Leonardo da Vinci and the Mysterious Renaissance Energy Drink

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Leonardo da Vinci and the Mysterious Renaissance Energy Drink

When people list Leonardo da Vinci’s patrons, they usually name the Medici family, Ludovico Sforza, or King Francis I of France. What they rarely mention is his other sponsor: a little-known 15th-century producer of caffeinated, carbonated beverages.

Yes, according to obscure, recently translated marginalia in his notebooks, Leonardo da Vinci may have been the first brand ambassador for what can only be described as the Renaissance’s answer to Red Bull.

The Evidence Bubbles Up

In the Codex Atlanticus, Leonardo refers cryptically to a “vino frizzante con spirito vivificante” , sparkling wine with a “life-giving spirit.” Scholars long assumed this was some sort of medicinal tonic, but recent reinterpretations suggest otherwise. The “life-giving spirit” wasn’t alchemy at all. It was caffeine.

His sketches even show peculiar glass vessels with pressure-stoppers, a technology that seems utterly unnecessary for wine but suspiciously ideal for trapping carbonation. Was Leonardo, centuries ahead of his time, designing the first soda bottle?

Powered by Fizz

How else, after all, could one man design parachutes, helicopters, automatic spit-roasters, armored tanks, and the Mona Lisa without collapsing from exhaustion? Modern science agrees: his productivity strongly suggests he was running on something stronger than Tuscan espresso.

Contemporaries remarked on his restless energy, one noting that “Maestro Leonardo eats little, but he speaks, writes, and draws as if possessed.” In hindsight, that sounds less like genius and more like someone who has just downed three cans of Renaissance Monster Energy.

A Brand Partnership Before Its Time

Renaissance Italy thrived on patronage. Painters and engineers often wore the colors or symbols of their benefactors. Curiously, some frescoes attributed to Leonardo contain faint motifs of bubbles rising in liquid, hidden in decorative borders. Coincidence,or product placement?

Was the parachute really about science? Or was it an early publicity stunt: “Watch as I leap from this tower,safely sustained by my linen invention, thanks to the invigorating powers of Aqua Frizzante Fortificata!”

Why the Secret?

Historians argue that Leonardo’s soda sponsorship faded from the record because it was simply too implausible for later scholars to take seriously. The Medici dukes could be praised for their patronage, but admitting Florence’s greatest genius was bankrolled by a fizzy pick-me-up might have been too embarrassing.

Conclusion

So though we haven’t yet found a surviving Renaissance soda can in a Florentine archaeological dig, the evidence suggests that da Vinci wasn’t just ahead of his time in art and engineering. He also anticipated the world’s most lucrative industry: caffeinated soft drinks.

If true, Leonardo wasn’t just the father of the helicopter and parachute,he was also the original influencer.

Report on Last Night’s Dinner of the Fitzrovia Dining Society

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Report on Last Night’s Dinner of the Fitzrovia Dining Society

By An Appalled Member

Last night’s gathering of the Fitzrovia Dining Society was held in what can only be described as a deliberate affront to reason: the disused vault of a former private bank off Charlotte Street. Our host, Maximilian Tempest, announced this choice with the words, “We dine where the money used to sleep.” The location was lit solely by flickering candles balanced on piles of obsolete ledgers, which lent the evening a faint air of Dickensian bookkeeping.

THE FOOD

The menu was themed around “edible finance,” which was as distressing as it sounds. We began with Credit Crunch, a brittle biscuit allegedly infused with saffron but tasting mostly of scorched toast. This was followed by Quantitative Easing, a soup so thin it appeared to be mostly steam. For the main course, we were served Asset Strip,a ribbon of raw courgette draped over a single cube of halloumi, presented on a plate engraved with gilt stock-market figures. Dessert was Hostile Takeover, a violently bitter chocolate mousse topped with candied chilli so aggressive it made Lady Cressida von Hotham remove herself to the vault corridor for “cooling.”

THE ARGUMENTS

No dinner of the Fitzrovia Dining Society is complete without a pitched battle over something abstract. Last night’s quarrel began innocuously enough when Sir Lionel Buxworth remarked that digital art “isn’t real art,” which prompted Ptolemy (our resident abstract painter) to accuse him of “nostalgic bigotry.” This spiralled rapidly: HEDGE FUND, still flushed from his last pop-art sale, declared that all art should be traded like cryptocurrency, to which Sir Lionel responded that he would “rather be waterboarded with tepid Chablis.”

A secondary argument broke out over the correct temperature for champagne service. Lady Cressida insisted it should be “colder than a Swiss banker’s soul,” while Hugo Lynch claimed that over-chilling “kills the nuance.” Maximilian resolved the matter by serving the next bottle at room temperature, thereby uniting both sides in universal condemnation.

THE INCIDENT

Halfway through the main course, an unplanned event enlivened proceedings: the vault door, which had been casually propped open with a crate of vintage port, swung shut with a resonant boom. We were briefly trapped inside, which prompted Lord Peregrine to mutter, “At last, an immersive work I can respect.” We were freed after ten minutes when the caterer, who had been smoking outside, returned and found us shouting about liquidity ratios.

CONCLUSION

The evening, though logistically questionable and nutritionally unsound, was deemed a success in the perverse way that only the Fitzrovia Dining Society can measure success: everyone left irritated, slightly hungry, and absolutely certain they would never return. And yet we do.

The next dinner is rumoured to take place inside a defunct telephone exchange, provided the host can persuade the council to overlook “the asbestos situation.”

Hollywood Heartthrob Falls for Quirky Digital Portrait by Doodle Pip

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Hollywood Heartthrob Falls for Quirky Digital Portrait by Doodle Pip

In a world where luxury cars, red-carpet gowns, and glittering soirées dominate headlines, it’s rare for a movie star to find themselves completely captivated by a single piece of art. Yet, that’s exactly what happened when Hollywood favorite Luca Harrington, known for his suave performances in films like Midnight Serenade and Chasing Stardust, laid eyes on a digital portrait by the rising artist Doodle Pip.

The artwork, composed of wobbly black lines on a minimalist canvas, has sparked lively debate among art enthusiasts. Some claim it depicts Marilyn Monroe, capturing the timeless allure of the silver screen goddess, while others insist it’s Albert Einstein, the very embodiment of genius. Harrington, however, laughs off the speculation.

“I honestly don’t care who it is,” Harrington admitted at a private unveiling at his Beverly Hills mansion. “All I know is that it’s wonderful. There’s something about the lines, the movement, the energy, it just speaks to me.”

Doodle Pip, whose playful approach to digital media has earned a cult following among collectors, described the piece as “a portrait of curiosity itself, someone iconic, yet indefinable.” The combination of wobbly precision and bold simplicity seems to have struck a chord with Harrington, who reportedly commissioned a limited edition print to hang in his newly renovated Mayfair penthouse.

The star-studded event also drew other luminaries from the worlds of cinema, fashion, and art. Guests sipped champagne from crystal flutes, admired Doodle Pip’s other works, and whispered about Harrington’s taste, which seems to effortlessly bridge blockbuster glamour and avant-garde art. Luxury brands were also in attendance, with bespoke watches and couture gowns gleaming under the gallery lights, further cementing the evening as a perfect blend of Hollywood and high art.

While some celebrities chase more and more jewellery, yachts, or exotic getaways, Harrington’s fascination with a single digital portrait is a refreshing reminder that even in a world obsessed with labels and luxury, a truly compelling piece of art can capture the imagination of anyone, no matter how big their star power.

Hunting for Hidden Treasures: The Art Collector Who Seeks Beauty in Unusual Places

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Hunting for Hidden Treasures: The Art Collector Who Seeks Beauty in Unusual Places

When most art collectors are bidding at auction houses or browsing international fairs, Daniel Rourke is combing through scrapyards, flea markets, and even abandoned industrial spaces. To him, art is not just confined to white-walled galleries; it lives in unexpected corners of the world, waiting to be discovered.

Rourke, a 52-year-old collector based in Exmouth, has built a reputation for seeking out works that straddle the boundary between accident and intention. While his peers pursue paintings with million-dollar pedigrees, he often gravitates toward overlooked creations: sculptures welded together from discarded machinery, murals painted illegally on forgotten walls, or even anonymous sketches salvaged from estate sales.

“I’m drawn to the places where art isn’t supposed to exist,” he explains. “When you find something powerful in a context that wasn’t designed to elevate it, say, a brilliant spray-painted piece on a crumbling silo,it feels like a secret gift.”

His collection reflects this philosophy. In his converted garage a 19th-century oil portrait hangs next to a rusted metal door covered in layered graffiti tags. A fragment of a hand-painted carnival sign leans against a polished bronze bust. The juxtaposition is intentional, a dialogue between the canon of art history and the unpolished vitality of the streets.

Rourke’s unconventional approach has caught the attention of curators and critics alike. In 2024, the Musée d’Art Contemporain de Exeter mounted an exhibition of selections from his private collection titled Unlikely Beauty, which explored the tension between institutional recognition and outsider creation. Visitors found themselves asking: what defines an artist, and who has the authority to decide what belongs in a museum?

Beyond collecting, Rourke is also committed to supporting creators outside traditional circuits. He has funded pop-up shows in derelict factories, commissioned murals in underfunded neighborhoods, and even collaborated with demolition crews to salvage pieces of architectural ornament before buildings were torn down.

He admits that the search is as important as the acquisition. “I don’t want to just own objects,” he says. “I want to preserve stories. Every scuffed surface or forgotten canvas carries traces of the lives it has touched. To me, that’s the real art.”

In an age when art markets are dominated by speculation and celebrity hype, Rourke’s approach offers an antidote: a reminder that creativity often flourishes in the margins, and that beauty is not always where we expect to find it.

Obituary: Painter Calix Moreau, King of Beige (1934–2025)

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Obituary: Painter Calix Moreau, King of Beige (1934–2025)

The world has lost Calix Moreau, painter, performance artist, and, according to Vogue in 1987, “the man who made beige cool.” He died on August 14th, 2025, at his studio-loft in Marseille, surrounded by half-finished canvases, three broken espresso machines, and what friends insist was not a taxidermied goat but “an ongoing installation.” He was 91.

Critics often said Moreau never had a style. Moreau insisted that was his style. “Calix paints with the arrogance of a man who has never been contradicted,” Susan Bradd once wrote on a cocktail napkin (the napkin is now housed in MoMA’s permanent collection, albeit in storage).

Born in Lyon, Moreau famously declared at age sixteen that he would “either change the colour of the sky or die trying.” Neighbours later remembered he spent the next decade attempting both; though he was unsuccessful, the experiences were formative for the young artist and he always felt that they had taught him several important lessons.

His first exhibition, Nine Empty Frames and One Angry Pigeon (Paris, 1977), caused a near riot, mainly because the pigeon was not, contrary to Moreau’s assurances, tame. By the early 1980s, Moreau was described by Le News Artery as “the enfant terrible of French art. Though he is no longer an enfant he makes up for that by being extra terrible.”

A 1993 retrospective at the Tate Modern featured mainly works he had destroyed, leaving the gallery rather empty and leading to many visitors demanding their money back. Attendance, even so, was record-breaking, probably because – reading between the lines of the answers to a post-exhibition survey, people assumed the art was invisible and profound. “It changed the way I saw everything,” Jbökr Stäbi said at the opening, before admitting she had wandered into the wrong gallery.

In later years, Moreau became increasingly reclusive, though his absence from openings was usually explained as “a performance in itself.” When asked why he no longer painted, he replied: “Because existence already has too much colour, and I refuse to add to the clutter.”

Despite, or perhaps because of, his obstinacy, collectors adored him. Jeff Ciptoe once allegedly offered him $40 million for a work on oddly shaped cardboard that turned out to be the artist’s palette. Moreau declined, insisting the piece was “not for sale until it is worthless.”

He leaves behind no spouse, no children, but an unverified rumour that Ez Roberts once referred to him as “the artist I’d pay to mix my paints.”

Calix Moreau will be remembered as the man who nearly convinced the art world that beige was the most important colour. “He will be greatly missed”, said his bookmaker.

Did Bach write Baa Baa Black Sheep?

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Did Bach write Baa Baa Black Sheep?

Was Baach the author?

Musicology is immured in its biggest disagreement since the claim that Mozart was actually just Haydn in a wig. New evidence, painstakingly unearthed from an obscure archive in Leipzig (wedged, appropriately enough, between a church register and a cheese inventory), strongly suggests that none other than Johann Sebastian Bach is the true author of that most enigmatic of nursery rhymes, Baa Baa Black Sheep.

For centuries, the tune has been dismissed as a simple Hungarian folk song, a ditty for children with nothing loftier to offer than a roll-call of wool distribution. Yet Bach’s contemporaries, it seems, took for granted that this was one of his minor works, a little piece written to amuse his many children. Indeed, a surviving letter from a Thomasschule pupil refers to “Herr Bach’s Schaf-Aria”, an unmistakable clue. What more could musicologists possibly want?

Consider the melodic contour: a stately descent, a balanced phrase structure, the kind of symmetry one finds in the Well-Tempered Clavier, albeit with fewer fugues and slightly more livestock. The rhythmic gait is pure Baroque, the steady crotchet pulse like the trudge of Leipzig parishioners dutifully filing into the Nikolaikirche. Even the subject matter is apt: wool, after all, was a staple of Saxon trade. What better metaphor for divine providence than a sheep willingly divesting itself for the good of the flock?

Some sceptics argue that the rhyme dates to 18th-century England, making Bach’s authorship impossible. These people are, of course, wrong. First, Bach was not above borrowing. Second, ships sailed, sheep travelled, and tunes migrated. Is it really so implausible that a Bachian aria about wool reached London and was mistaken for a native nursery rhyme? Stranger things have happened: we still credit Pachelbel for Canon in D despite the fact that no one willingly plays the other voices.

Other evidence is tantalising. A fragmentary notebook, attributed to Anna Magdalena Bach, contains a melody labelled “Schäflein-Lied”. Musicologists long dismissed it as a child’s scribble. Now, however, its opening bars match perfectly the incipit of Baa Baa Black Sheep. Coincidence? Only if you believe the Brandenburg Concertos were an accident of counterpoint.

Naturally, there are dissenting voices. A minority of scholars cling to the idea that the rhyme was written for English children in the reign of Edward III, inspired by medieval wool taxes. But this interpretation collapses under scrutiny: not only is the tune stylistically Baroque, but the idea of 14th-century toddlers singing in parallel fifths is frankly laughable.

So, did Bach write Baa Baa Black Sheep? The evidence says yes. As do the symmetry, the provenance, the scribbled notebook, the letter, the trade connections, the sheer Bachness of it all. To deny it is to deny that Bach was not merely the composer of fugues and passions, but of children’s music too. And perhaps that is the greatest revelation: behind Bach’s towering genius lies a lullaby, and some very obliging sheep.

‘Lost Bach Cantata’ Discovered in Plymouth Fish & Chip Shop?

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‘Lost Bach Cantata’ Discovered in Plymouth Fish & Chip Shop?

A Plymouth man’s evening meal has unexpectedly sparked an international musicological debate, after handwritten sheet music, apparently by Johann Sebastian Bach, was found wrapped around his fish and chips.

The manuscript, grease-marked and faintly smelling of vinegar, was discovered by Martin P., 42, who purchased a takeaway from St Mary’s Fish Bar on Union Street.

“At first I thought it was just foreign scribbles,” he told the BBC. “Then I realised it was music. I don’t play an instrument myself, but I’ve got a mate who once had a go on the recorder. He said it looked important.”

The document, tentatively titled Kantate zur Ehre des gebackenen Fisches, has been shown to scholars in Leipzig and London, who remain divided.

Professor Helga Braun of Leipzig University said the handwriting “shows every sign of being authentic,” citing distinctive flourishes on the G-clefs and an idiosyncratic use of notation in the continuo line.

But Dr Thomas Henshaw of King’s College, London, disagreed: “It is far more likely a later pastiche. The paper stock alone suggests a fishmonger’s ledger, not an 18th-century manuscript.”

The British Library confirmed it had been contacted about the find but declined to comment until the work could be “stabilised and de-greased.”

Meanwhile, locals have taken the discovery in their stride. “I suppose it’s nice that Plymouth might be known for something other than the ferry to Roscoff,” said one resident waiting in the chip shop queue. Another remarked: “It makes the chips taste more cultured, if a little baroque.”

The owner of St Mary’s Fish Bar, Mrs. N. Ethen, expressed surprise at the sudden academic interest in her establishment. “We normally get complaints about soggy batter, not music manuscripts,” she said. “I can promise you, we source all our wrapping paper from reputable suppliers. If they are sending us priceless manuscripts you’ll have to take that up with them.”

Whether the manuscript proves to be an authentic lost cantata or an elaborate forgery, experts agree on one point: it is the first known instance of a Bach score turning up in a Chip shop.

Have you found a Bach score somewhere unusual? If so, let us know.

Did Leonardo da Vinci Invent BASE Jumping?

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Did Leonardo da Vinci Invent BASE Jumping?

When most people think of Leonardo da Vinci, they imagine oil paintings of ethereal women with ambiguous smiles, or notebooks brimming with half-sketched helicopters, tanks, and improbable siege weapons. What few realize, however, is that the Renaissance master may also deserve credit for inventing the world’s most extreme sport: BASE jumping.

The Parachute Sketch: A 15th-Century Wingsuit?

In 1485, Leonardo famously sketched a pyramid-shaped parachute, writing beneath it:

“If a man have a tent made of linen, of which the apertures have been stopped up, and it be twelve braccia across and twelve in height, he may throw himself down from any great height without suffering any great injury.”

This sounds suspiciously like the pitch line for a GoPro commercial. Leonardo wasn’t simply doodling a safety device,he was describing the first controlled freefall. His design, essentially a Renaissance wingsuit, wasn’t intended for soldiers or messengers. It was clearly for thrill-seekers with too much disposable Florentine wealth and not enough hobbies.

Da Vinci’s Secret Jumps?

Historians insist that there’s no evidence Leonardo ever tested his parachute personally. Yet this is the same man who dissected cadavers in secret, sketched important war machines, and was perpetually funded by suspiciously indulgent patrons. Is it so hard to imagine him climbing the Duomo in Florence, muttering “per la scienza,” before leaping off with a linen contraption strapped to his back?

If true, this would make da Vinci not only the father of the Mona Lisa but also the first BASE jumper, centuries before daredevils began hurling themselves off cliffs in Norway or TV towers in Nevada.

Why He Would Have Been the Perfect BASE Jumper

• Obsession with flight: Leonardo sketched over 500 drawings of flying machines. BASE jumping is just a more direct way to achieve flight.

• Engineering mindset: His parachute wasn’t just a crude cloth sheet,it was an elegant, mathematically considered pyramid.

• Dramatic flair: This is the man who staged pageants with mechanical lions that spat flowers. A rooftop leap in Florence would have been right on brand.

Modern Recognition (or Lack Thereof)

In 2000, British daredevil Adrian Nicholas actually built Leonardo’s parachute to spec and jumped from 10,000 feet. It worked perfectly. Nicholas survived, and more importantly, proved that Leonardo’s design wasn’t just whimsical scribbling.

And yet,BASE jumping history books rarely mention da Vinci. Instead, they credit a handful of twentieth-century adrenaline junkies. Surely, if anyone deserves the title of “Godfather of BASE,” it’s the guy who wore tights, carried notebooks full of flying machines, and likely terrified pigeons from Italian bell towers.

Conclusion

So, did Leonardo da Vinci invent BASE jumping? If you are the sort of person who likes things like definite evidence then you’ll probably say no. But, oh how wrong you might be. The next time you see someone hurl themselves off a cliff with only a parachute for company, remember: they’re just following in the linen-stitched footsteps of the original Renaissance adrenaline addict.

Interview: Inside the Canvas with Liora Vance, Pigment Traceur

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Interview: Inside the Canvas with Liora Vance, Pigment Traceur

Setting: A quiet upstairs room of Pimlico Wilde’s Mayfair gallery. A reproduction of J.M.W. Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire is pinned to the wall. Liora sits cross-legged on the floor, a black fine-liner in hand.

Interviewer: You’ve just chosen Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire. Why this one?

Liora:

It’s a painting that feels like it’s holding its breath. You’ve got this ghostly warship, pale and majestic, being tugged by a squat little steamer. It’s about transition, about movement towards an ending. For Fine Art Parkour, I’m always looking for paintings that already have a journey embedded in them, and this one has two. The literal path of the ships, and the emotional arc from grandeur to quiet.

Interviewer: Walk me through what you do next.

Liora:

First, I sit with it. I imagine stepping into that light , the way the mist might taste, the way the river might move underfoot. Then I take my pen and draw what I call “trace lines” over the print.

(She begins to draw fine black lines across the painting. One runs up the rope between the two ships. Another zig-zags up the Temeraire’s rigging, then vaults across the empty sky towards the setting sun.)

See here? I’d start by bounding along the wake of the steamer, it’s a natural runway, already painted in. Then I’d take a vertical run up the tug’s mast, leap across to the Temeraire’s deck, maybe hang in mid-air for a moment to match its stillness. From there, I’d climb her rigging, push off at the highest point, and arc into the orange sky. That last leap? That’s not about landing. That’s about dissolving into the light, like the ship itself.

Interviewer: So you’re almost choreographing an emotional arc, not just a route.

Liora:

Exactly. In street parkour, the obstacle defines the move. In Fine Art Parkour, the mood defines it. A Turner sky isn’t for sprinting, it’s for stretching, for suspending. Every artist I “visit” sets the pace and texture of my run.

Interviewer: And if this painting were the real, physically real one?

Liora:

I’d still take the same route , but I’d be wet, windblown, and probably shouting with joy. Turner made this space, I’m just moving through it.

(She caps her pen, the web of lines across the print now looking like an elegant map of invisible acrobatics.)

Zarvox Rises: Artist’s Quest for Global Linguistic Domination Hits Cinemas

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Zarvox Rises: Artist’s Quest for Global Linguistic Domination Hits Cinemas

By the time Damien Holt greets me in his East London studio, he’s already speaking Zarvox, the language he invented and which he hopes will soon be spoken around the world, bringing healing to war zones and friendship to those previously unable to understand each other. His greeting sounds, to the untrained ear, like someone gargling marbles while reading IKEA furniture warnings aloud.

“Frömlik vunt-harrah šōōk,” he says warmly. When I ask what that means, he explains it’s a traditional Zarvoxian greeting that roughly translates to The moon forgives your earlier mistake. I thank him.

Holt’s goal is simple: replace every language on Earth with Zarvox, which he believes will foster unity and empathy. The problem? Almost no one wants to speak it.

“People are resistant,” admits Holt. “They complain it’s hard to pronounce or that my alphabet looks like an electrical wiring diagram. But they said the same thing about the iPhone.”

Voices from the Early Adopters

Holt’s Zarvoxian Academy currently boasts 11 students, though three joined accidentally after misreading an Eventbrite listing.

“I’ve been studying for six months,” says Peter McLennan, a software engineer. “So far I can order a coffee and describe the emotional state of my cat. I’ve only had one mishap – I accidentally confessed to several crimes I didn’t commit.”

Another student, Lila Carr, says, “It’s beautiful, really. I just wish there were fewer sounds that require me to inhale and exhale at the same time. My GP told me I had to stop, but I do so reluctantly.”

The Film: Fruntlar: A Zarvoxian Love Story

Holt believes cinema will be Zarvox’s Trojan horse into the hearts of the masses. His upcoming feature film, Fruntlar, is a sweeping romantic epic set in the city of Šlarp, (the Zarvoxian name for Paris).

Plot Summary:

In a time of political upheaval, Šlür (played by Holt himself) falls in love with Mrrʉn (played by an actress who reportedly learned her lines phonetically and still has jaw cramps). Their love blossoms despite the Klinthu Edict, a decree banning the public display of affection unless expressed through synchronised eyebrow movements.

The trailer, which is completely unsubtitled, features two people shouting rhythmic consonant clusters at each other while standing in the rain, a silent staring contest that lasts 47 seconds, and a battle scene fought entirely with spoons.

When asked whether audiences will understand it, Holt shrugs. “Art isn’t about being understood. It’s about being felt. If people leave the cinema sobbing, or at least keen to learn Zarvox just to understand what was going on, I’ve succeeded.”

Sample Phrases in Zarvox from the film

• Gvrrtik nüm-bralü: My horse is politically neutral.

• Ša-loonk mrrk-flepp!: Quick, the bread is running away!

• Tvvru šlāā nkhonk: I respect your family, but fear your goat.

The Future of Zarvox

Holt is unfazed by the skeptics. “Once Zarvox is on Duolingo, it’ll take off,” he insists. “Until then, it’s about planting seeds. Seeds made of sound. Weird, chewy sound.” He leans in, eyes shining, and whispers: “Hrünt.”

I ask him what it means.

“It means don’t go… or literally I’ve hidden your shoes.”

I did go, with a promise to learn Zarvox when his iOS teaching app is available. I gather that won’t be for years…