The Leader of the Recyclons

It is some years since I last appeared in these parts. Believe it or not there is much to engage the energies of a Time Lord in other parts of the galaxy.

No I have been here these past few weeks to support Count Binface in his noble efforts to win over the voters of Clacton-on Sea. We met on Sigma IX light years before he became the leader of the Recyclons with a 200% majority vote. 

I hear that only the current President of the USA has done better but numbers have different meanings depending on where you happen to be in the universe and the kind of grey cells you enjoy.

The Count polled 9,455 votes on election day last Thursday but sadly not enough to save Nigel Farage from further scrutiny of his finances as he returns to Parliament. 

However, could there be a whiff of miscounting as Woke Trump Carzee apparently only won 8 votes and the 3 candidates for the Monster Raving Loony Party, Nick the Incredible Flying Brick, Howling Loud Hope, and Baron Von Thunderclap only totalled 61 votes?

I, and no doubt the Count, look forward to hearing the true numbers from Truth Social as a matter of urgency.

The Back to Front Planet

It seems a long time since I was in this part of the galaxy. I had heard rumours that a race of blond haired supermen now ruled some of the nations here. But in spite of their great intellect and power a hideous plague had ravaged their lands. Many were spared by vaccinations only to be gripped by fear of wokes living among them. Yet even I know that wokes are the brothers and sisters of wookies and ewoks and greatly to be cherished.

Nonetheless I materialised in a pleasant spot which hardly prepared me for the news that greeted me no sooner had I opened the door of the Tardis.

My intergalactic passport now counts for nothing in these days. Can you believe it? Something to do with Brexit whatever that was. My only visa is a credit card. Therefore confess it I must. I am an illegal alien. The only mercy is I do not travel in a small boat.

People tell me the government of these isles where I used to be so welcome has now decided on special means to help  with the deportation of we illegal aliens. Ministers have finally decided to give up on exiling us to the safe haven that is Rwanda. After spending fortunes proving it to be the jolliest place on planet earth they thought there might just be a risk some refugees might fancy coming here for the chance of a free air flight to this African paradise. 

Much better to go for a truly stellar solution.

And where might that be? The planet Oracs of course where there is plenty of room and no danger of a return to the original  place of departure. Refoulement no chance! The government will therefore soon begin a media blizzard telling everyone how kind and welcoming the leaders of this world really are. The one eyed Skelad sadly know lots about discrimination. They will be full of sympathy and kindness offering an open plunger/hand in friendship. 

The one difficulty? The only English word they speak is "exterminate".  But I am told I misheard. In that back to front planet "exterminate" actually is an invite to party. It really means "cheers have another drink on me". And in case there is any doubt Parliament will soon enact a law to make that clear and no one can say any different.

The only trouble is I have been to that planet. Which is why I will be dematerialising again soon.

Perhaps even yesterday. 

 

Workers of the world unite you have nothing to lose...

...but your hot water bottles, your electric blankets and your snuggle wraps.

Jeremy Corbyn may well be a blast from the past brought here by some socialist Tardis but he needs the kind of miracle Timelord is used to delivering if he is to have a chance of becoming PM.

So let me start by encouraging him to sing the praises of centralised heating in Moscow built by the genius of the comrades from the soviet era. Flats there continue to be piped with hot water from power plants which dominate the skyline to this day.

Warmth is sacred in the Russian home. In days gone by cottages were dominated by a masonry stove the size of a car. Snow might reach the windows outside but who cared when you can sleep on top and soak up the heat all night.

Nowadays central planning continues to ensure temperatures stay high in winter so that everyone lounges around in T-shirts and shorts even if outside temperatures fall to minus 31F. So much so that Russians visiting London complain of the damp and cold and even sleeping under the duvet in their overcoats.

What better vote winner then than a new generation of coal fired power plants circulating our cities and delivering cheap and plentiful heat to our homes. Forget HS2 and Hinckley Point. Re-open the coal mines. Nationalise hot water!

I reckon there are plenty of my friends ready to throw off the snuggle blanket and recycle the hot water bottle.

Remember Jeremy the miracle started here!

Alas poor sewing box

I knew him, but fleetingly, after all these years. A treasure of infinite surprise, of most excellent fancy, I rarely saw you open.

A button here, a name tag there, the effort of threading a needle a thousand times; and now, how wistful in my imagination it is! My eyes blink in surprise at it.

Here it hangs that lid that seemed never to want to stay shut. Full to overflowing with who knows what. Where be your scissors now? your odds and ends? your flashes of colour that were wont to set me thinking of socks lost long ago?

Not one now, to mock us any longer, by falling out the cupboard as soon as it opened. As if to say, I am still here? Of course, now play with me?

Now let me to my lady's chamber, and tell her, it has come to this, let her paint a smile an inch, nay a foot thick, for I foresee of this she will be greatly relieved, nay released!

"Eye hath not seen.....

...nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him."

We will mark today the passing of Margaret Halliwell through death to a life which is outside our imaginings. A life which the inspired writers of the Bible conveyed with words and pictures carrying a significance beyond time.

It is doubly touching that Margaret who could not see as we see on this earth can now see in every sense and even more than we who are left behind.

I remember going to see her at her home not many weeks ago. She was a great fan of Test Match Special - more a Jonathan Agnew than an Ed Smith fan. But Geoffrey Boycott is a Yorkshireman and that will always grate with  true Lancashire lass. So I took her the ump's ball counter to feel and somehow carry into her imagination something of the reality of the ump's craft(?). I have a lasting memory of her trying on my white coat and being drowned by it. Margaret you see was small of stature but that was the only small thing about her.

Big in heart and big in faith she knew in a far deeper way than I ever will what it means for faith to be "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

I shall miss her. 

Milkywexit?

Here I am back in this part of the galaxy to pay tribute to FreeLanceNerd on what would have been his upcoming 40th birthday and what do I find?

Not only is the good ol' US of A in the grip of a election fever about a blond mop head on 2 legs but his twin brother is shouting the odds in the UK about something called Brexit and a referendum. What's more he's allied to a know-it-all who once declared the teaching establishment as the blob! He should have been with me in the star system at the top right of this picture and he'd know all about blobs. An Alice in Wonderland pair if ever I knew one.

So what is this Brexit about? Liberation from the bureaucrats of Brussels  cry Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Apparently it is something to do with leaving Europe and all those foreigners behind although how the UK "leaves" Europe is not immediately obvious to me. Is it to be floated off into the Atlantic towards sunnier climes?

But fellow time travelers whisper to me their ambition is much bigger than mere Brexit. Why stop there? We need to end the tyranny of the galaxy itself they mutter. If we break free from the tyrannical rule of gravity we can bounce all the way to Mars and beyond in a moment. Think of all that will save besides finding land to solve the housing shortage at a stroke! And the sooner we can halt all those aliens appearing on our TV screens the better. No more hiding behind the sofa to avoid daleks, cybermen, oods, judoons and dare I mention, weeping angels. The real agenda is Milkywexit - nothing less than reclaiming the heavens for planet earth!

 Sadly I cannot tap into the wisdom of FLN to discuss these matters with the seriousness they deserve. We miss his raging rants and rolling round the floor laughter to add spice and season to these weighty matters. But I shall do my best to ensure that his singular style is heard in these coming weeks as referendum day approaches. And remember what this is really all about.

Someone's smiling at the Holte End....

... but there are not many doing that these days. Unless of course at the thought of tucking into a savory meat pie of the kind Curly Al used to sell!

It is nearly 3 years since I last posted in the blogosphere but the dire events at Villa Park this season have compelled me to take to cyberspace once more.

After all how could I stand by when I can feel the disbelief, anger, outrage and despair of FreeLanceNerd. I can still point to the impressions in the wall of our back bedroom where he hammered his head in frustration after one especially bad result. And there was the European game under floodlights when he was so excited at the Villa scoring a goal his glasses fell off and he managed to stand on them in his delighted dance.

Bring back Deadly Doug. Please sell Mr Lerner - even to Donald Trump! Now that would bring FLN to the boil! What a delicious thought...

Mass Clean

This week the carpets have been cleaned in the Tardis. But at the same time putting at risk the accuracy of the weights used by Timelord for the vital business of weighing the ingredients for staple delights like apple cake.

As all good metrologists know weights can change with deposits from muck and other debris in the air and guess where all that carpet dirt has gone?  Teapot is careful not to risk the accuracy of these weights by disturbing dust through dusting but carpet cleaning is like a debris tsunami.

Teapot must now use her skills in the lingua franca to speak to the Bureau International des Poids et Mesures in Sevres near Paris. They are the custodian of a small cylinder of platinum iridium alloy weighing just one kilo. In  fact The Kilogram. The ultimate reference standard for all kilos. Yet over time pollutants add to its mass requiring a delicate cleaning operation.  Not just a bit of spit and polish but the touch of a chamois leather soaked in ethanol and ether along with a subtle application of steam. Dozens of replicas of The Kilogram are found around the world but all are shipped back to Paris from time to time to have the special authentic French cleaning treatment. Too gentle a clean leaves contaminants behind whilst too much of the elbow grease makes matters worse or erodes the metal itself.

So task one for the week ahead is for Teapot to search out the secret formula of this operation and gently restore the pristine quality of the pounds and ounces. No more cleaning. No more dusting until all is well with them again. Even if that means a trip to Paris......

What an incentive?!

Gun Law

On December 14 Adam Peter Lanza shot and killed twenty children and six adult staff members and wounded two others at Sandy Hook Elementary School in the Sandy Hook village of Newtown, Connecticut.

The horror of it all is only matched by a despair at the paralysis within the American body politic over gun control. We ought to be outraged at the pronouncements of the leader of the National Rifle Association Wayne LaPierre who   proposed that the "only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun." All schools should have the "benefit" of armed guards just like banks and airports.

But its predictability numbs us to its stupidity. Yet who would bet against a shoot out in an American elementary school a year or so from now like a scene from a wild west film with the good guys shooting it out from behind overturned desks with the bad guys as their mental state deludes them into thinking the youngsters are hostile invaders from another planet.

An event like this screams out for a rant from FreeLanceNerd. Timelord remembers his return from visiting his great friend Ethnoquest in California in 1998. As soon as he entered the house he took out from his suitcase copies of magazines offering guns and rifles for sale. We were harangued  at length and more and more at length about the madness of our cousins across the pond.

FreeLanceNerd I can hear you now......

Plebs

Timelord wonders if there is any link between the recent verbal fusillade addressed by Andrew Mitchell at the police at the gates of Downing Street and the never ending labours of some of his constituents in Sutton Coldfield to resurrect the title of "Royal Borough"? More than you may think.

I have often suppressed a wry chuckle ever since we moved to this part of the Midlands in 1981 when faced with the pretensions to royal grandeur of the local newspaper and some of its residents led by the local Tory High Command.

The fact of Sutton Coldfield being part of Birmingham and potentially overrun by the great unwashed who inhabit all points south of Wylde Green has always been one that keeps the true blue ladies awake at night and forces real gentlemen to make sure their shotguns are well and truly oiled and loaded.

I am therefore confident that Mr Mitchell's antics had nothing to do with a hard day at the whip's office or an excessive lunch at his club or swanky London watering hole. No. It was the weekend drills and manoeuvres with the Royal Borough's Home Guard wot did for him.

Spode like he can be seen in Sutton Park urging the boys to do their duty. "Friends Romans countrymen gird your loins. To the barricades! Repel the plebs and barbarians from the other side of the Chester Road." Our London Bobbies should have realised he was simply practising his rallying cry for the troops for the coming weekend.

Where then will we find a Mark Antony who will come not to bury our noble Caeser in the pages of the Sun but to praise him in the headlines of the Daily Torygraph? Answers to the Editor of the Sutton Observer.

Engraved on the palms of my hands

Here is FreeLanceNerd, (although no one knew it at that time.It was a name he adopted for his blog) We still have the photo of Teapot holding him which you can see in this pic and it sits looking at the fireplace in our dining area.

We saw his nephew Samuel,  or Sammy as I heard his mum say a few times, on Saturday and he would give FLN a fair run for his money in the smiling stakes. Funny that as Curly Al, his dad, was not quite at the races when the smiles were on.

 September approaches - the cruelest month - to ape TS Eliot. I was struck by Matthew Maynard who had given interviews last week at a memorial cricket match for his son Tom between Surrey and Glamorgan. Tom, a promising Surrey cricketer,  died in June after trying to cross a London Tube line and being hit by a train. His father now carries tattoos on his arms with words in memory of Tom.

Memories are engraved deep within us. And there are plenty I am pleased to say about FLN. There is something remarkable about the ability to bring the past into the present however imperfect that may be sometimes. I often bring those memories to mind in our church of an evening where he would come and take part and worship. We were finishing our series in the prophet Isaiah last night and I found myself turning the pages to chapter 49 where the Sovereign Lord says.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands"

There is something deeper here than a tattoo. And for all of us for whom September is the cruelest month we are comforted immeasurably by the knowledge we are never forgotten, held always in the memory of the God.

A pair of spectacles

On this day when our most read newspaper self righteously publishes Prince Harry's photo in his birthday suit in the interests of the need to know press freedom and oh of course profit your blogger has decided on a more sombre piece.

Friday is the day the Economist drops on the welcome mat of the Tardis and one of its special features is the obituary page right at the end of the magazine. Here lives are remembered from all sorts of walks and backgrounds. Last week I read the story of Sir Bernard Lovell who died at 98 and forever linked to the Jodrell Bank radio telescope in Cheshire.

Today I read about Winnie Johnson the mother of Keith Bennett, the only child victim of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady whose body was never found on Saddleworth Moor, a wild lonely place not that far from Sir Bernard's telescope. Winnie died last week. Here is the article from the Economist, with another photo courtesy of the Sun.

http://www.economist.com/node/21560832

The last paragraph captures a haunting sadness of nearly 50 years. Although I have lost a son I can only touch the edge of the depth of the suffering and despair of this mother. I suspect Keith's remains will never be found.

A golden tardis

So the police have arrested a man for painting a post box gold in Lymington in honour of Ben Anslie the Olympic gold medal sailor who lives there. Apparently he was upset that the Royal Mail were going to paint a post box gold in Cornwall where Ben grew up but not in Lymington. Mr Smith was rewarded with a night in the cells for his pains.

Royal Mail spokesman Heulyn Gwyn Davies said: "We are extremely disappointed that someone has chosen to vandalise this particular post box."

In Doddington Lincolnshire a post box was painted bronze by fans of the British Hockey team midfielder Georgie Twigg. The Royal Mail announced they would repaint it red as soon as possible.Leave painting post boxes to our engineers said a spokesperson. 

Do I get the feeling someone is getting a bit above themselves? If the Royal Mail can afford to hire engineers to work as painters and decorators our first class stamps will soon be one pound and rising.Odd though I have not yet heard of any painting of post boxes in Yorkshire even with all those gold medals in the white rose county. You might have thought Sheffield would have an outbreak of them what with Jessica Ennis and all. All those law abiding Tykes may be? Or a shortage of gold paint? Or perhaps a little reluctance to splash out on the purchase of the odd brush?

Now where will the gold paint break out after the heroics of Mo Farah tonight? I will put the Royal Mail out of their misery right now by offering Mo's fans the chance to paint the tardis gold. And how will that look as it hurtles around the universe.

Timelord's return

There may be some inhabitants of the blogosphere wondering where Timelord has been these last few months. Has he finally succumbed to the sontarans? Did he at last meet his match at the hands of the weeping  angels?

Teapot has been so concerned at his absence that she decided to buy a SATNAV device to help track him down who knows where in the farthest outposts of the galaxy. Timelord is after all well known for his unusual sense of direction and the only intergalactic traveller who has managed to board a train intending to go to Bradford only finding himself in Leamington Spa.

It may then not seem odd the first outing for this miracle of navigation was the Wirrall but calamity. Tthe device mysteriously lost power somewhere in the region of Stoke on Trent. More evidence of Timelord's extra-terrestrial foes at work? Not one bit. As in the old rhyme;

"For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

For want of a shoe the horse was lost.

For want of a horse the rider was lost.

For want of a rider the message was lost.

For want of a message the battle was lost.

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail."

In this case it was the want of a fuse which left the navigation all at sea and Timelord lost in the intergalactic void. And hey presto after one 30A fuse change this afternoon the SATNAV powered up, Timelord's co-ordinates were discovered and he re-materialised in time for tea.

Now who in the Tardis is going to knock the SATNAV now?

A deadly equation.......

.......Hood + sweets + tea = dead (if you're black) and legally dead at that.

And so it seems in Orlando Florida where Trayvon Martin was shot dead last week on his way home from a trip to buy iced tea and sweets. According to his killer George Zimmerman a local neighbourhood watchman he looked suspicious and acted suspicious and on that basis  he shot the young man dead.

Some of us may not be surprised at what our gun toting gun obsessed friends across the Atlantic will do with their delusions of still living in the wild west. But what is so jaw droppingly gob smackingly mind blowing about this desperate tragedy is that the local police decided not even to arrest never mind charge the killer on the basis of a so-called "stand your ground law" enacted by the Florida Senate in 2005. And what weapon was this young man carrying to justify this life ending violence? None. Not even a special piece from Buffalo Bill's Shooting Store in Orlando itself.

From time to time this blogger has the honour of a rant in the style of FreeLanceNerd. And how I miss you FLN when there is a need for a good rant. And today I have been in ranting mood.

At least the local police chief has stepped down if only temporarily and a grand jury is to hear evidence on 10 April before deciding whether or not to charge Mr Zimmerman.

In the meantime I fear the wild west may catch up with Mr Z as the so called new Black Panther Party has put a bounty on his head. He seems to be lying low or is may be on the run. Methinks time to saddle up the posse and bring him in.

The Dead Ball Rule

Monday was my first evening class in the level 1 course for becoming an umpire in the game of cricket. So here is an exchange between a bowler and umpire on the subject of the dead ball rule (with acknowledgement to Messrs Cleese and Palin).

The start of the fourth over of the day.

Bowler: I wish to complain about this ball what you gave me to bowl with not half an hour ago from this very end of the wicket.

Umpire: What's, uh...What's wrong with it

Bowler: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, ump. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it!

Umpire: No, no, it's uh,...it's asleep.

Bowler: “Look, ump, I know a dead ball when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.

Umpire: No no it's not dead, it's, it's restin'! Remarkable ball, the Australian Kookaburra, idn'it, ay? Beautiful cherry colour!

Bowler: The colour don't enter into it. It's stone dead.

Umpire: Nononono, no, no! 'it's asleep!

Bowler : All right then, if it's sleeping, I'll wake it up! (shouting at the ball) 'Ello, Mister Kookaburra Ball! I've got a lovely fresh batsman waiting at the other end for you to knock his block off.

Umpire throws the ball hard on the ground:   There, it moved!

Bowler: No, it didn't, that was you making it bounce!

Umpire : I never!!

Bowler: Yes, you did!

Umpire: I never, never did anything...

Bowler: (yelling at the ball repeatedly) 'ELLO BALL!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your twelve o'clock alarm call!

(Takes ball out of the umpire’s hand and throws it fiercely to the wicket keeper and watches it drop to the ground and trickle along the pitch.)

Bowler : Now that's what I call a dead ball.

Umpire: No, no.....No, it's stunned!

Bowler: STUNNED?!?

Umpire : Yeah! You stunned it, just as he was wakin' up! Kookaburra cherries stun easily, my son.

Bowler: Um...now look...now look, ump, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That ball is definitely deceased, and when you gave it me it not 'alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein' tired and jiggered following a prolonged interview with Geoffrey Boycott.

Umpire : Well, it's...it's, ah...probably pining for the beaches of the Gold Coast.

Bowler : PININ' for the BEACHES?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that? look, why is it’s seam is as flat as a pancake?

Umpire : The Kookaburra Cherry prefers low profile! Remarkable ball, id'nit, son? Lovely colour!

Bowler: Look, I took the liberty of examining that ball in the first over, and I discovered the only reason that it had any seam at all in the first place was that it had been stuck there.

Umpire: Well, o'course it was stuck there! If I hadn't stuck that seam down, that ball would have swung round corners bounced up to the batter’s ear’ol’ and VOOM! Feeweeweewee!

Bowler : "VOOM"?!? Ump, this ball wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'It's bloomin' demised!

Umpire : No no! 'It's pining!

Bowler: It's not pinin'! It's passed on! This ball is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet its maker! It’s a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! It’s 'istory! It's kicked the bucket, it's shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain. THIS IS AN EX-BALL!!

Umpire: Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he calls for the third umpire) Sorry son, my mate had a look 'round the back of the scoreboard, and uh, we're right out of Kookaburras

Bowler: I see. I see, I get the picture.

Umpire: I got a tennis ball.

(pause)

Bowler: **!!?X!?

A Lady of the Emerald Isle?

"Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings....."

Today we celebrate the arrival of a baby girl into Timelord's wider family. Her father is an aspiring author and so it is fitting to see her in the annals of Rohan, a descendant of that ancient people of Middle Earth. Her mother may be from the Emerald Isle but there is no denying the blood line she inherits.

Timelord himself made a visit to the shire this last weekend. There is nothing to beat the charm of the hobbit house and to see Sam again. What adventures are there laid up in store for him? A ring perhaps or even a spat with an outsize spider and may be even the becoming the mayor of the shire.

Grow strong little Sam, sleep well and listen to the stories of the heroes of old. And you too may join the Fellowship of the Ring!

Newt for President

"What ho Jeeves", I said, as I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the morning paper, carefully laid out on the tray beside a plate of the best E&B. "What ho....", I repeated feeling a certain strain in the grey matter brought on by the exertions of the night before coupled with the paper's headline.


Newt for President

Jeeves inclined an eye in my direction. "Jeeves", I went on, " are my eyes deceiving me but can our cousins across the pond be thinking of electing a newt for their President? Did they cut the ties from the maternal  apron for such a thing as this? Did they dispatch all that tea into Boston harbour to be ruled by one of Gussie Fink-Nottle's pets?"

I must hand it to Jeeves. Even first thing in the morning he is all tickety boo bright as a button and not even the weird and wonderful ways of the Yankeedoodlers can phase him.

"Sir" he replied, "You have mistaken an amphibian of the family Salamandridae for the former speaker of the House of Representatives. Mr Newt Gingrich, for that is his name, is indeed a candidate for the office of President of the United States of America. And if I may say so he is likely to be referred to in many more reptilian likenesses before his campaign reaches its climax at the Republican party convention in Florida such is my understanding of the rough and tumble of American politics. But he is most definitely homo sapiens or as close to one as any candidate for the nomination of that party might get"

Just managing to stay in touch with Jeeves formidable intellect the famed Wooster brain clicked fully into gear. "I say, Jeeves, I have a great idea. I am meeting said Gussie at the Drones for a spot of lunch today. Just think. At last a use for those infernal pets of his. All of Mr Newt's supporters will want to show their undying loyalty and support by having one of his namesakes to remind them of their hero everyday."

At this I detected a slight cough coming form the Jeeves direction. The kind of noise you get used to hearing when Jeeves is none to impressed with one of Bertram's schemes. But Bertram was not deterred.

"Pack the bags, Jeeves, make the reservations. We can even use the time on the crossing for Gussie's newts to go forth and multiply. Florida here we come!"

Just a second

Being a timelord I am permitted a wry smile at the meeting of the world's experts at the International Telecommunications Union in Geneva today about whether or not to keep the leap second. This smile breaks out into a broad grin when the assembled cognoscenti decided to defer a decision for a few more years (and leap seconds) into 2015.

The UK wants to keep adding the odd second here and there to make sure time told by atomic clocks and earth time stays together. Others like the US and France say the leap second causes mayhem for Satnavs, the internet and flight control systems and so on.

As a master of time I am looking forward to being consulted directly on all this over the next couple of years. I can say with confidence that the controls of the Tardis have never been troubled by the addition of the odd leap second. Interference from Teapot yes, but it would need more than a conference in Geneva to fix that! And who needs a Satnav? Give me a good old sextant any day.

Truth is that the extra leap second has proved invaluable over the years in making all the difference to catching the train home to Four Oaks. Wrist watch time, blackberry time, laptop time and Cathedral clock time all operate in their own peculiar zones and it needs a cool head to select the correct one to guide the nightly dash to New Street when I am in the office.

So the really urgent need is for a conference to synchronize Station time, Cathedral time and Timelord time.   Invitations will be on their way soon.

Discovering the Higgs Boson in Four Oaks

Great excitement this week on Tuesday as scientists at the Large Hadron Collidor in Switzerland announced they were one step nearer discovering the elusive Higgs Boson.

To find it researchers sift through showers of sub atomic particles in the hope that Higgs will turn up and hey presto we will understand at last why things like quarks leptons photons and the like do what they do.

I can save them the bother. This week the Higgs Boson was discovered in Four Oaks right here in the Tardis.  Like all great scientific discoveries (you know the kind of thing, Archimedes and his bath and Newton and his apple) it sort of happened by chance.

 I walked into the front room and saw Teapot with a strange instrument in her hand which I now know to be a duster. I cannot remember seeing one here before. There was a sort of shaking before my eyes and a host of particles appeared. It was plain they had settled here for light years and perhaps even from shortly after the Big Bang itself. In the midst of this mass there was one with its own unique trail or signature. The Higgs Boson beyond doubt.

But there is no point rushing round here to see for yourself. Sadly there is no knowing when this phenomenon will be repeated. Even Einstein at his best could not write an equation which would predict when the duster might reappear.

So until then we will have to make do with the efforts of the LHC in Switzerland. Unless they find a duster.