Thursday, 19 May 2022

Crash! Boom! Banff! Are We All Stuck in a Giant Simulation?

Are we all stuck in a giant simulation? If we are to believe someone like David Chalmers, we can't prove that we're not. If, however, we have understood the main argument against the theory that we are all figments of a simulation (and we are not at all sure that we have), there would - if we were all stuck in a giant simulation - not only be glitches, leading to weirdness like gravity suddenly malfunctioning and pigs becoming airborne, there would also be no way that whoever made the simulation would omit leaving some sign to his or her or its creation that it existed in an artificial production. Simple smugness demands it. Being something of a virtuoso in the matter of smugness ourselves, this argument seems inexorably logical, and we see no reason to probe more deeply into the matter.

What caused us to reflect on the simulation problem is that it has recently dawned on us that Shewee Fiend Friend gives us advice not according to what she, on close reflection and with balanced judgement, considers to be the best course of action, but according to what would provide the best entertainment for her. In other words, Shewee Fiend Friend might potentially be a benevolent if capricious puppet-master, setting us off bumping hither and thither like a rather gorgeous dodgem car, then sitting back to enjoy the ensuing chaos and drama, spiced with the occasional distressing hangover and/or heartbreak. 

Considering that Shewee Fiend Friend has been our close friend for over a decade, this gives rise to some rather curious, not to say nervous, reflections. Has Shewee Fiend Friend been manipulating us for her own amusement for twelve years? What about that time when we had three near-death experiences (at least - it is quite possible that we lost count due to alcohol and terror) in the course of twenty-four hours? Or has an unsettling symbiosis developed, in a manner that would be slightly worrying if one were a Freudian, where we ask advice in the knowledge that we will be told what we want to hear (except of course in the case of looking at pictures of Justin Trudeau), meaning we are likely to soon be doing something unwise but entertaining? Possibly we will never know. But bear this possibility in mind, as we take a disconcerting virtual stroll through an ancient prairie hotel.

Does this remind us of something? Why, yes, it reminds us of the Sinister Gurglings Toilet Tale. (If you perk up at the thought of charging across the steppe on a noble steed, nostrils flaring, while roaring "Bij, morduj!" and attempting to decapitate your enemies with a sabre, you should definitely click on the link.)

Does your heart swell with pride at this dedication to the Privy Counsel Standards of Source Criticism (PCSSC)? Ours does.

Mmm. Who doesn't!

Shouts from the gallery: "Boo!"

 It is perhaps lucky, all things considered, that one's hopes never really lifted off the ground. At best they flapped about for a bit then crashed drunkenly.

Speaking of crashing drunkenly after flapping, we've had communications from Jonny (who counts as a friend for administrative reasons). What follows below are photos from the gents' toilets at the Hereford Rowing Club. You heard it here first!


Are the sinks and taps weirdly reminiscent of those in the Banff Springs Hotel? Are we too distracted by Jonny's essential hunka-hunka-ness to commit to any deep reflection on this topic? Yes, yes, and yes.

This, according to Jonny, is a "fancy James Bond-style keypad".

Don't you love this avant-garde angle of these urinals? Does it remind you of something? Of course it does.

We don't know where this is and do not want to know, but Jonny calls it a "Tetris toilet". As you were.

 We will not of course let you go before we have foisted a Festive Video on your already fragile state of mind.


 Festive Video: Caitlin Rose, Pink Rabbits


Related Reading

Are we all stuck in a giant simulation? Are our robot overlords amusing themselves by implanting false memories into our brains? We can't prove that they're not.

All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend 

All posts featuring Canada 

The Girl Bartenders Hate

The Sinister Gurglings Toilet Tale - a hearty vampire story

 More fainting couches to be had here: Echoes of Edgar Allan Poe

You may also enjoy Fires! Floods! Philology! God help us all. 

All posts featuring Jonny

Brownian Motion, or, Brownout, or, A Brown Study - Semi-Intellectual Friend's Shower


Sunday, 17 April 2022

Fires! Floods! Philology! God help us all.

 We mentioned the concept, in our last post, of themes. The word theme, of course, as every school child knows, comes from from the Greek thema, "a proposition, subject, deposit," literally "something set down," from PIE *dhe-mn, suffixed form of root *dhe- "to set, put". We have a custom, at the Privy Counsel, of waxing lyrical on the subject of philology round Easter-time, no doubt for sane and normal reasons. In fact, if one is being honest, we have a custom of waxing lyrical on the subject of philology at many other times of the year as well - our summertime treatise on proto-Indo-European verb roots, for instance, has become something of a classic among a certain substratum of what we might loosely term the intelligentsia.

Be that as it may, one might argue that holidays are a kind of theme. At the northern latitudes where the Privy Counsel HQ graces its environs, holidays are of course mostly an excuse to consume vast quantities of alcohol, rather than any custom, tradition or festivity of religious significance. One drinks schnapps at Christmas, to celebrate the birth of some dude two thousand years ago, then, three to four months later, one drinks schnapps again to celebrate the same dude's brutal torture and death. At midsummer one drinks schnapps to celebrate the heathen gods of old, in a drunken and undignified spectacle that the Church should definitely be more embarrassed about, considering that the efforts to Christianise the populace have continued unabated for over a thousand years. In August one drinks schnapps while consuming crayfish, for reasons that are not entirely clear but are probably related to either nineteenth-century nationalism or a touching devotion to the noble grain, which has of tradition been the alternative to the exotic southern grape in these boreal climes. Then everything goes dark and at Christmas one starts over again.

The Privy Counsel might be the only openly atheist bog blog, having announced as early as 2014 that "we don't even believe in Jebus". Still, we appreciate tradition as much as the next person, and will happily lift a pitcher of Easter ale skywards in honour of Jebus and his heavenly escalation, if custom so demands. As far as we understand, Holy Writ is full of stories of not only brutal torture and death, but also of many other types of calamities and disasters, there not being much call for writing at length about everything being fine. While we would personally happily sit down to a tale that went something like, "And lo, the Lord's chosen people learned to appreciate mixer taps, entirely stopped the heathen practice of making doors that don't go all the way down to the floor, and lived in peace and relative sanity until the end of time, yea," we understand that this style of narrative lacks the drama and tension that makes for a great work of literature. If instead one desires tales of devastation and carnage, there is apparently no better place to look than Australia. Australian Friend, in a feat of unparalleled toilet drama, has sent us the following screenshots, telling a gruesome story of Australian plumbing ineptness:

Our sincerest sympathies to Ms Fielding.
However, the drama, reader, does not end there! Behold, the nigh-on biblical phenomenon of the burning portaloo!

You will of course remember, from your youthful Bible studies, that the book of Exodus tells us that:

Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb.

And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed.

And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.

And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I.

And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.

We sincerely hope that the fireys kept their shoes on!

A post from your favourite intellectual bog blog just isn't complete without a confused bog selfie from everyone's favourite toilet correspondent, Jonny.

Jonny doing his bit for religion by consuming two drinks at once and, by the looks of things, experiencing some minor calamity - possibly of Biblical proportions.

Finally, here is a Festive Video that seems to us suitable for Easter.

Festive Video: Miranda Lambert, For the Birds

Related Reading

Our classic post on Easter, Polish etymology, implausibly intransitive Germanic verbs, and Biblical latrine trenches: Whether You Believe in Jebus Or Not: Unbelievably Rampant Linguistic Musings!

All posts featuring Easter

Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

All posts featuring Australia 

All posts featuring Australian Friend 

All posts featuring Jonny

Wednesday, 13 April 2022

Echoes of Edgar Allan Poe

In terms of literary devices we're big, as all regular readers are aware, on themes here at the Privy Counsel. One of our main themes, after plumbing-horror-induced handwringing and unstructured ranting, is friendship. (Please note however that Jonny counts as a friend for administrative reasons only.) We have had occasion to note recently that true friends are those who make it a point of honour to take the piss out of one whatever one happens to be doing, whether one is of sound mind or not, and indeed irrespective of whether one happens to be suffering from acute gastric distress due to ingesting too many weird pink shots in a godforsaken prairie bar.

The concept of constructive criticism gets a bad press in these times of cancel culture and groupthink. However, telling people when they're wrong is crucial to maintaining public order and a civilised society. Ponder this very bog blog, for instance. How many plumbing heathens have we converted to the true faith by gently yet inexorably pointing out the horrors of separated taps, doors with large scary gaps, and sticky spots on the floor? Well, we haven't strictly counted them, but there are quite a few people by now who send us weird photos.
Constructive criticism, however, presupposes the ability to hold unusual or unpopular beliefs. If one were, for instance, to repress all mention of hanging bog rolls arse-backwards, one would never, if one is to believe John Stuart Mill, have the pleasure of insufferable smugness in a heated debate about toilet roll orientation. Now obviously, on this subject, there is only one possible position, morally as well as intellectually. However, it is only when heterodox views are tolerated that one gets to hear ideas which, though ludicrous, may be challenging and inspirational. Moreover, it is only when dissent is encouraged that one gets to hear valid critique of one's own delusional notions - which, however smug one may be feeling in the moment, may be constructive in the long run. If, for instance, one happens to have spent - to pick an example at random - all of 2015, 2016 and 2017, most of 2018, and possibly even parts of 2019, perving on Justin Trudeau, it does feel better, when he goes full-on tin-pot dictator in 2022, to know that Shewee Fiend Friend spent all those years regularly informing one that one was being an arse.

As Aristotle probably said, we disapprove of your awful non-mixer taps but would suffer mild burn injuries for your right to keep constructing them. Thus, when people whose judgement we for some reason still trust insist on hanging toilet rolls back to front, we resist the urge to call for their heads to be cut off. Instead we graciously tolerate their aberrations, taking great pleasure in our own magnanimity, and encourage them to send us toilet photos, in the hope that they will one day see the light. 
On the subject of toilet photos, we received these from Shewee Fiend Friend, who wrote:
I was in a prize winning public loo tonight

I was in this restaurant for a
[information redacted for the sake of public decency]

So that was weird. I only have very broken stressed memories of that night

I think it checks all the boxes

Resting being one of our favourite activities, we heartily approve of this piece of furniture, so charmingly named, by those quaint North Americans, a fainting couch.

One of our top five activities is almost seeing people.

Behold! The reassuring sight of spare loo rolls! Rejoice, for there may be some hope, however small, for mankind after all.

These toilets can be found at the Sauce Italian Kitchen & Market in Calgary - queen of Canadian cities - and made the top five list in the Canada's Best Restroom competition in 2016, as reported by CBC.
I couldn’t hear anyone else peeing though two other ladies were while I was in there

It has everything you could want. Floor to ceiling doors, solid hooks, pompous art and a fainting couch
I guess they were just nominated. Still, top 5!

The gas station won that year
Speaking of gas stations, Jonny - everyone's favourite Toilet Babe - has also been in touch with some photos. "I hope you're ready for this," he wrote. 
Reader, we were not ready!

Is Jonny the Marlon Brando of toilet selfies?

This is supposed to be a hygienic seat. We keep getting distracted by the sticky spot on the floor, however, and find ourselves unable to concentrate on the alleged hygiene. Does one hear echoes of Edgar Allan Poe?

We are always in favour of not touching things, and heartily approve this door! It reminds us of that time we went to hear - and also see - Caitlin Moran in Copenhagen in 2016.

Other things we are in favour of are helpful signage and clear instructions.

For anyone who finds him- or herself straining at the leash to use these facilities, they can be found at the Toddington motorway services.

If your heart yearns rather for Terminator-level toilet horror, you may appreciate this piece of satire from McSweeney's, sent to us by Tudor Friend.

Let there be a Festive Video.

Festive Video - Sarah Shook and the Disarmers, No Mistakes

Related Reading
All posts featuring Shewee Fiend Friend 
All posts featuring Jonny
All posts featuring Tudor Friend

Tuesday, 8 March 2022

Going with the Flow

 Panta, as someone in our near vicinity is fond of saying, rei. Everything flows; sometimes in the direction of the sewer, sometimes in the direction of your favourite intellectual toilet blog. Some rather exciting photos flowed our way recently from Tudor Friend, who says:

Hark! A creative urinal! Apparently in a Ford garage in Florida (friends are wintering there)

How delightful to a) be wintering in Florida and b) come across this amusing and innovative urinal!

Tudor Friend continues:

The sinks that go with the keg/barrel urinal.

We've made our views on airdryers clear and that view is not a vista of mountains on a sunny day with goats frolicking in the valley, but rather a postmodernist industrial hellscape with machines that can tell when you're feeling sad and report you to the authorities. However, these sinks and also taps - which we assume are mixer-taps - are to be applauded. At length. With a da capo.

We would also like to take this opportunity of alerting our readers to the existence of this article from CNN about a 2,700-year-old luxury toilet in Israel which Tudor Friend sent us with her usual intellectually stimulating kindness.

In an effort to expand our horizons we recently went to a Thai restaurant and, in an effort to save time while there, used the gents' toilet. Did we regret this decision? Reader, we did.


Does this sticky spot remind us of anything? It absolutely does: it reminds us of the SCREAMING BLOODY HORROR British workplace post.

We lack the skills to read this sign, but are assuming that it is informative and helpful. We are also intrigued by what is either a  mini radiator or a radiator cunningly hidden behind a wall. Unfortunately we were too horrified by the sticky spot on the floor to want to touch or explore anything in this loo, or we would most likely have investigated this for the benefit of our regular, and also less regular, readers.

Perhaps we were not in an ideal place, physically, intellectually, or alcoholically, to take useful and productive toilet pictures at this point, but it seems that we thought the hand-washing and -drying arrangements at least satisfactory.

We would like to take this opportunity of reminding everyone of Semi-Intellectual Friend's reporting from the dreamy, hyper-realistic plains of a post-post-modernist Thai shower.

Last, but not least, let there be Jonny toilet selfies. Jonny says:

It was at a Dog Disco in Vodka Revolution!
We're not sure we understand a single word of that sentence, but trust that whatever was happening, Jonny remained hygienic throughout.

There is, apparently, a dog disco - whatever that might be - happening on the premises.

For our less discerning readers, here is an amusing photo of Jonny appearing to be wearing a Tin Man-style hat.

Jonny: cultural icon and babe.

  Today's Festive Video is an amusing excerpt from the kind of high-brow cultural expressions we cherish here at the Privy Counsel.

Festive Video

 Festive Video: An uplifting excerpt from the Barber of Seville.

Related Reading

All posts featuring Tudor Friend

The original post outlining our views on air-dryers: AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! AIR-DRYERS!

All posts featuring poor aim

The original workplace toilet post: Oh! the horror! SCREAMING BLOODY HORROR HALLOWEEN SPECIAL: The British Workplace

The charming and hygienic toilet at King's Manor, University of York: Let's Get Medieval

We have had reason recently to reflect on the military base at Catterick

A post summarising our work on workplace toilets: Les Conduites Dangereuses

All posts featuring interesting signage 

Semi-Intellectual Friend's reporting from the dreamy, hyper-realistic plains of a post-post-modernist Thai shower

All posts featuring Thailand

An article from CNN about a 2,700-year-old luxury toilet in Israel

All posts featuring Jonny

Sunday, 20 February 2022

Passing Time, Passing Comment

Preamble: Finding, If Not Yourself, Then the SEO Spam Efforts of the Populace

It is when you discover that you have three hundred un-curated comments on your angry toilet blog that you realise the terrifying speed at which life, the universe, and everything, is hurtling through the darkness. It is when you further realise that a full one per cent of these comments are genuine that you pour yourself another large gin and tonic and firmly resolve to, one day, display the most startling specimens in a gorgeous gallery of whimsy and waggishness. Reader, that day is today!

 We have divided our magnificent examples of reader input into the categories "Ludicrous and misguided", "Unintentional humour", and "Actual genuine comments". In order to make this intellectual bog blog post intelligible we had to kill a few darlings, but we trust that the reader comments displayed will leave you with feelings of, if not delight, then at least apprehension bordering on curiosity, which might, if one were feeling generous, be approximating pleasure.

Ludicrous and Misguided


Ah. This no doubt charming and intelligent person has gone to the post Coming Soon: Celebrity Toilets, looked at the picture of Patsy and Edina from AbFab being even more bizarrely sozzled that usual, and concluded, on very shaky evidence, that the information provided is "interesting and useful". We would perhaps, however, in defence of both us and this anonymous commenter, argue that many of the actual Celebrity Toilet posts are rather delightful. (Especially the ones featuring the dusky beauty of Emmerdale fame!)

What can we do except agree? Once upon a time, in the halcyon days of 2013, we wrote a post entitled Jonny and a Public Toilet - A Treat for Single Ladies. It does what it says on the tin. "Cool" and "helpful" are two adjectives that we find singularly apt.

Jonny, in 2013, showing off one of his his many talents.

Is "fellows" an honorific or a slur? We're buggered if we know. Either way, the post Fowl Play, Also Fowl Issues contains this immortal line of Semi-Intellectual Friend's:

Irony exists for a reason and that reason is to be slathered over everything spoken or written like grease on a fat man's belly when he's being thrown down a hill

"Remarkable for people experience"? Indeed!

Unintentional Humour


Viking poo is inarguably exciting, whatever your background, age, or education level, and everyone, rich or poor; young or old; sane or barmy, should endeavour to get the dangle of it.

The Lloyds Bank coprolite from York: Well worth your time.



Well. If you've read What the Yellow Rubbery Fuck: Stephen Fry Acts as Pin-Up Again! and you're eager for more information on intravenous cocaine, may we recommend A Christmas Mystery: The Mysterious Case of the Curse at Crapper Castle; or; Put a Lid on It; or; No Shit, Sherlock? A most elucidating post, if you're a Freudian.

Actual Genuine Comments

 We've all had a woke phase, but we'd like to argue that, at the Privy Counsel, we are not prone to cancellations and dogmatic dictates, being rather in favour of an open and honest discussion, even on stances we disagree on (the exception being toilet roll orientation, for obvious reasons). Here is a comment that makes two good arguments in favour of designing toilet doors that don't go all the way down to the floor, in response to our post Springing a Leak. Personally we'd always favour the privacy argument, but we can see the merits of this line of reasoning, and thank Unknown for the constructive comment!

Subject of debate: The curious "Wild West Saloon"-like doors of the Vancouver Airport toilets.


To be perfectly honest this might be sarcasm, but then again it might not; we're choosing to take it as a compliment. 

We wrote a post called Dunnies Down Under, or, Everything You Do Is Futile, or, Self-Medicating with Car-Sickness Tablets Is Not Hip, featuring many delightful photos sent to us by Australian Friend - who wrote a comment! We would like to push back, to use a colloquialism, on this line of reasoning, however. You say "being under two duvets with a hot water bottle" like it's a bad thing?

Finally, a kind reader from Belgium has left this most helpful comment! Thank you, Jannes, for your kind words and splendid suggestion.

Would a bog blog post even be a bog blog post, without a picture of Jonny looking weirdly handsome in a toilet? We'll leave the question to the philosophers to hash out, and hasten to simply enjoy this vista:

If we were a Renaissance artist we'd name this composition something like Temptacionne Leadeth the Sinner to Hys Ruinne.

Thysse Hondle Ys Well Blinge.

Now let us forsooth have a merrie video!

Festive Video: Screamin Jay Hawkins, Constipation Blues.

Related Reading

Musings on time: Ten-Year Jubilee Extravaganza: A Decade of Enlightenment! 

Coming Soon: Celebrity Toilets

All posts featuring celebrity toilets

Celebrity toilets belonging, specifically, to the dusky beauty of Emmerdale fame: Celebrity Toilet Premiere and Rejoice, for We Bring You Another Celebrity Crapper!

Jonny and a Public Toilet: A Treat for Single Ladies

All posts featuring Jonny 

Foul Play, Also Fowl Issues

All posts featuring Semi-Intellectual Friend

Viking Poo

 What the Yellow Rubbery Fuck: Stephen Fry Acts as Pin-Up Again!

A Christmas Mystery: The Mysterious Case of the Curse at Crapper Castle; or; Put a Lid on It; or; No Shit, Sherlock 

An elucidating post on Toilet-Roll Orientation

 Springing a Leak

Whether You Want It Or Not: Super Summer Extravaganza

 Dunnies Down Under, or, Everything You Do Is Futile, or, Self-Medicating with Car-Sickness Tablets Is Not Hip

All posts featuring Australian Friend

Lucy Worsley and Jane Austen: Historical Toilet Etiquette 

Friday, 31 December 2021

Mnemosyne, Mother of the Muses, Washes Her Hands of This Mess

Introduction - we rant, unproductively

 It is, a reliable source informs us, that time of year again. The fourth dimension of the universe is currently getting its customary seasonal media attention, which causes us to feel our habitual ennui, though it is fascinatingly intermingled, this year, by an energising strand of panic related to certain duties we need to perform as a consequence of having been elected, by a party of lunatics, treasurer of a committee. Never mind that, however. As we stated, last year, we're averse to joining in the general jollification of recollections and memories of the year gone by:

Being bored to the point of taking actual car sickness tablets - in the hope of being knocked out for twelve to fifteen hours - by the retrospectives and accounts of "highlights" that plague media as the calendar year approaches its end, we're not going to indulge in anything resembling either a) nostalgia or b) hand-wringing over the horrors of [the past year].

 We haven't changed our mind on this - indeed, belligerently sticking to unpopular views seems to have become our forte - and continue being eager for escapism. The one thing that has changed, perhaps, is that rather than attempting to knock ourselves out with car sickness tablets, as we did in 2020, we've spent most of 2021 either being sedated by morphine, or wishing we were sedated by morphine. The fact that we still managed four bog blog posts before our traditional New Year's Eve post (which we somehow continue to churn out despite our much-publicised ennui) speaks, we like to think, to the strength of our character and remarkable fortitude under unreasonable circumstances. 

We present some old photos we happened to find, using much irrelevant guff and too many sub-clauses

 If we could blame our lack of organisation and failure to intelligently catalogue the various photos that kind people send us of exciting toilets from the world over on our aforementioned dependency on analgesics, we would. Unfortunately, however, our addle-brainedness in this area is well documented. Thus, on this subject, we have nothing more to say, and no other apology to offer. However, when stumbling, the other night, barefoot, bedraggled and benumbed by [the modern equivalent of] laudanum, wearing a linen nightshirt with lace cuffs, through one of the dark, dreary crypts peopled by randy monks, dead nuns and nervous pheasants that constitute our archive, we found some rather festive photos! They are of a sink in a pub in Goodramgate in York - possibly, according to some notes we apparently made, at some point in the past, which had been hidden in an intricately carved wooden chest, and which we just managed to get a glimpse of before a gust of wind dramatically blew out our candle, the King's Arms! However, research indicates that the pictures are most likely from the Royal Oak pub, which we reviewed, without much enthusiasm (indeed, we went so far as to claim to have been "bludgeoned by the baseball bat of disappointment"), in 2011. This, we don't need to tell you, is a neat decade ago, and displaying these images now seems rather apt, n'est ce pas?

To be fair to this atrocious arrangement, there is a helpful sign informing one that one, if one attempts to wash one's hands in hot water, is about to be scalded.

To add one tiny grain of fairness to the desert of disappointment and despair that is the world as we know it, hand moisturiser is always welcome, and a friendly sign even more so.

Here is a screenshot of our dank-dreary-crypt-slash-archive. Are you rather impressed with this attempt to catalogue pictures of a pub sink in Goodramgate? We are.

The insistence by Brits to continue being scalded when attempting to wash their hands baffles the civilised world. We have written extensively on this subject and won't go into further detail at this moment.

Now we really do have nothing more to say and no other apology to offer. We are, as we are prone to exclaim, in an affected, Fry-esque manner, mongrel-bitch tired and our fist cannot form letters any more. Thus we request that you fuck off, darlings, and leave us alone. But not before we indulge in a festive retrospective of the posts of 2021! Yes! Here we go!

A festive retrospective of the posts of 2021

In February, we reached new - indeed, perhaps unprecedented - heights of pretentious academese bollocks, lamenting the increasing lack of literacy and arguing that we are all hurtling, in a little cart, towards a pre-modern state of not having a standardised written language (much as we abhor post-modernism, not to mention post-post-modernism, we would appreciate being allowed to stay in a sane and predictable state of not modernism (the horror!) but perhaps, if we were allowed a portion of presumptuousness, modernity):

Has Newtonian Physics Been Unfairly Maligned?, or, We Are Arguably Hurtling Down an Incline towards the Seventeenth Century, or, In Defence of Boffins

The next time we drew breath to rant was in July, when we railed against the proposed energetic predisposition of the proto-Indo-Europeans, which we argued was related to the horrifying tendency of Indo-European verbs to indicate motion, when everyone knows that what one really wants is to be still, with a gin and tonic:

Moving Heaven and Earth: Polarisation and Proto-Indo-Europeans

We then piped up again in August, when we ranted, arguably cleverly foreshadowing this post, about ennui, the properties of time, and the correct orientation of toilet rolls:

Ennui; or, A New Ease from Now On

 Finally, in December, we felt briefly enthusiastic about life, the universe, and everything, largely thanks to a photo of Jonny, wearing a beige trenchcoat, in a gold frame:

Frame of Mind

There are more links to other festive posts from your favourite intellectual bog blog at the bottom, under the Festive Video, but for now we think we really will fuck off - after having linked to last year's new year's post (a masterpiece of pessimism and misanthropy), and also all posts with the label New Year's Eve, which for some reason continue to litter the universe.

If memory serves, we started this bog blog post by describing our refusal to indulge in reminiscences and retrospectives. Well, we have never claimed to be lucid. Please bear this in mind if you have the misfortune of being affected, next year, by our book-keeping.

Festive Video - Jakob Hellman, Tusen dagar härifrån

(There is also a rather festive, if somewhat blurry, video version of this song. We would also like to suggest, as an alternative Festive Video to this post, watching the Going Up to Merthyr! song from our post Wales Cannot Wait.)

Related Reading

One of many occasions when we stuck, belligerently, to our opinion on hand-dryers, while breathlesslly showcasing Shewee Fiend Friend's photos from Vancouver Airport:

Springing a Leak

Since apparently this post is, despite our initial protestations and insistence on the contrary, about reminiscences, let us enjoy the memory of that time, in 2016, when an anonymous Friend made an honest effort to expand her mind by reading Jane Eyre (and hated every minute):

Kicking the Ass of Ignorance

We remain rather pleased with our Toilet Tale version of Jane Eyre:

Jane Eyre - Plunging into Passion

The original review from the Royal Oak:

Royal Oak: We Revisit a Dear Old Pub with New Toilets

There are some rather festive posts, bordering on the mind-boggling, hiding under the TOTAL TAP INSANITY label:


Finally, a couple of our classic posts on British plumbing:

Are You British? Does Tap Sanity Elude You?

A Note on Desperate Measures

If you're still managing to maintain the will to live: congratulations, and happy sodding new year.

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