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....................