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Sir:
Couldn't trans-Atlantic cruise liner crossings be made far less costly simply by placing a colossal magnet in New York's harbour? The necessity of mounting a similar apparatus on Southampton docks for the return journey could be avoided by reversing the polarity of the ship so it is pushed to its destination rather than pulled. |
Lithotrity Fowlds
Dungeoness |
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| letters from the editor archive |
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I am the Master Of Riddles. Can you untangle my devious glottic knots? |
Jade plate
Six, eight.
Fire that burns hot
Night that is not.
Fire that burns cold
First silver then gold.
Question: Where does this point?
Answer: It points to my house. There it is, over there. Look, everybody - I can see my house from here. |
| riddle archive |
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The BRITON'S SCIENCE has shewn that The Weekly, the magazine which strives to maintain Britain's standards, has topped* one million readers since 1871.
"I'd like to thank my milkman for the two extra pints this morning," said MR MILLINGTON of this mathematically inevitable achievement.
MR NASH added: "Splendid - just the opportunity for some kind of retrospective compilation ish."
* Though not, of course, in the sense of assassination. The Weekly has had cause to assassinate no more than a collective noun of readers. |
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Sup from the issue broth with the random ladle. New issue every time, subject to blind unfavouring chance. |
| feature archive |
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| This chap's purchased an OFFICIAL THE WEEKLY T-SHAPED SHIRT and now he's working off his shame at indulging in such wasteful extravagance. You too may display similar penitence, and perhaps press hot coins guiltily into the hands of a stooped clerk for a copy of MR MILLINGTON's improving books Things About Which My Girlfriend And I Have Argued, A Certain Chemistry, Love and Other Near-Death Experiences and Instructions For Living Someone Else's Life, by patronising the The Weekly Corner Shop corner shop. Items despatched under plain wrapper, school-boys will be chased from the premises with a broom. |
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Game: Folds Of My Face, Depths Of My Heart.
Played chiefly in: Haltwhistle.
Objective: Popular among the delightful romantics of Colleges for Young Ladies, this is a game supposed to reveal the name of your true love. A precisely mixed chemical soup is injected into a player's face, enhancing its plasticity. While the player closes her eyes and thinks of their true love, or possibly a pony, the next player clockwise stretches and folds her face in an elaborate style of interleaving flaps. Once the shape is achieved to this player's satisfaction, the first player tries to unfold her face to reveal the depths of her heart based on the order of features revealed. The formulae vary from College to College but, generally, unwrapping the left eye is seen to indicate the colour of the true love's hair; the right eye, the true love's clothes; the nose, that the true love will have a nose (or will not, if the chin is revealed first); with the contours of the ears spelling out the true love's name, the left and right ear governing vowels and consonants respectively. Freckles, &c, are usually taken to be diacriticals. Once the face is completely unwrapped, play continues clockwise.
Obstacles: Misplaced features, or features which slip below the clavicle, are taken to be a sign that the player will die alone and be partially eaten by her own cats.
Rating: Giggly. |
| heritage of games archive |
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