While the alignment of tree clumps in the West Kent area has rightly attracted the attention of some our most sensible investigators, the alignment of tree clumps in the East Kent area has been criminally neglected – until now. One of the most startling findings of the recent Blötzmann study, published in Tree Clump Alignment News, is that the alignment of the tree clumps in the eastern part of the county is significantly more intriguing than the alignment of tree clumps in the western part of the county. Studied from one angle, for example, a particular set of eastern tree clumps is identical to the alignment of Abraham Zapruder, Badge Man, Umbrella Man, Marymoon Man, JFK, and the sixth floor window of the Texas Schoolbook Depository at the precise moment the first shot was fired on that fateful November day in 1963 in Dallas. Viewed from a different angle, the very same tree clumps are aligned in a pattern one can only call chaotic. A second set of tree clumps, more easterly in Kent than the so called “Assassination Clumps”, reproduces exactly the disposition of the players on the pitch at the moment when South Africa scored the opening goal in the 2010 World Cup, a goal described calmly by the television commentator as “one of the most important moments in the entire history of sport”. Yet, again, seen from another angle these very same tree clumps form merely a random pattern.

The various angles to which I refer are those obtaining between the tree clumps on the ground and the position of the Blötzmann Tree Clump Project airship in the sky. Obviously, the position of the tree clumps on the ground is fixed, while the position of the airship in the sky is variable. I probably do not need to explain this, but am doing so in case you are extremely stupid. Those of you who believe that tree clumps on the ground are not stationary may have been malignly influenced by great works of literature, such as Macbeth, or infantile pieces of tosh, like all that Tolkien twaddle. If you happen to live in the East Kent area you may have seen the Blötzmann dirigible hovering at varying points in the sky. It looks not unlike the ill-fated Hindenburg (without the inferno of flames, obviously) although it is clearly identifiable from the word BLÖTZMANN in big bold block capital letters emblazoned across its side. It does not identify itself specifically as the Tree Clump Project airship, for it is used in many another of Blötzmann’s exciting activities, at least in those which require an airship for their completion and hoped-for success.

From the above it should be clear that proper perception of the alignment of the East Kent tree clumps depends to a large extent on the altitude and position of the airship. At ground level, it is almost impossible to appreciate the significant patterns created by the tree clumps. One can trudge about in one’s rambling gear among the “Assassination Clumps” or the “History Of Sport Clumps”, or indeed among the other tree clumps I have not mentioned, and be none the wiser. That is why we should be grateful to Blötzmann for making such admirable use of his airship, rather than leaving it neglected in its giant hangar, as some other airship owners do. I am not naming names, but they know who they are.

Blötzmann’s interest in the alignment of tree clumps in the East Kent area was prompted not, surprisingly, by Tony Wedd’s important study of the alignment of tree clumps in the West Kent area, but by a stray reference in a yellowing old copy of the St Bibblybibdib’s Parish Magazine And Religious Tirade, where a writer identified only as “Righteous Wanderer In The Woods” makes mention of a wander in the woods when his righteousness was tempted by some sort of hobgoblin tree spirit, green and pagan and covered in leaves and twigs. The author claims that, after fleeing from this sprite in fear for his immortal soul, he lay in the bath and realised that the trajectory of his fleeing, if represented in diagrammatic form, was analagous to the pattern made by a journeyman hiking between the cantons of Switzerland in alphabetical order. Blötzmann made the intuitive leap, in reading this, to a recognition that further significant patterns could reveal themselves through close study of the alignment of such things as tree clumps, piles of pebbles, and even the distribution across the landscape of airship hangars.

It is the latter to which he will next turn his attention, and I am proud to say that, before taking off in the Blötzmann airship, he will be making much use of my database of hangars, which I compiled in order to fire off a series of sternly-worded poison pen letters to their owners. For the benefit of readers I would have liked to transcribe one of the letters here. Alas, they proved so toxic as to be lethal, and I would not wish any of you to keel over and perish, like a budgerigar zapped by a death ray.

It is a little over three years since we learned that Crouch is big threat says Kaka. Now things have taken a further turn. According to today’s inky bulletin, Kaká might claim he is in shape but Dunga is bound to be uneasy. There are two things of immediate note. First, Kaká has gained an accent over his final A, although we are not told what he has done to deserve this. Secondly, the threat of Crouch has not merely receded but vanished entirely, supplanted by the uneasiness of Dunga. Dunga does not have an accent on his A, which may account in part for his nerviness, born as it may be from envy of Kaká’s newly acquired accent. The obliterated Crouch, without an A to his name, was never going to be accorded an accent, and in any case at the time he was considered a threat by Kaká, Kaká himself was accentless. It may well be that the threat of Crouch and the unease of Dunga have nothing whatsoever to do with accents over As. Further work must be done before drawing a watertight conclusion.

So what are we to make of Kaká’s claim to be “in shape”? It is surely pertinent that the shape itself goes unmentioned. Triangle? Oblong? Dodecahedron? Or perhaps even mere blob? This could be the true source of Dunga’s unease. Dunga may also be wondering what happened to Crouch, of course. Three years ago, Crouch was a big threat – or was at least perceived as such by Kaka, as he was then – and now, pfft!, he is nowhere to be seen, Kaká meanwhile having clambered into, or been ingested by, an undefined “shape”. This would make any of us uneasy, so we ought not tsk tsk at Dunga for a wholly natural reaction. And we should mark well that not only is Dunga uneasy, he is bound to be uneasy. He has no choice in the matter. His uneasiness has been thrust upon him, whatever his feelings in the matter, by this claim of Kaká’s, a claim made, we take it, from within a shape, a shape of which we know little, if anything. You or I would, I’ll warrant, be uneasy. How much more so, then, Dunga, even without the vanished threat of Crouch?

These are deep matters, to be sure, and there will no doubt be further developments in the coming weeks. We must do our best to keep abreast of them, and treat them with the gravity they deserve.

1. A very poor child, of the parish of Newington-Butts… was a very monster of wickedness, and a thousand times more miserable and vile by his sin than by his poverty. He was running to hell as fast as he could go, and was old in vice when he was but young in years: we scarcely hear of one so like the devil in his infancy as was this poor child. What sin was there that his age was capable of, which he did not commit? What by the corruption of his nature, and the abominable example of little beggar boys, he was indeed arrived at a great pitch of impiety. He would call names, take God’s name in vain, curse, swear, and do all kinds of mischief; and as to any thing of God, he was worse than a heathen…

6. He was in grievous agonies of spirit; his former sins stared him in the face, and made him tremble. The poison of God’s arrows did even drink up his spirits; the sense of sin and of wrath were so great that he knew not what to do. The weight of God’s displeasure, and the thought of lying under it to all eternity, broke him even to pieces, and he bitterly cried out, “What shall I do! I am a miserable sinner, and I fear that I shall go to hell.” His sins had been so great and so many, that there was no hope for him…

14. The Wednesday before he died, he lay in a trance for about half an hour, in which time he thought he saw a vision of angels…

16 …he gave a kind of leap in his bed, and snapped his finger and thumb together with abundance of joy. And from that time forward, in full joy and assurance of God’s love, he continued earnestly praising God, desiring to die, and to be with Christ.

John Wesley, Stories Of Boys And Girls Who Loved The Saviour (date uncertain)

Yes, there I was standing in a wind tunnel, waiting for the dungareed operative outside to depress the knob which would start the engine. Within seconds of the engine beginning to whirr a mighty wind would be created in the tunnel, and I would be knocked off my feet. This is exactly what happened. Not only was I knocked off my feet, I was hurled along the floor of the wind tunnel until I hit the big cushions at the end. I sprawled there, buffeted and helpless, until the dungareed operative, peeking in through the porthole, saw me and redepressed the knob. The mighty wind that had taken just seconds to reach its full force took rather longer to become becalmed, a minute or so by my reckoning, though I had no watch upon my wrist. As soon as all was still within the wind tunnel, I stood up, gave the cushions a cursory plumping, and returned to my spot. I gestured, with a somewhat effete wave of the hand, to the dungareed operative, who was watching me through the porthole. He then depressed the knob again, I was knocked to the floor and hurled back against the cushions. We repeated the entire process several times.

These were important experiments, as you can imagine. I will be writing up the results and hope to have them published, after peer review, in a suitably authoritative journal, one to which many wind-interested persons subscribe. I may need the assistance of a boffin to help me marshal the data and draw out the pertinent conclusions. I will not ask the dungareed operative, for he is an operative, in purple dungarees, not a boffin nor likely ever to be a boffin. He is happy in his knob-depressing work, and lacks both ambition and wits. The same can be said about me, though I have discovered I have a knack for toppling over and being buffeted into cushions, and I intend to make the most of it. Once my paper has been accepted for publication, I will be heading off, by train or boat, to another wind tunnel, to carry out further important experiments. One must never rest on one’s laurels, even in a wind tunnel.

There comes a time, for a lady, as indeed for a gentleman, when an invitation is received to attend a function at which the wearing of a stylish hat is de rigueur. Receipt of such can fluster the hatless and the poor. Imagine you are a pauper without a hat to call your own. Enchanted as you are to be expected at, say, a king’s levee, you will be plunged into seething fret by dint of both your hatlessness and your impecunious state, which forbids you from simply dashing out to a hat shop to purchase a stylish hat, as a non-pauper might do. You could, of course, steal a hat, but that would be a step into a moral sewer, and at the last, when your time on earth is done, you would be dragged by fiendish claws into the hellfire, there to burn and rot in all eternity.

But fear not! For here is salve for your agony from Hooting Yard’s hat person Fatima Gilliblat. Fatima has given much thought to the hat/pauper conundrum, and we are pleased to reprint her excellent advice:

During my long and searching wanderings through the hovels of the destitute, I have always been impressed by the fact that even the meanest midden has in it, on a windowsill or mantelpiece, a vase of flowers. Perhaps this is due to the influence of John Ruskin. I do not know, but I know the evidence of my eyes, and everywhere I look I see vases of flowers.

I am only too well aware of the flap a pauper gets into when postie saunters up the filthy lane bearing an invitation to a municipal function or a swish cocktail party or even a king’s levee, any kind of do where one will be barred if not wearing a stylish hat. So I have come up with a simple solution, which is to turn your vase into a hat.

The first thing to do is to remove from the vase the flowers lodged in it. Without water and bionutriment they will soon die, but you must get your priorities right. Later you will have time to weep over them. For now, however, you also need to empty the vase of said water and bionutriment, so upend the vase and pour the w and the b down the sink. If you are so poor that you have no sink, go outside and empty the vase into a ditch.

You must ensure that the innards of the vase are clean and dry, so wrap some rags about your fist and plunge your arm into the vase, then make the sort of motion with your hand as you would were you whisking eggs. If the neck of the vase is too narrow for your arm to fit inside it, tie the rags to a stick and poke the stick into the vase instead.

Now turn the vase upside down. Go and get some butchers’ string. You will be using this to create a loop or lanyard, fixed to the vase, to be tucked under your chin, in order to steady the “hat” on your head and ensure it does not topple and smash upon the floor, embarrassingly, just at the moment you are presented to the king, or handed a cocktail, or asked to draw the raffle at a function. Cut the required length of butchers’ string and then dip each end into a pan of the homemade glue you will have boiled up earlier. Press the sticky ends to the vase, holding them in place until they are stuck fast. Try a few experimental tugs to ensure the string is secure. You can now place the vase – still upside down, remember! – upon your bonce, and adjust the lanyard under your chin. There, you have a stylish hat.

But waste not, want not. You still have a lot of glue in the pan, so gather such items as fruit and glitter and decorative baubles and smashed-up mirror fragments and stick those chaotically all over the vase. Now it is even more stylish, and when you sweep elegantly into the levee or party or function, all eyes will be on your hat.

Afterwards, unless you expect another invitation in the very near future, you will probably want to put the vase back on your windowsill or mantelpiece and place within it fresh flowers grown on your sordid little allotment. Before doing so, you should remove the butchers’ string and the fruit and the glitter and the decorative baubles and the smashed-up mirror fragments. If the glue you boiled is of incredible adhesiveness, this will be quite a difficult task. But there is always a price to pay to achieve style and dash, as I know from my own experience, the telling of which would make you shudder.

Next week, teabag as lampshade.