blue Peter, of the same name. Probably for the best, since as a four year old I wanted to call her seaweed. Am not sure WF or my granddad would have wanted that.
Peanuts had been a stray and just wanted to be loved, and loved she was. She had a trapped nerve in her leg which made it shake so she often looked frightened, and coupled with her soul meltingly big brown eyes and fragile shaking she was essentially adorable. Granddad took her for a walk on the Bolehills every day until she died. I also took her walking with me, when I was fourteen but Mumraaah advised that this was not a good idea as I walked far and fast in all weathers. I never thought of Peanuts as being old but I think she was twelve when we had to sadly have her put to sleep.
She used to like having her face licked and washed by our cat sweep. Even though after two or three nudges from peanuts sweep would scratch her nose, hiss and then run off. Peanuts didn't seem to mind.
Since I started writing this the incessant yapping and barking has stropped, however am confident it will restart once I dare to leave my house. The hateful squawking overgrown hamster of hell still has its noisy hold over my every breath, it seems.
Yannis
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