MAKING ENDS MEET

Things are tight chums. Make no bones about it. These days even respected university lecturers are reduced to wiping confetti off butchers' arses in a vain attempt to stave off penury. When I was no higher than a munchkin's nipple recession was precluded by bringing all the burials home off an excavation and using them to make a bracing soup. (It's well I remember those charming recession repasts illuminated only by my Father's petrol-soaked hair as he giggled at the entreaties of my Mother to be released from the rusty oven.)

Unfortunately the world has moved on since those innocent days and some archaeological companies have taken a novel lead in dealing with the downturn. These companies, normally with an accountant at the helm, grease the wheels of industry by sending their fresh faced archaeologists out onto street corners to seek 'John's' for reward.

In this new business scenario the archaeologist lingers under a gas lamp, while licking their beard suggestively at the vehicles sliding past. If they are in luck a prospective customer grinds to a halt -
'Hello love, looking for a bit of business?' Says our comely archaeologist with a game wink (just like his boss has instructed him.)
'That depends . . .' says the customer (clearly a member of the building trade.) 'What sort of stuff do you do?
'Oh, I do it all dearie,' says the archaeologist. 'I can go medieval, or full frontal neolithic, I do unprotected impact statements and - if you're nice to me - I even do oral hearings.'
'And are you cheap?' Says the builder drooling.
'Dirt cheap,' hisses the archaeologist.
The builder twirls his waxed moustache and smiles a half-moon of pyrrohea. 'Well then my lovely, climb aboard!' Says he, patting his well polished lap.

The pair then drive to a deserted field. A quiet spot, save for the background hum of a spectral civilisation. - And in this speechless place the builder slavers over his steaming dish of archaeology puttanesca while an old game is played out . . .
They are urban sprawling.
Talking in tongues.
Making ends meet.




Boom! Boom! Does anyone have a contact number for Allegorics Anonymous?


And to end, I'd just like to share my own version of a classical myth.

See you next week after I've picked all the splinters out!

TOGHERS

Some old colleagues of mine (who I spent an unusually colorful weekend with in a Turkish prison) have started a Facebook group related to all things wet and archaeological, it's all about sharing the archaeological love found in superabundance on Irish bogs everywhere (even the Russian ones -did you know we export?). Magnificent, wonderful, consummate, peachy, do have a look (because I'm tired of kissing ass now.)

I'm going to be contributing the odd (hopefully monthly) sausage stuffer such as the one below.


Here's the link: Togher: Irish Raised Bog Archaeology


And here's my contribution:

TRADITIONAL  IRISH  BOG  TRACK  RECIPE

Ingredients:

One medium sized tree.

Sphagnum moss (one acre.)

Salt and Pepper.

 1. Ask your local timber merchant for a whole organic tree. Chop down, then remove giblets. (Retain giblets, see below.)

 2. With a sharp knife cleave a series of radial planks from the trunk. (Don't attempt to do this with wooden wedges, as many experts claim it was done, it doesn't work.)

 3. Season planks.

 4. Mortice and grill planks until a dark brown hue is achieved. Be sure to tell your Mother you're using her toaster, (don't use your own, it will only make shit of it.)

5. Arrange planks on a bed of fresh sphagnum. Pin in place with tenons (use cocktail sticks if your local hardware  provider is out of tenons.) Before serving, if desired, garnish with chariot, block wheeled cart or badly drawn stone-ager in bear skins (as seen in countless reconstruction drawings.)

Hint: Boil giblets with a mixture of methamphetamine, vodka and gin to make a fortifying stock.

SO HERE'S TO BOGS, MUSKEGS, SWAMPS, FENS AND QUAGMIRES EVERYWHERE - AND ALL THOSE WHO TOIL IN THEM, TOO-RAH-LOO-RAH-LOORAH.