Trojan

You often hear the expression “He worked like a Trojan.” This is meant to be a good thing, implying that the person being discussed laboured greatly and accomplished much. It suggests, too, that Trojan employment agencies were very busy places and, by contrast, the dole queues in Troy very short. (With an overall DHSS bill the lowest in Antiquity, no doubt.)

When you think about it, however, history shows us that the most successful Trojans were, in fact, the lazy ones. Take, for example, Laomedon, son of King Ilus. When instructed to build walls for his city, he said, “Suck my dick! I will not!” Instead, he employed the gods Poseidon and Apollo to do it for him. In fact, such a good job did these two deities do – far better than Laomedon himself could have managed - that the city was then able to endure several years of siege by the Greeks during the subsequent war. Then, of course, there was Paris. When ordered to go out and fight Achilles to the death, he said, instead, “Fuck that. I can’t be bothered. I'll just shoot him in the heel with an arrow and see what happens.”

Given all of this, it really makes you wonder what would have happened if only the lazy Trojans had prevailed throughout. Had they said, for example, “Kiss my arse. I'm not dragging that fucking massive wooden horse inside. It can stay outside the fucking walls as far as I’m concerned.” How differently history might have turned out.

I imagine Troy would have endured, and Aeneas wouldn't have gone on to help found Rome. Thus we would have been spared Heinz Spaghetti, polenta, and Fiats. Also, the best-selling condom in America would probably be called a Greek, rather than a Trojan, thus forcing prostitutes who engage in anal sex to find another term for what they’re offering.

Milk Maids

According to Wikipedia, on this day in 1878, milk was first delivered in bottles. Before this, customers were supplied on a personal basis by wandering milk maids.

As you can see from the accompanying illustration, milk maids all wore yokes across their shoulders, from each end of which hung a milk churn. The modus operandi was relatively simple: At roughly the same time each day, customers would pour their Cornflakes into a bowl, or their tea into a cup, and then wait until the milkmaid arrived to fill them up.

Traditionally, a milk maid’s right-hand churn contained full fat milk, while the left was filled with skimmed. Of course, this meant that if you wanted semi-skimmed or UHT, you were a bit fucked. Unless, of course, the milk maid herself was lactating and could produce to order from her left or right breast. Most couldn’t, however (the best they could manage was a sort of homgeonized goo), which is presumably why milk maids gave way to home-delivered milk bottles.

Notwithstanding this, I imagine that January 11, 1878 must have come as quite a shock to many full-fat and skimmed aficionados. Expecting the usual comely, smiling wench to come by, many were dismayed by the arrival of a hairy-arsed milk man, even if he was able to offer greater choice and could diversify into butter, orange juice, and bread deliveries. This is because, back then (and even today, to some extent, if all those Internet porn sites are to be believed) men customarily fantasized about milk maids. Consequently their only alternative was to give up on milk altogether and switch to soya, or else start fantasizing about the milk man, instead. Many did. This is how come we can accurately date the advent of homosexuality to this day in 1878, too.

Another problem with milk bottles was that they were responsible for an upsurge in burglaries. If you forgot to cancel your milk, it was obvious you were away from the accumulation of unused bottles outside your door, so robbers would know it was safe to ransack the place. And while, beforehand, it was equally obvious that you were away when half a dozen unused milk maids starting piling up outside your front door, thieves were far less likely to break in because the presence of the wenches would act as a reliable deterrent.

Especially if they were lactating UHT.

The King's Head

Many of us have drunk in pubs called The King’s Head or The Queen’s Arms. But have we ever given any thought as to why they're so named? This question occurred to me this morning, so I went to Hertford Library’s local history section to do a little research. My results are, I think, quite interesting and reveal that, until just a few centuries ago, all pubs were in fact required by law to call themselves after a monarch or nobleman's bodily part.

This was all well and good for such places as The Duke's Head, The Prince's Knee, and The Queen's Arms. The yeomanry of Olde England drank ale to their hearts' content in these inns, and helped enrich their local economies as a result. Unfortunately, not all pubs were so blessed. In particular, establishments like The King's Cock and The Queen's Tits.

The main problem here was the painted sign outside. Every inn in the land had to have one in order that the illiterates, who then made up the majority of the population, could identify where they were getting pissed, so that their designated postillions would know exactly where to pick them up afterwards. But this caused the sign painters no end of grief. How were they expected to paint an accurate representation of the monarch's member or mamilla? Unless the regent in question had previously moonlighted in the area as a flasher or strippagram, obviously no-one had ever beheld the sight.

At first, therefore, they would request a private audience with the King or Queen. Once they'd been ushered into the royal presence, the monarch would say, “Arise, my good sir. Is there some way we may assist you?” At which point, the sign painter invariably answered, “Yes. Can I see you cock?” Or “Show us your tits, please.”

After the first couple of dozen executions, the remaining sign painters realised that it maybe wasn't a particularly good idea to ask such direct questions. So they settled on what they imagined was an acceptable alternative: They painted pictures of their own cocks, instead, on the assumption that these would be more or less identical to the royal organ. Unfortunately, it was rarely so.

Artists all have small cocks. It's a well-known fact. So pubs throughout the land started displaying signs that were largely blank, except for a little picture of the teensiest, most flaccid looking pink, wiggly thing in one corner. Naturally enough, when word got through to the Palace, the monarch - who usually prided himself on being well-hung - flew into a rage and ordered troops to destroy the offending inns and beat up their regulars. Vast areas of the country were subjected to reigns of terror.

After a while, pissed off landlords came up with another solution: They ordered the sign painters to use shire horses and elephants as their models. Thereupon, hostelries the length and breadth of England sprouted signs with pictures of penises the length and breadth of England. They were really humungous. They made the royalty in neighbouring countries quite jealous.

The reigning monarchs were, of course, delighted. Many a King's Cock played host to the royal family for the weekend. The village in which the pub was located benefited enormously from the royal patronage. All was sweetness and light. But disaster was not far off.

One day, Anne Boleyn was visiting England, on holiday from France. She chanced to stop off at a King's Cock near Dorset. On seeing the sign, she exclaimed, “Fuck me! King Henry's hung like a fucking wildebeest!” Thereupon she resolved to have him for herself.

Well, we all know what happened next. Anne Boleyn went to the royal court, said to Henry VIII, “I want to suck your massive, throbbing cock till it bursts, then I want you to fuck me with it”, and pleaded with him to marry her. Naturally enough, Henry was quite charmed by this and got a raging hard on. So he decided to divorce his Queen, Katharine of Aragon, and marry Anne. This caused the reformation, the dissolution of the monasteries, and the Protestant work ethic.

Sadly, things didn't go too well thereafter. On the wedding night, Henry VIII stripped off and revealed his erect member to his new Queen. She was most unimpressed. Compared to the painted sign she’d seen in Dorset, it was as nothing. “You are fucking tiny!” she exclaimed. "I have seen bigger things chewing holes in a lettuce leaf!" Consummation of the marriage was an embarrassing affair, and the King never forgot this insult. Indeed, soon after his Queen gave birth to the future Elizabeth I, Henry flew into a small cock-induced rage, complained that it had been big beforehand but, because of Anne's witchcraft, it was now much diminished, and so charged her with high treason and had her executed at the Tower of London.

So as this sort of thing could never happen again, Queen Mary decreed that all pubs called The King's Cock should henceforth rename themselves The Red Lion or The Slug and Lettuce, or something equally innocuous. Likewise all the other silly sounding places, like The Queen's Clit, The Duke's Scrotum, and The Prince's Rather Loose Bowel Movement. At a stroke, much of England's heritage disappeared.

Anyhow, after this, never let it be said that you don't learn something of value when you read this Journal.

Operations

Until the late 15th Century, barbers and surgeons were the same profession. So whether you wanted an appendectomy or just a shave, the one establishment handled both. Dropping in for a haircut must therefore have been a fairly unnerving experience, because you'd be sitting, waiting in the barber's shop alongside, not just people with bad hairdoes, but lepers, amputees, and the bubo-afflicted, too. Accordingly, "Anything for the weekend, sir?" could well have been a dose of the plague.

Then again, I'm sure that, in those days, customers were fairly blasé about the whole thing, regarding something like major brain surgery and organ transplants as being on a par with a short back and sides or a perm. A typical scenario must therefore have been as follows:

Barber-surgeon: Hello again. What can I do for you today?
Customer: It's the leg. Slightly gangrenous.
Barber-surgeon: OK. Shall I trim it a bit for you at the bottom?
Customer: Yes, just up to the knee should do.
Barber-surgeon: Level with your other stump?
Customer: Please.
Barber-surgeon: No problem. Do you want it square cut or tapered?
Customer: I'm easy. Whatever you think looks best.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Barber-surgeon: Bastard weather again, eh? Won’t do the turnip harvest much good.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Customer: Fucking gypsies cursing the crops, they say.
((FX: Saw, saw, saw))
Barber-surgeon: Cunts. OK, how does that look?
Customer: Yes, that's good. I like it. Can you just cauterize that artery up there?
Barber-Surgeon: There you go. Anything for the weekend, sir?
Customer: Yes, a pack of three leeches, please. I’m feeling lucky.

Of course, if the split between barbers and surgeons hadn't occurred, Harley Street would now be full of Toni & Guy and Vidal Sassoon franchises, all manned by scalpel-wielding homosexuals sporting blonde bouffants and mincing around in tight, black trousers. And if you didn’t have BUPA cover, you’d probably be on a three-year waiting list for root treatment and hair extensions. So all in all, it’s a good thing that it did happen. (Unless, of course, you’re one of those who actually relishes the risk of being buggered while under general anaesthetic.)

Classical Eggs

There are few, if any, egg recipes in the Classical texts, either Roman or Greek. This is quite simply because people generally didn't bother trying to cook them as there was no reliable way of timing the things. A few, faltering attempts were made, though. Take boiling, for example. Here, the cook would call a slave couple into the kitchen and order them to get down on the floor and fuck whenever the egg went in the pan. Upon ejaculation, the egg was deemed ready. Depending on the slaves’ sexual proficiency, you could end up with anything between a three minute egg and a rather hard boiled two hour one. If you were lucky.

Where this method fell down severely, of course, was when you got a male slave who was predisposed to premature ejaculation, or worse. In this case, the egg would be so under-cooked that you'd risk salmonella poisoning. (That's assuming there was anything to time in the first place.)

You'd have thought they'd have been on surer ground with scrambled or poached eggs on toast, but sadly, no. Here, the main problem lay with pop-up toaster technology, which, then, was still in its infancy. The toast eject mechanism was based on the principle of the ballista, or elementary catapult. Here, the bread slices, which were cooked on each side by a slave holding a flaming torch, rested on a bent-back tree branch. This was kept taut by a rope positioned over a burning candle. Once the rope had burnt through, the branch sprang back and the toast was ejected. Sadly, the force was such that the slaves were often propelled out with the toast, and could be deposited several miles away. So by the time the egg was eventually reunited with its toast (and with the slave), all three were usually cold.

Basically, all Classical age cooking was a bit of a hit and miss affair. The only generally available timepiece was a sun dial. This meant that cooking had to be restricted to sunny, daylight hours when there wasn't any likelihood of an eclipse. Late dinner was therefore totally impossible. Furthermore, as the smallest unit of time on a sun dial was an hour, all but the largest roasts tended to be pretty well done. Sometimes inedibly so. This is why no Ancient Roman or Greek restaurants ever got a Michelin Star.

My Teeth

My teeth are pearly white and my smile is dazzling. So dazzling, in fact, that anyone standing within smiling range must wear a pair of those special, ultra-thick goggles as used by nuclear test scientists, lest his or her retinas be burnt out.

Unfortunately, these days, the only people with access to such goggles are nuclear test scientists. For safety’s sake, therefore, I have to restrict any grins and smirks to atomic weapons testing ranges. So, in practice, if you want to tell me a joke or otherwise make me happy, you’ve got to do it in Iran or North Korea. Which is a great pity because Iranian “How many Zionist imperialist lackeys of the Great Satan does it take to change a lightbulb?” and Korean “My dog’s got no nose – That’s because you ate it” gags aren’t particularly funny. Especially if, at the time they’re being told, I happen to be within fallout range of a 20 Megaton blast.

Then again, I suppose I have it very easy compared to Ancient Romans. My magnificently astounding teeth are courtesy of Eucryl “Whitening” Tooth Powder. If Catullus and others are to be believed, Ancient Romans’ sparkling teeth were down to urine. That’s right: They brushed their teeth with piss in order to get the true, “Ultrabrite Smile” effect.

I should imagine in the same way that, today, competing brands of toothpaste each claim to give you the whitest, brightest teeth, back in the 1st century AD, rival urine producers would make equivalent boasts. They’d claim that their piss, and theirs alone, was the most efficacious at removing stains, preventing plaque build-up and cavities, and giving you that “winning, confident smile.” Patrician piss was undoubtedly better than the plebeian variety, but I wonder how the average dental hygiene-conscious Roman citizen would decide on exactly which patrician he’d have piss in his mouth?

Ultimately, I suppose, one would go by one’s dentist’s recommendation. However, if 90 per cent of dentists agreed that, for example, Gaius Calpurnius Piso’s piss was the sine qua non of tooth-enhancing urine, then Gaius Calpurnius Piso would have his work cut out to produce a sufficient amount to satisfy demand. By the time he’d fulfilled the requirements of the imperial family, the Senate, and the two Consuls, there wouldn’t be much more than a thimble-full left for the rest of the Empire, even if the man was on a 24-hour asparagus diet. They therefore probably had to equip him with the equivalent of an olive press in order to enable a “pump action” which extracted the very last drop.

Actually, this explains why so few statues of Ancient Romans ever depict them smiling: There simply wasn’t sufficient “extreme whitening” piss to go round. Particularly if some inconsiderate cunt was in the habit of squeezing a piss purveyor down his middle.

Double Glazing

Yesterday I found another mobile phone in the pub, obviously mislaid by its owner. The thing was on full charge and its service hadn’t yet been disabled so, as always on these occasions, I took the opportunity to dial random numbers and attempted to sell people double-glazing.

I’m actually quite good at this because, having no overheads whatsoever (and, obviously, no double-glazing) I’m easily able to undercut the competition. Typically, for example, I can charge just £1,000, inclusive of labour, to replace all the windows in a house, front and back, with ultra-modern uPVC ones, incorporating internal-beading and Pilkington’s energy-saving OptiWhite Glass. Eat your fucking heart out, Everest. All I ask is that customers take out their own windows first of all, at their own expense, at which point I say I’ll come round and fit the replacements. During the course of the afternoon, I made at least half a dozen confirmed “sales” and perhaps another ten or so “maybes.” And aren’t they going to feel like total cunts when I don’t turn up and they’re left with big, gaping holes in the walls of their homes?

It’s a pity, really, that such mobile phone technology wasn’t available to besieging armies in ancient times. One thinks, for instance, of the 66 – 70AD siege of Jerusalem where the army of Titus was forced to employ three entire legions over four years in an attempt to take the city. However, had Titus just used my stratagem on day one, phoned Simon Bar Giora, and offered to fit, at cost, new, energy efficient aluminium framed windows throughout Jerusalem, the Zealots would no doubt have knocked holes in their own walls to accommodate them, thus affording instant access to the Romans. Then they could have quickly and easily subdued the place – in just a day, maybe - without destroying the Temple. Thus we’d be spared Tisha B’Av, and you’d be free to shag Jewish women on the 29th of July this year.

Not that I necessarily want to shag any Jewish women on the 29th of July, but I’d at least like it available as an option should I feel the urge on that date. And, as an added bonus, having experienced my superior cocksmanship, I’m sure they’d be more receptive to my attempts to sell them double-glazing, so it would be a win-win situation, as they say. Indeed, fuck it, I’m that good, I could probably sell them single-glazing.

The City of God

Many people hereabouts have their newspapers delivered by a so-called “paper boy”. I’ve never understood why. It costs you more and there’s no guarantee as to exactly when, or if at all, the bugger will turn up. Whereas if you just walk down to the newsagent (it’s only five minutes away) you only pay the cover price for the newspaper and you get it at the time that you want it.

That said, I suppose, for those who do have their papers delivered, there is a certain serendipitous element, which might appeal. This is because the gormless little cunt regularly delivers the wrong newspaper, so you often don’t know whether you’re going to get The Catholic Herald or The Sunday Sport. Consequently, for those who were expecting to follow, say, the controversy over the canonization of Josemaría Escrivá, the opportunity, instead, to have a wank over Veronica Zemanova’s decision to “lezz it up, big style” must come as quite a pleasant surprise. On the other hand, if you were expecting to have a wank over Veronica Zemanova’s decision to “lezz it up, big style”, having to read about apostolica vivendi forma might come as something of a let-down (particularly if you’re still disillusioned over the fall-out from Vatican II). For this reason, I believe The Catholic Herald ought to incorporate a “Readers’ Wives” section, just in order to placate such unfortunates.

Then again, this might, in turn, force The Sunday Sport to offer 0898 numbers devoted to discussion of Humanae Vitae in their back pages, alongside the usual “Bored Housewives” and “Lesbian Teens” ads. This brings the risk that some perve will inevitably misdial and start talking to a nun or priest about his raging hard-on and his desire to stick it any which where. Which isn't something that nuns or priests (nuns, leastwise) have much expertise in.

Pondering the matter further, though, this might actually be a good thing and turn the perve to the Way of Righteousness. Like St Augustine of Hippo, for example. We’re never actually told the exact reason why he abandoned his life of wanton profligacy and embraced the Lord. Perhaps it’s because, back then, there was a similar sort of reciprocal agreement between the publishers of The Life of St Anthony of the Desert and the Fifth Century equivalent of Razzle, where each carried ads meant for the other, and Augustine went for the wrong one. So, expecting to be brought to arousal by chatting to a 16 year old nymphomaniac, he was instead induced by a religious correspondent to follow the path of celibacy and godliness, thus enabling him, later, to develop the concept of the Church as the spiritual “City of God.”

Having a good intellect in the first place must have helped, however. I somehow doubt that any of the the Fifth Century Veronica Zemanovas were in much of a position to frame the concepts of Original Sin. Not without charging you at least the equivalent £1.50 a minute, anyway.

Gladiators

There are lots of posters up hereabouts advertising the impending opening of a new sports shop. "G&H Sports (or whatever the fuck it's called) will be opened next Saturday by Wolf, from the Gladiators," says the legend. This is accompanied by a picture of said Wolf - obviously from his demeanour, a friend of many members of the Cabinet - attempting to look dead hard while simultaneously rippling his muscles.

I suppose this practice dates back to Roman times. In those days, fledgling Roman sports shops would no doubt try to drum up business by painting hundreds of murals and assembling mosaics throughout town, announcing, "Next Wednesday, Quintus Julius Varo's Sports and Leisure Toga Emporium will be opened by Marcus Quirinius, from the gladiators."

Unfortunately for the Ancient Romans, such advertising was, financially speaking, a somewhat riskier business than today's. This is because, unlike Wolf, who will most probably survive until next week, there was every possibility that, betwixt the posting of the advertising and the opening, Marcus Quirinius would get killed in the arena. In which case it would then be necessary to repaint all the murals and reassemble all the mosaics with the name of new, replacement gladiator. Which would take quite some time, and probably delay the opening of the shop. And, of course, if the replacement gladiator then went and got himself killed, they had to start all over again.

The situation must have been even worse for larger organizations. For example, if a company were to embark on an Empire-wide, multi-million denarii advertising campaign for, say, its new range of chariots, endorsed by a gladiator who managed to get himself hacked to death before even the first chariot had rolled off the production line, it would most likely bankrupt the company.

I suppose this is the reason why - whereas when you wander through London today you see lots of shops declaring "Established 1868" or "Founded in 1792" - you never see any that say, "Founded during the Consulship of Marcus Crassus." The advertising spend simply wiped them out.

Ars Gratia Artis

This morning I walked the dogs down by the village pond. While doing so, I noticed an artist just opposite, outside the pub, seated at an easel. She was obviously attempting some sort of acrylic representation of the scene. And why not? It’s very picturesque. I therefore went over in order to have a look and offer a few words of artistic criticism. Not total crap, I said, but it needed a lot of work. Then off I went again, leaving her to absorb my wisdom.

Anyhow, an hour or so later, I sauntered back and took another look at the by now nearly finished painting. And my opinion this time? Unrealistic garbage, I’m afraid.

Don't get me wrong, I told her. As far as being an accurate representation of the ponds and its environs, it was spot on. However, that's all she'd painted, which was the problem. You see, it takes two to three hours to paint one of these things. But what would happen if, to use an obvious analogy, she'd taken a photograph whose exposure time was three hours? The motionless things, like trees and houses, would come out OK. But anything that was moving during the exposure would come out blurred, of course. So, given that it took me some five minutes or more to cross the artist's field of vision, I should have been recorded as a multi-coloured blur going from one end of the painting to the other. Not a sign, though. Not just of me, but of ducks, cars, other pedestrians, and in fact anything else that was moving at the time.

Thinking further on this, perhaps it would have been a better idea if, instead of taking several hours to do the work, she’d taken her thumb out of her arse and painted the scene much more quickly. Ten minutes, for instance, and then the moving objects in the picture would only have been very slightly blurry but nonetheless identifiable. Or, better yet, if there had been a team of artists – a dozen say – each could have contributed a separate element to the picture, the joint effort allowing the whole thing to be painted in just a fraction of a second, thus creating a true “snap shot.” Indeed, had there been a coach party of sixty or so artists, they might have been able to paint ten canvases between themselves in under a second. Then these could have been bound together, allowing the viewer to flick through them with his thumb, thus producing a true moving picture, as in one of those children's "flick books".

You may recall that Leonardo da Vinci and colleagues used this very technique for their famous “Mona Lisa Flashes Her Tits” animated sequence, unfortunately only one frame of which survives today.

Whatever, as I'm on the subject of art, perhaps I should mention that I am, in fact, something of an artist myself. I am currently going through a post impressionist phase. Here is my impression of a post:

SuperLoos

“SuperLoos” – automated, self-cleaning pay-lavatories – were first imported to the UK from the Continent in the late 1970s. Today, most towns boast at least one. The idea is that the Working Class, who probably can't afford their own lavatories (or who traditionally just piss in the street), pay a nominal sum of 20 pence to enter one of these things in order to excrete, masturbate over Page 3 of The Sun, or whatever.

I applaud this philanthropic concept, and feel that it should be extended.

In my opinion, therefore, councils should set up similar automatic cubicles, called “SuperLivingRooms”, “SuperKitchens”, “SuperBedrooms”, “SuperUtilityRooms”, “SuperStudies”, and so on. In this way, Working Class people with inadequate domestic facilities would be able to have a brief, 20 minute, Muzak-accompanied experience of the finer things in life, thus giving them something to aspire to.

For example, upon paying your 20p and opening the swing-door of an automatic “SuperStudy”, you’d enter a cubicle furnished like a plush gentleman's library. In one corner there would be an expensive walnut writing desk. In another,shelves stocked with books, including oeuvres from the Classical Greats such as Plutarch, Thucydides, and Virgil, the Complete Works of Shakespeare, together with those of the 18th Century Men of Letters, like Boswell and Johnson. So you’d be able to sit down in a plush Chesterfield armchair and imbibe wisdom. Of course, at the end of your allotted 20 minutes, the Muzak version of “The Girl from Ipamena” would go silent and the door would automatically swing open. At which point it would be necessary to make a swift exit before the automatic wash and disinfect cycle started up.

Likely as not, many people would think to themselves, “Shit! There I was, analysing the strategy of Alcibiades in the disastrous Sicilian campaign, when my fucking money ran out. I shall therefore put another 20 pence in, in order that I might do further research, and possibly learn why the demagogue, Cleon, was able to usurp the position of Pericles and set Athens on a course which, ultimately, led to its defeat by Sparta and the dissolution of its democratic system.” And so they’d insert another coin and continue, thus enhancing both their wisdom and the nation's coffers.

Of course, if you were in there too long, an impatient queue would eventually form outside. People would knock loudly on the door and say, “Haven't you fucking finished in there yet, you cunt? There are people waiting, you know.” Or if it was late at night, just after the pubs had closed, there might actually be fights. For instance, proponents of the Athenian concept of Direct Democracy might take issue with supporters of the Spartan oligarchical system. They might even knife one another if they disagreed too strongly on the significance of, for instance, the pan-Hellenic alliance during the Persian wars.

But that would be a small price to pay for bringing to little more refinement into the lives of the masses.

Snowman

Despite the fact that the weather forecast got it wrong and, last night, there actually wasn't any fresh snowfall, this whole area is nevertheless still covered in a deep layer of the stuff. Using this as an excuse, the more diminutive of the locals are skiving off school and, instead of studying, are otherwise engaged building so-called snow "men". But how pathetic they are and how lacking in accomplishment. Disgustingly globular, devoid of intelligent facial expression, and bereft of genitals, they are merely icy Johny Vegas lookalikes. Whatever happened to true artistry?

When it snowed in Renaissance Florence, Michelangelo, for one, always did a lot better. According to a book I’ve just read, one of his first commissions was for a snow Hercules. I’ll bet it was anatomically perfect, too - he wouldn't have used a carrot for a nose or lumps of coal for the eyes. (Not unless he was trying to make some sort of Turner Prizesque artistic statement, anyway.) I’ve no doubt that he followed up with a snow Pietà and a snow Moses, which probably served as models for the subsequent marble versions. Likewise for his pièce de résistance, his snow David.

Michelangelo was on to a good earner here, actually. Noble families, such as the Medicis, the Lorenzos, and the Borgias would undoubtedly all drop by and offer to purchase, say, a snow Moses or a snow apostle. The crafty bugger was then able to sell the same one many times over. Come the Spring, he'd simply turn up at the buyer's palace with a bucket of water, claiming that this was all that was left of the sculpture after it had melted. And naturally, because it was Michelangelo's bucket of water, not just anyone’s, they'd all fall for the trick.

The only one who didn't, of course, was Pope Julius II, who insisted that his ceiling be painted in recompense. Having seen the Sistine Chapel, however, I'm not exactly sure who got the better deal.

Shit Sex

I practice safe sex. The dangerous variety has never really appealed. To this end, I always keep two condoms in my wallet for whenever the occasion presents itself (any more could be misconstrued as a desire for commitment). How fortunate it is, then, that I live in the modern era and am not an Ancient Egyptian.

As you may be aware, Ancient Egyptians used crocodile shit as a contraceptive, given that it has natural spermicidal qualities. (Presumably, it was sufficiently pliable to be easily shaped into ribbed, "tickler", and ultra-sensitive varieties) Nevertheless, I'm sure that the substance per se imposed certain restrictions on the sex lives of the socially responsible citizens of Karnak and Heliopolis.

Suppose, for example, it was a Friday night in downtown Djedu and you were "feeling lucky". The first thing you'd have to do before hitting the clubs and bars would be to pick up some shit. I'd imagine, though, that to the uninitiated, crocodile shit is basically indistinguishable from any other variety. So, unless you were actually standing nearby while the animal itself took a dump (never a good idea with crocodiles), you probably wouldn't know, and might acquire some useless donkey or dog shit by mistake and, nine months later, find yourself being sued for paternity.

What men most likely did, therefore, was go to a dedicated shit shop where the quality and provenance of the material was guaranteed. Then again, how much allure and pulling-power can you exude if you're carrying a couple of pounds of shit in your wallet? Especially if it's a few days old. But what was the alternative? You couldn't really take a crocodile into the bar with you to produce the stuff fresh as and when required because: (1) It would then be perfectly obviously to the women in the place that you were only there seeking sex rather than anything long-term, which would put them off; and (2) It might eat her (or you) before you managed to get a shag. A baby crocodile would be safer, of course, tucked out of sight down your loin cloth. But there's always a risk that it could wriggle overly or give your dick a painful bite. Its mother might even come looking for it while you were in flagrante.

Thinking this through, the only logical way it could have worked was for a shit dispensing machine to be set up in the toilets. Once you deposited your coin, the mechanism would spin into action, causing a laxative to be fed to one of the crocodiles inside, making it spontaneously excrete. The only danger, of course, being that, if there were male and female crocodiles in the machine, they might breed and, eventually, escape. So the next time you went to the toilets in order to take a piss, you could find yourself being eaten. I imagine this explains the reason behind the decline of Ancient Egypt as a regional superpower. Similarly, I'm sure if Gordon Brown or Vladimir Putin got attacked by crocodiles every time they went for a piss or shit, their political and economic influence would eventually wane, too.

Foretelling the Future

Ancient Romans were heavily into foretelling of the future, just as many people are today. But whereas in the 21st century we usually do it using horoscopes, the Romans made use of so-called "divination." In the early days, this involved having an augur kill a chicken and examine its innards. So, for example, a slightly enlarged liver might be interpreted as: "It could be a bad day for joint finances. But chin up. Discuss things with your partner before making any rash decisions concerning money." Similarly, a slightly elongated spleen could mean: "You may have suspected for a while that someone at work has the hots for you. You may well be right! So now is the time to act. Remember, a faint heart never won a fair maiden." And so on.

Politicians such as Cato and, later, Cicero, soon began to mock such practices, however. In one of many orations on the subject to the Senate, Cicero demanded to know how the internal organs of just one chicken could possibly apply to each and every citizen of the Roman Empire. It was, he said, as ludicrous a concept as trying to predict tidal activity simply by studying the phases of the moon. Chicken wholesalers and their attendant augurs were stung by such criticisms and decided to take measures. Accordingly, every Roman citizen was thereafter supplied with a personalized chicken, delivered glued into his daily newspaper. The recipient could then slaughter it himself over breakfast or en route to work and examine its entrails and their meanings in privacy. Historians don't tell us whether or not this method was any more or less accurate than the previous "one size fits all" chicken, but it is worth noting that, in 44BC, Julius Caesar recklessly threw away the Ides of March edition of his Ludus Cotidie, having studied only the back page gladiatorial results and the picture of Venus on page 3. How might things have turned out had he had more patience that morning and read on until he'd reached the section with the attached chicken?

Whatever, inconvenient though all this undeniably was, I nevertheless feel that chicken evisceration was a far better method of foretelling the future than today's rather feeble newspaper horoscopes. In fact, were the technique still in use, modern technology could aid matters dramatically. Newsagents would be able to X-ray the chickens beforehand, thus determining the exact, pre-evisceration configuration of their innards. Customers could therefore specify, "I'd like to shag my secretary today, together with that girl with the big tits from Marketing." Thus (for slightly more money, no doubt) you'd have the opportunity to buy a newspaper whose chicken predicted exactly this.

Even if you didn't pre-screen your newspaper/chicken combination, though, it needn't be the end of the world, bad news notwithstanding. For instance, the Ides of March edition might suggest: "Your giblets are in the Ascendant today, which hints at tension in the workplace. You could well find yourself stabbed to death by colleagues and close friends. If so, try to take this for the constructive criticism that it actually is rather than any sort of personal attack. Besides, it's not all doom and gloom. Later, there's a strong possibility of being proclaimed a god and of your lineage founding a dynasty lasting five hundred years."

But so what? If you didn't like the prediction, you could at least console yourself by making a tasty soup or stock out of what was left of the chicken.