Where there’s Muck there’s Brass
The BBC reported yesterday that
a new £2m sewage treatment plant in Slough is to turn human excreta into a
sustainable source of environmentally-friendly high grade fertiliser that
experts claim could help secure future global food supplies. Phosphorous, being a vital component of
fertiliser, is due to run out in the next few decades but human poo seems to
contain a high percentage of the mineral so treating it (but not to flowers and
chocolates and the like) is solving the problem of the dwindling phosphorous
stocks. Being a mere simple writer I am
no scientist but if our human waste contains a high level of phosphorous it must
be because we are eating it all in the first place, hence the shortage. It would not surprise me one jot to find out
that Mr Ping, the chef at the Rhareli Peking, laces all of his dishes with the mineral as apparently too much phosphorous can lead to
diarrhoea. Phosphorous has the atomic
number of 15 and appearing at that number on the Peking’s menu is phosphorous
fried rice, so I now understand their little in-house joke.
The thought of eating vegetables that have
been nurtured with the assistance of fertilizer made partly from the Pirate’s
fecal matter is putting me off eating the usually lovely, luscious sprout for
life. So next time you are sitting on
the karsi having a number two, pondering the wonders of life and the universe
you can turn your idle thoughts to speculating where the fertiliser that is
made by your very own droppings will end up; a field of asparagus in the gentle
Worcestershire countryside might be effectively splattered in your bum
gravy. It is a very sobering thought and
enough to turn a person to drink or at least to making one’s dietary habits
less vegetarian and more carnivorous.
Without the fertilisation from phosphorus
it is predicated that the world’s food production could fall by more than half
which will be bad news for most of us but it will probably do Sleepy Tom Parker
a favour as he has returned from his annual jaunt to Tenerife fatter than
ever.
Fortunately Tom didn’t holiday in the Philippines. Amid the awful, dreadful chaos and
catastrophe caused by the typhoon this week it was good to see that the Filipino
authorities took time to exercise originality by declaring “a state of national
calamity” as opposed to the oft used and tired “state of national
emergency.” After testing several beers
with the ungainly and shambling DG Depardieu
(who has temporarily escaped the colonies) and the nonpareil Alexander
Sutcliffe on Monday night I had to declare a state of personal calamity on
Tuesday morning after being afflicted with a mild to moderate case of
biliousness. Although it is indecent to
consume Mini Cheddars before 1000 hours I deemed the situation serious enough
to dispense with the normal convention but alas the Cheddars did not work their
usual magic, leaving me with an unsettled and quivering stomach.
I only have myself to blame as I sampled the delights of
the orient for supper on Sunday eve by suffering the wares “cooked” by Mr Ping
of the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away.
As I am generally amazed at the speed of service in the Peking, as part
of my visit on the Sabbath I decided to clock the precise time it took from the
Assassin taking the order to him passing me the white bag of foodstuffs. When the Assassin emerged from Mr Ping’s
kitchen with the order and gaily shouted to me “here sir, weddy sir!” with his
usual gleeful countenance my eyes roved to my watch to reveal the time of 1
minute 53 seconds. If it wasn’t for his
sad demise I am sure that Norris McWhirter would have appeared from the kitchen
declaring Mr Ping to be a record breaker.
Under two minutes. Absolutely and
utterly amazing. I was left in a state
of intense puzzlement, wondering how Ping can get the food out so quick, being
under the two minute barrier does not even give him time to trouble his
microwave. I reached the conclusion
that NASA must be using the Rhareli Peking to test new express cooking
techniques to be used in the confined galley on the space shuttle.
On Sunday the Flagon & Gorses was not in another
stratosphere but I was asked to adjudicate on a point of order following a
debate that seemed to have being raging for most of the afternoon; I was
flattered that the Flaggoners that I was sitting with (being Pat Debilder,
Mother Tersea, Weston Super-Leeds and Mick Stzyder) thought that I had sufficient general knowledge to
provide a definitive answer to the issue at hand but in reality it was nothing
to do with my perceived abundance of learning but more a case of them knowing
that I have the ability to use Google on my mobile telephone.
The point of order in question was the question of where
faggots originate from: Mother Teresa contended that they come from the Black
Country, Mick Stzyder was
wisely non-committal, Pat suspected Scotland but was not firm in his belief but
Super-Leeds was adamant they originated from Yorkshire. I posed the question to the font of all
knowledge that is Wikipedia which provided an answer that we could use as
definitive for our purposes. All eyes
were on me and the parties in question awaited the answer with baited breath
and the place where faggots originate from turned out to be
…………………..Wiltshire.
Fudgkins could have moved to Wiltshire for all I know as he
has been inconspicuous by his absence from the Flagon & Gorses for the last
few weeks but there has been a reported sighting of him in Krakow, Poland (and
he’s difficult to spot given his diminutive frame). I am glad to report than Interpol have
restored Fudgey to his Netherton homestead where he has been confined to
barracks nursing the lovely Mrs Fudgkins who has suffered the misfortunate of
breaking her wrist. Special Agent
Fudgkins did manage to sneak out of his dwelling for a few brief minutes on
Monday though as I assigned a mission to him of great importance, the success
of which could determine the level of enjoyment of my dear son Kenteke and I
during the festive period.
I want to buy tickets to see Mother Goose in December at
Netherton Arts Centre (which like Agent Fudgey is small but full of character)
but due to the inconvenience of work I cannot get to Flavell’s butchers in
Netherton, which in typical Black Country style acts as the box office. Fudgkins has gladly stepped into the breach
to affect the transaction on my behalf but sadly he cannot attend the pantomime
himself as he is back off to Poland to watch a football game. Agent F must be mad as the Polish use
attendance at football to satiate their desire for wanton violence and they do
not confine their vicious acts to the opposing fans as they are happy to
brutalise anyone. So after his Yuletide
visit to Krakow dear old Fudgey could well be returning to these shores in a
(very small) box; that said, despite his ageing frame Fudgkins is nothing if
not nimble and he should be able to escape through the legs of the shaven
headed Polish thugs.
One person who you could not attach the word nimble to is
the lumbering and physically graceless DG Depardieu. DG was born onto a copy of a local paper on
his parent’s bed in the back streets of his native Dudley and the incident was
later immortalised in the song I was Born
on the Express & Star that was sang (or rather spoken) by Lee Marvin in
the film Paint the Flagon, which was
an account of the last lot of renovations at the Flagon & Gorses in
1969. Depardieu is trying to scratch a
living as a full time writer having had a series of children’s books published
to date but I have visions of him sitting around all day in his pants and vest
(not a sight for the faint hearted) in his Brisbane bolt hole studying horse
racing form and chain drinking tea. DG claims that in actuality he is hard at it
writing all day though he did concede that most of his scribbling is rubbish
but then after a few drinks he let the façade slip and he said, and I quote,
“when I used to work…………”. He hastily
tried to retract the statement but the cat was out of the bag, meowing,
sh*tting on the lawn and trying to evade the clutches of Mr Ping at the Rhareli
Peking.
Reading between the lines I hazard that Depardieu
bangs out one of his brief kiddies books on a Monday morning, retreats to the
little boys room for his favourite activity of having a leisure poo and spends
the rest of the week untroubled by the toils of labour. At least his extended toilet activity will
aid in part the production of phosphorous fertiliser which will in turn help to
grow the food to keep the show of weird and wonderful humanity on its long and
winding road. Take it away Sir Paul
………………………
© Dominic Horton, November,
2013.
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