Health and Safety

As my regular readers will no doubt be aware, I'm a scientist and have worked in a number of scientific departments and laboratories over the years. In my current laboratory, I am the designated ‘Health and Safety Officer’. The role is supposed to be one of election (at least according to Vol 2: page 201 of the Health & Safety Manual) and staff members are expected to vote for their preferred candidate. Therefore, the best person for the post is always chosen…..Not so, in our lab. As I recall I turned up one morning to be told by the Boss that he had decided that I was to be honoured with this exalted position; so much for democracy. Frankly, I am ill suited for the role.

Anyway, from what I can see the position involves filling out endless forms or submitting reports that no one reads, to Occupational Health. Every year our staff have to submit a ‘Health and Safety’ questionnaire. The questions remain the same every year and thus the ‘lab rats’ keep a copy and send that in, every year. My job is to ensure that they have changed the date. As you can guess there are elaborate instructions for the filling in of said questionnaire. In the Health & Safety Manual (Vol1: page 347) there is a dire warning of doom, in bold and capitals: IF ANY QUESTION SUBMITTED IS INCORRECT THE FORM WILL BE RETURNED FOR CORRECTION AND RESUBMISSION. Last year we decided to test this most gracious of policy in the spirit of quality control. So instead of a correct answer, every single answer to every question, in every single questionnaire was plausibly incorrect. We waited in trembling horror for the admonishing response. The week after submission I received the expected email, with trepidation: “Thank-you for your 100% compliance. The outstanding quality of your department's responses has been noted and you have been selected and recommended for commendation”. ARSE.

We are exhorted by Occy Health (occy, occy, occy) to report any accidents at work no matter how minor. This gives me a great source of pleasure as I record every paper-cut, minor bump and abrasion. Every month at the senior management meeting my delightful Boss is required to assiduously read out all our lab’s incidents much to the delight of the other management types. I hear tell that my boss has earned the nick name, ‘paper-cut’. The Boss once approached me to ask whether all the minor health and safety infractions need to be so meticulously documented. I, of course, directed him to the relevant passage in the ‘Health and Safety Manual’: Vol 1, under sub-clause 12, page 32; methinks he is regretting his decision to appoint. However, as no other bugger in the department will do this job, he is stuck with me. As I said, I am totally unsuited for the position.

In fact, the only time I was contacted by Occupational Health was when three members of staff were gassed during an ill-advised equipment fumigation with formaldehyde. The staff members were promptly wheeled into casualty, where sadly, they all made a full recovery; I dutifully submitted an incident report. Next day I received an animated phone call from the Head of Occy Health stating that due to the severity of the accident/incident I was required to complete forms, 12A, 13D and 21J. In addition, I had to write a comprehensive report on the incident and obtain full medical reports. Bugger- my paper work backed up for 6 months! These days I only submit the most minor of incidents.

I am well aware of the importance of Health and Safety in a potentially hazardous environment such as a laboratory. There are a lot of nasty chemicals to play with (ricin is cool). Pathological samples are an infection hazard and we have a lot of large machines with moving parts and lasers (some of them go beep). That said, much of the Health and Safety I have to deal with is about documentation and pointless and unending meetings and bureaucracy. I work with science professionals, intelligent folk who exercise prudent caution whilst at work, apart from the re-enactment of the Somme ‘Gas Attack’ of the 22^nd July 1916- no one’s perfect, after all.

Many years ago when I began my heady career as a researcher, health and safety was not so stringent. In fact, we didn’t have a ‘Health and Safety Manual’ in three volumes; no health and safety representative and in fact, no formal health and safety over and above good old fashioned common sense. Therefore, we used to drink and smoke in the lab; the meat pies were kept an ambient 37 degrees Celsius next to blood cultures in the incubator and every year the revenue free absolute ethanol ended up in the Christmas punch. The wearing of plastic gloves was a luxury when handling blood products and consequently, during my tenure, two members of staff contracted hepatitis B. I'll never forget when the technician became infected with schistosomes after handling wild African snails. Halcyon days. 

The point, I suppose I'm making, is that there is a requirement for a sensible compromise between these two extremes. Clearly, when I began my career, health and safety considerations were woefully inadequate. Now the pendulum has swung so far the other way that we are becoming mired in the minutiae of inane documentation and real 'Health and Safety' has become sidelined. The procedures in our laboratory are so tight, the occasional gassing aside (cough), that there are really no health and safety incidences of any real note. Every year new proclamations and amendments come into effect and are incorporated into the updated Health and Safety Manuals, which no one reads. Bugger, I don't read them and I'm the designated Health & Safety wallah.  As I said, I'm not a very good Health and Safety representative. But I am very good at writing reports and telling the Upper Management what they want to hear. Of course, tis all bollocks, but what would they know.    

     

   Did I tell you I was not very good at the job? Tis a matter of perspective, I suppose.  

Cannae

Hannibal Barca: Chenu Bechala- 'Grace of Baal'

There have been battles that have changed the course of history. The battle of Cannae, in 216BC, although undoubtedly the greatest battle in antiquity, failed to alter histories' course and ultimately reinforced it. 

The Protagonists

Roman expansion and growing power in the 3rd century BC placed it on a collision course with the established powers in the Mediterranean, the Greeks and the Carthaginians. The Greeks and Carthaginians had clashed many times over the preceding centuries, mainly for hegemony over the island of Sicily. The island sat squat in the Mediterranean inviting invasion. Consequently, both powers had established colonies on the island and at the time of Roman interference an uneasy truce existed between these two great powers.  

Rome, by 275BC, had taken control over most of the Italian peninsular. Sicily lying a mere 2 miles off the southern coast off Italy beckoned to a new ambitious and covetous power. The scene was set for the First Punic War with Carthage.

A pretext for invasion came in 265BC when the Romans were invited to help the freebooter rulers of the city of Messana, in Sicily, who were being besieged by the Greek Syracusians. Unwisely, the pirates also asked for help from the Carthaginians. This immediately pitted Rome against both great powers. However, after a sharp battle with the Greek army of Syracuse, the Syracusians sensibly sided with the Romans. This left the Carthaginians. The war would continue for a further 23 years with many twists of fortune but eventually, the Carthaginians were utterly defeated and left Sicily for good. In addition, they were made to pay a punitive indemnity which was designed to eviscerate Carthaginian power.

Hamilcar Barca, a Carthaginian noble who had fought as a general with distinction and skill during the Punic War smouldered for a return fight. As a preparation he invaded Spain with an army of mercenaries. The Carthaginians already had a presence in southern Spain, but Hamilcar wanted to take control of the whole peninsular and unlock its vast reservoir of men and silver as a means to continue the war with Rome. But before he could initiate the quest he drowned during a river crossing in 228BC. He was succeeded by his son in law, Hasdrubal 'The Handsome'. However, in 221BC, Hasdrubal was murdered. The next in line was Hamilcar's son, Hannibal. At just 26 he inherited a polyglot army of 80,000 and a Spanish empire. Hannibal crossed the Alps in  218 BC with his army and exploded on the North Italian plain; the Second Punic War had begun. Within 18 months, Hannibal had inflicted three severe defeats on the Romans and yet he could not break the confederation of Rome or bring them to a negotiated peace. In the summer of 216BC, the scene was set for Hannibal's greatest victory: Cannae.

A Digression

The Roman constitution, of the period, had certain strengths and weaknesses. Two Consuls were elected from the ruling aristocracy (usually) to run the government for a year. After this period, they stood down and the next two 'elected' Consuls took over. The system was designed to forestall the usurpation of power by any individual. In times of prolonged conflict, it had several distinct disadvantages. Firstly, if a war extended more than a year, it was difficult to sustain a consistent policy for the continuance of that war. With every new set of Consuls came new minds and depending on inclination and ability, war policy could take sharp changes in direction; a unified and constant approach suffered accordingly. Secondly, there was always the danger that a Consul would act rashly to force a military decision within the time-frame of his office. It is to be remembered that the office of Consul was also a military one and the Consuls were expected to lead Roman armies in the field. Consequently, there was a temptation for ambitious Consuls to give battle even on unfavourable terms. The Consul who won a major war would sustain great military prestige and ultimately riches. Thirdly, when two Consular armies joined, one of the Consuls had control of the army for a day, and then the power passed to the second Consul, the next day. This was not an efficient means to conduct war. This introduces the last major disadvantage. Consuls were chosen for a number of reasons mostly involving partisan politics and not usually for any innate military skill. Although as the war progressed, this policy changed by necessity. In previous wars, the presence of a poor general leading his men into battle was not generally a problem. Roman tactics were simple and unerring. The well armed and skilled legions were simply unleashed upon the enemy. This was usually enough to secure victory. However, when facing a general of genius, like Hannibal, the Romans were going to suffer, badly.

The two Consuls of 216BC were at loggerheads when it came to strategy. Lucius Aemilius Paulus, a distinguished military man, called for caution, whilst his colleague, Caius Terentius Varro who knew nought of military matters, wanted to give battle. Varro boasted that he would end the war in a morning; Paulus predicted a calamity.

The Battle

In regarding the great captains of war, it is easy to get lost in admiration. In antiquity, generals were expected to plan war, execute war and fight with their men. Hannibal was the consummate professional and appreciated that in war everything had to be considered and planned for. When planning for battle, he made best use of the land and employed stratagems and ruses. Through spies, he even had an appreciation of the psychological make-up of the opposing generals and used this information to maximum effect.

Hannibal and the Romans faced off on the river Aufidus, southern Italy, on a Summer's day in 216BC. The Carthaginians suffered the disadvantage of only having 40,000 men in the field. The Romans concentrated a huge army of over 80,000 men; how could they lose?

Then came the fateful day when Varro had control of the Roman army; battle was therefore inevitable. The Romans deviated from their usual military practise and reduced the interval between their soldiers. Thus, they lost the room for manoeuvre. The Roman tactic was simple and brutal and was designed to use their superior numbers for maximum impact. In effect, the Roman infantry was concentrated into a huge battering ram. They hoped, by the dint of superior numbers, to smash through the Carthaginian lines. This troop disposition robbed the legions of their tactical flexibility but against a pedestrian general this tactic would likely work; Hannibal was not of this ilk.

In response, Hannibal placed his troops accordingly: his Gaulish troops, his most impetuous of allies, he placed at the front in a convex arc. He bolstered the line with reliable Spanish troops. On the flanks, he employed blocks of his North African veterans wielding pikes

As usual, both armies deployed their cavalry on their flanks. As an aside, the Romans and their allies sported indifferent cavalry. The Carthaginians did better and arrayed the best heavy and light cavalry, of the time.     

And so the battle commenced. The cavalry clashed on both flanks. The Roman infantry advanced and engaged the Carthaginian line. Due to the sheer weight of the Roman infantry, the Carthaginian line started to give ground but did not break. Hannibal personally supervised this critical stage of the battle, encouraging his men and shouting exhortations. The Carthaginian line became straight and then concave as the Romans pressed on. In the meantime, the Carthaginian cavalry defeated their Roman and allied counterparts. Once the Roman army had advanced deep into the Carthaginian line, the African infantry on the flanks turned inward. Therefore, the Romans were pressed on three sides. The arrival of the Carthaginian cavalry closed the gap. Roman soldiers, squashed together, could not swing their swords and so they were cut down where they stood. By end of battle, 70,000 Romans had been killed.

The Aftermath

Rome was in a dire state, but it is a testament to Rome's resolve, steadfastness and political stability that it didn't collapse. Instead, Rome raised more armies and employed a strategy of attrition avoiding major battles with Hannibal. It seems the Romans had learned a hard lesson from the master. Hannibal would remain in Italy for a further 12 years but never relived his earlier success. His army was a wasting asset and the Romans concentrated large numbers of troops to restrict his movement without offering a major battle.

The Romans went on to defeat the Carthaginians and the great Hannibal himself. The rest is ancient history. The Carthaginians could never beat a folk like the Romans. And this is not based on any notion of racial superiority. The Carthaginians due to their prolonged exposure to Greek culture were superior to the Romans in abstract thought; at least amongst the ruling classes. However, the Romans were tough, single-minded and incredibly brutal. Of course, the Carthaginians were brutal, but not to the same degree. Indeed, the West has inherited this innate 'frightfulness'. It only takes the right conditions to bring this out to full and deadly effect; we haven't changed.

"For a barbarian to defeat Rome, he must first become Roman".

                                

Tipton's Miss Multiverse Contest 2015

Charles or Ollie- I confess, I can't tell

Dramatic events have transpired at the annual Tipton beauty pageant held in the capacious Town hall and slaughter house.

This year the prestigious event was hosted by Charlie 'call me chuckles' Blenkonsop. Charlie 'call me chuckles' graciously stepped in at the last moment following the fall from grace of the incumbent Master of Ceremonies, Ollie 'ooh missus' MacNuddle. As you will recall, pictures of Ollie went viral after being posted on 'Arsebook'. Though grainy, indistinct and viewed through a glass rendered darkly, it purportedly shows an inebriated 'Ooh Missus' in a gimp suit drinking brown ale off the naked back of a Siamese prostitute. Charlie's protestations that the pictures were but cleverly crafted forgeries cunningly convened did not convince the officiating committee. They immediately published an edict forcing 'Ooh Missus' into an early suicide.

Charlie was the perfect replacement. After hosting the game show: 'Guess that Sausage' for the past six years he was deemed to have honed his greasy condescending smile to utmost perfection. The thrust of the 'show', as you will know doubt be aware, involves befuddled members of the general public balancing sausages, from around the world, on their scrotums or pudenda, depending on gender declaration. Who can forget his majestic catch phrase: ''You don't get many chipolatas to the pound at this corner shop'' and the evergreen, ''That's not a bad sausage, that's offal''. Anyway, I've digressed.

Things were running fine until the knockout round when the contestants had to battle it out in a wrestling ring thoroughly rendered in pork dripping. Miss Tipton, south, south, east was applying the dreaded death grip to Miss Tipton borders using foundry tongs when she slipped clean orf. This mishap was later ascribed to an over zealous application of pig's lard by the overwrought ringmaster's assistant. This calamity, at the time, quickly evolved into an error of salvation. For at just that moment, a Japanese sniper ensconced in a dirigible, let fly a deadly bullet of doom. Said dirigible was floating above the scene like a behemoth or a leviathan, if are you fussy. Our intrepid Nip had been masquerading for 70 years as a short order cook at 'Mr  Kim's Gae Restaurant'. He had been waiting for this moment for 70 years. Private (2nd Class) Kendo Nagasaki was a rabid feminist in imperial Japan of the 1930s, although due to the dominant dogma and fascist environment of the time he had to keep his ethos under wraps. Also, he was a fanatical supporter and an avid believer in the God/War Criminal/Emperor Hirohito. A conflict which could only be resolved by doing as he was told. Thus, he was foisted via a series of tortuous devices, into the West Midlands circa 1944.

As luck would have it the bullet missed all the major organs of Mzz Candice Marie (aspiring, actor, model, nail stylist) and lodged within her brain where it enhanced her IQ by 20 points. For this we are indebted. 

After the event, Inspector Mugumbo, of the yaaarrd, had this to relate: ''Sadly, rogue Japanese snipers are a perennial problem in this great borough of ours. But rest assured good burghers, my men will root out these anachronistic enigmas and place them in custard (sic). In retrospect, we as a community could have done better. During Nagasaki's ensconcement (is this a real word?) at the 'Bawdy Boarding House' Tipton, alarm bells should have chimed amongst the regulars. Sad to say most of the inmates were struggling with the problems of existing in a world beyond their intellect and the staff were only one pay cheque away from joining them. Therefore 'Ron' was able to blend imperceptibly with the lost; the estranged; the deranged and the frankly brain fucked. Although it was noted by the resident medical officer, that 'Ron' was a short-sighted stunted runt with a fanatical devotion to the divine Emperor, Hirohito.

A quick witted member of the public released the drones and Private (2nd Class) Nagasaki's dirigible suffered catastrophic gas loss resulting in a conflagration- ''O, the inhumanity''. Kendo's badly burnt corpse will be tossed, without ceremony, on Tipton's midden pit later today. Arse.      

       

Miss Multiverse 2015

King Flaxen's Annual Yuletide Address

Anus Horribilis (again)

Tis Yuletide once again and I find it incumbent upon my regal personage to pontificate anew on the year’s past events and to ruminate upon the true meaning and spirit of the season.

Once again large numbers of Jutes have travelled from their home in ramshackle longboats facing the frigid peril of the North Sea. As usual, my loyal band of House Carls did receive them with open arms, and indeed used those arms to slay them even unto their little ones. Mounds of the dead were piled on the beach as a supplication to Woden.

This year I was approached by a tonsured monk and asked about my preparations to celebrate the birth of the Christ child. I stated that I was enchanted with the events at the end of the good Lord’s corporeal existence and subsequently elaborated by nailing the impudent priest to a large piece of wood. As a nod to the festive season we placed a garland of mistletoe upon his head and painted a comic smiley face on his bald pate. Me and the war band did chortle so. The monk failed to see the joke and wailed and moaned abysmally. What happened to Christian fortitude in adversity?

The fiscal purse has been depleted by wanton and extravagant disbursement. My minister of finance, Igbert ‘The Innumerate’ has unfortunately met with a freak and forewarned accident when his neck brushed against the blade of my double headed war axe, ‘Twat Cruncher’. I should have listened to prudent counsel and appointed Athelstan ‘The Accountant’; thus are the vicissitudes of life. But fear not my good Thegns, I mean to recoup my losses by stealing from our neighbours, 'The Hippies'. The newly arrived Hippies are a peaceable folk who eschew violence in all its manifest guises. They are much beguiled by trees and eat only beans and root vegetables. Thusly, they are easy to kill and any comely women amongst them will be taken for ourselves. It is my supposition that any folk not prepared to defend their land; their women; their chattels are deserved of all the ills of a cruel world which undoubtedly will accrue and befall them......   

On a personal note, I have been much troubled by my 'man gland' which reposes in my pert posterior like a plum, with aplomb. It has waxed mightily into a vast tumescence. On a bad day, whilst seated, I am able to rock from side to side. As predicted, my physic prescribed leeches and blood letting and much colon irrigation. This has helped my choleric temperament, not at all and I have become prone to fits of unprovoked violence- no change there then.

And finally and as always:

Merry Yuletide to all my Thegns, Carls and Bondsmen. May 994AD be a year of fruitful bounty. May your loins swell with righteous turgidity and all offspring resemble their sire, especially as paternity assignment, through DNA testing, must await a 1,000 years. Be good to your kin and women who share your bed. As for the rest, deal as you see fit and exercise your will and whim to pillage, burn and slay according to your want.

12 Days of Christmas- the reprise

Gypo yard work

12. Twelve mangy mongrels,

11. Eleven gaudy caravans,

10. Ten tyres burning,

 9.  Nine gypos reeking,

 8.  Eight car tax discs a missing,

 7.  Seven big fat arses,

 6.  Six greasy ringlets,

 5.  Five gold teeth,

 4.  Four cunts a stealing,

 3.  Three drunks a fighting,

 2.  Two piles of faeces,

 And a pikey in police custody..........

"Have a Merry Gypo Christmas!"

soapy tit wank 

Bad Grampa...

Charles, you could have done a better job

I was rummaging through a drawer the other day in my expansive 'Master Study' when I noted a faint cloying odour. I couldn't place it for a second although it tugged vaguely at some deep seated memory. I removed the drawer containing the evocative olfactory stimulus (steady Flaxen, ya starting to wax again) and tipped the contents onto the shag pile. I peered intently into the mound of detritus and shiny things...... And there it was coiled provocatively around an empty container of 'Tic Tacs'. A dishevelled/shrivelled collection on brown string- it was granddad's old ear collection which he bequeathed to me in his will. As I recall it was: item number 6. Not so much grisly as gristly. I hadn't seen them for a few years, but they hadn't changed. Twenty-seven ears, all pierced dead centre and threaded onto old fashioned brown waxed string. Time had not been kind to this assorted allotment of grizzled pinna. Over the years they had folded upon themselves and taken on a distinct, dark amber hue; very reminiscent of a 'pork scratching'.   

When I was young my father, bless him, when in his cups, would regale me with lurid tales about his father's wartime exploits during the Great war and would hint darkly about a mysterious relic which never left granddad's waist coat pocket. So I was aware of the 'Ear Story' but put it down to old soldier's tales. And so the years passed and old gramps finally passed away. His small collection of goods were distributed amongst the relatives. My cousin was left grandfather's gold fob watch on a silver chain and I got item number six secreted inside an old cocoa tin. And who said the old cunt didn't have a sense of humour.

I never really knew my wicked old gramps. I can't recall him ever speaking to me directly or taking the slightest interest in me. Which is just as well as he spoke an archaic form of the 'Black country' dialect which seemed to use few actual English words. My most vivid memory of him was his eyes, which were piercing and bright china blue.

Of course, it is nothing new for soldiers to take souvenirs from the battlefield. My dad had a couple of cap badges and a bugle with a bullet hole taken during the Korean conflict. But old gramps had an ear collection and had passed them on to me as a dark joke. I have considered burying them, but I confess, the ears hold me in their macabre and ghastly thrall. A legacy is supposed to be something to cherish and it is the only physical item I have to remind me of the nasty miserable old bastard. I did notice that some of the ears were collecting a black speckled mould, which I cleaned off with 70% ethanol. So, after a quick spray with air freshener (mountain dew) and a quick rub down with a chamois cloth, back in the drawer they went.

Uncannily enough, my own son resembles my grandfather quite closely, even down to the same shade of blue eyes. Therefore, I thought it only fitting that once my span has run its course, I should pass on the family 'Heirloom' to Flaxen junior. I will have to put an explanatory note in the old cocoa tin otherwise, he might just throw the ears, away. Tis a Flaxen tradition, after all.    

Flaxen the Ex-Estate Agent

Colin 'The Closer' Collins before the accident

After a series of unfortunate incidences, not all associated with Flaxen's unrestrained and violent disposition, Flaxen had to flee Tipton when perused by an angry delegation of local Real Estate Agents. After collecting his faithful wolf cum Maltese Terrier, Loki/Bubbles, he managed to cross the metropolitan border heading south. His only visible/risible possession was a blood rimed burlap sack containing the heads of two incalcitrant/intransigent potential home owners; the head of Colin, 'The Closer' Collins (Area Head Office Manager) and a double cheese bugger McPuffin.

Flaxen's double headed Danish war axe (Twat Cruncher) swung lasciviously on his left hip and a blood besmirched long sword (Arse, Big Fat Arse Biter) was clenched in Flaxen's calloused, begrimed, right paw. The left hand carried a rolled up copy of the local newspaper, 'The Tipton Bugle incorporating the Dudley Wester Marches and Smethwick Hinterland'. Upon his head sat a spangenhelm resplendent in brass and gold. A byrnie of bronze encased his sinew, muscle bedecked, and lightly oiled, torso. Thus, Flaxen blended inauspiciously, inexplicably and inconspicuously with the evening commuter traffic heading south-eastward, ho.

As night fell, Flaxen halted his progress and reached in the burlap bag for the double cheese bugger McPuffin and shared said comestible with his trusty lupine/canine. As they dined heartily, Flaxen's brow furrowed deep as he pontificated on nature’s imponderable enigmas and wondered why Puffins looked nothing like their representation in the glossy ads. Bugger.......

"Loki, get here!"

Next Day
Flaxen awoke as if from a dream and after, a light moisturising, continued his trek anew, heading southeast, always southeast. Arse.

Dat one tasty bugger, sans fries

As fate decreed, Flaxen and Loki/Bubbles found themselves unaccountably in the city of Cambridge; the beautiful city coddled by the meandering river, Cam. Before long they were bestriding the hallowed grounds and courtyards of the famed ancient university like colossi. Eventually, Flaxen espied a brass plaque upon an old oaken door: ‘Professor Stephen Hawking Lucasian Professor of Mathematics’. With a single mighty blow of 'Twat Cruncher' the door was twained/twatted and split asunder to reveal a curiously twisted human form framed in a metallic contraption of doom. The Skraeling intoned in a dull, metallic, robotic, monotone: "Are you here for the 3.00pm tutorial”. Flaxen appeared aghast and turned to his defecating and shuddering companion: "What sorcerer be this, Loki- he talks funny and yet his lips move, not at all".

Loki/Bubbles contemplating the vicissitudes of existence

To be continued.......

Next week Professor Hawking is introduced to West Saxon cosmology and the etiquette of the blood feud.