Pubs are falling at an increasing rate. F2C details another one.
I like pubs. I really like to spend some leisure time in pubs. The trouble is that pubs don't like me any more. They make me go outside with the dogs and the horses and carts. I used to really love going to the pub but now, well it's like going to the dentist. Except that at least the dentist fixes something. The pub just makes it worse.
So I don't go any more. It's not a protest, it's a reaction to being made unwelcome.
Instead I visit, and sometimes host, smoky-drinky. Private parties, no staff, no members, not open to the public, where we can drink and smoke indoors and behave like real, civilised people instead of permanently offended infants. If any permanently offended infants don't like the smell, fear not. You are in no danger of being forced to learn to operate a washing machine or of buying soap. You won't be invited.
Not so long ago, I considered our local Smoky-Drinky as a one-off. A rarity. A strange thing, a weird reaction to the weird world we live in. Then I found that Leafar set up a London-based smoky-drinky equivalent. It's the same idea. No legal problems because there is no business transacted, no staff, no members, no public access. Like a pub, but not a business.
It started as an idea. A speakeasy for smoke prohibition days. like those American speakeasies it is spreading fast and accelerating with increasing pressure from the antismoking Nazis.
Dioclese and Dick Puddlecote have now joined our ranks.
They might well find, as I did, that it starts as a nervous and almost sinful feeling among a few friends, then it expands. New people appear, new friends are made, just as in the old days in the pubs. The original pubs brewed their own beer, and that is beginning to reappear in Smoky-Drinky too. No charge, no money, no business, no members, no public. No fixed premises. Ghost pubs.
We are still here, antismokers. We are still here, CAMRA. While your pubs fall, ours rise. While your small breweries die, ours are formed. They won't appear in any good beer guide. You won't find them and even if you do, it's invitation only. We cannot, by law, be open to the public. Nor can we register as a club.
Real pubs are rising again, in their original form, and the antismokers need have no fear of them.
You won't even know where we are.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Dog bites cat - illegal.
A dog attacks a cat. Is that news? Dogs and cats, unless brought up together, are rarely on good terms. Dogs chase cats, it's what they do. One of the Old Days sayings was 'fight like cat and dog', another long forgotten phrase.
So a dog attacks a cat.
It's not a good thing, never was.
But... is it really a police matter?
UPDATE: The original link gave no more than 'dog bites cat' but JuliaM has found more detail, which makes it a police matter for sure.
So a dog attacks a cat.
It's not a good thing, never was.
But... is it really a police matter?
UPDATE: The original link gave no more than 'dog bites cat' but JuliaM has found more detail, which makes it a police matter for sure.
Sue the Pharmers.
ASH have proved conclusively, beyond all doubt, that the tiniest trace of nicotine is lethal.
The Pharmers who fund ASH insist that we buy patches loaded with concentrations of nicotine that could never be achieved on skin by even a chainsmoker, and that we chew gum laced with this evil, deadly compound.
ASH have therefore proved that the pharmaceutical companies are deliberately setting out to kill their customers. Third hand smoke, even more than second hand smoke, proves that the Pharmers are deliberately selling a product known to be dangerous in concentrations far in excess of those shown to be lethal.
Let them win this one, I say. Let them convince as many as possible of third hand smoke. I'll even help with that.
Then let the Pharmers defend their patches and gum in court, against a jury fully indoctrinated with ASH propaganda. Let those Pharmers claim they did not know, even though ASH are their favourite money sink. Let's see ASH 'scientists' worm their way out of their claims that 'traces of nicotine are lethal' while their funders are in the dock for selling huge doses over the counter, no prescription, no control, no enforcement of any age limits. Let's see what ASH have to say about their pushing of NRT products they have, themselves, demonstrated to be lethal.
Let them win. Then sue the pants off their paymasters using their own 'proof'. They cannot defend against that action without admitting that everything they have said has been absolute lies.
The truth? Oh, let's not bother about all that. They don't want to hear it anyway.
Let's just play their game, their way.
The Pharmers who fund ASH insist that we buy patches loaded with concentrations of nicotine that could never be achieved on skin by even a chainsmoker, and that we chew gum laced with this evil, deadly compound.
ASH have therefore proved that the pharmaceutical companies are deliberately setting out to kill their customers. Third hand smoke, even more than second hand smoke, proves that the Pharmers are deliberately selling a product known to be dangerous in concentrations far in excess of those shown to be lethal.
Let them win this one, I say. Let them convince as many as possible of third hand smoke. I'll even help with that.
Then let the Pharmers defend their patches and gum in court, against a jury fully indoctrinated with ASH propaganda. Let those Pharmers claim they did not know, even though ASH are their favourite money sink. Let's see ASH 'scientists' worm their way out of their claims that 'traces of nicotine are lethal' while their funders are in the dock for selling huge doses over the counter, no prescription, no control, no enforcement of any age limits. Let's see what ASH have to say about their pushing of NRT products they have, themselves, demonstrated to be lethal.
Let them win. Then sue the pants off their paymasters using their own 'proof'. They cannot defend against that action without admitting that everything they have said has been absolute lies.
The truth? Oh, let's not bother about all that. They don't want to hear it anyway.
Let's just play their game, their way.
Friday, 15 October 2010
Water.
Some water passing under a bridge.
No lab work today, I'm working out what this contract means and whether it includes my soul. It's not very long so I should have it on its way back by tomorrow. Must remember to sign it.
Therefore I am procrastinating and wandering the wires in between bouts of concentration. It came as a surprise to find there is a 'blog action day' and I read it carefully in case it involved exercise. It doesn't. We're all supposed write about a particular thing and as Irish Grandad says, apparently that's supposed to make something happen.
This blog action day is about water. Well, there's a lot of it around here because it's been dropping out of the sky every day since June. It's forecast to continue dropping out of the sky for some time yet although soon it will be dropping as snow and hail instead. The season will shift from 'wet' to 'cold and wet'. Not really an improvement. At least when it's just 'wet' you don't have to shovel it away.
I think I'll leave discussion of water to others. It's not on my tipple list. Besides, if I say too much I'll probably just make it rain harder.
Raccoon City News.
Over at the Grumpy Old Twat's jolly place of merriment and revelry (He's only Santa for one day a year, kids. This is what he does the rest of the time), Anna Raccoon sets out her reasons for leaving.
I have not experienced such threats, because there is nothing to threaten me with. I have no employer, my family know who I am. They are mixed Italian/Welsh and if you criticise any one of us to another's face, even the one who has spent some time in prison and who is Not Mentioned, you'll be lucky to leave with your own face intact. If you want to try the 'paedo' tag well, I do not, have never, and will never work with children in any capacity whatsoever, which will make a libel case a walk in the park. I have only ever taught at college and university level and only at HND to PhD level. I have always heeded the helpful advice printed on plastic bags - keep away from children. They are too fast, too unpredictable, too loud and they have dreadful table manners. I could never understand the paedo mind because to me, it's like finding something erotic in hyenas.
Therefore I cannot appreciate the pain Anna Raccoon describes because I am not capable of experiencing it. However, I can understand the reasons she gives for quitting.
Besides, there is no point hunting me down. I will be outed by my own hand in April 2011. It cannot now be avoided.
April 2011 is when my first novel is slated for release (as long as I don't bugger up the deadlines). It will appear under the imprint 'Damnation Press' which I am delighted about. I couldn't have chosen a better name. At that point, I can no longer hide behind this mask because if I do I will be cutting off my nose to spite my face. I can't promote a book without telling anyone whose name is on it.
There is a second one ready to go as soon as this one is done, and a third already first-drafted. The 'Ghosthunters' is not yet complete because it's a dystopia and real life keeps getting ahead of it.
In April I out myself. If anyone wants to go to all the trouble of doing it sooner, knock yourself out. It will, ultimately, be a waste of time.
Oh, and if you have a copy of that Lulu book you have my name anyway.
Well... one of them.
I have not experienced such threats, because there is nothing to threaten me with. I have no employer, my family know who I am. They are mixed Italian/Welsh and if you criticise any one of us to another's face, even the one who has spent some time in prison and who is Not Mentioned, you'll be lucky to leave with your own face intact. If you want to try the 'paedo' tag well, I do not, have never, and will never work with children in any capacity whatsoever, which will make a libel case a walk in the park. I have only ever taught at college and university level and only at HND to PhD level. I have always heeded the helpful advice printed on plastic bags - keep away from children. They are too fast, too unpredictable, too loud and they have dreadful table manners. I could never understand the paedo mind because to me, it's like finding something erotic in hyenas.
Therefore I cannot appreciate the pain Anna Raccoon describes because I am not capable of experiencing it. However, I can understand the reasons she gives for quitting.
Besides, there is no point hunting me down. I will be outed by my own hand in April 2011. It cannot now be avoided.
April 2011 is when my first novel is slated for release (as long as I don't bugger up the deadlines). It will appear under the imprint 'Damnation Press' which I am delighted about. I couldn't have chosen a better name. At that point, I can no longer hide behind this mask because if I do I will be cutting off my nose to spite my face. I can't promote a book without telling anyone whose name is on it.
There is a second one ready to go as soon as this one is done, and a third already first-drafted. The 'Ghosthunters' is not yet complete because it's a dystopia and real life keeps getting ahead of it.
In April I out myself. If anyone wants to go to all the trouble of doing it sooner, knock yourself out. It will, ultimately, be a waste of time.
Oh, and if you have a copy of that Lulu book you have my name anyway.
Well... one of them.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
The Smoke War.
David Nuttall, MP for Bury North, introduced a bill that sought to relax the bile and spite of the smoking ban. It failed, but not by anywhere near as much as ASH and the rest of the Fourth Reich would have liked. Despite their bringing out their pet attack dog to do their bidding, the vote, although lost, was not lost by all that much. The fight is not only not over, we are gaining ground.
The comments on Mr. Nuttall's original post were the usual "Ohh, its a bit smelly!" "Ohh, I have to wash and soap makes me itchy!" "Ohh, I might catch cancer!" from the general pool of ASH idiot-speak that a few of the masses have latched on to in lieu of real life. They really aren't anywhere near as numerous as they would like us to believe, and they are nowhere near as brave when confronted as they pretend. Best of all, their stupidity means they can be convinced of all sorts of things. I have not yet scared one to death but I continue to try. Cancer as a communicable disease? Death by odour? I didn't convince the idiots of that. ASH did. But I am perfectly willing to play with it.
We are now faced with the insanity of a claim that smoking produces methane. Methane. That's right. Natural gas. Gas that burns. Gas that ignites so easily that phosphene can do it in swamps. Yes, the idiots actually believe that a burning object can produce a combustible gas. I can hear scientific heads hitting desks all over the world. Except in Climatology labs where they are designing something to measure it and produce the required result. Just make it up guys, it's what you do anyway and it's cheaper that way.
You want to believe it? Fine. If you meet me, I will amplify it, and prove to you that asteroids home in on cigarette smoke and the nearer you are to me, the more likely you are to be hit. Run! No, run faster than that, there's a big one coming.
What mystifies me is the tobacco industry's stance on all this. They meekly add horrible warnings to packets even though they are to be hidden from view and even though they must know that the warnings are lies. They restrict overseas supplies when instructed even though it should make no difference to them where it's bought. They get the profit anyway, the difference is tax. Then they whine about Man with a Van selling 'contraband' that isn't. It's not illegal to buy any amount of tobacco anywhere in the EU and then take it to another part of the EU. It is illegal to run a business that pays no tax, as Man with a Van does, but that has nothing to do with what he sells. The tobacco is not, in itself, illegal.
The tobacco companies are not affected by this faux-smuggling. The tobacco has been bought, they have their profits, for them it makes no difference if Man with a Van sells it on. The only ones who lose out are the ever-hungry grasping fingers of government, who don't get the duty they need to smack down smokers harder. They try to make us feel guilty for not funding our own oppression and can't understand why we laugh at them.
So why are the tobacco industry even remotely interested in Man with a Van? He makes no difference to their profits. He pays their profits in another country.
It sounds rather like those pub collectives who blame anything but the smoking ban as the reason I, and millions like me, no longer prop up their bars. For me, and millions more, there really is no other reason. Price is irrelevant. I have been happy to spend money on pub prices in the past. It's not the booze, it's the company and we are now excluded from that. We don't pay 'for the pint'. If we just wanted 'the pint' we have always been able to get it cheaper in the supermarket. Always. It's not a new thing. No, we pay a premium to sit in the premises with our friends and maybe meet new ones.
We do not pay a premium to smoke in the rain, nor in a shelter that is illegal under animal welfare laws.
Like the pubs, the tobacco companies are blind to their real enemy. It is not the customer. It is those who hate that customer.
Yet they blame the customer. The pubs blame those who 'no longer support the local pub'. We should be supporting a business that despises us. Yes, and the BNP can legitimately complain that black people don't vote for them. I can't speak for anyone else but personally, I don't go to places where I am clearly not welcome.
The tobacco companies tell us we are evil smokers and shouldn't be buying their produce. Okay. Next year I start growing my own. It'll take a couple of years before I am free of Man with a Van but eventually there will be no more tobacco profits from me, so they can stop moaning. I wonder if I can make wine from the flowers? That would kick Buckfast into a cocked hat and send the Righteous into heart attack territory. Booze with nicotine in it. It has to be worth a try.
I'm denormalised. I'm a monster. I didn't create myself. Antismokers made me. Once I was just a guy who smoked but now I am a demon with a little bit of hell fire sticking out of my face. Well, that's what you wanted, isn't it, antismokers? You wanted absolute, untempered evil and here it is. Remember, you made it. I didn't. I'm the creation, not the creator. So when your kids come home crying, convinced they have hours to live because they harangued the stumpy smoker, remember, you wished it on them. You convinced them of my demonic power.
Don't think I won't use it.
What's that? Unfair? Nasty? Cruel? you think I shouldn't tell lies to your children? You think I should show decency and honour, antismokers? Like you?
Yes, like you. Your game, your rules. Truth is irrelevant, spin and lies are the weapons of the war. I'm your Frankenstein, antismokers, and I am not the only one.
We cannot rely on anyone, not even those who supply the tobacco we enjoy. The pubs pretend we don't matter and the Cleggeron Coagulation pretend we don't exist. Grow your own or buy from companies that are not at all connected to the UK government. They hate us, don't pay them to do it. If you can scare an antismoker into psychosomatic cancer, do it. They would do it to you. No mercy, no compromise, no prisoners. Not my rules. Antismoker rules. Fight on their terms because ours are too gentle.
There are 86 MPs on our side. We have not yet been defeated. The matter is far from settled.
This ban will break, If there is collateral damage among antismokers and their families, that's a shame. Always remember, we didn't start this war and we didn't define the rules of combat. Forget guilt and remorse, this is not a fair fight we are engaged in and if we show any trace of weakness, we lose. If antismokers find their children terrified, too bad. We did not convince those children of the boogeyman of second hand smoke, they did. Play with it and feel no shame when they run screaming.
Really, what can we lose? There is nothing left to us anyway. We are below paedophiles and the anally challenged already. We are barred from pubs and clubs and railway platforms and bus stations in case we interfere with the diesel fumes those antismokers love. There is nothing left to lose. The government are in the pocket of ASH and they will not listen.
We are fighting a war in which we cannot lose any more. So take off the gloves, forget compromise, and light up the tabs of war.
The enemy is merciless. Show none in return.
The comments on Mr. Nuttall's original post were the usual "Ohh, its a bit smelly!" "Ohh, I have to wash and soap makes me itchy!" "Ohh, I might catch cancer!" from the general pool of ASH idiot-speak that a few of the masses have latched on to in lieu of real life. They really aren't anywhere near as numerous as they would like us to believe, and they are nowhere near as brave when confronted as they pretend. Best of all, their stupidity means they can be convinced of all sorts of things. I have not yet scared one to death but I continue to try. Cancer as a communicable disease? Death by odour? I didn't convince the idiots of that. ASH did. But I am perfectly willing to play with it.
We are now faced with the insanity of a claim that smoking produces methane. Methane. That's right. Natural gas. Gas that burns. Gas that ignites so easily that phosphene can do it in swamps. Yes, the idiots actually believe that a burning object can produce a combustible gas. I can hear scientific heads hitting desks all over the world. Except in Climatology labs where they are designing something to measure it and produce the required result. Just make it up guys, it's what you do anyway and it's cheaper that way.
You want to believe it? Fine. If you meet me, I will amplify it, and prove to you that asteroids home in on cigarette smoke and the nearer you are to me, the more likely you are to be hit. Run! No, run faster than that, there's a big one coming.
What mystifies me is the tobacco industry's stance on all this. They meekly add horrible warnings to packets even though they are to be hidden from view and even though they must know that the warnings are lies. They restrict overseas supplies when instructed even though it should make no difference to them where it's bought. They get the profit anyway, the difference is tax. Then they whine about Man with a Van selling 'contraband' that isn't. It's not illegal to buy any amount of tobacco anywhere in the EU and then take it to another part of the EU. It is illegal to run a business that pays no tax, as Man with a Van does, but that has nothing to do with what he sells. The tobacco is not, in itself, illegal.
The tobacco companies are not affected by this faux-smuggling. The tobacco has been bought, they have their profits, for them it makes no difference if Man with a Van sells it on. The only ones who lose out are the ever-hungry grasping fingers of government, who don't get the duty they need to smack down smokers harder. They try to make us feel guilty for not funding our own oppression and can't understand why we laugh at them.
So why are the tobacco industry even remotely interested in Man with a Van? He makes no difference to their profits. He pays their profits in another country.
It sounds rather like those pub collectives who blame anything but the smoking ban as the reason I, and millions like me, no longer prop up their bars. For me, and millions more, there really is no other reason. Price is irrelevant. I have been happy to spend money on pub prices in the past. It's not the booze, it's the company and we are now excluded from that. We don't pay 'for the pint'. If we just wanted 'the pint' we have always been able to get it cheaper in the supermarket. Always. It's not a new thing. No, we pay a premium to sit in the premises with our friends and maybe meet new ones.
We do not pay a premium to smoke in the rain, nor in a shelter that is illegal under animal welfare laws.
Like the pubs, the tobacco companies are blind to their real enemy. It is not the customer. It is those who hate that customer.
Yet they blame the customer. The pubs blame those who 'no longer support the local pub'. We should be supporting a business that despises us. Yes, and the BNP can legitimately complain that black people don't vote for them. I can't speak for anyone else but personally, I don't go to places where I am clearly not welcome.
The tobacco companies tell us we are evil smokers and shouldn't be buying their produce. Okay. Next year I start growing my own. It'll take a couple of years before I am free of Man with a Van but eventually there will be no more tobacco profits from me, so they can stop moaning. I wonder if I can make wine from the flowers? That would kick Buckfast into a cocked hat and send the Righteous into heart attack territory. Booze with nicotine in it. It has to be worth a try.
I'm denormalised. I'm a monster. I didn't create myself. Antismokers made me. Once I was just a guy who smoked but now I am a demon with a little bit of hell fire sticking out of my face. Well, that's what you wanted, isn't it, antismokers? You wanted absolute, untempered evil and here it is. Remember, you made it. I didn't. I'm the creation, not the creator. So when your kids come home crying, convinced they have hours to live because they harangued the stumpy smoker, remember, you wished it on them. You convinced them of my demonic power.
Don't think I won't use it.
What's that? Unfair? Nasty? Cruel? you think I shouldn't tell lies to your children? You think I should show decency and honour, antismokers? Like you?
Yes, like you. Your game, your rules. Truth is irrelevant, spin and lies are the weapons of the war. I'm your Frankenstein, antismokers, and I am not the only one.
We cannot rely on anyone, not even those who supply the tobacco we enjoy. The pubs pretend we don't matter and the Cleggeron Coagulation pretend we don't exist. Grow your own or buy from companies that are not at all connected to the UK government. They hate us, don't pay them to do it. If you can scare an antismoker into psychosomatic cancer, do it. They would do it to you. No mercy, no compromise, no prisoners. Not my rules. Antismoker rules. Fight on their terms because ours are too gentle.
There are 86 MPs on our side. We have not yet been defeated. The matter is far from settled.
This ban will break, If there is collateral damage among antismokers and their families, that's a shame. Always remember, we didn't start this war and we didn't define the rules of combat. Forget guilt and remorse, this is not a fair fight we are engaged in and if we show any trace of weakness, we lose. If antismokers find their children terrified, too bad. We did not convince those children of the boogeyman of second hand smoke, they did. Play with it and feel no shame when they run screaming.
Really, what can we lose? There is nothing left to us anyway. We are below paedophiles and the anally challenged already. We are barred from pubs and clubs and railway platforms and bus stations in case we interfere with the diesel fumes those antismokers love. There is nothing left to lose. The government are in the pocket of ASH and they will not listen.
We are fighting a war in which we cannot lose any more. So take off the gloves, forget compromise, and light up the tabs of war.
The enemy is merciless. Show none in return.
Mortgage bomb.
If there is any truth in this (spotted via AngryTeen) then there just aren't enough fans in the world to cope with the faecal typhoon to come.
This is deep economics, way out of my league. Anyone know?
This is deep economics, way out of my league. Anyone know?
Entertainment time.
I wrote this one way back in 2003, so it's a little amateurish. It's fiction, and any resemblance to any sort of thing whatsoever that might be going on anywhere, at any time, past, present or future, is totally coincidental.
The desert is a hot place, Alex thought. It seemed like such an obvious thing to think but until you've been there, until you've felt your sweat evaporate as it forms, your body seething with the intensity of it, the statement doesn't really mean anything.
It was hot now, even the wind through the open-top car felt like the draught from a blast-furnace. Alex gasped aloud with relief when he saw the building in the distance ahead. Almost there. Almost inside that air-conditioned building. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the cool ventilation, but the heat made it impossible. He opened them to the unchanging sands, the white building growing as they approached like a solid block of order in the midst of sandy chaos. As soon as he had completed his inspection he'd have to endure the journey back. He'd spin it out, he decided, so that he could travel back in the cooler evening.
The driver shouted something unintelligible, pointing ahead at the building. Alex nodded, smiling. The car picked up speed, racing towards its destination. The blast-furnace wind seemed to get hotter as their speed increased. In Alex' heat-warped mind he fancied he could see small red men with pitchforks dancing along the side of the road, urging them onwards, faster and faster across the burning desert. He gripped the sides of the vehicle as the driver bounced it along the barely visible track.
At last they pulled up in front of the building, the braking tyres whirling dust-devils around them. Despite Alex' eagerness to arrive, the building itself was a remarkably uninteresting thing to look at, close up. A low concrete block, painted white, with few windows and doors. There were no windows in the laboratories, of course. Since the occupants would have been unable to open the windows, for fear of contamination (coming in or going out, either was bad news) the baking heat would have made the interiors intolerable. Air was drawn into the building, cooled and filtered, then filtered again on the way out. Nothing came in or went out unchecked, nothing. Not even a virus. This was the best microbiological research facility in the country, placed far out in the desert so that even if one of its deadly residents were to escape, it would have posed little danger. There could, of course, have been another reason for its remoteness and secrecy. That's what Alex was here to find out.
It was a shock to enter the building after the searing heat outside. It was at least fifteen degrees cooler inside. The head of the installation was waiting for him, all smiles. Weren't they always?
"Ah, Professor Alex Weinberg, yes? So you have come. We are ready for your inspection. All of the laboratories are open to you, but you will have to put on the, ah, protective suits in some areas, as you know." The man was shaking Alex' hand as if trying to remove it.
"I know," Alex said. "I am familiar with the precautions required for handling dangerous microorganisms." He smiled at the man. It was a game, a challenge. If there was a biological weapon here, they would have hidden it. Could he find a needle in a haystack? A book hidden in a library? Except a virus was so much smaller than a needle, so much easier to hide.
"Of course, of course." The head man led Alex into a maze of corridors with doors on all sides. He opened a few and stepped back so that Alex could look inside. These were offices - some occupied, some not. "Nothing is hidden from you. We are a research establishment, nothing more. We have no weapons here."
"I hope not," Alex said. "It makes my report so much easier to write." They both laughed. That broke the ice, relieved the tension a little.
Alex saw laboratories manned by white-coated scientists and technicians preparing media and growing cultures of bacteria and viruses. He inspected notebooks and watched experiments. The staff obstructed nothing, they were perfectly open with their responses to his questions. He was allowed to go everywhere and see everything. Perhaps the facility was just what it seemed to be, after all. Finally they visited the Category 4 laboratory, with it's very high level containment. Alex was fitted with a protective suit, respiration equipment and close-fitting hood. This laboratory was built to contain the deadliest of infection. Ebola. Rabies. Infections which plagued this country. Alex saw a whole range of experiments to devise cures and vaccinations. All legitimate. Was there something more? Alex couldn't find it.
"Well, that's it," Alex said, speaking through the headset in his suit. "There's nothing here but legitimate research. That's what my report will say."
The head man smiled through his plastic hood. "That is good. I told you, no weapons here."
Alex turned to the decontamination chamber, ready to leave. A technician was standing behind him. They collided, the rack of test-tubes tearing a hole in the arm of Alex' suit. Alex stood still, gaping at the technician who stared in horror at the holed suit.
Everyone was silent, staring at Alex as he tried to cover the hole with his gloved hand. Somebody pressed an alarm. Alex could feel his heart pounding. Had he been infected? Had some vile, incurable horror flashed through the hole in his suit? The technicians backed away, as if he was a leper, as if he could somehow infect them even through their suits. One senior scientist approached, his hands held up in a calming gesture.
"Don't panic please. We have procedures. We have isolation facilities. You will be OK." The scientist was smiling, reptilian and false. Alex knew he was in trouble, possibly big trouble, but there was nothing he could do. He had to trust these people now, he had to hope that no infection had entered his body. Resigned to his fate, he let the scientist lead him away, through the decontamination room, through a hastily-assembled plastic tunnel into a suite of rooms.
"Please remove the protective suit and place it in this bag," the scientist said. "It will be destroyed as a precaution." Alex nodded dumbly. He knew the precautions. He had just never expected to be on this side of them. The scientist left with the damaged suit and Alex was left alone. He sat on the small bed, head in his hands, and did not notice the three medical staff enter. They were fully clad in protective suits, of course. A cough made him jump. He looked into a smiling face, vague behind the reflections in the mask.
"Professor Weinberg. I am to be your doctor and these two will assist." The man's English was vague and uncertain. Alex sighed. He couldn't expect much conversation.
"Can you get a message to my people?" Alex said. "To the other inspectors? Just to let them know what's happened."
The doctor smiled and shook his head. Alex repeated the question.
"Ah, yes, the others. Yes, they are being told now. Please, open your sleeve. I must give you inoculations."
Alex raised his eyebrows. "You have inoculations against the diseases in there?" he said, amazed.
"Ah, no. These are for tetanus and hepatitis. Those things we can protect against. The others…" The doctor pursed his lips. "We will have to see."
Alex remained imprisoned in his small suite of rooms for three days. Oh, they were comfortable enough rooms, he was fed and treated well, but he had no contact with the outside world. The doctor or one of his assistants took blood samples every twelve hours. Alex paced, hardly sleeping, his arms aching from the frequent needles. Finally he was declared clear of infection and was allowed to leave. A plane had been arranged to take him out of the country, back to his home. The head of the institution was nowhere to be seen as he was bundled, dazed, into the waiting car. The driver didn't speak, didn't turn his head all through the long hot drive to the airport. It wasn't until he had boarded the plane, headed home, that Alex's relief exploded in tears of pure joy.
***
The head of the institute sipped his tea, his face, his every movement cautious. The man seated opposite was a high official of the secret service. One move, even one word out of place could get him arrested, even executed.
"So it went well?" the uniformed official said.
"Yes. The blade in the test-tube rack ripped his suit. We gave him the injection. We told him it was for tetanus." Both men laughed briefly, the head taking his cue from the official.
"The virus worked, of course?" The official removed his glasses and wiped a speck of dust from them before replacing them on his nose.
"Of course. Exactly as planned. In two days he will be contagious, but it will be at least another week before the symptoms appear. By then he will have passed the virus to many others."
"Their authorities will try to contain those he has met."
"Everyone? Everyone he brushed past in the street, everyone he sat next to on the bus? Everyone those people met afterwards? Impossible." The head was confident. The blood samples had fulfilled all his expectations.
"You are sure he did not suspect anything," the official said, glaring through his glasses.
"Nothing. He was looking for a weapon, not an inoculation."
"Ah, they look and look, but they cannot see," the official said, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his tea. "They look for biological weapons in missile silos, when they, the experts should know." He grinned at the head, who grinned back, feeling beads of sweat form even here, in his air-conditioned office. "A virus fits easily into a test tube. So much more easily into a syringe. Professor Weinberg came looking for a weapon - but now he is the weapon. So, we will inoculate travellers to target countries and fire our blind weapons into the hearts of our enemies."
The head of the institute smiled a real smile for once. His funding would increase for his part in this.
I'm sure there is a later version of this in which I fixed points such as a) he wouldn't have been the only inspector and b) he would already have been inoculated against most things anyway. I just can't remember which backup disk it's on. So I'll have to do it again.
The Blind Assassin
The desert is a hot place, Alex thought. It seemed like such an obvious thing to think but until you've been there, until you've felt your sweat evaporate as it forms, your body seething with the intensity of it, the statement doesn't really mean anything.
It was hot now, even the wind through the open-top car felt like the draught from a blast-furnace. Alex gasped aloud with relief when he saw the building in the distance ahead. Almost there. Almost inside that air-conditioned building. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the cool ventilation, but the heat made it impossible. He opened them to the unchanging sands, the white building growing as they approached like a solid block of order in the midst of sandy chaos. As soon as he had completed his inspection he'd have to endure the journey back. He'd spin it out, he decided, so that he could travel back in the cooler evening.
The driver shouted something unintelligible, pointing ahead at the building. Alex nodded, smiling. The car picked up speed, racing towards its destination. The blast-furnace wind seemed to get hotter as their speed increased. In Alex' heat-warped mind he fancied he could see small red men with pitchforks dancing along the side of the road, urging them onwards, faster and faster across the burning desert. He gripped the sides of the vehicle as the driver bounced it along the barely visible track.
At last they pulled up in front of the building, the braking tyres whirling dust-devils around them. Despite Alex' eagerness to arrive, the building itself was a remarkably uninteresting thing to look at, close up. A low concrete block, painted white, with few windows and doors. There were no windows in the laboratories, of course. Since the occupants would have been unable to open the windows, for fear of contamination (coming in or going out, either was bad news) the baking heat would have made the interiors intolerable. Air was drawn into the building, cooled and filtered, then filtered again on the way out. Nothing came in or went out unchecked, nothing. Not even a virus. This was the best microbiological research facility in the country, placed far out in the desert so that even if one of its deadly residents were to escape, it would have posed little danger. There could, of course, have been another reason for its remoteness and secrecy. That's what Alex was here to find out.
It was a shock to enter the building after the searing heat outside. It was at least fifteen degrees cooler inside. The head of the installation was waiting for him, all smiles. Weren't they always?
"Ah, Professor Alex Weinberg, yes? So you have come. We are ready for your inspection. All of the laboratories are open to you, but you will have to put on the, ah, protective suits in some areas, as you know." The man was shaking Alex' hand as if trying to remove it.
"I know," Alex said. "I am familiar with the precautions required for handling dangerous microorganisms." He smiled at the man. It was a game, a challenge. If there was a biological weapon here, they would have hidden it. Could he find a needle in a haystack? A book hidden in a library? Except a virus was so much smaller than a needle, so much easier to hide.
"Of course, of course." The head man led Alex into a maze of corridors with doors on all sides. He opened a few and stepped back so that Alex could look inside. These were offices - some occupied, some not. "Nothing is hidden from you. We are a research establishment, nothing more. We have no weapons here."
"I hope not," Alex said. "It makes my report so much easier to write." They both laughed. That broke the ice, relieved the tension a little.
Alex saw laboratories manned by white-coated scientists and technicians preparing media and growing cultures of bacteria and viruses. He inspected notebooks and watched experiments. The staff obstructed nothing, they were perfectly open with their responses to his questions. He was allowed to go everywhere and see everything. Perhaps the facility was just what it seemed to be, after all. Finally they visited the Category 4 laboratory, with it's very high level containment. Alex was fitted with a protective suit, respiration equipment and close-fitting hood. This laboratory was built to contain the deadliest of infection. Ebola. Rabies. Infections which plagued this country. Alex saw a whole range of experiments to devise cures and vaccinations. All legitimate. Was there something more? Alex couldn't find it.
"Well, that's it," Alex said, speaking through the headset in his suit. "There's nothing here but legitimate research. That's what my report will say."
The head man smiled through his plastic hood. "That is good. I told you, no weapons here."
Alex turned to the decontamination chamber, ready to leave. A technician was standing behind him. They collided, the rack of test-tubes tearing a hole in the arm of Alex' suit. Alex stood still, gaping at the technician who stared in horror at the holed suit.
Everyone was silent, staring at Alex as he tried to cover the hole with his gloved hand. Somebody pressed an alarm. Alex could feel his heart pounding. Had he been infected? Had some vile, incurable horror flashed through the hole in his suit? The technicians backed away, as if he was a leper, as if he could somehow infect them even through their suits. One senior scientist approached, his hands held up in a calming gesture.
"Don't panic please. We have procedures. We have isolation facilities. You will be OK." The scientist was smiling, reptilian and false. Alex knew he was in trouble, possibly big trouble, but there was nothing he could do. He had to trust these people now, he had to hope that no infection had entered his body. Resigned to his fate, he let the scientist lead him away, through the decontamination room, through a hastily-assembled plastic tunnel into a suite of rooms.
"Please remove the protective suit and place it in this bag," the scientist said. "It will be destroyed as a precaution." Alex nodded dumbly. He knew the precautions. He had just never expected to be on this side of them. The scientist left with the damaged suit and Alex was left alone. He sat on the small bed, head in his hands, and did not notice the three medical staff enter. They were fully clad in protective suits, of course. A cough made him jump. He looked into a smiling face, vague behind the reflections in the mask.
"Professor Weinberg. I am to be your doctor and these two will assist." The man's English was vague and uncertain. Alex sighed. He couldn't expect much conversation.
"Can you get a message to my people?" Alex said. "To the other inspectors? Just to let them know what's happened."
The doctor smiled and shook his head. Alex repeated the question.
"Ah, yes, the others. Yes, they are being told now. Please, open your sleeve. I must give you inoculations."
Alex raised his eyebrows. "You have inoculations against the diseases in there?" he said, amazed.
"Ah, no. These are for tetanus and hepatitis. Those things we can protect against. The others…" The doctor pursed his lips. "We will have to see."
Alex remained imprisoned in his small suite of rooms for three days. Oh, they were comfortable enough rooms, he was fed and treated well, but he had no contact with the outside world. The doctor or one of his assistants took blood samples every twelve hours. Alex paced, hardly sleeping, his arms aching from the frequent needles. Finally he was declared clear of infection and was allowed to leave. A plane had been arranged to take him out of the country, back to his home. The head of the institution was nowhere to be seen as he was bundled, dazed, into the waiting car. The driver didn't speak, didn't turn his head all through the long hot drive to the airport. It wasn't until he had boarded the plane, headed home, that Alex's relief exploded in tears of pure joy.
***
The head of the institute sipped his tea, his face, his every movement cautious. The man seated opposite was a high official of the secret service. One move, even one word out of place could get him arrested, even executed.
"So it went well?" the uniformed official said.
"Yes. The blade in the test-tube rack ripped his suit. We gave him the injection. We told him it was for tetanus." Both men laughed briefly, the head taking his cue from the official.
"The virus worked, of course?" The official removed his glasses and wiped a speck of dust from them before replacing them on his nose.
"Of course. Exactly as planned. In two days he will be contagious, but it will be at least another week before the symptoms appear. By then he will have passed the virus to many others."
"Their authorities will try to contain those he has met."
"Everyone? Everyone he brushed past in the street, everyone he sat next to on the bus? Everyone those people met afterwards? Impossible." The head was confident. The blood samples had fulfilled all his expectations.
"You are sure he did not suspect anything," the official said, glaring through his glasses.
"Nothing. He was looking for a weapon, not an inoculation."
"Ah, they look and look, but they cannot see," the official said, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his tea. "They look for biological weapons in missile silos, when they, the experts should know." He grinned at the head, who grinned back, feeling beads of sweat form even here, in his air-conditioned office. "A virus fits easily into a test tube. So much more easily into a syringe. Professor Weinberg came looking for a weapon - but now he is the weapon. So, we will inoculate travellers to target countries and fire our blind weapons into the hearts of our enemies."
The head of the institute smiled a real smile for once. His funding would increase for his part in this.
I'm sure there is a later version of this in which I fixed points such as a) he wouldn't have been the only inspector and b) he would already have been inoculated against most things anyway. I just can't remember which backup disk it's on. So I'll have to do it again.
Anna Raccoon has gone.
Anna Raccoon has left the blogosphere.
A great loss. I hope this is merely a temporary absence and that one day she'll be back. She did a lot more than just blog, she had effects on the real world that most of us can only aspire to.
Good luck, wherever you are.
A great loss. I hope this is merely a temporary absence and that one day she'll be back. She did a lot more than just blog, she had effects on the real world that most of us can only aspire to.
Good luck, wherever you are.
'First, do no harm'.
There's a long post building, but putting it into words is difficult. In the meantime, I am not sure what to make of the vanishing Malaria man.
O'Blimey has recently apologised for the US doctors experimenting on mental patients in Guatemala, years back. They deliberately infected those patients with sexually transmitted diseases to test penicillin. The controls were not treated, in line with scientific practice but far outside the bounds of ethics and general human decency.
Then there was another experiment where infected black Americans were monitored but not treated, so that the medics could watch the disease in progress. Hippocrates surely cannot believe his ghostly eyes.
All that is in the past, in the dark days before ethics committees and health and safety executives.
Yet today there is a man who has been deliberately infected with malaria as part of an experiment. Not in the past. Today. He's a nurse, so the scares of him dying without treatment aren't real. He knows what to get and where to get it. In fact, what he needs is a damn good gin and tonic. If you read this, Malaria man, they are tracking you by your bank and credit cards. Take out a large wad of cash and change direction after buying a train ticket with your cards, in the wrong direction. Then get a bus - pay cash - in another direction.
Why is he running and hiding? If his participation was voluntary, why not just go back to the experiment? What is he running from?
He is not some terrorist trying to spread the disease. Malaria doesn't spread that way. No, he's hiding and people who are hiding are people who are scared.
In this day and age, it is surely not possible to consider even the remotest idea that doctors could even think about performing disease experiments on the unsuspecting. It is unbelievable, real tin-hat territory, to even dream the merest thought of the slightest possibility that Mengele's approach to science lives on.
Have you noticed how many previously-unknown diseases are appearing in hospitals these days? Ones that could be quickly and simply eradicated, but the NHS trusts don't seem interested in solutions?
Coincidence. Of course it is. It's far more comfortable to believe that. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate.
I mean, it's not as if they regard us as farm animals, is it?
O'Blimey has recently apologised for the US doctors experimenting on mental patients in Guatemala, years back. They deliberately infected those patients with sexually transmitted diseases to test penicillin. The controls were not treated, in line with scientific practice but far outside the bounds of ethics and general human decency.
Then there was another experiment where infected black Americans were monitored but not treated, so that the medics could watch the disease in progress. Hippocrates surely cannot believe his ghostly eyes.
All that is in the past, in the dark days before ethics committees and health and safety executives.
Yet today there is a man who has been deliberately infected with malaria as part of an experiment. Not in the past. Today. He's a nurse, so the scares of him dying without treatment aren't real. He knows what to get and where to get it. In fact, what he needs is a damn good gin and tonic. If you read this, Malaria man, they are tracking you by your bank and credit cards. Take out a large wad of cash and change direction after buying a train ticket with your cards, in the wrong direction. Then get a bus - pay cash - in another direction.
Why is he running and hiding? If his participation was voluntary, why not just go back to the experiment? What is he running from?
He is not some terrorist trying to spread the disease. Malaria doesn't spread that way. No, he's hiding and people who are hiding are people who are scared.
In this day and age, it is surely not possible to consider even the remotest idea that doctors could even think about performing disease experiments on the unsuspecting. It is unbelievable, real tin-hat territory, to even dream the merest thought of the slightest possibility that Mengele's approach to science lives on.
Have you noticed how many previously-unknown diseases are appearing in hospitals these days? Ones that could be quickly and simply eradicated, but the NHS trusts don't seem interested in solutions?
Coincidence. Of course it is. It's far more comfortable to believe that. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate.
I mean, it's not as if they regard us as farm animals, is it?
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