TWINKLE TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR

Hello again - welcome to the December edition of The Autolycan.  

I once stood in a car park in America listening to a man strumming a guitar and singing a song called I Hate IKEA.  I've only ever shopped there once myself and that was some years ago, but I still have to go and have a lie down and a cup of tea when I remember the experience.  Whether space aliens have the same reaction I couldn't possibly say......

I doubt if this month's tale will help resolve that particular question, but I do hope you enjoy it anyway.  Please pass the link on if you do, or Like it on Facebook.  We're very up to date on The Autolycan.....

TWINKLE TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR

     Bizarre UFO spotted above branch of IKEA     

                                                                                    Daily Mirror                          

Well, that's a bit of a turn up, isn't it? 'Scary but beautiful', the Mirror went on to inform us, a form of words identical to the description offered by the Daily Mail, possibly the first time that these two have agreed about anything other than the date. But reports are all very clear that this UFO was quite definitely above IKEA, not above a particular town or region, as you might expect if it was several miles up in the sky. To be 'above IKEA' it must have been very low, taking a particular interest in a store where many of us burdened with inferior intelligence and lesser technological capability fear to tread.

So what was it doing there? And who were these aliens taking an unlikely interest in sofa beds and smart tableware? Do they even need flat pack furniture on whichever distant planet they hang their hats, assuming of course that they have heads that require hats in the first place? Perhaps – despite their hugely superior technology – the one piece of kit they've repeatedly failed to master over the aeons has been the Allen key, and this trip to IKEA is a once and for all effort to make the next Great Leap Forward.

'O Great Galactic Overlord, we have unlocked the secret of the Allen key and can now, at will, fail to insert tenon 'A' into mortise 'B', securing with locking piece AF 73 (supplied) using 10mm Allen key (supplied), repeating on opposite corner.'

'But had you not achieved this on your previous visit?'

'Sire, despite assurances that sufficient locking pieces AF 73 were supplied, we found this was not the case and had to go back to the store. This time though we have also brought back a Ratchet Podger spanner, which looks as though it ought to be jolly useful.'

'Hmm. What have you brought back for me?'

'Sire, we have brought you a self assembly POÄNG Galactic Overlord's Throne, which we will be delighted to present to you just as soon as we have deciphered the instructions.'

'What do they say?'

'Använd fästbeslag som är lämpade för väggarna i ditt hem (medföljer ej.)'

'Hmm. Have you brought anything else?'

'Sire, as a special mark of respect we have brought you some of their meatballs. We do not know why they sell these in a furniture store.'

Or is there perhaps more to it than that? Have they really come zillions of miles for new patio furniture or a novelty wine rack? Is this part of something bigger?

Let's see. What do you know about KIC 8462852? Admittedly, the astronomers don't help themselves here – a name like Abigail or Barney would be rather more memorable - but this catchily named star hangs out in a distant constellation and has a light output which shows regular and huge fluctuations. This has aroused fevered speculation that KIC 8462852 is home to a super intelligent alien species which might have built a vast megastructure of solar panels surrounding the star in order to capture its energy. We are talking something rather grander than a few wind turbines here but apparently this is the sort of thing that advanced civilisations do. Now, KIC 8462852 is about 1500 light years from Earth, which means that the light we now see from it began its journey around 500 AD - our time. Down here on dear old Planet Earth that was a time when King Arthur – if he ever existed at all – was still fretting about the Saxons, and Beowulf was at large in a Sweden still some way off giving birth to IKEA, Volvo cars or even ABBA.

It was, in short, a very long time ago, and if the lads on KIC 8462852 had solar panels at that time the chances are they'll need replacing by now.

IKEA sell a 'competitively priced' range of solar panels. This is starting to fall into place.

Let's take a couple of minutes to work out what our alien shoppers might be after. For this, we need to make some assumptions – firstly that their sun is about the same size as ours, secondly that their array of panels doesn't surround the entire star (otherwise we wouldn't see any light at all never mind fluctuations), and thirdly that Mr Chalmers (Maths) knew whereof he spoke when he taught me geometry – or tried to – all those years ago.

Our sun has a radius of about 450,000 miles and if we assume that theirs is much the same, and that you wouldn't want to build your structure too close to it lest it melt, we can postulate a sphere of panels with a radius of about a million miles, give or take. I'm guessing that this is a partial sphere which surrounds about a third of the star in total, and now I can hear Mr Chalmers' calm but insistent voice telling me that what I need to determine the total surface area of this partial sphere in square miles is 4π r² divided by 3, where r = 1 million miles. If Mr Chalmers did his stuff that comes to about 4.1866 trillion square miles (Short scale trillion that is, not long scale, I wouldn't want to mislead you.)

Now, IKEA will sell you a pack of panels covering approximately 20 sq metres for £4500. We might need to round things a bit here, especially as Mr Chalmers didn't employ a pocket calculator and doubtless didn't recognise square metres on principle, but apparently there are about 2.6 million of these little fellows to the square mile.

Mr C would have required me to show full working for this of course, but for now let's say that we can derive a total cost from the following :-

Total sq metres required = 4.1866 trillion sq miles each of 2.6 million sq metres.

Divide by 20 to give number of packs of panels required

Multiply by 4500 to get total price in £s.

So, our aliens could be looking at a handsome new array of IKEA solar panels for only

about £2.45 quadrillion. Less any promotional coupons or gift tokens that they might hold.

(I can see the shade of Mr Chalmers peering at me, but can't tell whether he's smiling benignly or shaking his head sadly. I never got past O Level in Maths so I'm a bit hazy on quadrillions and the like.)

The price of course includes VAT and I expect they would want to try to claim that back since the goods were to be exported out of the EU. They would quote VAT Notice 703 and there would then be the mother and father of all rows, since while KIC 8462852 is undoubtedly not in the EU – or not yet anyway – there are plenty of juicy legal fees to be had out of arguing whether it is one of the 'Countries and Territories outside the European Fiscal (VAT) Area' within the meaning of Paragraph 2.9 of the Notice.

What's more, the Sales Assistant in IKEA would be programmed to tell them that the price includes fitting. Given the cost and the time and the distance, our customers might well haggle for a discount if they took the panels away and installed them themselves, thereby avoiding the necessity of relying on an unfeasibly large fleet of men and a similarly improbable fleet of Ford Transits to drive the 1500 light years to do the job.

At this juncture the Sales Assistant would no doubt be programmed to summon the Manager, who would point out that any such arrangement would invalidate the guarantee, and they would reply that even at a fairly nifty warp speed the guarantee would in any case expire before they got home. It might even have to go to Head Office.......

Or is this all a bit fanciful? After all, I suppose there's no real proof that they've been shopping at IKEA, and the sale of all those solar panels would probably be a bit difficult to hush up. Perhaps it's something simpler. Perhaps they didn't land at all, and were merely on a reconnaissance mission, possibly to ascertain whether Planet Earth was yet ready to join the Galactic Federation. If so, we might surmise that their report and recommendations were not favourable.

'Sire, we have observed some strange and inexplicable behaviour. We observed a female attempting to buy a ticket for one of their 'trains.' (They still use money.) It transpired that two single tickets will be cheaper than one return, except on those occasions when they aren't. Subject could travel only on a train belonging to a specified company – there were apparently several – otherwise there were severe penalties. Subject could travel only at the stated time, otherwise there were severe penalties. Subject could not board a late running train (they still have late running trains) even though it was actually leaving at the stated time, otherwise there were severe penalties. Her train was heavily overcrowded, and she could neither sit nor stand in the area stipulated by her ticket. Standing in a forbidden area, even though there was no alternative, incurred severe penalties. We could make no sense of this.

On arrival at her destination, Subject made her way to a field where it appeared some sort of sporting entertainment was scheduled to take place. The entire event lasted four of their Earth days, during which time most potential spectators were at work. There were frequent interruptions, either for meals, or because it was raining, or because it was alleged to be getting a bit too cloudy. As far as could be ascertained, neither side won. We calculate that the expense involved in staging the event would have far exceeded the income generated. We could make no sense of this.

Once the 'entertainment' was completed, Subject made her way to a branch of IKEA, a store incomprehensibly described as a 'retail outlet.' She joined a crocodile of people all circumnavigating the store in the same direction. Going against the flow was frowned on. When passing a display of garden furniture she took some considerable time to locate a pen which actually worked. She then scribbled some notes on a piece of paper, armed with which she joined a queue and waited for a man to bark a set of co-ordinates at her. These led her to an area where it was alleged she could collect her purchases. This proved easier said than done, not least because she was quite short by human standards and unable to reach the required items. Having resolved this difficulty she had to wait in another queue to pay for her purchases, but since she had no means of transporting them herself she had to wait in a third queue to arrange delivery. All this queuing resulted in missing her train home, which incurred severe penalties. We could make no sense of this.'

'And your conclusion is?'

'Sire, we we think it unlikely that they are yet fit for admission to the Galactic Federation.'

The Galactic Overlord nodded wistfully.

'I see,' he mused, 'some rugs and curtains, perhaps a couple of rather stunning throws to complement the throne would have been nice. I might have been persuaded to take a chance on them but for one thing.'

'Sire?'

'Primitive technology again. They cannot keep meatballs warm. These ones are stone cold. Review the situation in another thousand years. That will be all.'

For informed, incisive political commentary, look no further than....

ANAGRAM CORNER

DONALD TRUMP, CANDIDATE

   DIRE, MADCAP DOLT. AND NUT.  

GRAIL TRAIL

Hello again

Welcome to the November edition of The Autolycan.  October's edition featured the idea of searching - in that case for the Philosopher's Stone - and I've continued the idea of searching this month - this time for the Holy Grail.  I was going to say that the Grail never gets found, but apparently the police have other ideas.......

Hope you enjoy it, and if so do please pass the link on.  No doubt some people could even tell their Facebook friends!

GRAIL TRAIL

                  Holy Grail found by police in Herefordshire        

                                                                                      Daily Telegraph                                

It's a rummy thing but now I come to think of it I don't think I'd ever seen Shreeves look discomfited before. As a rule his sang is froid to a fault; he floats through life in that assured sort of way that kings a shade low on the old self confidence would happily give up half their kingdoms for.

Which was a trifle odd, given that he now was a king.

Spying his discomposure, I fixed him with the unsympathetic stare of a heron debating whether to plump for a Chablis or a Muscadet to complement the delicious lunch now wriggling in its beak.

'You do see, don't you, that if this is to work you can't keep calling me Sir.'

Sometimes we Schusters can wound, but truth to tell I was finding the diversion pretty beguiling.

'Indeed...' he began and then kind of fizzled out. I could see a ferocious inner struggle sashaying to and fro across his brow. I mean, dash it, a single bead of sweat even formed. He looked like nothing so much as a fellow attempting to hide an unusually argumentative nest of wasps under his jacket. The inner struggle was now epic. For a moment I feared he might actually melt, but with a final collapse of will he added 'sir' in a defeated voice.

'Well then,' I chirruped, 'there's nothing else for it. We'll have to change places.'

Relief flooded out of him as the wasps shook whatever passes for hands on a truce and buzzed off.

'Thank you, sir. A most efficacious solution.'

'Of course,' I went on, 'we'll all have to dress the part, I mean to say, full evening dress and ties are hardly going to matter, what?'

'There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.'

If you're one of that rather grouchy type given to cavilling a bit you may well be wondering what this modern starting in the middle malarkey is all about. And well you might. Well, it all started when Shreeves brought the letters in with my tea one morning. Ignoring the usual strident demands from creditors, the Schuster gaze fell on a poisonous looking communiqué which grievously troubled the early morning grey matter, normally pretty inert at that time of day.

It sort of throbbed on the tray, demanding to be opened but promising only calamity once it was. I opened, and was surprised when I couldn't read anything. Shreeves pointed out, a touch condescendingly, I thought, that this may be not unconnected with my eyes being screwed tight shut.

'Shreeves!' I faltered. 'The jauntiness of spirit for which I am known throughout the gentlemen's clubs of London has beaten a cowardly retreat. It has rolled over and raised the white flag.'

'Most distressing, sir. Might I hazard a guess that the disturbing communication in question emanates from Lady Worplesdon?'

'Yes you might, Shreeves. The old harpy insists that I present myself without fail at that great rotting pile of hers in Hertfordshire, there to lap up the joy of Christmas in the bosom of the flesh and blood.'

My crest had fallen heavily to the floor. I mean, my flabber was pretty seriously gasted, or possibly the other way round. I was distraught – so much so that I knew not when – or if – I might ever be traught again.

'All that nonsense about coming down for breakfast properly dressed, what? Tie and everything. I mean, why does it matter?'

'There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.'

My plea for help was silent but eloquent.

I thought I espied a light in his eye when he poured me a whisky that evening, so I pressed him on the solution.

'I am agog, Shreeves,' I quavered, 'for news of my deliverance from the maw of despair.'

'Assuming, sir, that the invitation cannot be avoided altogether,' at which the Schuster cranium shook miserably, 'you should endeavour to ensure the visit passes as agreeably as the less than propitious circumstances allow.'

'Indeed?' I teased, raising a questioning eyebrow. I should have known better. Shreeves raises a more devastating eyebrow than any man I know. He is in a class of his own when it comes to registering hauteur. I re-grouped hastily.

'What can you offer a cudgelled soul?'

'I wonder, sir,' he intoned 'if Her Ladyship might be persuaded to accept some of your gentlemen friends to accompany you for the festive season.'

I stared at him, aghast.

'How the devil am I supposed to.......'

'…..persuade her, sir? I am of the opinion that an intimation that they might form an impromptu theatrical party which will present a play for the company's delight will procure the necessary agreement.'

'…......!!!!!!!!!!!!........'

'I believe, sir, that your aunt may be susceptible to the thought that it is becoming fashionable for country houses to host such entertainments. Woollam Chersey could perhaps be seen to steal a march on the rest of Hertfordshire.'

A light flashed on in the old bonce.

'You mean......' I cried.

'Precisely, sir.'

'…....that Tuppy and Bingo and Gussie could all come and we could.......'

'My thoughts exactly, sir.'

'By George!'

'As you say, sir.'

'But what are we to........'

'…..perform, sir? There has been much reportage in the newspapers of late of a search for the Holy Grail. It is a story which excites the populace from time to time but dies down when nobody finds it. It is at present much in vogue. I have some little skill with woodworking tools and fancy I could fashion a convincing Grail.'

'And we could, as it were, search for it?'

'Your perspicacity does you credit, sir.'

It seemed a corking idea, and I put it to Bingo Little when I bowled in to see him at the Drones the next day.

'I say!' exclaimed Bingo. 'I say!'

I saw no reason not to take this as assent, any more than the repeated 'My word!'s from Tuppy Glossop later that evening. But it was Gussie Fink-Nottle who really made the thought father to the deed, or whichever way round that rather baffling old saw has it.

'King Arthur......' he mused in a disconnected sort of way, and then repeated it. I was about to send for a reviving cordial but it turned out there was more. 'King Arthur.... Merlin.... the Knights of the Round Table – they hunted for the Holy Grail.'

'I thought they spent all day rescuing dragons and slaying comely wenches' I said. Possibly I might have got that the wrong way round as well.

'No, I mean to say, we could be the King and his knights looking for this Grail thingy. We could each take a part' he enthused.

And so it was settled. As you know my idea that Shreeves' stately bearing would be just the ticket for King Arthur didn't exactly bring the house down, and when I proposed that Aunt Agatha slither on in the guise of a dragon ripe for slaying the robustness of her reaction excited a brief but doomed hope that she might throw me out altogether.

I can't think now why it came to me, but my idea that we recruit my cousin Daphne to our troupe of strolling players was a ripper. Not only is she a jolly good sort and all that, but like lots of girls she also has a fearsome ability when it comes to getting things done. Must be something to do with not having to shiver through cold, muddy games afternoons at school. Anyway, she sort of carried the whole thing, and so on Boxing Day evening we were able to present:

KING ARTHUR AND THE HOLY GRAIL

The play opens with Merlin dressed as a humble artisan, putting the finishing touches to a model of the Holy Grail. To him, King Arthur.

King Arthur : Good Lord, Merlin, I had no idea you could turn the old talent on like this when it comes to chisels.

Merlin : Thank you, sir. I trust my crude representation of the Holy Grail will prove equal to the rigorous demands the search will make upon it. I hope it gives satisfaction, sir.

The scene shifts to a Round Table. King Arthur and Merlin join the Knights who are already seated.

King Arthur : I say, chaps. There are dastardly fellows roaming hither and yon. They will stop at naught to get their filthy paws on the Holy Grail. Why, they may even look for it here at Woollam Chersey!

{At this point in the production there was a loud thump as Aunt Agatha fainted and had to be revived with a pail or so of gin.}

Sir Tuppy : Gosh!

Sir Gussie : I say!

Sir Bingo : We must do something!

King Arthur : Let's ask Merlin!

Knights of the Round Table : Yes, let's!

Merlin : I fear that no serviceable solution yet presents itself. With your permission, sir, I will retire and contemplate the matter. Exit

The next morning. Merlin is bringing tea to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. His expression is that of a man who has come up with a ripping wheeze. There is a knock at the door. Merlin attends to it, and admits Queen Guinevere. {There is no dramatic necessity for this just yet, but Daphne was keen to forsake her mother's venomous company in order to spend more time at rehearsals.}

King Arthur : Well Merlin, I told these chaps you could be relied on. I trust you have an almost ungraspably brilliant proposal?

Merlin : I leave you to judge, sir.

I am inclined to suggest that a series of clues be left in locations around Hertfordshire. Each clue, when solved, should lead to the next. It is imperative that they give the appearance of being hidden but in reality are not too hard to find. On solving the final clue, seekers should be directed to a distant but credible location where they might expect to find the Holy Grail. I believe Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland has been the subject of much speculation in this matter, as has – more recently and perhaps regrettably – the Louvre Art Gallery in Paris.

King Arthur : But of course it won't be there, will it?

Merlin : Your perspicacity does you credit, sir.

Knights of the Round Table : Good gracious! Great Scott! Corking!

There is an embarrassed silence while they all look at each other.

Queen Guinevere : I say, might a mere woman suggest that you boys go off and write the clues, then come back and we'll put them all together?

Knights of the Round Table : I mean to say! Spiffing! Huzzah!  Exeunt Knights.

King Arthur : This is all very well but there is just one thing... this Grail business... it sort of gets to a fellow... I think Merlin's Grail really should be buried, somewhere far from here....

Queen Guinevere : ….and there should be a clue, something jolly hard to find and even harder to solve....

King Arthur : ...but what is it to be?

Merlin : If I might make the suggestion, sir and madam. I had at first considered concealing my imitation Grail in the cellar of the Royal Hotel in Hertford. It then occurred to me that the names Hertford and Hereford are strikingly similar. Indeed, the conversion of the former to the latter requires only the addition of a small typographical symbol known as a tie to the upper part of the 't' in Hertford.

King Arthur : A tie?

Merlin : Yes, sir. It is a symbol that has the shape of a small arc with the curve uppermost. Carefully applied the 't' will become an 'e', thus spelling Hereford. It further occurs that we may use this happy circumstance to our advantage.

King Arthur/Queen Guinevere : But how?

Merlin : I could make a second Grail, and clearly mark it as a copy. I could deposit it at the Royal Hotel as originally planned. We could then deposit the first Grail at the Royal Hotel in Hereford, leaving a very cryptic clue in Hertford pointing to its whereabouts.

King Arthur : Astounding! Absolutely jolly extraordinary!

Queen Guinevere : Above all the clue must be obscure, but what should it be?

Merlin : I trust you will appreciate the significance, madam, when I say that the typographical symbol – the tie - is critical.

Queen Guinevere : Something pithy..... something with a deeper message..... I know! How about 'There is no time at which ties do not matter.'

King Arthur look sullen. Merlin beams.

Merlin : An excellent proposition, madam. I judge that it might take a hundred years or more for that to be solved.

Will that be all, sir?

_________________________________________________________________________

ANAGRAM CORNER

JOSE MOURINHO

                                                                O! HE RUINS MOJO!

Poor chap....................

STICKS AND STONE

Hello, and welcome to October's Autolycan, back with a romp through the seventeenth century in the company of one of its greatest figures.  I hope you enjoy the blog, and if so please continue to spread it to others who you think might enjoy it too!  Many thanks.  But with apologies to the normally immaculate Google Translate - whose resources I fear I may have overstretched this time - let's get on with a simple game of Poohsticks..........

STICKS AND STONE

A top engineer has devised a formula to aid budding players of Poohsticks. The         formula uses area, density and a drag coefficient to help competitors find the perfect twig.                                                                                                                                         

                                                                        BBC News                                                       

For as long as he could remember, John Poe hadn't had much time for Wednesdays. The rest of the week was OK, it was a living, he could handle the work and he'd learned to cope with his boss's moods over the years. Most people thought the boss was a really clever guy; no doubt he was, but most people didn't often see the other side of him, the vanity and rudeness, they rarely felt the sharp biting edge of his contempt. This Wednesday morning, he knew, would be no different from all the others. He looked at the clock. About ten minutes till he got in.

Suddenly, the door burst open to reveal the boss, his face wreathed in smiles, his arms spread wide in a warm and generous gesture of welcome.

'Success!' he boomed. 'Success!'

The assistant was startled.

'You mean..... you've found it, then?'

'Better than that!'

'Better than that?'

'Let me explain, young man, let me explain!'

And his number two stood respectfully aside as the outstanding intellect of the age, the greatest ever luminary of the Royal Society, a mathematician, physicist and natural philosopher without equal swept into the room and sat down.

'But Tuesdays' began Poe 'is Philosopher's Stone Club night. Has been for years. You must have looked for it loads of times in every bloody pub in Cambridge. King's Head last night was it? Anyway, you never find it and that's what makes you a miserable bugger Wednesdays.'

Sir Isaac Newton, for it was indeed he, stared coldly at him.

'Right pub, son, wrong name,' he snapped. 'We don't call it the Philosopher's Stone Club no more. We changed it months ago, remember, funnily enough soon after the last time we went to the King's Head. It's the Lapis Philosophorum Societatis now, or was till last night. Latin, see. Keeps the riff raff out.'

'So how does that help?'

'How does that help? Only that we've got rid of all those useless buggers running round like it was a bloody Easter egg hunt, rummaging around looking for the Philosopher's Stone in the cellar or behind that bit where they keep the crisps or in the outside gents. Stupid bloody place to look, if you've got something what'll turn base metals into gold, prolong life, all that, you're hardly going to hide it in the gents, are you? They wouldn't recognise it anyway even if they did find it. Handle it wrong and it would probably turn them all into toads. Not a bad outcome all things considered. Anyway, those of us with a bit more about us have come to a scientifically impeccable conclusion, empirical evidence and everything, and we've thought up a sort of strategy thing.'

'Which is?'

'We've give up. There's no such bloody thing. Stands to reason. So we've turned the club into something else.'

'Something else?'

'Yeah. I used my position as Chairman to pose an open question to all members, get the lads to change the subject, like.'

'And the question was?'

'What about all this gravity business, then? They liked that, so that's what we're called now.'

'What? The What About All This Gravity Business, Then, Club?'

'You're not paying attention, son. You are looking at the Chairman of the Quid Ergo Fiet de hoc Negotium tunc Gravitatem? Societatis.' Tricky language, Latin, but I reckon that's good enough.'

Poe rolled his eyes. Newton smirked.

'I can see you're not in the vanguard of scientific thinking, son. Not like some of us what is at the cutting edge. Gravity, celestial mechanics, planetary orbits, all that! It's a very 17^th Century thing. There's a lot of Tuesday nights in the pub in this, you know. I reckon it's got a lot to do with apples.'

'Apples?'

'Ever wondered why apples what fall off trees always fall down to the ground? Not up. Not sideways. Down. Every time. Why do you suppose that is, then?'

The assistant shrugged.

'Perhaps the tree pushes them down, then springs back to where it was.'

'Don't get clever with me, son. When I want a few Laws of Bloody Motion invented it's me what'll do the inventing, right? Anyway, you've already had a go at this gravity business, remember, I had you watching our apple tree for weeks last year.'

'Waste of bloody time. It was February.'

'Yeah. But from that I secretly developed my First Theory of Gravity.'

'And that is?'

'Stuff tends to pull other stuff towards it. The bigger the stuff, the stronger the pull. There's bound to be a formula there somewhere if I could be bothered to look for it but all that tedious stuff about radius vectors and inverse square laws and suchlike went out of my head 'cos of the Philosopher's Stone thing. Not to mention having to bugger about with classifying cubics, building a reflecting telescope, inventing calculus – much to the disgust of generations of schoolkids, no doubt - and all the rest. It's not easy, science, you know, sometimes I wish I'd settled for a quiet life being a poet instead. Look at Andrew Bloody Marvell, smug self satisfied little twerp, spending all day thinking up rhymes for words like 'time' and 'day.' How hard can it be?'

'Is that it, stuff pulls other stuff towards it?'

'No, there's more. Gravity must be a seasonal thing. I reckon it's strongest in Autumn which is what makes apples fall off trees. Leaves, too. That all uses up quite a lot of gravity so all the stuff what rots on the ground nourishes the Earth and strengthens gravity for next time round. Stands to reason. But we – you – you'll have to do a lot of observations before I can prove it.'

He sat back, nodding slowly but triumphantly.

'I think the Royal Society might perhaps then accept my authority in this matter.'

His number two didn't much fancy spending all Autumn watching apples fall off trees, so he decided to change the subject. That was one thing about old Newton – he might be a curmudgeonly old devil at times, but you could usually distract him with a problem, real or imagined, and pretend it required his scientific genius to solve. He was like putty once you worked him out.

'I was wandering along the river bank yesterday' mused Poe in a careless sort of way 'lovely afternoon, punts everywhere, students picnicking – if that's what they call it these days – and watching some kids playing a simple game. They'd drop sticks into the river off one bridge, then run downstream to the next to see whose stick got there first. One of them wanted to know if there was any way of telling whether one stick would be better than another. I was wondering' he added disingenuously 'whether all this gravity stuff of yours might help. Interesting problem for a keen scientific brain, I thought.'

The assistant watched with a familiar fascination as Newton's brain shifted a couple of gears. He was interested after two seconds, fascinated after three and completely engrossed after four. With luck this would turn out exactly as Poe hoped. To his surprise he found himself holding his breath. Sir Isaac for his part was now every inch the brilliant professional scientist.

'I don't think so,' he murmured, to the other's dismay. 'Gravity, whatever the season, will account for the stick falling into the water, and for the fact that the water flows downhill. Children show that they understand this by running downstream rather than upstream. Beyond that though, other factors will come into play. I'll have a bit of a think - perhaps it's also time to formulate once and for all those rather tiresome Laws of Motion. That should keep me busy for a day or two.'

The assistant was growing tenser. This wasn't turning out how he hoped.

'I think though' continued Sir Isaac 'that we can defer looking at apples rotting for a few weeks at least. I would like you to do some serious research on this game, young man. Spend your summer by the river. Gather as many sticks as you can. Different sizes; different trees; with bark, without bark. Measure them, weigh them, calculate density. Anything else you can think of. Keep a strict record of the properties of each stick and the time it takes. Recruit as many students to help as you wish – the physics department will fall over themselves to help if you call it work experience. Come back in the Autumn with a detailed report and suggestions for a new theory.'

Bingo! This was exactly what Poe had hoped for. A summer messing around by the river pretending to do serious research, lazy afternoons, getting to know some of the students better – preferably the young and pretty ones – and if he made up half the results old Newton would be none the wiser. He realised that his boss was still talking.

'I think that's everything. I don't expect to see you back here till about October. Good luck.'

Newton felt a surge of excitement as he watched him go. This had fallen into his lap! Getting his assistant to count apples and watch them rot was always a dangerous strategy – he would get disheartened at best and mutinous at worst. This way they could both pretend the sticks business was serious research. He'd already realised the blindingly obvious fact that the perfect stick was defined by a formula involving the cross sectional area, the density of the stick and its drag coefficient. What could be simpler? So what if Poe came to the same conclusion in his slow and lumbering way? He could even give his name to this childish game if he wished – Poe-Sticks. He'd like that. Meanwhile he, Sir Isaac Newton, President of the Royal Society, had far bigger fish to fry. And now Poe was out of the way, fry them he would.

His heart leapt as he turned to the heavy oaken chest in his study. His hands trembled as he unfastened the various locks and clasps. There were plenty of them and he broke into a cold sweat as he thought for a moment that he'd lost one of the keys. But no! Everything was as it should be. The hinges creaked as he swung the heavy lid open. His heart missed a beat.

He had been terrified that he would be spotted removing the prize under his cloak, and he never did work out what it was doing in the outside gents of the King's Head.

But there it was in all its glory! And it was all his! He'd found the Philosopher's Stone!

ANAGRAM CORNER

Over the past few weeks many people have filled acres of newsprint to explain that they have a problem with Jeremy Corbyn.

So do I. Mine though is perhaps a bit different from theirs – it's just that you can't expect a decent anagram from a name consisting of twelve letters including two y's and a j.  So I tried one or two variations, and bearing in mind that Jeremy is famously vegetarian came up with:

JEREMY CORBYN'S LEADER!

MR BEARD ENJOYS CELERY!

(although he looks less sure about marrow!)

Hello, and welcome to the August edition of The Autolycan.  This time, we're journeying into space, so I hope you enjoy the ride.  As usual, if you like the story, do please pass the link on to others, or tell your Facebook friends and Twitter contacts.  The blog doesn't yet have enough readers to use it for charitable purposes, but the numbers have gone up a bit over the past couple of months. 

I think though that this will be the last one for a little while - we're off to Canada on holiday at the end of August, so I don't think there will be a September edition.  Perhaps you might like to make up for it by checking some back numbers!

ILLOGICAL, CAPTAIN

Wales could be the home of Europe's first spaceport

                                                                                                          ITV News

Space, the final frontier, see. These are the voyages of the Starship Ent-y-pridd, isn't it? And, see here, it's got some mission or other about new life and civilisations, and boldly going somewhere, outside Wales even. Duw mawr!

Even for a veteran like Cap'n Curig, the new spaceport was stunning. From his vantage point outside one of Starfleet Wales' many immense hangars, he surveyed a world of throbbing spacecraft and futuristic technological wizardry so advanced that for a moment he doubted whether even Lt Commander Taff, his faithful and long serving ship's engineer, would understand all of it. He smiled sheepishly when he realised his own foolishness – likely as not Taffy had designed half of it in his spare time.

The spaceport gleamed. Or would have done had it not for the past 24 hours been shrouded in a kind of drenching mist, which was forecast to lift fairly soon and give way to a prolonged downpour. He'd like to see it gleam, though. Just once.

Negotiating the terminal building had been somewhat fraught. Hurrying to take command of his new craft, Cap'n Curig had nipped into WH Smith after check in and was not pleased to discover that he needed his boarding card just to buy a bloody newspaper - he couldn't find his at the critical moment. Neither had he thought it becoming to the dignity of a Starfleet Commander to have to remove half his clothing - including his belt - to go through security, with the result that his new uniform trousers subsided to his knees as he struggled through a scrum at the conveyor belt to retrieve bags, jacket, shoes, car keys, starship keys, loose change and the newspaper he was already wishing he hadn't bought. After that came a forced march past endless burger bars, jewellery shops, displays of socks and signs which postulated the possible existence of toilets which might or might not be open half a mile away. A lesser man would have been daunted by the experience; Curig though chose to focus on the new friendship he had struck up with the girl in the cosmetics store as he had paraded through. The old magic had not deserted him. He now had her number firmly in his jacket pocket. It would have surprised him to know that their encounter did not go wholly unnoticed.

Curig was especially keen to meet his new First Officer, recently assigned to him by Starfleet. It would be fair to say that Splott was a man whose reputation preceded him. Half Welsh, half Vulcan, Splott would always be remembered as the main reason the new spaceport had been built.

Although not, perhaps, in the way he would have wished.

Under a previous Commander, he had been piloting a starship down into the old spaceport, and had ended up demolishing most of it. At the time Curig had been surprised that Splott's then Commanding Officer had rather taken his side at the resulting tribunal, arguing that he deserved the chance of a fresh start under another Commander and supporting his central defence that siting the spaceport at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch had been a serious error of judgement on Starfleet Wales' part. He had agreed with Splott's counsel that there was a grave and wholly foreseeable danger of loading the name incorrectly into ships' satnav systems, and noted that Splott - ever the perfectionist - had insisted on getting it exactly right, by which time it was too late. He had even dared to express surprise that the accident hadn't happened sooner. At least, thought Curig, there would be no such problems with Cardigan.

Spying his First Officer approaching, Curig advanced towards him, hand outstretched and a welcoming smile on his face.

'It's those four 'l's coming together, see,' began Splott, 'it just didn't look right if you know what I mean, not consecutive like that, so I thought to myself, I thought you'd better check this out, Mr Splott, got to get it right, haven't you, get it wrong and you never know what might happen, isn't it, so I thought best be logical and Gwgl this and then – oh, sorry, you do know what Gwgl is do you? - I know I sometimes assume too much scientific knowledge on the part of people who aren't specialists – oh, you do, there we are then, smashing that, isn't it, only not everyone does, but there we are, I can see we're going to get along lovely, you and me; anyway by the time I'd Gwgled it it was too late......'

Curig's hand remained ungrasped; the smile on his face frozen. Turning away, he welcomed some familiar faces – Dr 'Bwns' McCoy, the brilliant but crusty old ship's Medical Officer; Mr Swlw, the helmsman and Lt Whwrw, who – by common agreement – would be an outstanding Communications Officer if only she'd ever learnt to pronounce her own name. It was no wonder, reflected Curig, that all the 'w's on the keyboards in Starfleet Wales' HR department had had to be specially strengthened.

Exasperated by Splott's incessant chatter, Curig crisply ordered his crew aboard. It was time to exert his authority, to make it quite clear who was in charge.

'Mr Splott, please lay in our first course, we're going to Jupiter.'

'Oh, there's lovely. My auntie used to go there regular, swore by it so to speak, she had this terrible chest, see, proper martyr to it she was, well, she'd had it for years, of course, and she always said..........'

'Take us up, Mr Swlw.'

Had you been observing the scene from the edge of the spaceport, you would have seen the Ent-y-pridd rise silently and majestically, then disappear into the angry, slate grey clouds which enveloped Cardigan Spaceport. Aboard, there was no sensation of speed or movement as the short journey passed without incident. All too soon, it seemed, Splott was announcing their arrival.

'Here we are then, safe and sound, looks like it might brighten up a bit later, but best be logical and take a mac if you're going down, I would, you can't be too careful I always say......'

'Bwns and I will beam down. Mr Taff, you have command.'

Curig and Bwns were startled by what they found on the planet's surface. They had visited Jupiter many times before, but didn't remember it being like this. They were in a wet, scrubby field, standing alongside a long stretch of what looked suspiciously like tarmac. Heavy rain squalled into their faces. Rain? On Jupiter? There was silence, eventually broken by the sound of a heavy engine. They spun round to see a lorry trundling slowly towards them along what they now realised was a road. Curig walked out onto the road and signalled the lorry to stop.

'I'm sorry, but we seem to be lost, can you tell us where we are?'

'Baa!!!' said the lorry.

'Wh.....'

'Baa!!!'

Heavily, the driver wound down his window.

'You're on the A482. So am I. I've got to get these sheep to the abattoir. What's your excuse?'

They mumbled their apologies, and Curig flipped open his communicator.

'Two to beam up, Mr Taff, and have Mr Splott meet us in the briefing room.'

Which is where Curig described what had happened and demanded an explanation. Bwns simply glowered.

'Jupiter!' exclaimed Splott. 'I thought you said Lampeter, that's why I landed you on the A482, see. I did think it was an illogical sort of destination to choose if you know what I mean, it can't be much more than what, about fifty miles or so from Cardigan, you'd have been quicker on the bus I shouldn't wonder, there's one every hour or so......'

Furiously, Bwns cut him off, but as Splott started to plead for another chance Whwrw's voice broke in on the intercom.

'Cap'n Curig to the bridge. I'm picking up signals about unauthorised Klingon movements in the Viga sector. A Federation freighter is in trouble. Starfleet want us to investigate.'

The three officers hurried to the bridge where Curig quickly assessed the situation before commanding Splott to lay in a course for Viga.

'That's Viga, Mr Splott' muttered Bwns. 'Viga. Not Tredegar'.

The journey to Viga passed quickly, efficiently and without incident, and as they approached the star system they were hailed by Captain Llwybyr of the Federation freighter Cnychwr who requested permission to come aboard.

'I was only a few hours out of Cardigan, see,' began Captain Llwybyr 'when I spotted Klingons. There's tricky, I thought, I wonder what they want, I've nothing very valuable, have I, never have these days, mind you there was a time when I transported good Welsh steel all over the galaxy of course, I could have understood if it was steel, but that's all gone years ago and half my cargo was bloody daffodils........'

'Daffodils!' exclaimed Curig.

'Yes. Bit of a turn up, turns out that's what they were after, isn't it? Seemingly Mothers' Day is very big in Klingon culture, they all get a bit tearful, see, and want to send their Mums some daffs. Of course, they won't be much good after travelling through sub space for hundreds of thousands of light years, but I didn't tell them that....'

Curig smiled warmly at this, but Splott seemed struck by a revelation and spent the next few minutes downloading various learned texts from the computer's library, and studying them feverishly.

'It was something Captain Llwybyr said,' he began 'triggered a thought, so to speak, I thought to myself I wonder, Mr Splott, use a bit of logic, I wonder if....'

Bwns' suggestion that he get to the point lacked both tenderness and diplomacy. Splott was unmoved.

'New way of fighting Klingons, see,' he began 'psychological warfare, it's called. We've found a weak spot and now we can exploit it.'

'Explanation.'

'Well, we now know they're very sentimental about their mothers. So, we create fake messages from their mothers saying how much they're missing them, that sort of thing, beam them pictures of happy Klingon mothers with their families; apparently Klingon songs are very big on motherhood, so we play loads of them to their ships. Unman them, see.'

Bwns and Taffy failed entirely in their attempts to imply that they'd already thought of this, but both had to admit privately that Splott had suddenly gone up several notches in their estimation. Nodding his appreciation, Curig demanded more detail and was deeply impressed with the way Splott had marshalled facts, conclusions and speculation. The First Officer made a point of lingering on the sentimental nature of Klingon – and human- relationships.

The Captain coloured slightly. He felt in his pocket for the number of the girl in the cosmetics store and was reassured to find it still there. The gesture didn't go wholly unnoticed.

'Excellent, Mr Splott. Prepare a strategic proposal for Starfleet. Emphasise the prospects of this new approach for galactic Armani, er, harmony.'

Bwns smirked.

'They'll have to Arden their resolve' he chuckled.

Curig coloured again, but was equal to the challenge.

'Lay in a course for home, Mr Swlw. Ahead, Max Factor one.'

They all grinned. The Ent-y-pridd made a textbook landing at Cardigan. Producing a large bunch of daffodils which he had kept well hidden, Splott suggested that the Captain might wish to dispense with the usual formalities and beam direct to the cosmetics store in the departure hall.

The Captain beamed, in both senses, and was gone.

'I do believe you're showing signs of emotion, Mr Splott' growled Bwns.

'On the contrary, Doctor. I am deploying a wholly logical tactic to manage human illogicality. But the Captain may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. This is not logical, but it is often true.'

_________________________________________________________________________

ANAGRAM CORNER ON THE LABOUR PARTY LEADERSHIP ELECTION

                                        

                                                POISONED-EST CHALICE

ELECTION CHAOS SPIED!