Monday, 27 February 2012

Here be Dragons

Nawrte, Wales was born in AD 383 with Macsen Wledig, bastard child of Roman and Barbarian slave-owners, fabricated in the ninth century by lying genealogists in the service of the second royal dynasty of Gwynedd.

The capital was made up in 1955, the flag in 1959, and that station name in 1860, because no one realised you could get away with skirts and an invisible plesiosaur.

The nation is bound together by particularly strong ties, - 100% of the population never having met 99.9% of themselves. The true Welsh speak a curious language, a creolised mentalese, similar in form to Latin, Swahili, Black American English Vernacular, and every other fucking language.

They are governed primarily by a systemised entropy, and metabolise energy via respiration. Popular tradition states they typically have four limbs, like singing, and are proficient at killing Zulus, - often at the same time. They latterly developed a peculiar fondness for South American islands, and being part-melted by French rockets. They eat seaweed.

Since it was first made-up, no one has bothered to conquer Wales, apart from estate agents. But the Welsh, being an imaginative race, promptly set about conquering themselves, and secured a consumate victory - still in evidence today - with 10% successfully plundering 90% of the wealth, using the ingenious tactic of looking and sounding like everybody else, and joining in the singing when things got awkward.

The radioactive North, or Hen Ogledd, is largely isolated from nowhere in the world. Here the mother tongue mutates to backwards even within itself, with the crypto-palindromic 'rwan'. The Deceangli and the Ordivices, proud serf-noble savages, confounded the Roman navvies with their strange attire and human sacrifice to trees, and clever things like that, re-enacted annually in Yr Orsedd, which in the absence of any genuine variation in skin colour, all being either one-shade-off-dead or burnt-to-fuck-on-holiday, instigated a complex system of colour-coded clothing. That's if you think 3 colours is complex.

The lower western penninsula, domain of the Demetae, who I can't be bothered to look up, - we're doing one line of 'for eric' as I'm sure you've noticed - probably did something very super, although the English bought it in the 20th century.

King Arthur built Stonehenge, Madog discovered America (some say it was already there), and very recently someone made up the misnomer Mabinogion, although the stories are old, and thus true. Bendigeidfran was resurrected and thought it all very....

Williams!!! Scott Williams!!! He's going to score!!! 19 - 12!!! If that doesn't represent a great personal victory for myself, then what does?!!!

'Lord', said Iddawg 'at what art thou laughing?'

'Iddawg', said Arthur, 'I am not laughing, but rather how sad I feel that men as mean as these keep this island, after those that kept it of yore'.

This is the stuff dreams are made of.

Saturday, 25 February 2012

poem for the day

50 coin-rolls east of LLanfihangel-y-Creuddyn, turn right by the Ash, - no, not that one, that one, yes, - transcross the badger-painted road, then take the red sea bramble path down awards the stream - it's not a brook is it? and it's not acliche babbling. What is it doing then? Everything must do something. Perhaps it's gurgling, like a baby river. Smiling at it's mother's eyes. The sun probably. er - that's only one eye. I'm not sure a baby river would smile at a solar cyclops mother. Maybe it would. But let's have the moon for another eye. They're there at the same time from the point of view of water, as it thinks slowly. Ooooh look! the moon winks. Have we got there yet? Only I'm bored already. I expect the baby river is cradle-banked or something. The hills look like bosoms. That's not in the story - I just wanted to say it.

Wel, we've come all this way, so there'd better be something here. What shall we have? a drowning horse? a muzhik's shoelace? a Russian doll called Nikita, with eyelashes like a fantasia goldfish? Perhaps the dolls inside are age-reversed, with the oldest smallest, since old age is further away.

I expect they come to life, once a year, on some special feast day - just steal a myth from some obscure country - scores are settled, loves matched and missed, magical happenings - all the usual. Wel, I'll fill that in later. How's it going to end? I know, we'll have a twist. They won't be expecting a twist. Nope, it's just too tedious. Let's do a pome instead.

Set pome-generator to 'SeussMilligan'. Ok, download!

Goldfish! darted at the fair
By the stall that sells balloons
Off you fly into the air!
Naughty children! No more spoons!

No more spoons for you and you
And guess what? It's soup for tea!
And you mustn't dip your bread
Or raise the bowl up to your head
Or suck it through a curly straw
Or snort it, lap it, and what's more
You mustn't spill a drop on table
Forks is all I shall enable
Now you don't think it's so funny!
Now it isn't such a trifle!
- the teddy stall's amiss a rifle -
This is going to cost me money
Ping! Kersplat! Oh! What a shot!
A little marksman's what I've got!
Did you see that? See it fall?
Like a conscious raindrop ball
'Bagged it! Pull!' on-clappers call!
Spoons for all! yes, spoons for all.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

Marvellous mechanical mouth-organ

Bumbling professorbird Yaffle of Dawkins was this week caught, live, remembering 20 words only just a bit quicker than a pretend Christian could not remember one. News of the catastrophic failure of Darwinianismistism to account for the diversity of life on the planet, spread around the globe by some unaccountable mechanism. There were even misreportings of transcript mutation.

Biology fell into crisis overnight, as the recitation of the one holy text must be immediate, or at least within 30 seconds, or else animals don't exist. A house of cards Bishop glee'd 'Dickens is the only one who has seen an evolution, and that evolution has turned out to be a lie. I should have a vote where he hasn't'.

A BMA spokeswoman advised all NHS patients to self-discharge with immediate effect. 'The game's up. Hawkings has let the cat out of the bag. Biology doesn't work, never has, never will. We just liked getting together and pretending really. I suppose it made us feel better, but modern medicine was dependent on evolution being true. And now it isn't'.

Self-expressed 'High priest keeper-of-the-dream', Yitchkins, was clearly not expecting the Spanish question. 'I can't believe I lost another quick-fire lying contest', he pecked. 'You don't see Cameron doing that'. The Vicar-of-Darwin-on-Earth went on to confess he was not really infallible either. 'I may as well get it all off my carved wooden feathery chest. It has really been a terrible burden lying for so long, particularly keeping the truth from every fucking scientist in every fucking branch of science in the fucking world. I made it all up, from a single bone I found on answersingenesis'.

micro, micro, micro, macro.

A dog-level IQ 'listener', a dog you understand, not a wolf - which would go Owwwwwwwwwww at the moon, and things like that, said 'I only heard er um er um er um-de-dum. The actual content was out of my thinking range. I think it was a very good question, the exact equivalent of not-remembering one word at all'.

The shamed dendravian chimera, Beakings, pecked on to say 'To be honest I'm amazed I got away with it for so long. Micro-evolution is so fast, it can only be seen by watching, and human beings don't have eyes. They don't even have brains. Darwin made it all up too - they really should have got it from that bear turning into a whale story. I'd better come clean:- I've never seen a bear give birth to a whale. A lot of Charlie's guesses have just turned out to be so-stories, and if you find a whale with feet, then there is one thing you know immediately. Whales don't have feet. Mnyeh, mnyeh, mnyeh'.

Bishop of cuckoo nest, the very very mostest reverend highest motherfather superior most holy, humble-person, Lord Cardinal dressing-up games, opined 'How dare Dawkhitch tell them what they are. They are beneath me, that's what they are - it says so in my head. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, but self-identiquacks as a horse, then it's a horse. As long as I get a free ride, that's fine'.

Self-tridentified logical impossibility bewildered gypsy-Nazarene - not that the place existed at the time - Iesu Grist, manifested in the necrotic tissue on the face of a maggot-infested baby. 'God's law is black and white - just like me dependent on the skin of the painter. Everyone must obey God's law. If you are a childless widow, with an unmarried brother-in-law, then you must er um er um er um-de-dum....hang on, that can't be right. Who wrote this shit? Fuck it, I'll sell myselves on ebay instead'.

A bored 'philosopher', after 3 days not drinking, or was it 4? briefly resurrected, and with an inaudible sigh, in pixels via binary, and a little bit else for computer pedants - that's all of them - pointed out no one can be a Christian, not even Jesus. 'If you have to ask why, please go away'. He sulked, not particularly enigmatically.

Sunday, 19 February 2012

For Eric

Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious. If there is hope, it lies with the proles. We are the dead.

There are two forms of war. Rearranging matter on or near the surface of the Earth, and rearranging thought, which is the same. The former always ends in the latter, and is unnecessary.

Thought, and thought-crime, are mere aspects of entropy. The fifth estate must be free, it is the mirror of humanity. Do not stamp on the human face. If there is hope, it lies in the freedom of the fifth estate, for future necessary rearrangements are incalculable.

The censor is the psychopath, for ideas can only be killed.

The conscious rebellion of self, the final victory over self is unnecessary. Self seeks to align external with internal, as the caddis picks the stone. Alignment can be constructive or destructive, eternal or ephemeral, expression is automatic. A law need not be divined to count how many play a lottery. Only alignment is necessary.

Countries do not exist other than in minds. Lines drawn in the sandpit of humanity trace the impression of extended phenotypical expositions, and overshadow global phototropic alignment.

Self seeks mastery of self. Alone by annihilation, amongst by subsumption or domination. The writer, the artist, the lover, seeks power over minds by seduction. Coercion, or consent, is unnecessary.

We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.

Thursday, 16 February 2012


Poor Stavros can't pay for his goat. But Angela has a cunning plan. He can pay later in feta cheese. There is only one condition. First he must starve the goat.

7% lighter last quarter, a slightly confused bought-and-sold into slavery, 'Ninnyos' was not pleased to hear of a further reduction in rations. 'Fuck this, I'm going to start butting people in a minute, like some kind of economic determinist fool. Everyone will be enormously surprised, and then start eating each other. I'll have their shirts' she added quizzically.

Global agricultural speculator, Mr. Apparently Invisible hands, was overheard wanking yesterday. 'Guess what? I've got more money than one Sovereign, somehow, and I've put it all on the goat snuffing it!'. He then started convulsing and some dribble escaped. 'They've asked me to advise them!!! They're all going down like dominoes, and I win everytime!' he ejaculated.

A rich person in a palace, wearing a silly hat, called for law and order. 'God's position on goat-butting is quite clear' he bearded. 'I've just asked Him, and He says He doesn't like it. Would you like some cheese off a gold plate btw? I seem to have rather a lot. Somehow. I think it's Sheeple. They're quite easy to milk, you just need a crook. Oooh! I can feel my belt tightening.' 'Baaaaaa!' etc.

Wednesday, 15 February 2012


Whingeing ill-thinker, Sir Terence 'not quite yet!' Pratchett, wants to die. But unfortunately at a time of his choosing, not ours. Still, at least he's lasted long enough to have to take out his desperate 'best-selling living English' wet-pants boast from his blurbs. When he's dead there'll be slightly more than Harry Botter to be beaten by. Croeso i Lanfihangel-y-Creuddun, Sir Terence 'not quite yet! Pratchett! -

STP:- Where am I? -

REJ:- Switzerland! -

STP:- Oooh goody! -

REJ:- Just my little joke!, no, you're in Llanfihangel-y-creuddun -

STP:- Where am I? -

REJ:- Hmmmm...never mind -

STP:- Yes, that's what I want -

REJ:- Won't be long. But perhaps don't take anyone with you. Nawrte, you'd best be coherent for a bit. As close as you can manage -

STP:- If one of your cats was writheing in agony -

REJ:- Why is it writheing in agony? -

STP:- I don't know, maybe it got run over -

REJ:- But I've taught my cats the Green Cross Code -

STP:- Well maybe it was distracted, chasing a mouse -

REJ:- Ooooh! they do do that yes! And the mouse is certainly in for some agony -

STP:- Yes, well cats are more important than mice. Now I'd like to talk a bit about the religious arguments against euthanasia -

REJ:- Why? -

STP:- Well, they're easy to beat -

REJ:- Consider them beaten -

STP:- But they're my best moves -

REJ:- Wel, just pretend we've played them, and you've forgotten -

STP:- Where am I? -

REJ:- I'll do it for you in a minute -

STP:- Not quite yet! -

REJ:- Your sincerity shines through every pore. Quacks pop 'em off daily as it is. You must have never met a drunk doctor -

STP:- There's no such thing! Besides, that would be against the law, and so not happen. Look at my official shitstistics - that's what we should go on. You see, you just have to write things down neatly, and neat things will have happened, and even neater things will happen in the future, as long as you get the wording right -

REJ:- You're very persuasive -

STP:- That's because I'm a risen ape! Now imagine I'm writheing in agony -

REJ:- Mmmmmm.....Hang on a mo, why are you writheing in agony? -

STP:- I'm in one of Mother Teresa's hospitals -

REJ:- Wel, what if you weren't? -

STP:- Just pretend I am. Otherwise it all falls apart -

REJ:- Oooh, like a human -

STP:- Ok, I'm not writheing in agony then. But I'm bored, very bored -

REJ:- Try reading a book. I mean a good one -

STP:- I haven't got eyes -

REJ:- An audio book then -

STP:- I haven't got ears -

REJ:- Wel, try making up physics -

STP:- Look! I just want to die, but you won't let me -

REJ:- Be your guest, it's your body. We're not in France -

STP:- No I mean I want someone else to do it for me -

REJ:- Why? -

STP:- It makes it easier of course. Besides, I might forget -

REJ:- You want to make it easier -

STP:- Where am I? -

REJ:- You want to make it easier -

STP:- Where am I? -

REJ:- You want to make it easier -

STP:- Where am I? Oh, here. Yes, easier. I want to make it easier for me. The easiest thing in the world to do. I want to make it easier. Because I'm dull as fuck and therefore not fit to do it myself or even decide -

REJ:- No one gives a fuck what you do to yourself, not that you have one iota of integrity, since we can still hear you bleating. It's who else you make it easier for -

STP:- Well how rude. What if I were writheing in agony? Did I say I might be? I can't remember -

REJ:- ffs. Someone put him out of my misery -

STP:- Yes! No! I mean not quite yet! Wait until I'm brain-dead -

REJ:- Wel, you asked for it, so that makes it your fault...*pillow!* -

STP:- No!, stop!, I want to see the alps! I want to smell the eidelweiss! I want to -

REJ:- Look, you want to die, sort of, I want you dead, the answer must be somewhere. Perhaps in this very room...

STP:- It is sometimes very hard to kill someone -

REJ:- Don't count on it -

STP:- But if only I could make it easier - perhaps with some sort of automatic weapon, some sort of blunt instrument -

REJ:- You mean, a law? -

STP:- Yes! A law! I want that to be my legacy. The right to an automatic weapon of death. There would be no mis-killings, because I would have humans in charge of it. There would be checks and balances, highly trained pin-point accuracy psychiatry, that sort of thing. Anyone who has received a terminal prognosis -

REJ:- Like a birth certificate -

STP:- Yes! Like a birth certificate - anyone who has received a terminal prognosis would be granted the ultimate freedom, to have something made easier, that they wouldn't have done if it wasn't, as might be guessed by the fact that they haven't. Yes. -

REJ:- Have you ever sent a text you later regretted? -

STP:- This is a bit more serious than texting. More like a letter -

REJ:- Have you ever been talked into a haircut you didn't like? -

STP:- This is a bit more serious than a haircut. More like a tattoo -

REJ:- Have you ever bought anything you didn't want, without knowing why? -

STP:- Look you're just being silly now -

REJ:- Do you think there might be silly people? Somewhere -

STP:- I doubt it. Besides this would be more like a will -

REJ:- Have you ever wanted to influence a will? -

STP:- Certainly not! -

REJ:- How about unconsciously? -

STP:- Uncertainly not! -

REJ:- If we stop thinking about you for a moment - which would be nice - do you think there might be people of negotiable morality? Somewhere? Anywhere at all? -

STP:- Not when it comes to death. Besides there would be a questionnaire to be filled in afterwards, via a medium -

REJ:- Ok, you win. I've lost the will to go on. Will you kill me please? I'm begging in agony -

STP:- No! I'll just watch! haha! I'm not doing time for anyone! Writhe away! In agony! I only care about me, you see.

Friday, 10 February 2012

The Pope's Bollocks

Kid fucking collaborator goat-eyed failed Nazi Pope Joseph 'by their fruits' Ratzinger, with his signature on the fucking papers, not in blood, but it might as well be, has redundant testicles. Or so we thought. But they have a mind of their own and have sprung into action with the hasty erection of a ninternet advice webspurt, available 24/7, for bishops unsure who to mate. Croeso i Lanfihangel-y-creuddun, Joseph's bollocks! -

JB:- Must find um hole. All is forgiven -

REJ:- Now you've got a billion members -

JB:- Must find um hole. All is forgiven -

REJ:- You've got objective morality, so is fucking children right or wrong? -

JB:- All is forgiven -

REJ:- Can you expand? -

JB:- Spare rod spoil child. All is forgiven -

REJ:- Should nuns beat children with sticks? -

JB:- All is forgiven -

REJ:- Are you a cunt? -

JB:- That is scary witch-word. No I am bollocks. All is forgiven. Except words -

REJ:- Do you think the pixels cunt will upset women 80%, men 20%, and how do you know that sort of thing? Can genitalia be manipulated remotely? Could they in any way be connected to minds, perhaps by some sort of nervous system, could the signal depend on the receiver? Could transcription be done in the minds? Could mens rea be with the receiver? Could it be invalid? Could the actus be predicted? Could what people get up to in the bedroom be nobody's business, but every gene's business? Could people who say it the loudest need to hear it the most? Are they talking to themselves, the one's who would censor? The censor is the psychopath, for ideas can only be killed.

JB:- ?

REJ:- Do you think you might be backward in any way? Sort of retarded? Like a voodoo nigger? -

JB:- You um sed 2 naughty words now. But not fuck children. You priorities all wrong. All is forgiven. But not you -

REJ:- Should the nigger cunt Mugabe be popped off? Or should he starve millions? -

JB:- You um racist. But not Jews. You um not read book properly. All is forgiven. But not that -

REJ:- Should Assad have an unfortunate Mossadaccident, or is he buying too many russian tanks? -

JB:- You um not read parable of talents. All is forgiven. Apart from ghost-denial -

REJ:- Can you make money out of AIDS, promoting death, and what do you need earth-money for anyway? -

JB:- Me make umself big in third world. All is forgiven. -

REJ:- Can we see the accounts? -

JB:- That is not for given -

REJ:- Can I ask, are you Satan? -

JB:- Sh.

REJ:- Can you turn a wafer into Jesus, and if I eat it will I shit him onto God, omnipresent in the toilet? -

JB:- This is um sophisticated theology -

REJ:- Could Jesus alter physics, apart from nails, and why was it a surprise to be forsaken by himself? -

JB:- What has this um got to do with um fucking children? -

REJ:- It's how you get away with it -

JB:- Um priests must be um gay. Because if you count kid fuckers they are mostly straight. Yes. -

REJ:- If you wanted to fuck children, what um job would you get? -

JB:- We are um equal opportunities employer -

REJ:- Do you think the best candidate for universe creation would find books a) Hard to make, b) A stupid idea anyway, c) Written by people. Perhaps with their fucking names at the top? -

JB:- It is um mysterious -

REJ:- How much can you eat while people starve? -

JB:- Someone is coming with um bread and fishes -

REJ:- Are you the biggest cunt the world has ever seen? -

JB:- Well no, not really. I'm just a copy, an archetype. I've no power without the masses. It's a group delusion as they bleed into one another. Chameleon minds. I believe them, they believe me. Each reflects another. It's simple. The old boss worked it well, didn't he? The diffusion of responsibility. Now stop making rude pixels and concentrate on fucking children and killing people. What on earth are you doing? All is forgiven. Good idea, isn't it? Might be worth something, that. God helps those who help themselves. To children. Let us prey.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Why E =/ mc²

On a journey of thought, each must alight at his stop...

REJ:- Wel. Apparently I have to find a job. I think Sioned said it was to pay for the building. Although to me it looks like the building is already builded, and there is no actual building going on to be paid for. Now when Marx was first confused by Hegel -

Sioned:- I am here you know -

REJ:- No cariad! It doesn't look big at all! And in fairness, chwarae teg, it is quite a small room...

Sioned:- *Sosban! *

REJ:- *Ooof! * Iesu mawr ofnadwy diawl yffern!* *etc *

Sioned:- 3 hours choosing this! I don't know why I bother! *slam! *

REJ:- Yes please!, two sugars. Have one yourself. Oooh! Where's she gone? Never mind. I made my own yesterday, and not much went wrong. Let's see......nawrte boys.....must skip the rygby.....dim ond 15 pages..... aha! The classifieds. 'Wanted:- Niwclear scientist. Must like sand. Fully funded pension pot...' Hmmm....Wel I did visit Trawsfynydd that time....Oooh! What's this? 'Wanted:- Motorcycle dispatch rider. Must like sand. Yiddish speaker preferred'. Wel, how silly. Binary is the language of heaven. Wel, I tried. Helo! Who's this?! -

AE:- Zer ist nicht ein magic maus! -

REJ:- Wel, that's good to know -

AE:- Aber mein pet scanner machen gut. Ich bin positive about that -

REJ:- A pet is for life, not just for brecwast. I'm an electron multiplier -

AE:- Undt zehr vell behaved zey are too. Ich bin machened kaput mit never solven it. Undt es ist annoyenning. Ich canst keinen resten! -

REJ:- ffs – you're half German, REJ -

AE:- Aber nicht zee sprechen bit -

REJ:- Wel, why don't you phone your mutti? -

AE:- Sie vill vollen zee fiver back -

REJ:- Good point -

AE:- Undt zee other fivers -

REJ:- That's enough of that, let's not get off on the wrong foot. Besides, I did a thought experiment and concluded she wouldn't like second-hand money. Anyway, you haven't made a proper entrance yet. You're supposed to make an entrance. And turn into an animal or something. Makes it clearer you see -

AE:- ? -

REJ:- Looks like I have to do everything. OK, you can be a magic maus. Irony sortofthing -

AE:- Eeeeek! -

REJ:- One that can speak, you banana. Otherwise it's not going to work at all -

AE:- Ich vollen ein cheese. Mit biscuits -

REJ:- Up the IQ ein bischen -

AE:- Iesu mawr! -

REJ:- A touch more -

AE:- Un funud fach cyn elo'r haul o'r wybren, un funud fwyn cyn delo'r hwyr i'w hynt, I gofio am y pethau anghofiedig -

REJ:- That'll do. Now switch back to Cherman. And stop nibbling my laces -

AE:- It Vas on ze tag of 29 may 1919, zat ich habered ze greatest momentum of mein life -

REJ:- You got picked for outside-half? -

AE:- Nein -

REJ:- You lost a pfenning and found a mark? -

AE:- Nein -

REJ:- Am I getting warm? -

AE:- Nein -

REJ:- You've just called the police on my smartphone -

AE:- Ich vill asken fur ambulance -

REJ:- Wel. That won't do any good, you should call the vet -

AE:- Zer vill be nicht any keinen more interuptionnens. Ich vas machen ze lookchen at ze eclipsennachtsky mit fingers crossed, ven zer it vas! Ze licht bendenning! Gott in himmel aber nicht mit spielen dice! Ich exclammenned. Ich vas right. Undt now sein Satnav machen gut. Undt zat bomben thingy. Undt -

REJ:- Iesu Mawr!

AE:- Up a touch -

REJ:- FlippenflappenVindscreenVappen! Feynman never signed that petition, you know -

AE:- Never machenminden. Ich vas going to machen sprecht undt 50 zillion other thingens -

REJ:- I'd love to see how this Googletranslates into Russian -

AE:- Ich thinken much zehr better -

REJ:- Wel. It looks like you were right then -

AE:- Ya!, ya!, everywhere except ver Ich vas wrong. Ze other 50 zillion thingens. Observationnens. Ich binned 99.9% right fur ein century. Aber Ich could nicht machen it fitzen mit ze others vot ver also sprach 99.9% right aber incompatible. Es ist annoyenning, like vot I sed -

REJ:- Vel, I mean wel, I wouldn't worry about it, Cox is on the job -

AE:- *Eeeeek! * *pop! *

REJ:- Hmmm,,,, One of the cats must have scared him. Helo? Who's this? -

DH:- Och. It's me. -

REJ:- So it is. Er -

DH:- Och. Etc. I telt youse, passion leads reason -

GhostofghostofAEinmouseform:- Die fatten fucker hast ein mirror! -

REJ:- Sense now boys! And ghosts of ghost-mice! Let's keep this friendly -

DH:- Ah'm here tae dae a wee bit about empirical doubt, and then a save, just tae clear things up -

REJ:- Will that take long? Only if my chair's not real, give me a wink first so I can stand up before you say it -

DH:-It might no be real, but then neither would the argument against it -

REJ:- I'm standing up, just in case. I feel like singing! Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i -

AE:- Nicht again! *pop! * -

DH:- My books are rightbuttrite boring, timorous beastie, so I'll just say empiricism is kosher -

AE:- Zat ist gut. It vill annoyen Verner. Aber varum are you hieren then? -

DH:- Ich – bollox! - Ah'm here to do that miracle thing -

AE:- Ich nichten believen sie -

DH:- Yes that one. Er....something about a spider in a cave....a wee one....

REJ:- Don't worry, no one reads them -

DH:- If Fatima throws a spear a million times, and a billion people claim she is a man, we should believe -

*click! *

REJ:- Diawl yffern! Sioned's back! If she heard that you're for it! Quick! Out the window! *Shove! * -

DH:- Och! But the door - *Splat! * -

REJ:- A mere aspect of geometry! er...or is it a wavicular wind from the Caspian Sea? -

Sioned:- Wel? Did you get a job? Let me guess -

REJ:- Ah, my little tip-tackling prop forward! You see it's like this. I was just about to get a job, when -

Sioned:- Emmanuel Jones! If you're going to say someone dead came through the catflap, changed into an animal, and stopped you doing what I asked – again – wel, don't bother! Seriously, don't bother -

REJ:- No Cariad! I wouldn't dream of it! You've got me all wrong! Nothing came through the catflap at all -

Sioned:- Wel, that's something I suppose -

REJ:- But under the sofa is the ghost of the ghost of the ghost of a magic mouse who is Einstein, and then Hume -

Sioned:- ?!*^!?!!

*Cutaway a la scrabbling at door * etc -

REJ:- *Implausible recovery! * Nope, definitely more Mars than Venus there -

Sioned:- If that didn't knock some sense into you, nothing will. *Slam! * etc -

REJ:- Come to think of it, I do feel a bit different actually. Sort of sharper -

EW:- Mathematics is unreasonably effective in the natural sciences. It is not at all natural that laws of nature exist, much less that man is able to discover them. The miracle of the appropriateness of the language of mathematics for the formulation of the laws of physics is a wonderful gift, which we neither understand or deserve. -

REJ:- *Cough! * …. *Ahem! I do feel strange * -

A crassly circular blunder, reminiscent of Cox et lhc al's non-objective datum projected singularity, accompanied by the usual embarrassing neotenous giggles, or of any fatuous fine-tuning fantasy of creationists of either ilk. You can't completely check one theory against fundamental reality from within it, since you lack an external calibrant. You can't have logic wrong, as statement or conclusion. Philosophy is complete with logic = true. The rest is extrapolation or invalid. When an observation is illogical, something is wrong, somewhere in the chain. Large numbers are but small numbers multiplied. Large numbers of observations are but small numbers of observations multiplied. Simplify by mere division. Remove all multiples and stand back from the shoulders of giants to see.

The number of components of an experiment does not affect validity. Since empirical theories are ultimately calibrated against one another – the only way – they can only distil to minimum two fundamental, eternally incompatible, yet both working higher up – since that's how they were distilled. The Scientific Method – guess, check – works all the way up to singular fundamental science, when you run out of anything to check against. It is difficult to fancy what they were expecting to see when they got there – all claim there is an end of the rainbow to be reached – but I'd expect fundamental theories incompatible, indivisible, and nonsense on dials.

Now who would deny a billion observations? The exponents of either fundamental theory would deny the other's. This is invalid. The experiment becomes valid only as a whole, with the emergent composite uber-observation. Manifold and mutually exclusive theories from the same, repeatable data = suspect data. The valid observation becomes the century of observations viewed in their entirety, root and branch. The valid conclusion is only latterly possible, once the tree of knowledge has grown.

We return to poor Wigner. Maths is a language like any other. Maths is accelerated words, nifty algorithms accelerated maths. Central to the surprise that fundamentally incorrect theories should work so well, and precipitate further successful condensate equations and functional technology and tests within reality absolute, is the mysterious obeisance of the universe to mathematics. The mystery evaporates on noticing that mathematics is but a language, it's mysterious law is logic, and this is presupposed in application such as in the universality of physics as an arbitrary axiom, alongside a plethora of exceptions we are told to similarly arbitrarily ignore where physics breaks down. Thus the descriptive and predictive power of mathematics is intrinsic to the application of the method. The surprise then reduces to the fact that science works. This is because science that doesn't work is discarded. Wigner is far from alone in being smitten by nothing.

EW:- *Pop! *

The point is which branches will bear further fruit, the point of learning how the magic works is to learn how to work the magic, the projection of mathematics to 'elsewhere' for unification is invalid and fruitless -

REJ:- Ah! It's little Ethan Emmanuel Jones bach! Wel, there's lovely isn't it? Give us a song boy! -

EEJ:- O'r gorau. *Twinkle twinkle, little star, how I wonder * -

REJ:- Oooh! Do that german one! For a friend of mine -

EEJ:- *Schlaft in himmlische ruhhhhh.....uhhhhhh, Schlaft in himmlische ruhhhhhhh * -

REJ:- Nos da, Albert, cysgu'n dawel.