Glorious Leader

 

Ferret Wobbler of Renown

We all know Kim Un Jong as the loveable, affable, glorious leader of the Democratic Republic of North Korea. But what do we know about the prodigy himself, really?  Often as I leave the 'Scrofula Arms', Tipton, on a Saturday night imbued with 17 pints of Banks best bitter, I'm accosted by sundry revellers who regale me with their lamentable deformities and once satiated, and replete, vocalise, thusly: "Flaxen, you big hairy inebriate and ferret fancier of renown. Why don't you un-lift the veil of enigma and trepidation which shrouds the glorious nation of North Korea, in a miasma of gross turpitude. But specifically, we want to know more about the god/man (more god than man, mayhap?) that bestrides the nation like a bespoke colossus".

Frankly, after much discussion with my psychiatrist, Professor Defacto Mugumbo, I have decided to unload my insistent knowledge gained when incarcerated, as a guest, in Ping Pong's Mental Health and Indoctrination Centre, North Chorea. So here, in no definable order, is Flaxen Saxon's insight into the life of Kim un Yong.

1. Kim Un Jong's haircut has been adopted as the only official haircut endorsed in North Korea. Hence, it only takes 20 minutes to train the average barber with a template.

2. Kim un Jong is 6 foot 3 inches tall, but to express solidarity with his well-nourished and beloved people, he has insisted that all photos of himself should be taken at a jaunty angle, which shows him represented as 4 foot 9 inches, thus in accord with the prevailing height of the average Northern Korean.

3.  North Korea is all about being healthy, slim and fit. Obesity has been officially banned. Few edicts have been followed with such universal fixation and dare I say it, aplomb. The glorious leader is the exception that proves the rule. Also, he is an acknowledged breatharian with a glandular problem.

4. Kim un Jong was manufactured fully formed and did not undergo gestational restriction as mere mortals experience. Henceforth any representation of Kim un Jung's belly button is a mere figmentation (not a real word) of Photoshop enthusiasts.

5. Kim Un Jong has never endorsed a nuclear programme in glorious North Korea. North Korea is rich in plutonium isotopes, and all citizens are encouraged, at the point of a bayonet, to visit all North Korea's non-radioactive facilities to achieve that all-around healthy tan and that all-too-fashionable and in-vogue disease, leukaemia. Cough. 

6. Kim un Jong encourages animal rights and is particularly interested in young succulent dogs. In accord with his wishes, da Glorious Leader has set up a pound for itinerant hounds serendipitously housed next to 'Mr Kim ate Chow's slaughterhouse, cum restaurant for party members not on the latest list to be executed by anti-aircraft gun fire. 

7. The Leader eschews alcohol and drugs of any description/prescription. His favourite beverage is a rum vodka mix with a hint of angostura bitters. Because of his unearthly metabolism, before he quaffs said elixir, the concoction turns to the sweetest spa water.      

8. Kim Un Jong's favourite sport is skiing. He is a frequent and notorious participant on the piste. In his finer moments, he has been described as a: 'Slope on the slope, pissed'.     

9. The Leader's education was prolific and swift. Indeed, his absorption of knowledge was unequalled by any previous scholar. It is prophesied on the wind, that he has gained several degrees in woodwork, geography, social studies and physical education.   

10. The Leader leads a simple life as only a man allowed access to a poor countries' resources can be. The simple people are devoted to Kim un Jong, as are the military elite. The 'Kim' brand has merit and should be continued until lack of issue or impending political collapse evokes change. Anyway, the Generals with the broad hats are expected to be watching China, closely.  

      

Arse, big fat, arse.

Owning A Business- Six Years On

Couldn't Have Done It Without Him

When I retired six years ago, my son and I decided to start an online archery business. Combining my passion and hobby with a money-making enterprise would be exciting. Even though the business was small in scope, I had vastly underestimated the amount of work required. We engaged a third-person company to manage the administrative activities and taxes. Stock needed to be sourced and ordered, and on top of that, there were various regulations and additional taxes that the government imposed on an arbitrary basis, or so it seemed to us. The company required registration, a logo was designed, and business cards were printed. 

At the outset, we focused on 'old-fashioned' traditional bows such as English longbows (ELBs) and Asian-style horse bows (AHBs). However, we also kept several modern-style recurve and Olympic-style bows in stock. Archery accessories such as arrows, armguards, gloves, tabs, and quivers were obtained and stored. Inventory and stock regulation systems were implemented, and my son designed, set up, and worked very hard on our professional-looking website.

At last, after much tears, sweat and long nights, we were ready to open our online store to the New Zealand public. I was very much aware that our company sold a niche product. Of our total customer audience base of 5 million, only a few thousand Kiwis shared our passion for traditional archery. I was under no illusions. If we could break even, I would be happy. Turning this passion project into a highly profitable corporation would be challenging as there were but a few potential customers and competition with other archery companies was fierce. And now, in 2025, we face the harsh realities of a problematic economy. New Zealanders are cutting back on spending as they become dismayed at rising rents and food prices. There is little left for luxuries and hobby expenditure.  

Of course, my son and I had to parcel up the various business activities. Flaxen Junior gravitated toward stock acquisition and maintaining the website while I was concerned with logistics and customer service. Looking after customer queries, complaints, and other strange requests has placed my compassion and empathy under severe strain. Folks are weird, and some of their requests and enquiries should not be tolerated in any civilised society. However, I remained professional and treated all customers respectfully and courteously. In fact, I acted with a modicum of aplomb and self-possession.   We recently attended and set up a stall at the local fair and did surprisingly well. We hope to reprise our success at this weekend's market and are keeping our fingers crossed regarding the weather.

I doff my hat towards my son. Not only does he manage to hold down a professional (proper) job as a Project Manager and direct many of the activities concerning our joint venture, but he also has another business setup hosting Archery Combat. I don't see how he can find the time for everything he does.   

While I wouldn't call the joint venture lucrative, it pays for itself, and I even manage to take home a little pocket money. Also, I've learned a lot. After a lifetime as a professional scientist, it has been refreshing and enjoyable, though challenging, to change tack and engage in an activity never before experienced. Taking on a demanding and totally alien activity has made me realise the importance of maintaining and utilising the thinking structure between our ears, ensuring that it is used and not allowed to atrophy.  I have also gained an appreciation and respect for those who put forth the effort to start a small business venture/adventure, especially those bereft of substantial financial and other support systems. And those folk looking to gain a livable livelihood from their enterprise deserve my infinite esteem in addition to lashings/dollops of good luck. According to Statistics New Zealand, only 37% of start-ups are trading after two years of operation. Those who remain in business can only do so by remortgaging their family home or taking out loans they can ill afford to pay.

      

Diogenes

Alex, Have You A Drachma For A Cup Of Tea. Arse?

Diogenes was a Greek fella of the diaspora and was born around 413 BC and died in 324 BC, or thereabouts. Apparently, he was a well-to-do citizen of Sinope, a Greek colony in what would be now northern Turkey. As a man of independent means he was the recipient of the liberal  Greek education of the time. This education focussed on learning the epics of Greek literature and memorising Homer while cultivating a healthy body through gymnastics. His father was a money changer responsible for exchanging foreign currencies for the local coin. When Diogenes came of age, he followed in his father's footsteps and assumed the position of Money Changer. Early in his career, he became embroiled in an accusation of Defacing the Currency. This was a serious charge, and he either fled from Sinope or was officially exiled. The details concerning the interlude are not clear. At some stage, he migrated to Athens, the seat of high Greek culture and philosophical thought. His banishment affected his economic status, and he was forced into penury. For many, the shock from wealth to sudden impoverishment would have had a baleful effect on their character. However, Diogenes embraced his hardship due to the adoption of Cynic philosophy. Cynic philosophical thought flourished at this time, advocating the rejection of political and social norms. They preached a simple, austere life, valuing reason and virtue above all else. A most admirable stance to take, especially if you are penniless. Diogenes would take the Cynic worldview to the extreme by living in a large jar, begging and defecating/pissing/masturbating in the street. He considered possessions as encumbrances and consequently owned nothing. Although he possessed the skills and wit to earn a good living as an administrator, orator or teacher, he chose to do nothing. He believed that true virtue and simplicity came from living like a dog. He would berate passerbys as they went about their driven and pointless lives. Better to contemplate the absurdity of life by not taking part in it. Be content with nowt and be free of society's fetters. Diogenes did not believe in government or private property and preached oneness with nature. There are elements of hippy culture, communism, anarchy, and nihilism in Stoic thought, but not coherently stated. 

Though Cynic philosophy is immediately associated with Diogenes, he was not the founder. Diogenes had a teacher named Antisthenes, another aristocrat turned beggar. Cynic philosophy is not a philosophy spawned of optimism. Indeed, it is a philosophy of its time and reflects a degree of pessimism born of political reality. The politics of the city-state had been upended by those pesky and barbarous Macedonians led by Phillip and Alexander. Optimistic philosophical thought in the ancient world ended with Aristotle. Aristotle was an unabashed elitist. Greeks were superior to non-Greeks, and Greek aristocrats were superior to all. This is interesting as Aristotle was a Macedonian and considered by Athenians semi-Greek at best. By the power of the Macedonian sword, the Greeks had lost their autonomy and independence. Macedonia had imposed political stability on the quarrelsome Greeks; they were fettered if not tamed (go tell it to the Spartans). Thoughtful Greeks, by dint of political reality, became weary and resentful of the trappings associated with their old Greek city-state conception of 'stability'. Proud and supposedly 'superior', Athens had been humbled and stripped of its age-old power. The solution: nothing matters in this world. Turn to a simple life of no material consequence. Cynic philosophy would never have emerged in Pericles' Athens.

Diogenes is oft remembered for his acerbic one-liners. Once, he was visited by Alexander of Macedon. During the visit, Alexander stated that he would grant Diogenes anything he wanted, and Diogenes supposedly replied, "Move out of my light." And my favourite, "There is nothing more beautiful than freedom of speech."    

What are we to make of this mixture and the man himself? Diogenes advocates a simple life without all the baubles that we exalt but do not make us happy. The long hours at work at a boring job, physically demanding and unfulfilling. And for what purpose? Do you really need that 'top of the line' luxury car? Do you need to live in a five-bed home when there are only two occupants? Strip it all down and list what you really need to be happy. I'm not promoting penury here. When we lay our existence bare, what are the important things to sustain life and peace of mind? This is not a mindset that is appealing to most. Diogenes would be admired more if he had willingly given up his luxurious lifestyle for that of a mendicant, but this was not the case. In this regard, Diogenes' mentor and founder of Cynic philosophy, Antisthenes, deserves our accolades and applause. 

Diogenes was true to his beliefs and remained a harsh and consistent critic of contemporary Athens throughout his life. There was no hypocrisy in Diogenes, or so he thought. Although he embraced poverty, he was happy and willing to accept alms from those he admonished and abused. Folk, unless impoverished, do not naturally lend themselves to this mode of life. Very few can follow its strict precepts. Diogenes was an exception and a very odd fellow at that. In the final analysis, I baulk at considering Cynicism as true philosophy—there just isn't enough intellectual and structured merit in the 'thought' system. From a philosophical standpoint, it proffered no new science or deep ponderings. In its purest form, it is reminiscent of the Eastern aesthete, of which I have no interest. Parts of Cynic teaching were absorbed into a contemporary philosophy, Stocasiam. Now Stocasism, is a much more interesting philosophy by far.         

In the final analysis, was Diogenes a wise sage (without onion) or just an eccentric, dirty old man? 

 

On Knowledge

Berty had an interesting love life...

I wrote about the Dunning-Kruger effect a while back. If anyone is interested, they can search the 'back catalogue'. In essence, folk with limited cognitive abilities overestimate their competence (there is a caveat). Not only that, but they are also blithely ignorant of their own shortcomings. There is more to the effect than, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. What many people don't realise is that there is a flip side to the phenomenon. There is a tendency for highly competent people to downplay their own skills, especially in comparison to their professional peers. It is often misunderstood by 'lay folk' that those afflicted with the condition are necessarily stupid and unintelligent. However, misconceptions about their skills may be restricted to a specific area of knowledge. In other regards, they may actually possess expertise. That said, I suspect there are more dullards than wise men within the Dunning-Kruger community- tis a very large assemblage.

Most of us have encountered an individual afflicted with classical Dunning-Kruger at some point in our corporeal existence. The typical pub boor who will painfully berate anyone within earshot of how incredible they are at any given task or subject. Usually, these folk are self-confessed polymaths. Any topic you mention will garner a quick and confidential reply about how skilled and knowledgeable they are concerning said task/topic. A typical pub boor is forever lost in his inconsequential world, never comprehending. 

I remember quite distinctly when I was 16 and studying for my O'levels, feeling I had grasped everything I needed to know about physics, chemistry, and biology. What else did I need to comprehend? I confess that, at 16, I was a foolish proto-man. I was angry and reactive, responding to the chaotic swirl of the hormonal deluge. Luckily, this was just a stage in my natural maturity, physically, emotionally, and intellectually.

I'm curious about many things and have a particular and abiding interest in a few subjects. With one exception, I do not consider myself an expert in the interests I follow. There is only one subject where my knowledge base borders on the expert: Human Clinical Diagnostic Cytogenetics. I confess that my genetic knowledge extends to other areas of human genetics, but I know enough to know that I'm not an expert in these subjects. This is not false modesty but a cold, hard reality. Expert status in any endeavour can only be achieved through hard study and application over many years. And then the student must admit that further hard work is ahead. Regardless of the subject matter, any expert knows that the quest for ultimate knowledge is folly as it can never be attained. We are all perpetual students lost in the chase. When we think we are close, we are far away.   

There are a few, very few, intellectual souls that come close to the sublime when it comes to knowledge acquisition. We are oft to use the word 'genius' rather glibly, and the term is loosely applied, daft buggers that we are. True folk of genius are rare eggs indeed. For instance, John Lennon is often cited as a genius; he was not. He was a mediocre poet and an average guitarist with a poor taste in women. The rest is just media hype. Isaac Newton was a genius, as was his contemporary Leibnitz. Other folk of this ilk include the mostly forgotten Spinoza and the sadly tortured and probably mad Wittgenstein. Obviously, Einstein and the mobility-impaired Stephen Hawking enter this exclusive arena. There are others (don't forget Darwin), but I won't turn this post into a list. A gaggle of ancient philosophers also enter this restrictive club. Perhaps Plato comes to mind, but I'll place his derivative student, Aristotle, in the enclave instead. Paradoxically, the vast majority of Aristotles' work, excluding his ethics, logic and political musings, is complete and utter bollocks. Sadly, his 'scientific' work would stifle the advance of Western thought for nearly two thousand years; such was the man's authority, especially with the Catholic Church.     

I'd like to finish my disjointed discourse with a brief consideration of a vastly underrated man of genius, Bertrand Russell. Some books leave a distinct imprint on the intellect. This is the case with Russell's 'History of Western Philosophy'. My paperback copy is falling apart—I should have bought the hardback edition. The breadth and depth of knowledge within this hefty tome is impressive enough. However, this, combined with Russell's astute analysis of the subject matter, elevates the book into the monumentally profound category. Not only are we participants in a work of astonishing erudition, but we are also privileged to be part of Russell's brand (sorry, I couldn't resist) of breathtaking, if audacious, synthesis.  Anyway, I recommend that my readers purchase a copy. But be advised, it is best to own the hardback edition. Enjoy.       

Quake

Wellington Earthquake, the Aftermath

I have lived in New Zealand with my family for nearly 25 years. During that time, I gained NZ citizenship and now hold dual British/New Zealand citizenship. I visited the UK once about 21 years ago and have no plans to return. As a single child, I have no close relatives left in Britain. I do have two close friends in England. I have known these drunken reprobates since I was eighteen years of age, and to be honest, I miss them, but not enough to shell out the travel costs. Also, I hate flying, not because of any innate phobia of flight. I suffer from severe spinal arthritis, and I find the cramped seats horrendously uncomfortable. This becomes an issue on a combined series of flights lasting approximately 27 hours. I have never been able to make friends easily, and though I have met many wonderful folks since emigrating to NZ, I have made zero friends. The friends I do have here were originally from the UK.

I love it here and would not contemplate living elsewhere. I believe New Zealand is one of the best countries to live in this turbulent world if you have moderate financial means. However, this does not mean that New Zealand is without problems. New Zealand is subject to the same issues as the UK and the US but differs in degree. Having said that, the United States is, in my opinion, the best place to live if you are very wealthy, but hell on earth if you are poor. 

There is one thing about living in New Zealand that is frankly terrifying. Due to the vagaries of nature, New Zealand lies directly on several geological fault lines. In fact, one runs several kilometres from where I live. As a consequence, New Zealand is subject to earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The 2011 Christchurch earthquake flattened large parts of the city and killed 185. In 2016, Wellington shook to a less devasting event. I was a resident of the northern suburbs at the time, and the event was pretty scary. 

One week ago, as I lay in bed at about 10.30pm, I felt a little bump; it did not last long. Fifty minutes later, just as I was about to turn off the lights, I heard a sound. It was difficult to describe but similar to an approaching train. I had heard this sound before and knew what was to come. And then it hit. It lasted a second, but in that brief period, the house violently shook. Once I had gathered my wits, I checked out the online earthquake resource, Geonet. According to Geonet, the earthquake was classified as 'Severe' and occurred 10 km east of Eketahuna, 35 km in depth, with a magnitude of 5.3. I did not sleep well that night. Since then, NZ has been subject to 32 quakes, all classified as light or weak.

If the 'Big One' hits, I'm as prepared as you can be in such circumstances. My home is a brick bungalow. As I understand it, a brick home does not do well in the event of a strong earthquake because bricks do not flex. In contrast, timber homes do better due to wooden frames having a degree of give. My home is an 'odd one out' as most Kiwi homes are constructed of timber. In the wood-framed barn, I have a small tent and a bugout backpack containing the usual survival items. I'm hoping that it never comes to that.

Life goes on. It is best not to dwell on catastrophic eventualities I cannot control. However, initiating and maintaining a survival mindset and establishing the relevant systems makes sense- just in case.   

Apparently, there was an earthquake in Dudley in 2002. Sadly, there was only minor structural damage.     

Watch and Weep

           

   

It's a Secret.....

All seven of my regular readers know my attitude to Pseudoscience. Let me begin with a definition. A thorough understanding of what we are considering here is of prime importance for the following discourse: pseudoscience is a system of theories, assumptions, and methods erroneously regarded as scientific. The scales now fall from our eyes, giving us clarity and enlightenment.

The Secret, by Rhonda Byrnes, was published in 2006. The tome belongs to the Self-Help genre, a large and diverse selection of books devoted to edifying all who partake. Many of these books linger unread and unpurchased by the public, destined for a short publishing run and subsequent oblivion. However, this was not the case with The Secret, as the book struck a chord with the public and ultimately sold 35,000,000 copies. My reader will now be all agog. What is the 'Secret' that so many crave? Surely, there must be ancient wisdom therein. Perhaps arcane knowledge hidden for millennia only to be released to a select 35 million.

Dear Flaxen, I beseech you to release the genie of ultimate insight to the chosen elect burdened with the temerity to follow this blog. This principle should be available to this sacred band of folk so they may live their lives to the limit of their potential, fully encompassed by its esoteric doctrine. 

Well, gentle reader, you are in the right place, for I'm about to reveal the book's recondite and abstruse (this is not a spelling mistake) secrets.....

The Secret by Rhonda Byrnes: A precis by the astute Flaxen Saxon, sometime resident of Tipton and responsible ferret wobbler.

Stage 1 Inspiration

Rhonda was beset by life's tribulations. Her father had just died, and work was becoming intolerable. Just as life's travails reached a crescendo, she was handed a 100-year-old book resplendent with archaic lore containing fragments and hints of the Secret. Rhonda began a search for further insight. In a vision, she was inspired to move to the US, where the 52 teachers of the Secret lived. What followed was the book.

Stage 2 Book's Content

The Secret is The Law of Attraction. If you earnestly believe you are about to achieve a goal or need, it will manifest. There is mention of cosmic and biological frequencies aligning to facilitate your desires. Magnetic attractive resonances and vibrations must coincide for the technique to work. The Law of Attraction works best by visualising your wants and desires. Also, it is recommended that you act as though you have already received your gift. While waiting for your million dollars to arrive by 'vibration post', go forth and buy a new Porsche. The rest of the book is fluff wrapped within a narrative.

Commentary

Gentle reader, you are now the recipient of ultimate Ancient Wisdom. Use your newfound gift/grift wisely and for the good of mankind.

What are to make of this mixture? There is nothing new here. The concept underlying the Law of Attraction and Manifestation has been considered for millennia. Ancient Greek philosophers were undoubtedly aware of this principle. Plato's concept of Forms idealised the perfect blueprints for everything material, organic, and inorganic. This quasi-real mindscape could be visualised to influence conscious reality.

In proto-modern times (the 19th and early 20th centuries), there was an upsurge of interest in the supernatural and psychics, and their ilk flourished, akimbo. It was a fertile time for such speculation. Rhonda became enamoured by Wallace Wattles' 1910 book, The Science of Getting Rich. This book opened the sacred gate to true enlightenment and introduced Rhonda to the Law of Attraction. Clearly, Rhonda craved much gelt because she obtained sumptuous revenue from 35 million copies of The Secret.   

No doubt the general public has a taste for this sort of thing. Everyone wants health and wealth; however, the means to these ideals in life are difficult to achieve, if not impossible. If only there was a cheat code, a shortcut to obtain all this good stuff without putting forth effort. It is an attractive allure that defies reality. The world is simply not built that way. Sprinkle the 'mechanism' with pseudoscientific babble and add a pinch of lost ancient wisdom, lore, and Bobs, your mother's brother. A gossamer panacea for all that ails us. With all that said, the placebo effect is a verified phenomenon demonstrated numerous times in clinical trials and elsewhere. A positive mindset can have beneficial effects; conversely, a negative attitude can have a baleful impact on the body (nocebo effect- placebo's evil twin). However, the placebo effect will not bring wealth unless it acts as a motivator for action. Sitting in a chair straining and projecting a 'Positive Frequency' supposedly in tune with wealth acquisition will not generate riches; more likely, piles will descend in painful abundance. Nor will positive thoughts, as a sole remedy, cure cancer. 

The book was a roaring success. Indeed, if it worked once, it will work again. Thus, 'rinse and repeat'. In 2010, Rhonda authored 'The Power', 'The Magic' in 2012, 'Hero' in 2013, and so on... Undoubtedly, Rhonda has tapped into a rich vein. The fact that these books and similar are able to garner revenue is a doleful reflection on the current state of educational attainment, particularly the lack of critical analysis and thinking in the West. 

Yes, Rhonda has uncovered the Secret of abundant and sumptuous wealth, but only for herself and for her publisher. 

   

Tales From The Lab, Part I

Definition of a Lab Tech: A Stool sitting on a Stool analysing a Stool

Many years ago, before I decided to study at university, I worked as a trainee technician in a diagnostic biochemistry lab. This was during the 1970s when you could gain a responsible position without a degree. My entry qualifications at the time were a modest 7 CSEs and 5 O'levels (GCEs)—the sort of qualifications that you get at 16. After gaining the position, I attended day-release college to obtain the relevant technical qualifications (ONC and HNC). It was a challenging series of courses spread over 5 years. College attendance was from 9am to 9pm, and once the exams were passed, you were eligible to enrol as a registered basic grade technician. Even as an 'apprentice', I received a decent salary plus additional money for out-of-hours on-call work. As can be imagined, I was young and stupid and spent much of my money on motorbikes, women, and beer- at least I didn't waste it. Regardless of the obstacles put forth by my stupidity, I eventually managed to satisfy the requirements and became fully qualified. Enough introduction.

On this particular day, I was busily analysing faecal samples from patients with gut disease. The analysis was primarily concerned with measuring fat content. I'm sure there are more sophisticated tests available today that don't involve delving unto the murky depths of someone's shit, but this was the mid-70s. Now, it could be thought by many that this job was rather unpleasant. And indeed, the smell was something to behold. That said, this was an analytical duty that I enjoyed performing for several reasons. First, most of my responsibilities in the lab involved working with autoanalysers. Blood samples from patients were transferred to the analyser's carousel, and I ensured that the reagent bottles contained sufficient chemicals. Once satisfied that all was good, a button was pressed. Later, the results were read off a graph, and that was that. I found the whole process tedious and unfulfilling. The testing of faeces was wholly different as the processes involved were not amenable to automatic analysis. Part of the process involved placing the faecal matter in retorts with a caustic chemical and subjecting the sample to reflux. The resulting liquor was then manually titrated using a burette. This was real chemistry involving several manual steps culminating in a calculation. 

Before all the interesting stuff could be performed, the faeces needed to be rendered into a semi-liquid sludge. This was achieved by adding a measured amount of water to the faeces, which was transferred to a sizeable industrial-style blender. A lid was placed on top, and a switch flicked. The procedure was contained within the Sluice Room, where all the 'wet work' was done. Unfortunately, on this ill-favoured day, the rubber seal on the lid failed. This seal usually provided a perfect occlusion containing all the smelly grossness. I'm sure my readers can guess the sequel of events following the loss of perfect closure-  O, woe is me... Within a microsecond, I was sprayed, from head to foot, with faeces, both liquid and semi-solid. Luckily/unluckily, I was close to the instrument of my misery, and with a hand beset with foul ordure, I reached and turned the source of my torment off. My cries of gross misfortune brought forth my colleagues. None would come too close, and I could hear barely suppressed giggles in the background.

The sluice room contained a shower, and I promptly shuffled in and turned it on to full power. Once most of the faeces had been removed, I stripped and had a long, hot shower. Spare clothes were found that were vaguely fitting. My colleagues, as one, came and helped in the subsequent cleanup. Overalls and rubberised boots were obtained from the 'Emergency Cupboard'. The sluice room was self-contained with a thick, durable vinyl floor that crept up the wall for about 30cm. The cleaning was completed within the hour. After a backup blender was found, I returned to work.

As an aside, back in the 1970s, 'Health and Safety' was not a concept yet inculcated into laboratory culture. Had the accident happened today, I would have had to complete a lengthy Incident Report, and a sample of the offending faeces would have been sent for testing for the presence of a myriad of diseases. After a suitable delay, I would have been tested for conditions such as Hep B and C.   

After my mishap, the boss decided that a change in protocol was required. The blender was superseded by a stomacher system. Although it took longer to mulch faeces this way, it was deemed safer.

Moral of the story: Shit happens.