Ping
“a 13-mile high speed tunnel under Central London.”
What is this? I’m confused.
Oh, there’s a spooky Hollywood script in this!
There are a few people missing on my family tree. Could somebody over there keep a watch for them?
I’m sure the contractors building Crossrail are thrilled to have their schedule interrupted by what could be a very long archaeological dig, by the sound of it.
It might be interesting if the Brit’s were to setup a few HD CCTV’s to live-stream these diggings. If not maybe we can get the NSA to live-stream it.
And to imagine that metropolitan areas the world over have all sorts of like things buried just under the ground.
An excavation...mysterious skeletons...somehow, this rings a bell.
Ten patients, he said, were at that moment in chains, and we may be sure that the number was much larger before public feeling had been aroused to demand investigation. "The ultimatum of our restraint," said Mr. Haslam, "is manacles, and a chain round the leg, or being chained by one arm; the strait waistcoat, for the best of reasons, is never employed by us." Mr. Haslam, when asked whether a violent patient could be safely trusted when[81] his fist and wrists were chained, replied, "Then he would be an innoxious animal." Patients, however, were frequently chained to the wall in addition to being manacled.
A much more detailed article, with photos, is here:
Descriptions most likely was the site of a garbage dump.
How do you examine a 750-yr.-old skeleton and determine he/she was a mental patient?
Bedlam was moved to a new building in Moorfields in 1676.
While touring the Imperial War Museum, I couldn't help thing of the poor devils who spent time there.
For to see my Tom of Bedlam, 10,000 miles I’d travel
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes, to save her shoes from gravel.
Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonnie
For they all go bare and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.
I went down to Satin’s kitchen, for to beg me food one morning
There I got souls piping hot, all on the spit a turning.
There I picked up a cauldron, Where boiled 10,000 harlots
Though full of flame I drank the same, to the health of all such varlets.
My staff has murdered giants, my bag a long knife carries
For to cut mince pies from children’s thighs, with which to feed the fairies.
Spirits white as lightning, shall on my travels guide me
The moon would quake and the stars would shake, when’ ere they espied me.
No gypsy slut nor doxy, shall win my Mad Tom from me
I’ll weep all night, the stars I’ll fight, the fray will well become me.
It’s when next I have murdered, the Man-In-The-Moon to powder
His staff I’ll break, his dog I’ll bake, they’ll howl no demon louder.
So drink to Tom of Bedlam, he’ll fill the seas in barrels
I’ll drink it all, all brewed with gall, with Mad Maudlin I will travel.
Thanks Renfield.
Wake me up when they find a Dairy Queen.