All Together When We Go?

You'll have to forgive my absence these past few weeks.  Dear Henry got it into his head that the conflict in Syria will lead to another Cold War, but this time actually ending in nuclear fallout.

Sure was fun though, am I right?

As he spent most of the 1980s living in an underground bomb shelter, Henry has been trying to recreate one at home using the wine cellar, much to my chagrin.  Daddy would not be impressed by his son-in-law disturbing the vintages after years of settling.

At first I let Henry just tinker away down there, muttering to himself about barrels of pickled herring and vats of clean drinking water, until he moved a load-bearing wooden beam to create a base for a steel wall and the Aga fell through the floor.

Could have been worse, I suppose.

Luckily, this occurred at the end opposite the most valuable and most drinkable wine (we keep them very close together as a sort of ‘wine roulette’ for dinner parties), but it did cause rather significant damage to the kitchen.  I called in our tame structural engineer, Barry (whom you may remember from my green roof plight), and commissioned him not only to repair the kitchen flagstones and replace the beams, but also to help Henry create a proper bomb shelter.

Apparently, Barry is not only a serious 'prepper', but is actually a bit of a nut when it comes to bomb shelters.  He's member number 0012 of the British Bomb Shelter Association and an honorary member of the American Bomb Shelter Organization [sic], which is not to be confused with a certain rather popular Blairite sentencing order.  In 1997, he won the international Van Humpenschrieck prize for best-prepared shelter, named for Hubert Van Humpenschrieck, who disappeared underground during the Franco-Prussian war and didn't reappear again until 1969, having been perfectly preserved by eating pickled limes and drinking nothing but gin.  Sadly, he (Van Humpenschrieck not Barry) was hit by a bus the very moment he left the structure, which owing to events had found itself underneath lane two of the M74 motorway near Uddingston.

It's bad enough being on top of the motorway

In any case, Barry is ‘prepping’ due to the threat of the apocalypse.  Not being much of a Bible reader, he assumes it will be caused by a natural disaster, hyperinflation, virus outbreak, nuclear war or just a good old gas shortage.  After a brief chat, he convinced Henry that it's not Russia we should keep our eyes on, but the Chinese and North Koreans.  Either way, a nuclear fallout shelter would be relatively easy to install between the wine cellar and the dungeon.

Apparently, when it comes to long-term food storage, the Mormons are a handy bunch to know, but Latter-Day Saints are a bit thin on the ground around Airnefitchie, so we'll just have to make do on our own.  Henry spent some hours considering steel cans and Mylar Bags – one being rodent-proof and one being rust-proof.  I suggested Mylar bags just popped into a steel can without sealing the can, but wished I didn't.  Now there's no stopping them.

I actually spent time with The Other One, as she drove around the entire county trying to find someone selling iodized salt – this following a health scare on the Daily Mail (which people all over California apparently read and take seriously).  This alleged that developing-baby retardation corresponded with the lack of iodine in the pregnant mother's diet, or somesuch.  We ended up purchasing it from the internet in the end.

Who needs a midwife when you have Dr Daily Mail in da house?

For two days we taste-tested great gobs of dehydrated and tinned survival foods (including doggie dinners for Patches and Fang) before Henry bought the final choices for the bunker.  For three days I helped him gather wheat, rice, sugar, salt and beans, though I’m not entirely sure he knows what to do with any of them.  I surreptitiously added our spice rack to the bunker.   Then, for the next four days, I had to convince Henry not to make emergency blankets out of my old Rigby & Peller brassieres lined with tin foil.  On the seventh day (when, it might well be remembered, even God rested) I had to convince the authorities that Henry was not illegally practising medicine, despite the bushels of new hospital supplies in our basement.  It only took one look at Henry for DS MacTavish to be satisfied that he wasn't making drugs with the intent to supply.  Apparently, if you wear a tweed three-piece suit all the time, even when building steel walls into a dungeon, you're exempt from those sorts of assumptions.

I'm really just a drug baron, not a proper baron at all

Eventually, the boys had finished.  Barry was particularly pleased with himself, although a little disappointed that we won't allow him to use our new fallout shelter as an entry in the Best UK Prepper competition.  However, he was buoyed up by the thought of inviting himself to our cellar when the apocalypse eventually eventuates.  We scarcely had time to protest before he swanned out of the castle, whistling 'It's a Small World After All'.

I had a sneak peek at the place when I went down for this evening's wine roulette spin.  As impressive as it is, Henry appears to have forgotten all the gin.

That's all well and good, but I have the world's last non-radioactive cucumber here and it needs some gin!

Grand Canyon, My Foot!

I finally saw the film Thelma and Louise at the weekend.  Twenty-odd years late, but the Airneford Odeom does eventually get the blockbusters.

The fresh lick of paint is even later.

Rather than tell you everything that's wrong with the film, I thought I’d make some helpful suggestions for improvement.

Alternative Beginnings:

The SENSIBLE Beginning:

Drive straight to your destination and don't stop at a pub for drinks.  Buy some on the way, and enjoy your hangover on the first morning of your lovely weekend by having a bacon sandwich, not by fleeing the police.  (You’ll have noted with pleasure the absence of an obvious ‘police’/’pig’ joke here.)  Admittedly, this makes for a very short film, so throw in some lesbian experimentation with your friend, and the audience will come flocking in.

Good, clean, family fun.

The MILDLY SENSIBLE Beginning:

Very well; you have insisted on going to a dive bar.  Fine.  Have your drinks (non-alcoholic if you're the designated driver, of course) and eat your dinner – perhaps avoiding the seafood.  Don't engage with anyone but the waitress.  Then pay your bill, leave a nice tip, drive to your destination, and enjoy your hangover on the first morning of your lovely weekend away by having a bacon sandwich, not by fleeing the police.  No doubt you ignored my advice and had the seafood, so cue hilarious female 'frat-boy' comedy.  You trailblazer, you.

The EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY CRAZY BUT STILL WON'T END UP DRIVING INTO THE GRAND CANYON Beginning:

Right.  So you’ve insisted on going to a dive bar and engaging with the local folk.  We had discussed this, but you're a sheltered lass, who hasn't really experienced life and you want to grab it by the testicles.  And indeed, you have actually grabbed that man’s testicles as you line-dance your evening away.  Ah, and now he's trying to rape you.  But it's perfectly all right, because your friend has turned up with a gun.  He insults both of you, and your friend shoots him.  But where does she shoot him?  Straight through the heart?  Bad idea.  Try the knee instead.  Or if you're a particularly angry female, try the penis.  Hang about and ring the police yourself.  They will probably believe you, given the state of your clothing and the fact that your friend is pretty shaken up.  The waitress will back you up on what a slime-ball the rapist was.  No Grand Canyons need apply.

I'm sorry.  You're surplus to requirement.

Alternative Middles:

So you’ve ignored all my advice regarding how to begin your weekend away.  You are now fleeing the scene of the unnecessary and completely avoidable crime.

The SENSIBLE Middle:

After a day of reflection upon what happened, you turn yourselves in.  The police have stated that you have not been charged with murder and they understand what happened.  They're on your side.  Of course, they might not be trustworthy, but it's Harvey Keitel and he sounds very sympathetic.  You will probably, at worst, be done for accidental manslaughter, and into the bargain get a free 1,000-day holiday from work, rent, grocers’ bills, and your smarmy husband.

The MILDLY SENSIBLE Middle:

So, you don't trust Harvey Keitel at all.  Just to be safe, why don't you drive to Mexico and hole up there.  Get your statement to the relevant officials and see what happens.  At no point do you rob convenience stores, trust Brad Pitt just because of the way his mouth gapes open like a goldfish…

The very picture of untrustworthiness.

…entrust your life’s savings to your flaky friend, or imprison a police officer in the boot of his own car.  Do say you'll marry your boyfriend – you could all live happily in Mexico, drinking tequila and laughing about the time you shot a man in the penis in the car park of the worst seafood restaurant in Arkansas.  You could even write a hit ‘country-and-western’ song about it.

It worked for some people.

The EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY CRAZY BUT STILL WON'T END UP DRIVING INTO THE GRAND CANYON Middle:

So, you've robbed a convenience store, trusted Brad Pitt, lost your life’s savings, and imprisoned a police officer in the boot of his own car.  You need to get to Mexico tout de suite, because the police are getting more suspicious – and even they aren’t trusting Harvey Keitel anymore.  May I suggest you drive through Texas?  Because not driving through Texas to get to Mexico is like trying to get to Cornwall without going through Devon: utterly stupid, as Lady Beatrice and I once found out, to our cost.  Yes, you had a bad experience there, but you are now, apparently, a bona fide bad-ass with nothing to lose.  Go through bloody Texas.  Grand Canyon indeed.

Bona fide.

Alternative Endings:

So, you haven't turned yourself in or driven through Texas.  This scenario is getting ever more ridiculous.  We can but try to salvage it.

The SENSIBLE Ending:

...Would have been your lesbian misadventures in the cabin by the lake, had you followed all the SENSIBLE advice.  At this point, you are no longer entitled to a sensible ending.  

The MILDLY SENSIBLE Ending:

Turn yourself in!  Harvey Keitel is still on your side.  Wave a hanky and be done with it.  At this point, you'll have a longer term of imprisonment, but you won't be driving off the edge of the Grand Canyon after horribly overreacting over an obvious case of self-defence.

The EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY CRAZY BUT STILL WON'T END UP DRIVING INTO THE GRAND CANYON Ending:

Have a shootout with the heavily-armed officers behind you; build a bridge over the Canyon using their cars and corpses as your bridge.  Save Harvey Keitel though.  He may now have absolutely no sympathy for you, but he may enjoy Mexico when you finally get there, having kept him as a hostage to guarantee your safe passage… through TEXAS.

I have this nagging feeling we've forgotten something…