Whitehall officials were worried about the survival of the population due to lack of provisions in the event of a nuclear attack on the UK in the 1950s, new documents have revealed.
“The tea position would be very serious with a loss of 75% of stocks. It would be wrong to consider that even 1oz per head per week could be ensured”.
Fortunately, because 99% of the population would be dead, 1oz per head would equate to 100oz per survivor per week, which is more than the amount the average Brit drinks, even with nuclear fall-out thirst.
A Ministry of Food list “for departmental planning purposes only” puts London, Birmingham, Merseyside, Manchester and Clydeside as H Bomb targets.
Those listed as A bomb targets were Tyneside, Teesside, Leeds, Sheffield, Hull, Derby, Purfleet in Essex, Southampton, Portsmouth, Bristol, Plymouth, Cardiff, Coventry and Belfast.
A later amendment removed Purfleet because, as the secret documents put it; “an A bomb would cause Purfleet to be a no less desirable place to exist in than it is today, and in some ways would probably improve it.”
“You Brits make me laugh,” said the Russian Minister of Education, “We know where your Tea stocks are kept and we have our special T 2 Zero missile trained on them as I speak. You will be Educated!”
British Hot Tea Reactor
So, last night after a nice dinner and bath I wandered down to the Wine Alley Barn to cast my vote in the local elections. I had carefully chosen the candidate whom I was going to vote for, but when I arrived, they told me I could choose any three candidates from twelve.
It’s a bit like a Yankee Bet on the horses; two of them might be crap outsiders but you’ve got a chance that the third is a good ‘un. Or, like my horse racing bets: all three are losers.
The officials signing me off on the register sneered at my name, address, dressing gown and slippers and sent me to the voting cubicle where I quickly chose two more candidates from the list to make up my treble bet. The tension and secrecy was making me giggle – and I wasn’t the only one, several people were twitching in their cubicles.
Only when I got outside and examined the poster sized candidate list did I realise that due to the giggling, not having my glasses and the small print on the voting slip, I had managed to vote for the wrong people. Instead of 2 Green Party and 1 Labour I had managed one of each plus 1 Conservative. None of them being my original choice.
Robin Hood forced Oliver Cromwell to sign the Magna Charta and Emily St Pancras threw herself under a jockey so that I could get the vote, and now I’ve gone and wasted three of them.
Thank God it doesn’t make any difference.
A campaign lead by Facebook chief executive Sheryl Sandberg and American Girl Scouts chief Anna Chavez aims to discourage the word ‘bossy’ when applied to women. Sara Mills, research professor in linguistics at Sheffield Hallam University suggests we replace such adjectives with more respectful words like ‘confidence’, ‘positiveness’ and ‘assertiveness’.
I had to agree with my confident wife, who imparted this information whilst watching me doing the washing up last evening.
My assertive manager at work had also read the article and was kind enough to give me her views just as I was leaving which meant I missed my train home and I had to get a taxi.
Luckily the taxi driver understood my situation and spent the entire journey telling me how I should improve my life.
Positive, self-assured bitch.
I wave goodbye to the cat, walk down Wine Alley, through Grasping Close, around the Council Offices and Waitinrows Supermarket, up the exhale-ators beyond Marks and Spendloads and into the Strain station.
I can hear the other punters thoughts:
One day soon.
One day soon I’m just going to keep walking south.
One day soon I’m just going to keep walking south and see how far I can get before I fall face down in some muddy field somewhere. The grass whispering on my cheek, the sun on my back. The warmth of the ground melting my body into the Earth.
I’ve got my credit card so I can walk onto a ferry at Folkestone. France can’t be that hard. Surely I can get as far as Italy? I’ll need another pair of shoes. And some more batteries for my walkman. And I haven’t got my passport with me.
No, today is another workday.
One day soon though.
Technicians in New Zealand have begun to thaw a rare colossal squid specimen.
The operation to defrost the 10-metre (34 feet) long, half-tonne squid began on Monday afternoon in Wellington. The animal is now sitting in a bath of salt water. Once it is thawed, scientists will begin to dissect it.
I know how they feel, how often have I gone to the bottom drawer of the freezer and found some strange specimen that’s only just within its’ use-by’ date? Is it safe to eat? Should I try it out on the cat or the kids before eating any myself?
Should I sit it in a bath of salt water? Should I sit in a bath of salt water?
Here is some advice from the internet regarding frozen sea food:
- Don’t buy frozen seafood if the packages are open, torn, or crushed on the edges. Especially if torn from the inside.
- Don’t trust anything found dead and handled by scientists.
- Go directly home and refrigerate or freeze your seafood immediately. If your trip is longer than 30 minutes, place your seafood in a cooler with ice or dangle it out of the car window so it catches the breeze.
- Never turn your back on a deep sea creature that is bigger than about two feet long, even if you believe it to be dead.
I hope those guys have got a fridge large enough for a half-tonne package.
Come to that I hope they’ve got a big enough frying pan.
I recommend cutting the tentacles into rings and frying them in a little oil with some crushed garlic.
The mantle can be used as a paddling pool for the children, or set up as a lean-to porch it can be used to protect a car from bad weather.
Ronaldo has been voted Football Player of the Year for the second time.
It’s probably because of those dazzling stepovers that confuse and torment opponents who just want to get on with the match. I noticed that he tried a few of them during the game against Barcelona shortly before he missed that penalty. Still, what’s impressive about kicking a dead ball into a goal from twelve yards? I’m sure the fans are more interested in the stepovers.
If only they gave awards for good old-fashioned qualities like humility and honesty. Surely the people that worship our great footballers would love them more if they occasionally said, “No, it’s okay Ref’, he didn’t foul me – I just fell over in a bit of mud.”
And how about ; “Yeah, the ball did hit his hand but my team all think it was an accident so we won’t be asking for a penalty.”
“We agree £44 is a bit steep for an authentic Man’ United football shirt so we’re going to bring down the price of the adults’ ones and give the kids’ version away for free.”
No, now I’m just being ridiculous.