You’ll see the above nearly everywhere in England. It might be on the side of any old building, whether in the smokiest city or the loneliest heath. Where there are no buildings they’ll be stones. And where there are no stones there are now very old people sat on benches with the same stamped on their chest like a prize cow at market. It’s popularly been thought for some time that these are benchmarks, indeed that which lends its name to anyone who thinks a conversation is the jumbled spittle of what anyone else said, ever. Used by surveyors whose uniform conveniently included a very tall copper hat, none survived their first thunderstorm to say otherwise. It’s a convenient sort of truth, and people like such things, easy made-up stuff like flying saucers, Ethel Merman and Tuesday.
I spent quite some time knowing the common explanation was rubbish, but not knowing what was otherwise. And I still don’t, not entirely. Only note that if you piss on one after the pub’s shut it will zap you like a small boy in a nylon library. It’s probably been left there by our secret lizard overlords. And this being the case let me be the first to congratulate them on David Icke. You couldn’t make him up. Or you could, like Magnus Pike*.
*He’s dead! Twenty years I’ve just found out. Who’s going to buddy up with Heinz Wolff and Dan Cruickshank to find the miracle weapon needed when the evil lizard overl...**
**Oh, of course.