Climatic Potential of the Bactrian Camel (Camelanus Bactrianus)

It isn't as off the wall as it seems - camel trading, that is. The Bactrian camel is the only true one, the two-humper, which I recommend. You don't have to be a celebutante or a total wonker on the party and club scene to be interested. I had a friend who knew a fellow in some pop group or other who owned a camel. It was an accident actually. He was returning from his father's funeral and got rather drunk. He'd been to the crem and was carrying the ashes home - this must have been some time later - and he stopped at the local bar for a quick one. Somehow the conversation turned towards what we dare to do and he finished up snorting his father's ashes. Anyway, after that the bet to buy the camel seemed relatively mild.

Let's be honest, once global warming kicks in, it would be a good bet - not the snorting, the camel I mean. They can go miles without any petrol. And they raise and lower their body temperature at will. My girlfriend used to do that. Turned quite peuce on one occasion. I was petrified. The thing with camels, though, is that they don't sweat, so they retain all the water they drink. They hardly ever go to the loo, as well. Unlike somebody I could mention. Finally, but not least, they eat anything - twigs, shoes and ashes. Did you know, a man in Apex, North Carolina, has finally been rumbled for keeping 60 sheep in his apartment? He could have had room for any number of camels in the same space. That's what I mean about thinking ahead. Climatic potential.

Naked Profiteering

Did I tell you that competition for no frills flights has reached new heights? Nudist aeroplane trips inspired by Freikorpekultur, or Free Body Culture, are about to have naturists taking off all over. Well, at present only from Erfurt to Usedom on the Baltic, so I'm told. Be advised to bring tea towels or, in Business Class, suitably embossed doilies, to sit on. Passengers can take off once the plane has taken off, if you get my drift. You'll understand that for reasons of health, safety and security, the pilot and cabin crew will keep their kit on, thereby securing all loose tackle for the airline and minimising any distress arising from air pockets or gravity.

Scratch Results

Which do you want first, the good news or the bad news? I assume you want the good. The good news, so I'm told, is that itch you have could be caused by a gene. The bad news is that it - the itch not the gene - could be linked with a condition such as diabetes, eczema or liver disease. Truly, I'm not talking about your average scratch, but the one brought on by primary localised cutaneous amyloidosis. You've probably guessed by now that the skin gene which has mutated and caused the defect is called oncostatin M receptor-beta.
I thought I'd share this with you. With this news, I'm afraid, I've semi-given away the secret of how we dwellers on England's frigid East Coast spend our long, dark Winter evenings - ploughing through dusty old medical textbooks rescued last summer from the skip outside the rear doors of North East Driffield Public Library.

A Weighty Thought

Which reminds me. I've come across a touching up therapy which is complementary to Botox, the derivative of botulism, the deadly poison I was never keen to insert into crucial parts of my body, puffing out the cheeks, inflating the lips, introducing smoothness where there were wrinkles. I'm considering a quick trip to Los Angeles, where apparently, you can lose your love handles by lipo-dissolve, a quick injection over the lunch break of PCDC - phosphalidylchloline - a little chemical cocktail which is claimed to dissolve fat. It actually takes 10 minutes - less than the time involved in eating the average ice cream cornet. Uncomfortable? Apparently not, apart from some slight swelling and numbness around the needle. Formerly, incision was the rule. Now I'm in a state of indecision. To be frank, it's not just the cost of the train fare from Yorkshire to Los Angeles. I need to know first of all whether it's a reliable method, ever since hearing about the man who, after a bit of lipo on the side at work, looked down and, Bingo! his penis was turning black. Then I need to know where the fat goes before diving in. Does it drip into the kidneys and thence to the urine, or does it seep into the liver and get metabolised. These are matters which keep me awake in the early hours. I'm all for tackling my little corner of the obesity epidemic, but with clinics springing up quicker than MacDonalds I also need to know how it works before joining the queue at what promises to be the most popular clinic in town.

global warning

I have to put on record that I'm totally against this global warming. It seems to me quite wrong. It's misdirected energy if you ask me. I've just found out that this highly respected and respectable group of Hindu worshippers have trekked to a remote part of the Himalayas - I'm sorry, I seem to have mislaid the precise details of their route - determined to find the stalactite which is the reincarnation of the God Shiva, only to find a puddle. This in my view is completely unacceptable. Added to which somebody seems to be pulling a fast one on these devout colleagues, because I don't see how stalactites, composed as they are of calcite and aragonite - otherwise known to you and me as salts such as calcium carbonate - which have dissolved and reprecipitated, can melt like icicles. Will the person please own up? Or am I missing some point or other?
Ah, I've just received a message. Apparently they are icicles. Or they were, I should say. Anyway it just goes to show. Whatever.

A Little Testosterone Please, We're British

In my position, which is often vernacular, sometimes inclined forward and rarely absolutely horizontal, you tend to hear a good deal. Sometimes it's absolutely rivetting, at others moderately yawning, occasionally utterly disgusting. Last week I semi-overheard some locals tucked into an oak panelled corner in one of the several bars of our most respectable and elegant hotel in the main street of North Driffield, talking about a survey for a particularly nameless men's magazine. Apparently, British men are among the greatest enthusiasts for having a sex life and among the 20 countries in the survey, men in the USA are among the least keen, only being pipped to this position by the Malaysians and the Germans. About one Britisher in seven has had an affair, whereas one in four Italians has. At the same time the Italians, apparently, are the least satisfied with their sex lives, whereas the British men are the happiest, sexually, in the world. What does this tell us, apart from the fact that over half the Britons toddle around all day with a dazed smile on their faces not giving a pink floyd about anything? F * * * all, according to my postie.

Grass Up Your Lid in Germany

Which reminds me. In Germany turf roofs are extremely popular. They seem to be flat roofing every fifth new house and turning the top into lawn. Campaigners in Britain are encouraging householders to do the same. Green mortgages can be taken out. There are rumours that golf can be played across certain city blocks. Take care though. My uncle Silas Aarbon took a swing and mis-hit. That little golf ball fell 17 floors and disembowelled a dachshund being taken for a walk by an elderly spinster who was so distraught at the sight of his chitterlings she had a heart attack in the street. I have heard a more dramatic cautionary tale from campaigners in the other camp. Old roofs don't always support new lawns. After three tons of turf had been placed unstrategically on the roof of the old bakery in Wold Lane North East Driffield, the arrival of an early morning flock of barkpecks proved too much for the timber struts. Timber, turf and barkpecks all fell into the space below, felling twelve bakers and filling the dough mixture for something over 400 loaves with birds of a feather.