Cocoa

The British government was advised against publicly criticising a report estimating that 655,000 Iraqis had died due to the war, the BBC has learnt.

Iraqi Health Ministry figures put the toll at less than 10% of the total in the survey, published in the Lancet.

But the Ministry of Defence’s chief scientific adviser said the survey’s methods were “close to best practice” and the study design was “robust”.

Another expert agreed the method was “tried and tested”.

The survey estimated that 601,000 deaths were the result of violence, mostly gunfire.

~ BBC News

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New to the world we have Urhines Kendall Icy Eight Special K! Interesting name, but hey!

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Police are hunting for a naked pensioner spotted joyriding around a bowling green on a Shopmobility scooter in Scotland.

A passer-by was stunned to see the man – thought to be in his seventies – on the vehicle, which has a top speed of 3mph.

The witness, concerned that the naked pensioner would be seen by children at a neighbouring play park in Perth, called police.

A spokesman for Tayside Police said: “When the complainer called the police, the pensioner put his clothes on and drove off.

“The area was searched but there was no trace of the male involved.”

~ Ananova News

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Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

~ Seamus Heaney

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