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The Da Vinci Code anagrams

  1. O, the divine ACDC
  2. Not chav deicide
  3. Cheat divine cod
  4. Die in a cod chute
  5. Vote CID echidna

Not produced using Anagram Genius, although The candid voice was. A cod chute makes a change from a goat race. Dan Brown produces Drown Ban and Drawn Nob.

More please.

Drown Ban, Not Chav deicide, or The Mongo code

Chapter 1

The eminent and very French Inspector Gordon Flache eyed the eminent Harvard popularculturologist suspiciously, “Do you know what it means?”.

Chapter 2

Obertray Angdonlay, the eminent and needlessly American expert on popular culture, who had once written a book, looked grimly at the corpse on the floor. Inspector Flache had asked him, eminently, what it meant.

The eminent librarian, M.T. Merciless lay on the floor of the eminent library, the point of a spaceship through his heart. Dead. In the dust on the floor was a picture of an enormous phallus below which he had managed to write the two lines:

O, the Divine ACDC
R R R R R R R R R

“Hmm” said the eminent Mr Angdonlay, “a Drawn Nob, an apparent tribute to a heavy metal band and a bunch of R’s. What can it mean?”.

“If I may help”, said a female, and eminent sounding voice behind them, “it looks like writing. I would say Roman script.The first inscription is almost certainly in English.” Dale Arden was an eminent police linguistics expert and eminently eminent. She was 25, had six warts on her nose, an enormous chin, and a pronounced limp. “I need to talk to you” she said to Obertray. She winked and motioned her head towards the library’s eminent convenience. Inspector Flache, being French, missed this subtle sign.

Chapter 3

“You are in eminent danger”, said Dale when they were away from the eminent detective.

“You eminently are!” said a voice. It was Hans Zarkov, formerly of NASA, who appeared at the door pointing a pistol at Angdonlay. “I seek the Crock of Shite. Give it to me!”

“Look! The Goodyear Blimp!” exclaimed Arden, pointing out the frosted glass window. As Zarkov looked up, Angdonlay and Arden ran past the eminent former Royal Crockologist and made for the ladies’ where Dale knew Dr Zarkov, a British gentleman, would not follow.

Chapter 4

Angdonlay and Arden ran into the ladies, where Dale knew Dr Zarkov, a British gentleman, would not follow.

“But what does it mean?” demanded Angdonlay.

“Nothing”, said Dale, “you have to read 600 pages of the Book only to find out the Crock is a warm fluffy feeling.”

“A bit like bunny rabbits?”

“Very much so.”

Mr Quiet

I’ve just read Mr Quiet by Roger Hargreaves. The plot goes as follows (WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS.):

Mr Quiet lives in Loudland, where everyone shouts and bangs and no-one can hear Mr Quiet’s whispers. The unhappy Mr Quiet is invited to Happyland by Mr Happy who, upon hearing his predicament, manages to get an ideal job for Mr Quiet in a place where everyone is always quiet and no-one talks louder than a whisper. You know where Mr Quiet went to work, don’t you? Yes, a library.

I knew what was coming before I turned the last page, but it still made me laugh out loud. I think CILIP should use Mr Quiet as some sort of mascot of a 21st century information professional.

Da The Vinci Code

I have actually started reading the Vinci Code by Dan Brown. To celebrate this and my recent visit to the Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh, I have set a new lies category. The book doesn’t seem so bad so far after one chapter, notwithstanding some of the linguistic cricisms pointed out by Language Log.

The Royal Wedding

Scary Duck on the impending Royal Wedding:

Breaking News: “Prince Charles’s wedding postponed until Saturday, Queen’s ‘washing my hair’ excuse in disarray.” I expect she’ll be attending Ian Paisley’s Papal Memorial Jumble Sale instead.

Huntingdon: a strange place

The other week we went to Huntingdon. Huntingdon reminds me of Bedford in being a place that could be so pleasant, even beautiful, but which isn’t. The central St Paul’s Square in Bedford, for example, could be amazing rather than the derilict and depressing disgrace it is now. Huntingdon, once you go under the enormous fly-overs out of the station and across the constricting ring road (in a similar manner to Ashford in Kent), seems to be split in two with the church and the Cromwell Museum (formerly the grammar school) in the middle. The old part off to the West, where you will find Oliver Cromwell’s birthplace is mostly filled with estate agents and recruitment agencies, again like the nice old bit of Ashford. There was a promising looking bakers, but they weren’t selling hot food because it was the day after Easter Monday and they didn’t have any bread in. Even if they were shy on baking their own bread (being a bakers), they could at least have sent someone down to the Tescos down the road. The eastern half is a mixture of depressing Chav heaven, a fantastic range of charity shops (a good thing!), and some frankly amazing craft shops, if you like that sort of thing, which my wife does. I would have been far happier to see said craft shops and even said charity shops occupying the nice old part of town.

This says much of the above rather more succinctly.