Advice of the Day: Treating a Cold

Stop your nose running by inserting a slug up each nostril.

the sage

A runny nose is one of the most persistent and irritating symptoms of a cold. Tissues offer only temporary relief, and dignity is quickly abandoned. The Wise Sage proposes a more… organic solution.

Slugs, being naturally slow-moving and moisture-loving, are ideally suited to the task of regulating nasal flow. By carefully placing one slug in each nostril, you create a living barrier that both blocks and manages unwanted movement. It’s nature solving a problem it never intended to solve.

For best results, select slugs of equal size to ensure balance and symmetry. The Sage recommends a calm approach during insertion, as sudden movements may encourage independent decision-making on the part of the slugs.

If questioned, simply explain that you are “trying something holistic.” This will prevent most follow-up enquiries.

As always, The Sage accepts no responsibility for horrified reactions, unexpected sensations, or needing to explain yourself to a medical professional.

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Quote of the Day: Deception

“Fraud often hides behind a heavy curtain, but the performance is usually betrayed by how cheaply it is staged.”
— The Sage

Deception rarely presents itself as obvious. It prefers atmosphere — a sense of importance, complexity, or authority that discourages closer inspection. Like a stage production, it draws the eye to the curtain, the lighting, the suggestion that something substantial lies behind it.

But The Sage reminds us that appearances can only carry an illusion so far. Sooner or later, the details begin to show. The stitching looks rushed, the props feel insubstantial, and the story begins to strain under its own weight. What seemed impressive at a distance often reveals itself as cheaply constructed upon closer view.

There is a quiet skill in learning to look past the curtain. To notice not just what is presented, but how it is held together. In doing so, we become less susceptible to illusion — and more attuned to what is genuine, which rarely needs such elaborate disguise.

— The Sage

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This Day in History: April 15th, 1692

“The Execution of Henry Harrison”

On a cold April morning in 1692, Henry Harrison was led from Newgate to the gallows—his fate sealed by a case that combined murder, deception, and a motive rooted in money.

At the centre of it all was a respected physician:

Dr. Nicholas Clench.

The Murder of Dr Clench

Dr Clench was a well-known London physician—a man of standing, wealth, and reputation.

His death was sudden.

His body was discovered under deeply suspicious circumstances, and almost immediately, attention turned toward Harrison.

Why?

Because Harrison had been in direct contact with him shortly before his death.

The Motive: Money and Trust

The case quickly revealed a powerful motive.

Harrison was believed to have gained access to Dr Clench under false pretences, luring him into a situation where he could be robbed.

This was no random act.

It appeared planned.

Dr Clench, a man of means, had been targeted—and after his death, suspicion fell heavily on Harrison as someone who had both opportunity and intent.

The Evidence Against Him

At the Old Bailey trial on 6th April 1692, the prosecution laid out a case built on:

  • Harrison’s association with Dr Clench
  • His presence at crucial moments
  • And most damaging of all—his inconsistent explanations

Witnesses came forward to contradict him.

His story shifted.

Details changed.

And with each contradiction, the jury’s confidence in him weakened.

A Case of Credibility

In one of the most telling aspects of the trial, Harrison’s own words worked against him.

What he claimed at one moment, he appeared to abandon the next.

In a courtroom without forensic science, this was devastating.

The case became less about proving exactly how Dr Clench died…

…and more about whether Harrison could be believed at all.

🔎 Trial Echo

“He was seen in company with the Doctor, and being questioned thereof, gave such differing Accounts, as rendered him suspected by all that heard him.”

The Verdict

The jury did not hesitate.

Harrison was found:

Guilty.

In the justice system of the time, where reputation and consistency carried enormous weight, his failure to present a coherent defence proved fatal.

Newgate and the Final Days

Awaiting execution in Newgate Prison, Harrison came under the care of the Ordinary of Newgate.

He attended prayers.

He listened to instruction.

He appeared, outwardly, to prepare for death.

But crucially—he never delivered a clear, unequivocal confession.

🔎 The Ordinary’s Reflection

“He applied himself to Devotion, yet was not so free in his Confession as might be expected of one under such Circumstances.”

The Execution

On April 15th, 1692, Harrison was taken to the place of execution.

As was customary, he addressed the crowd—but his words did not resolve the lingering uncertainty.

No clear admission.

No final clarity.

Only the end.

A Case That Lingers

The death of Dr Clench was avenged in the eyes of the law.

But the case leaves behind a troubling question:

Was Harrison unquestionably guilty?

Or was he condemned, in part, because he failed to convince?

In an age before modern evidence, the line between the two was dangerously thin.

Why This Case Matters

This case is a powerful example of how justice once operated:

  • Motive mattered
  • Testimony ruled
  • Consistency could decide life or death

Henry Harrison’s fate reminds us that in early modern England, a man could hang not only for what he had done…

…but for how poorly he explained himself.

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This Day in History: April 14th, 1860

“You Are Striking the Wrong One”

On a lamplit street in Marylebone in the spring of 1860, a routine police enquiry turned into a sudden and brutal assault—one that left a constable bleeding in the road and his attackers fleeing into the night.

It is a case that captures the unpredictable danger of Victorian street policing, where a moment’s misunderstanding could end in violence.

A Suspicious House

At around a quarter past eight on the evening of 14th April 1860, Police Constable Thomas Bell was on duty in Cumberland Street, Bryanston Square.

Noticing something amiss at No. 43 — an open dining-room window — he did what any diligent officer would do: he knocked at the door.

A woman answered.

But before the exchange could go far, a man emerged from inside the house, claiming he had business there. Bell was unconvinced.

As the constable moved to detain him, the man bolted.

The Struggle in the Street

Bell gave chase and caught hold of the man in the road. The two struggled for control, grappling on the pavement under the glow of a nearby gas lamp.

Then, without warning, two more men appeared.

They were William Thomas and Alexander Green.

From their coat sleeves, they produced life-preservers — short, weighted bludgeons designed for striking.

What followed was swift and savage.

“You Are Striking the Wrong One”

As Bell wrestled with the suspect on the ground, the two men struck him.

First to the back.

Then to the head.

Bell, believing for a moment that they had come to assist him, turned and shouted:

“You are striking the wrong one!”

But the blows continued.

His head was split open. Blood poured onto the pavement. The attackers, along with the original suspect, fled into the night.

Witnesses in the Lamplight

Several witnesses saw the attack unfold in those brief, chaotic moments.

A groom named Charles Frith observed two men loitering before the struggle began. He saw one of them strike the constable and later identified Thomas as he stumbled past, losing his hat.

Another witness, Edward Wilson, was even closer. He saw both attackers draw their weapons and strike Bell, identifying Thomas clearly and describing his distinctive Inverness cape.

Inside the house, Louisa Blythe confirmed that the man Bell attempted to detain had no legitimate business there.

The scene, though lasting no more than a couple of minutes, was witnessed from multiple angles — all pointing to the same violent conclusion.

A Policeman Left for Dead

When help reached Bell, he was lying in the road, his head “streaming with blood.”

He suffered multiple wounds consistent with blows from a life-preserver and was unable to return to duty for nearly two weeks.

In an era before modern protective equipment, such injuries could easily have proved fatal.

Arrest and Further Violence

Three days later, on 17th April, the two men were located in Nightingale Street, casually playing cards.

When officers attempted to arrest them, the situation escalated once again.

Thomas resisted violently, kicking and striking an officer.

Green seized a poker and attacked the constables, while Thomas threatened to take their lives if they attempted to restrain him.

It was only with effort that the officers subdued and removed them.

Trial and Conviction

At trial, the evidence was clear and consistent:

  • The constable’s testimony
  • Multiple eyewitness accounts
  • Medical evidence confirming the nature of the injuries

Both men were found Guilty of feloniously wounding with intent to cause grievous bodily harm.

Their sentence:

Eight years’ penal servitude.

Why This Case Matters

This case is a vivid reminder of the dangers faced by Victorian policemen — often working alone, in poor lighting, and without the protections modern officers take for granted.

It also highlights a striking irony:

Constable Bell’s instinctive trust — his assumption that the approaching men were there to help — was precisely what made the attack so devastating.

In a matter of seconds, assistance became assault.

And a routine knock at a door became a near-fatal encounter.

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Quote of the Day: Anger

“Anger often arrives as a killer at the throat, but wisdom learns to step back and see only its outline before it strikes.”
— The Sage

Some emotions do not arrive gently. They come quickly, sharply, and with force — tightening the throat, narrowing the mind, and demanding immediate expression. The Sage recognises this moment well: the instant where reaction feels not only justified, but inevitable.

Yet there is a small, crucial space before action. A moment, often brief, in which we can choose to observe rather than respond. To see anger not as a command, but as a shape — an outline forming, rather than a force that must be obeyed. In that space, control becomes possible.

Wisdom does not deny emotion, nor does it pretend calmness is always easy. But it does suggest that even the strongest impulses can be softened by awareness. To recognise the outline of anger is to loosen its grip — and in doing so, to prevent it from becoming something far more destructive.

— The Sage

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Advice of the Day: Cleaning the Bathroom

Save time cleaning your bathroom by setting off a small, controlled explosion and starting again.

the sage

Bathroom cleaning can involve scrubbing, chemicals, and an uncomfortable awareness of what you’re actually dealing with. The Wise Sage believes this is an inefficient use of both time and dignity.

Instead, take a more decisive approach. By removing the bathroom entirely, you eliminate not only the dirt, but the very concept of cleaning. A carefully judged detonation (or, failing that, aggressive demolition with a hammer while muttering “that’ll do it”) allows you to return the room to a blank canvas — or at least a vaguely alarming hole.

For those seeking a less dramatic method, the Sage recommends turning on all taps, blocking the drains, and allowing nature to conduct a full-scale “rinse cycle” of the entire room. Over time, either the bathroom will be clean, or it will no longer be recognisably a bathroom — both acceptable outcomes.

If questioned, simply say you are “renovating.” This is a remarkably versatile explanation and will prevent most follow-up enquiries.

As always, The Sage accepts no responsibility for structural damage, confused neighbours, or explaining to an insurance company why your sink is now in the garden.

Google-Friendly Excerpt (50–60 words)

Advice of the Day: Cleaning the Bathroom

Today’s Viz Top Tip:
Save time cleaning your bathroom by setting off a small, controlled explosion and starting again.

Bathroom cleaning can involve scrubbing, chemicals, and an uncomfortable awareness of what you’re actually dealing with. The Wise Sage believes this is an inefficient use of both time and dignity.

Instead, take a more decisive approach. By removing the bathroom entirely, you eliminate not only the dirt, but the very concept of cleaning. A carefully judged detonation (or, failing that, aggressive demolition with a hammer while muttering “that’ll do it”) allows you to return the room to a blank canvas — or at least a vaguely alarming hole.

For those seeking a less dramatic method, the Sage recommends turning on all taps, blocking the drains, and allowing nature to conduct a full-scale “rinse cycle” of the entire room. Over time, either the bathroom will be clean, or it will no longer be recognisably a bathroom — both acceptable outcomes.

If questioned, simply say you are “renovating.” This is a remarkably versatile explanation and will prevent most follow-up enquiries.

As always, The Sage accepts no responsibility for structural damage, confused neighbours, or explaining to an insurance company why your sink is now in the garden.

Google-Friendly Excerpt (50–60 words)

The Wise Sage returns with another hilariously reckless “Advice of the Day.” This time he tackles cleaning the bathroom with a completely unusable, nuclear-level solution involving demolition and total reset. In true Viz Top Tips style, this guide is absurd, chaotic, and guaranteed to avoid actual cleaning altogether.

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This Day in History: April 13th, 1743

The Fatal Scheme of Cannon and Ellard

In the early hours of a Sunday morning in April 1743, a quiet house in Gravel Lane, Houndsditch, became the scene of a crime as foolish as it was tragic. By midday, the culprits were discovered; within weeks, they would be dead.

At the centre of the affair were two women: Elizabeth Cannon, a 15-year-old apprentice, and Ann Ellard, a 36-year-old stocking worker. One young, impressionable, and restless; the other older, experienced, and already acquainted with hardship. Together, they formed a partnership that would prove fatal.

A Crime Conceived in Drink

Elizabeth Cannon had, by all accounts, begun her apprenticeship honestly. She lived under the roof of her mistress, Mary Bates, a bedridden woman who relied heavily on those around her. Cannon knew the house intimately — including where her mistress kept her money.

For some time, she had entertained the idea of robbing her.

Enter Ann Ellard.

Ellard, a lodger in the same house, quickly became Cannon’s confidante — and, fatally, her accomplice. Whether through persuasion, encouragement, or simple shared recklessness, the two women began to entertain a plan: to rob the very woman who housed them.

But there was a problem. Sobriety.

Cannon herself later admitted she lacked the nerve to carry out the theft while clear-headed. The solution, as so often in these cases, was gin.

On the Saturday night, the pair made themselves thoroughly drunk. They even ensured the nurse attending Mrs Bates was equally incapacitated. With the household subdued, Cannon seized her opportunity.

The Theft

Cannon crept to her mistress’s bedside and took the keys from beneath her pillow — a detail as chilling as it is telling. Unlocking a box, she removed a considerable sum: over £16 in gold and silver coin — a small fortune at the time.

Not content with this, she broke open a fellow apprentice’s trunk and helped herself to linen and clothing.

The stolen goods were handed to Ellard. Their plan complete, the pair fled into the night sometime between eleven and midnight — heading, rather ambitiously, for Enfield.

They did not get far.

The Swiftest of Downfalls

Drunk, disorganised, and flushed with stolen gold, the pair made it only as far as Tottenham High Cross, where they took a room at the Bull Inn.

By morning, their fate was sealed.

Back in Houndsditch, the open door and missing goods quickly raised the alarm. A messenger was sent, and in a remarkable twist of timing, news had already reached Ellard’s employer that she had been seen at the Bull — openly displaying gold coins.

Within hours, they were found.

Still in bed. Still drunk. Still in possession of the stolen money.

When confronted, they broke down immediately — returning what they had and confessing in floods of tears. The linen, less fortunately, had already been reduced to a sodden and filthy state, having been dropped in a ditch.

Trial and Sentence

At trial, the evidence was overwhelming. They had been caught with the stolen goods, had confessed, and had no credible defence.

Both were found Guilty.

Both were sentenced to Death.

The Lives Behind the Crime

The Ordinary’s Account paints a deeply human — and deeply sobering — picture of both women.

Elizabeth Cannon, only fifteen, came from a fractured home. Her parents had separated, her mother reduced to the workhouse, and her father largely absent. Though given an education and an honest start, she drifted into bad company — and, ultimately, into crime.

She later admitted that the idea had been hers, and that she had drawn Ellard into it.

Ann Ellard, by contrast, had lived a fuller and more complex life. Raised respectably, trained in a trade, and once considered honest, she had gradually fallen into instability. A failed relationship, an illegitimate child, and a growing reliance on drink marked her decline.

She herself would later say that drunkenness paved the way to her crime.

The Final Scene

In the days before their execution, both women displayed repentance.

They attended chapel. They prayed. They reflected.

Cannon confessed herself “a very wicked girl” and acknowledged the justice of her fate. Ellard expressed sorrow not only for the crime, but for the life that had led her there.

At the gallows, they wept.

They prayed.

And as the cart was drawn away, both cried out:

“God be merciful to us! Lord Jesus receive our spirits!”

Why This Case Matters

This case is a stark illustration of how quickly lives could unravel in 18th-century London — and how unforgiving the justice system could be, even to a child.

A single night of drink, a poorly conceived plan, and a moment of opportunity were enough to turn two lives into a cautionary tale ending at the gallows.

It is also a reminder of the recurring themes that echo through the Old Bailey records:
poverty, drink, bad company, and the fatal consequences of impulsive crime.

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Quote of the Day: The Futility of Hostility

“Hostility is like firing a bullet into mud — it makes a mess, slows everything down, and rarely reaches anything that truly matters.”
— The Sage

Hostility often feels sharp and purposeful in the moment. It carries the illusion of direction — as though anger, once expressed, will strike its target cleanly and resolve something. But The Sage offers a different image: not a clean shot, but a bullet sinking uselessly into mud.

When conflict is driven by emotion rather than clarity, it rarely travels far. It creates disturbance, noise, and resistance, but little progress. Energy is spent, positions harden, and what could have been a conversation becomes something heavier and harder to move through.

There is strength in restraint. Not every impulse to react needs to be followed, and not every disagreement needs to escalate. When we avoid firing into the mud, we give ourselves a better chance of reaching something meaningful — understanding, resolution, or simply peace.

— The Sage

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Advice of the Day: Choosing a Pet

Ensure you choose the right pet by selecting the one that makes the loudest noise in the shop.

the sage

Choosing a pet is often approached with careful thought, research, and a troubling sense of responsibility. The Wise Sage recommends ignoring all of this and trusting your instincts — specifically, your ability to locate the loudest creature available.

A quiet animal may seem appealing at first, but how will you know it’s still there? By selecting the pet that is barking, squawking, screeching, or attempting to escape its enclosure, you guarantee a constant reminder of its presence and a lively home environment.

For added excitement, the Sage suggests choosing an animal with unclear dietary requirements or a suspiciously vague label. Mystery adds character, and the process of discovering what your pet will and won’t eat can become a rewarding daily challenge.

If possible, pick a pet that requires specialised equipment you do not own. This creates an immediate sense of purpose and urgency, which is the foundation of all strong relationships.

As always, The Sage accepts no responsibility for sleepless nights, unexpected destruction, or forming a deep and irreversible bond with something you cannot fully identify.

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This Day in History: 10 April 1771

The Sailor Who Cried Murder

A Trial About a Trial

On 10 April 1771, the Old Bailey heard a case that had already cast a long shadow over the court.

It was not, at least on the surface, a murder trial.

That had come earlier.

Instead, this was the prosecution of John Commings, a sailor, accused of wilful and corrupt perjury for the evidence he had given at the Admiralty Sessions the previous December, when Captain Richard Broad had stood charged with the murder of Thomas Scott aboard the King David.

At the heart of the matter was a simple but devastating question:

Had Commings told a terrible truth… or an extraordinary lie?

The Original Accusation

At Captain Broad’s earlier trial, Commings had painted a scene of almost theatrical brutality.

He claimed that aboard the King David he had seen Broad:

  • knock Scott down with a blunderbuss,
  • strike him again with the cock of the gun,
  • punch him repeatedly with the butt end,
  • and then drive the muzzle into his belly.

According to Commings, Scott never recovered. He lay helpless on deck, unable to speak, denied assistance, and died within a day or two from the blows.

It was a vivid story, rich in violence, fear, and cruelty. Commings even claimed that others, including Richard Osgood, had seen it happen.

But the problem with dramatic evidence is that it must remain steady under pressure.

His did not.

A Witness Unravels

The shorthand notes of the earlier trial were read back in court, and with them came the full extent of Commings’s contradictions.

At one moment, Scott died within twenty-four or twenty-eight hours. Then it became forty-eight.

At one moment, Scott was speechless from the instant he was struck down. Then, somehow, he later spoke movingly of his wife and family, and blamed Captain Broad for his death.

At one moment, Commings said he begged the captain to allow the surgeon to bleed Scott. Then he admitted the captain’s refusal had actually concerned another man entirely.

At one moment, he claimed he had reported the whole affair to Admiral Parry at Jamaica. Then no one could remember hearing a word of it.

By the end, his story had become a patchwork of emphatic certainties and sudden revisions. It did not merely wobble. It came apart in his hands.

The Officers Speak

The prosecution then called the men whom Commings had placed at the scene.

Richard Osgood, chief mate of the King David, flatly denied it all.

He had never seen Broad strike Scott with a blunderbuss.
He had never heard of such an assault.
He had never heard Scott complain of Broad.
As far as he was concerned, Scott died of fever and ulcers in his legs, the miserable companions of a hard voyage.

Samuel Harris, another officer, supported the same account. There had been sickness aboard. Men had died. But there had been no such murderous beating.

The blunderbuss, Harris said in effect, had not been used in that fashion at all.

What Commings had presented as a witnessed killing now looked more and more like a tale he had embroidered out of shipboard misery.

Admiral Parry Remembers Nothing

One of the most striking parts of Commings’s original evidence was his insistence that he had told the whole story to Admiral Parry, not once, but repeatedly, in Jamaica and again on the voyage home.

The Admiral himself was then called.

He did not know the man.

He did not remember any such complaint.

And more importantly, he made clear that had such a charge been laid before him, he would have acted on it immediately. A captain accused of murder would not have been left to drift home unchallenged if a proper complaint had truly been made.

That denial was ruinous.

Commings had not merely accused Broad of murder. He had tried to anchor his tale to the authority of a senior naval officer. When that officer denied all knowledge, the story lost one of its last supports.

What He Told the Owner

The final blow came not from a sailor or an admiral, but from Mr Miller, one of the principal owners of the King David.

Miller described meeting Commings in Bristol after the voyage. The sailor had come to ask for his wages, and during their conversation complained in general about the hardships of the voyage and the mortality aboard.

But when Miller pressed him specifically about Captain Broad’s conduct, Commings, by Miller’s account, said something devastating:

he had never been ill-used by Captain Broad in his life, nor seen anything in him but what was humane.

When Miller challenged him for having previously said otherwise, Commings reportedly admitted:

“what I said was false; we must say something to make our story good.”

It is difficult to imagine a sentence more fatal in a perjury trial.

Commings’s Defence

Faced with this, Commings tried to wriggle free in the only way left to him.

He insisted that what he had sworn at the first trial was true, and that the later contradictions had come because Captain Broad’s friends had made him drunk. He also claimed that other witnesses, absent at sea, could have supported his original accusation if only they had been present.

It was not enough.

The jury had before them not a man confused by one unfortunate inconsistency, but a witness who had shifted his ground repeatedly and whose story had been contradicted by nearly every solid source around him.

The Verdict

The jury found him:

Guilty.

Not of murder, but of something the court plainly regarded as serious enough: corrupt perjury in a capital case.

A false oath in an ordinary civil quarrel was one thing.
A false oath in a murder prosecution was another.

The Sentence

John Commings was ordered:

  • to pay a fine of one shilling,
  • to be imprisoned for one year in Newgate,
  • and, after that term, to be transported for seven years.

It was a heavy sentence, and meant to be.

The law could tolerate many things. It had far less patience for a man who might send another to the gallows by invention.

Why This Case Matters

This is a superb Old Bailey case because it reveals how fragile justice could be when it depended on testimony alone.

There was no forensic science here. No medical certainty worthy of the name. No photographs, no recordings, no neat paper trail. Instead there were voices:

  • a sailor with a shocking story,
  • officers denying it,
  • an admiral disclaiming all knowledge,
  • and an owner recalling a confession.

What the court punished in the end was not simply lying, but the danger of lying well enough to kill.

Commings’s crime was not that he spoke wildly in a tavern or grumbled on a quay. It was that he entered a court of law, took an oath, and told a story capable of hanging a man.

That, in the eyes of the Old Bailey, was a crime of its own.

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