Tuesday, 27 January 2009

[Turtlewind] Diamonds Smell Of Wee. Discuss

As many of my readers and creditors will happily testify, the mysterious Mr Turtlewind is a most enthusiastic young natural philosopher. Having promised a nice man in a long wig that I would never again seek to determine the tensile strength of grey cats, however, these last three or four months have seen me take a bit of a sabbatical from my scientific trail-blazing.

Imagine my delight, then, when I happened to surf back on to my old turf of review site Ciao to be greeted with the perfect hypothesis for an eager scamp to test - and only the barest minimum of cruelty to animals required.

One of the many writers on this fine site who are not as esteemed or attractive as I am had advanced the bold theory that diamonds smell of urine. Quite a few people had found this suggestion controversial and irksome. But I found my curiosity had been somewhat piqued.

‘If I can demonstrate that diamonds smell like wee,’ I thought, ‘then not only will I have vindicated this nice lady’s crusade so convincingly that she’ll want to have sex with me, with boobies and EVERYTHING, but I can found another multi-billion business empire selling my bodily fluids fraudulently. Sweet!’

With a girly giggle of manly delight, I whisked Barry away to the Turtle lab. But it was full of people injecting themselves with talcum powder and doing things to each others’ bottoms. So I left the car park toilets and went to Turtle Grange’s garden shed instead.

After several hours of doodling on huge sheets of paper, pausing just once to steal some noodles from the convalescent home next door, I had formulated my foolproof experimental method. You see, my arch-nemesis Mr Matt Cheeseboy had once told me that our sense of smell constitutes about 80% of our sense of taste. In other words, to find out if diamonds smell of wee, I just had to find out if they tasted like wee! A blind tasting challenge would resolve this dilemma once and for all.

I was scrupulous in my methods. For an experiment to be considered valid by my exacting friends within the scientific community, it must be conducted with rigorous fairness. So, whilst the process of freezing some wee was simple enough, I had to make sure that the little icy crystals were exactly the same size and shape as the diamonds.

Obviously, finding some diamonds was easier said than done. Luckily, my deceitful old witch of a mother was taking her bath when I broke into her house. I was able to prise several gems from her discarded earrings, and gave the thoroughly convincing excuse that ‘wolves did it’.

Once the materials had been secured, I used the diamonds to make plasticene moulds, in which I froze the wee like tiny ice cubes. Cunningly sculpted gravel was to act as my control batch.

It was around this time that I contacted the writer who is not as esteemed or attractive as I am, in order to tell her that soon she would be proved a genius, and intimating that she should be expecting a delivery of HUGE WANG in return for this vindication. Strangely, she never replied. Joyful anticipation does strange things to people.

In order to gain the widest possible demographic sample, and in order to be inhumane to as many people that I don’t like as possible, I gathered together some grey cats, some hobos, Matt Cheeseboy, Jamie Oliver and the boys who throw stones in the woods behind my village. I also put a purple rope outside Turtle Grange and soon had my survey group bolstered by Big Brother and Fame Academy rejects, thinking they were at a premiere.

Quivering with excitement and malice, I blindfolded all my guests and brought out the Tray of Judgement! Barry was on hand to flex his sting pointedly at any tramps or Z-list celebrities tempted to loosen their blindfolds and everyone took a diamond-shaped nugget of wee.

‘Now, fellow inferiors,’ I cackled. ‘Once you have tasted this first product, please indicate on your clipboard whether you think it is a diamond, a... really new variety of Calippo Shotz, or a tasteless inert lump.’

At this last option, Jamie Oliver assumed I was talking about him and started blubbing over the carpet, until all the people who get paid to be his friends in adverts came in to hug him.

This first round was inconclusive. All the hobos and most of the Big Brother rejects had made a secret pact to swallow all three products ‘just in case’. One of the cats clawed Jade’s face and Jamie asked for the recipe of what he was convinced was an ice cream product.

Next I brought out the control batch. Most people correctly identified this as common gravel, but that might have been because of all the moss and ants they had to pull out from between their teeth.

Finally we came to the diamonds themselves. The amount of grimacing due to severe internal lacerations suggested that several people had correctly identified my mother’s priceless heirlooms. However, I of course had to wait until I had collected in the survey response forms to be sure...

Having consulted with some statistical experts in a bus queue, I had decided that if half the people questioned displayed any signs of confusion between the diamonds and the wee, then the less-esteemed than me writer’s hypothesis would be upheld. Trembling with anticipation, I perused the thick and slightly pungent sheaf of papers.

Hmm. Yes, readers, hmm. It appears that my lonely existence is not going to be pierced by a brief bout of gratitude-fuelled sex just yet. In spite of my cunning ‘ice cream’ deception, all the respondents apart from two of the hobos correctly identified the surreptitious wee pellet.

More people than I had suspected confused the diamonds with the gravel. Regrettably, the New Scientist has failed to accept my article proposal: ‘Do things that are sort of made of stone all taste the same?’

Once I had made a cursory examination of the findings, however, I was forced to depart on one of my occasional midnight getaways. I used the time profitably enough, on another gun-running trip to the Isle of Wight, but even so this report has been delayed tremendously, and I hope you can all find it in your hearts to forgive me. I am sorry, less-attractive writer, that you can still not prove your theory concerning the urinary qualities of compressed carbon. And I’m sorry, Matt Cheeseboy, that I slipped such powerful laxatives in with your wee. But it was a magical time that I shall always treasure in any case.

Oh, someone suggested the writer might have been talking about the little prizes that the aforementioned website Ciao gives out. Well, that's stupid. They don't smell of wee because you can use them to buy crack whores and toffees.

You may even be wondering what occasioned my sudden and hasty departure. Well, in truth, I thought that my deception might have been uncovered when, at the bottom of the survey, in response to the question I included from a chewing gum survey (I find the questions very taxing, all right?), one of the boys who throw stones had written, ‘Are you taking the piss?’

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