Anonymous asked: Since when did it become ok for girls to wear leggings instead of pants? I remember when coolots were high fashion for women, now it is like they walk around naked, or with legs that are spray painted black. You can see leg jiggle.
My naive young friend, I would like to ask you when exactly it was decided that it was considered tolerable for a young lady to wear any form of so-called “pants”?
Aside from the uncouth pit-brow girls of Wigan who traipse shamelessly about the coal mines in cuffed trousers, I know of no woman, honorable or impertinent who would debase themselves to the point of wearing any form of hosiery.
Nay, I say it best that all matter of form-fitting leggings, hose, trews, breeches, trousers or “pants” to coin the vernacular would be best left to the masculine gender. Certainly you must agree how absurd the slender limbs of a woman would appear in form fitting tights, why the sheer absurdity of a woman sporting the necessary codpiece that accompanies those tights would either set the aristocracy to riot, or confound and inflame the proletariat into sodomy on a level generally reserved for the sea-faring.
I think it best, my dear acolyte, that women refrain from any form of gender defying dress, and for modesty’s sake always wear at least two petticoats or a well-hooped crinoline.
Monday, February 22nd 2010 8:10am
Electrifying news! Whereas in the past any persons interested in beseeching my counsel were obliged to seek an audience with me in-person, now any creature may confer with me by means of a mystical and fascinating new artifact I procured while perusing those uncanny curio-shops that fill the crowded streets of Morocco, the haze of poppy-smoke lingering heavy in the air.
Behold! The “Reversed-Journal”! Now anyone anywhere may simply write their ponderings in the Reversed-Journal and I will be able to read it where-ever I may find myself at that very moment, and I will make rejoinder to your query at my soonest leisure.
You can avail yourself of this Reversed-Journal at any time by simply lighting upon the inscription that reads “Wise Counsel” directly to the right of this entry.
Wednesday, January 13th 2010 2:24am
Dearest acolytes, I apologise forthwith for any confusion, but cannot apologise for my behaviour, as I have always possessed the spirit of the way-farer and from time to time I will always be counted upon to take up my steamer trunk and adopt the mantle of itinerant nomad once and again.
The Emperor Napoleon once said “Men are moved by two levers only: fear and self-interest”. It is therefore in my own self-interest that I have taken to a sudden decampment. While you may still find me under the title of “Omens & Portents”, my address has changed, and you may currently find yourself in the dominion of what is now become referred to as Old Omens & Portents.
The reason for this being a matter of public stature: just as all kings are measured by their sovereignty, so are all mesmerists and men of the mystical sciences judged by their tumblarity.
Any persons seeking further erudition from the likes of myself, Lord Northrup P. Wellington are quite welcomed to accompany me to the new Omens & Portents, as this locale will be furthermore relinquished unto antiquity.
Sunday, January 10th 2010 2:43am
I am sensing something unthinkable is about to transpire…
…as if millions of voices are about to suddenly cry out in anguish.
Thursday, January 7th 2010 7:23pm
I have been called many things in my day: adventurer, hotspur, pioneering man-of-science. So it should come as no revelation that I recently resolved to enlist in that strange fraternity of intrepid geniuses; the human bird-men.
Straightway I began roughing out a draft of how my flying apparatus would operate: utilising a flexible skeleton of birch-wood gleaned from my estate’s boreal forest, I fashioned a set of crude wings by stretching across it a large leathery membrane of some sort which I procured free of cost from the whaling camps, once the whalers had scavenged all their precious ivory and margarine and perfume-oils from their trophy.
From there I purchased from the Oriental market several great rocket-arrows capable of propelling me through the air which I planned to affix to my back via a sturdy leather strop. A second strop was used to stay me atop a small wooden dandy-horse.
Early the following morn I arose early and set out for Narmouth’s Bluff; a great rocky outcropping where local aeronauts pilot their contraptions and where once every full moon a witch is hurled down onto the jagged shoals below. A point of rising incline served as a makeshift ramp from which the dare-devils would launch into the air.
Never one to hesitate I naturally fore-went any pleasantries and with a quick snap of my flint the fire-cracker atop my shoulders was propelling me swiftly down the smooth dirt path toward the launching slope. I cannot convey to you the rapture that pervaded my being as I felt my corporeal frame begin to break the curse of gravity. Alas, as the leading wheel of my velocipede struck the ramp I was sent into a reversed trampoliner’s sombresault. My back struck the ground where I lay stunned if only for a moment, before the Chinese skyrocket fastened to myself let off a mighty report which launched my floundering, scorched body several feet into the air.
It was only then that I became aware that I had been remiss to have overlooked a certain peck-order amongst these sky-farers, and by rushing to attempt my flight I had trespassed the so-called “old hands” of this elite society.
Shunned and literally shattered, I lay quietly in amazement and watched in awe as one-by-one these intrepid high-flyers piloted their whirly-birds, and recoiled in horror as one-by-one they were dashed against the rocks below.
As I slowly rolled my push-bike home, an old man stood on-looking. “To me” said the man, “it looked as though your trip atop that snap-dragon may have set the record.” I wondered whether flight by means of explosion was permissible, although it was honour enough simply to be counted amongst such a distinguished society of departed heroes.
Wednesday, January 6th 2010 3:31am
Whilst I am customarily quite reticent to lend my reputation to the endorsement of any commodity, I am compelled to recommend Dr. Batty’s Asthma Cigarettes.
Please Note: Dr. Batty’s Asthma Cigarettes are meant as a means of temporary relief. If an asthmatic were to seek a permanent cure, they should confer with myself about the application of a poultice of goose grease with linseed and camphor.
Saturday, January 2nd 2010 3:07pm
As a cosmopolitan and enlightened man of scholarly pursuits I am always inclined to attend an Exposition, whenever the opportunity is afforded me. So many marvelous exhibit to behold! A wax cylinder capable of capturing the voices of the dead, so that loved-ones may converse with the spirit realm at their leisure! Great panoramic frescoes of the Orient! Sweet delicious sandwiches of “iced cream”! Even a diorama of life in the Congo, where real live negroes jauntily swing from tree to tree!
But the most inexplicable of all sights is a demonstration of that marvel of the modern age; Mr. Watt’s “Steam Engine”. Outfitted in futuristic brass, these locomotives have more in common with the imaginings of Jules Verne than any common means of transport. While swift and convenient, steam locomotives have always been restricted by their need for a great reticulum of steel and oak, and henceforth the labour of chinamen. But as we soon reach the pinnacle of human scientific advancement it is my conjecture that steam-and-piston will soon be our sole means of transport!
Imagine if you will: a world where steam is king! No longer forced to attend to the constant needs of living animals, soon your carriages will be pulled by fantastic steam-horses fashioned from iron and leather! Rather than flesh that degrades and bones that may break, your steam-horse will be eternal; as strong as any locomotive and wanting only for coal! Or if coal is not readily available, any form of wood or even dried animal dung will burn… why the railroad-men of Egypt have been known to burn mummies to fuel their trains!
The farmer will no longer toil in his furrow, as powerful pneumatic steam-oxen draw his plow! The foreman of the glass factory need not fear the Trades-Union; a workforce of steam-powered automaton child labourers are on hand! You’ll never need worry about remembering to wind your steam-powered pocket watch! Zip to work atop a flying cylinder that emits a jet of pressurized steam!
Ladies and Gentlemen, regard these next days with great veneration. For we are standing at the doorway of a brave new era: the Age of Steam is upon us!
Saturday, January 2nd 2010 3:06pm
Lord Northrup P. Wellington was born the only son of a family of powerful gypsies. At age seven his mother and father died as a result of the second Great Beet Famine. Forced into a life of sneak-thievery, young Northrup was eventually apprehended by the local constabulatory and remanded to the custody of the Rear Admiral Bolster’s Reformatory Gaol for Errant Lads. During his imprisonment young Northrop spent much of his days reading, and developed a fascination with the mystic arts and animal magnetism. Upon his release at age 16 he put to use his newly-acquired powers of prognostication and in one evening at a local gambling-house he had garnered enough capitol to purchase two horses and a modest caravan.
For the decade that followed Northrup spent his time traveling throughout the country-side, from as far east as Glombstershire-Town to the southernmost precincts of Dumbford Hill-Upon-Rathbottom. He would perform acts of mesmerism and hypnosis before astounded audiences, sound forth predictions for the future both heady and macabre, and peddle his services as an “Astrological Healer” and “The Witch Doctor of The Enlightenment”.
Fame and Fortune sought Lord Wellington wherever he traveled, and by mid-life he was the personal augur to most heads of state and many powerful barons of industry. Tragically, when he failed to predict the kidnapping of Lady Muthridge the nation was cast into war and Lord Wellington’s life into tumult.
Narrowly escaping an incensed mobile vulgus of estranged acolytes, Lord Northrup P. Wellington took to the sea. He arrived in America and returned to his former life as a simple traveling mystic. This time, however, he thought it better to silently record his prophecies in a secret diary.
Saturday, January 2nd 2010 3:03pm