Life begins

On this day in 1865, in one of the last actions of the American Civil War, Union troops captured the trenches around Petersburg, Virginia, thereby breaking the 10-month siege of the city, and forcing Confederate General Robert E. Lee to retreat.

Exactly one-hundred years later, on this day in 1965, early in the morning, four young women went into labour pretty-much simultaneously in a Victorian, brick-built maternity home in Bromborough, England. The maternity home only had three birthing beds, so the fourth young woman was ushered into a bathroom, where the staff improvised an additional birthing bed, using a cast-iron bath and a large slab of wood.

The young woman and her ugly, abnormally large-headed son.

There, at a-quarter-to-nine in the morning (just in time for breakfast, as she was later to observe), the young woman delivered into this world, her first-born child.

The nurses and midwife gathered round, looked down at the serene new-born baby, shook their heads, and tut-tutted.

"You have a very ugly son, Mrs Carter," they observed. "He has an abnormally large head."

Still, his mother loved him.

Holy crap, I'm 40!

To be entirely consistent

BBC: Brain-damaged Terri Schiavo dies

Terri Schiavo, the brain-damaged Florida woman at the heart of a bitter legal dispute, has died. Mrs Schiavo's feeding tube was disconnected on 18 March, following a seven-year battle through the courts…

The Vatican also denounced the death. "An attack against life is an attack against God, who is the author of life," Cardinal Jose Saraiva Martins, head of the Vatican's office for sainthood, was quoted as saying by the Associated Press news agency.

BBC: Pope John Paul II clings to life

Pope John Paul II's poor health has become even worse, the Vatican said. His breathing is shallow, his blood pressure is low and he is having difficulties with both his heart and his kidneys, a spokesman said.

I suppose, to be entirely consistent, the Vatican will be hooking His Holiness up to the mains as I type, in a pro-life attempt to keep him "alive" for the next 15 years or so.

Or would that seem a little undignified?

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Worst nightmare

St Petersburg Times: Youth Groups Say the Time Has Come to Oppose Putin

Two liberal youth movements joined forces on Thursday in their fight against President Vladimir Putin's policies and claimed the time was right for a mass pro-democracy movement in Russia similar to those in Ukraine and Serbia…

If such a movement were to form in Russia, the Kremlin would see its worst nightmare come true, political analysts said.

Blue Mass. Group: Howie Carr gives you another reason to vote for Tim Schofield

…Howie has just given you yet another good reason to go out and work to help Tim Schofield win tomorrow's special election to fill the 18th Suffolk seat: you can make Howie Carr's worst nightmare come true.

These politicians must have awfully tame nightmares, if that's the worst they can come up with.

My worst nightmare involved my grandmother's fur stole coming alive and leaping at my throat. I was about five at the time. For years afterwards, I was totally terrified of weasels and stoats (I didn't know the dead thing around my grandmother's neck was called a mink).

Now that's a worst nightmare.

Bapera

I'm no Philistine, but I'm not exactly a culture-vulture either. I read plenty of books, but I don't get through many novels (life's too short). I enjoy a huge variety of music, but, as far as I'm concerned, rap should be spelt with a capital C. I don't claim to know much about art, but I know what's shite.

Floating high amongst the shite come two of the most highly subsidised art forms: ballet and opera. Never been there, never seen either, never bought the T-shirt—and probably never will. (OK, maybe I am a bit of a Philistine.)

But hold on! I've just had a totally awesome idea for a new art form. I thought of it, so I get to name it. I'm calling it bapera.

As the name implies, it's a cross between ballet and opera.

If you think about it, ballet and opera have a lot in common (both done to music, both shite), but there is also a huge gulf between them:

ballet: ultra-fit, ultra-lean homosexuals in leotards, keeping their mouths shut;
opera: ultra-fat, ultra-bearded heterosexuals in togas, bellowing their lungs out.

Bapera merges the two: ultra-fat, bearded tenors, prancing around the stage in leotards, bellowing on about swans!

Hell, I'd pay top whack to see that!

Remember, you heard it here first.

Postscript: Hey, I've just thought of another one—a cross between rap and opera. I'm calling it crapera.

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Saving 120 million birds and animals with one stone

BBC: Cat allergies 'could be blocked'
Scientists say they have developed a technique which could prevent allergies caused by cats.

Wouldn't it be far easier—and more environmentally friendly—simply to prevent cats?

New Scientist (28-Apr-2001): Every year in Britain, pet cats kill about 120 million birds and mammals—and about 6 million reptiles and amphibians. Thanks to feeding by humans, this predator has achieved densities that no natural ecosystem could support, to the detriment of wildlife.

Aren't cats one form of bio-terrorism we can actually do something about? Put a solution to the real cat problem in your manifesto, Messrs. Blair, Kennedy or (no, really) Howard, and you'll get my vote.

Go on, you cowards. I dare you!

See also: A Modest Proposal

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Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?

Observer: Blair seeks the Christian vote
Tony Blair will make a fresh pitch for the Christian vote this week as Labour tries to refocus the debate over religion and politics away from inflammatory rows over abortion.

BBC: Williams urges debate on abortion
The Archbishop of Canterbury has joined the debate on abortion by calling for an urgent review of the current law.

Religion and politics, eh, don't you just love them? We're turning into America. Anyone would think there was a general election in the offing.

While we're at it, can we please also have an urgent review of the separation of church and state (or lack thereof in England), hereditary bishops in the House of Lords, creationism in British schools, homophobia in the Anglican church, and whether the existence of an omniscient god denies humans free will?

They don't like it up 'em, Mr Mainwaring!

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Australopittecus

I watched Troy on DVD the other week. All the way through it, I kept wondering who Brad Pitt (Achilles) reminded me of. I've just worked it out:

Neanderthal
Neanderthal.
Pitt
Pitt.

No, not sour grapes at all, actually. I just think he's kind of funny-looking.

It was twenty years ago today…

Durham University, Tuesday, 19th March, 1985, evening:

Hitchin has somehow convinced me, a northern, beer-swilling science undergraduate, to come along to the Law Department disco. I have no idea how he managed to do this. The event is held at the Q-Ball Club, a pool- and snooker-themed discothèque near the centre of town. (Don't look for it, it's not there any more.) I have been warned to be on my best behaviour.

So Hitchin and I and a few lawyer types are sitting drinking beer, and talking, as one does in such company, without prejudice, about Carlill v The Carbolic Smokeball Company and torts and lawyerly stuff like that, when this TOTAL BABE walks up to our table, and starts talking to the lawyers.

I immediately realise that this must be her, the heart-throb of the Law Department—the young lady I have heard so much about from another lawyer acquaintance of mine, Keith (but definitely not—for the record, Soo, if you're reading this—from Hitchin, oh Good Lord no!). At the risk of repeating myself, this young lady is a TOTAL BABE.

At this point, I should probably try to describe the vision of loveliness before me. But I'm not going to for a very good reason: I have no recollection whatsoever of what she looked like (other than her being a TOTAL BABE, that is—did I mention that?). We're talking twenty years ago, for Pete's sake! My memory is one big blur.

THAT'S IT! THAT'S WHAT SHE LOOKED LIKE! ONE BIG BLUR!

I was just starting my seventh pint, you see.

So, anyway, I'm averting my eyes, trying not to draw attention to myself by saying anything (a fundamental flaw in my chat-up technique), when I suddenly realise that the TOTAL BABE is addressing me! I remember her words exactly:

"Come on, let's dance!"

I look behind me to see who she's really talking to, but there's nobody there. She's asking me for a dance! Yeah, right. Hitchin has put her up to this, the bastard.

I explain to the TOTAL BABE that I don't do dancing. She repeats that she'd very much like to dance with me. I say that I'm really not into dancing. She says please. I say that, in fact, I'm totally crap at dancing. She is insistent, saying that it doesn't matter that I can't dance. I explain that I've just got myself a pint. She (I'm not making this up) picks up my pint and downs it in one!

MY KIND OF WOMAN!

The next thing I know, I'm surrounded by four hefty lawyers. They grab my arms and legs, carry me over to the dance floor, and dump me on my back on the flashing perspex.

I'm not going to be pushed around by a bunch of lawyers. So I stay there, lying flat on my back in the middle of the dance floor, while the TOTAL BABE and assorted lawyers dance round me.

Later, after he has given me a well-deserved slapping, Hitchin swears blind he didn't put her up to it.

I never saw her again.

Enceladus

BBC: Atmosphere found on Saturn moon
…[Saturn's moon,] Enceladus is the most reflective object in the Solar System.

I reckon my bathroom mirror would give it a good run for its money.

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