The subject, not the tin: Verdict Card No. 111's own hero, standing at the head of a Take argued from that Card, because the shelf below is finally a claim about this beard. The frame shows a wearer, not a product: the photo bank holds no beard balm, tin or bathroom-shelf photography, a gap the Card names on its own page and the honesty section below admits in full.

Checked and updated October 2026

The thesis: the wax is not in the tin

Begin with the recipe, because the recipe is the argument. A beard balm is one of the few products in the grooming run whose name is a formula. An oil is an oil, a cream is a texture, a spray is a delivery, but a balm, in the form the word has carried since the apothecary, is a defined construction: a wax, butters to give it body, oils to condition, heated and set in a tin, with no water anywhere in it, because the water is what the wax is there to replace. The wax is the point of the construction. Butter and oil alone make a conditioner, and the beard already has a shelf for that, graded on Card No. 88. What the balm adds, the entire reason a second shelf exists, is the wax’s light hold, the shaping hand that sets on the hair and persuades length into place. Read the word on a lid, then, as the trade has always read it: it is a promise that somewhere in the tin, at some seat in the list, a wax stands. Verdict Card No. 111 graded eight tins against their published lists, and the promise is kept, verifiably, in five of them. In the other three it is kept unverifiably, or not kept at all, and the Card’s own architecture paragraph states the split without raising its voice: the shelf divides by architecture before it divides by quality, five true wax balms, two water-based creams, and one tin that prints too little to grade as either.

The two creams deserve their documents read at full size, because they are not marginal products smuggled onto a shelf: they are its fourth and fifth ranked tins, ahead of two true balms, on the strength of those documents. The Scotch Porter Conditioning Beard Balm, 74, carries the fullest maker’s page on the shelf, one of only two full lists published on a maker’s own ground: 26 items, printed entire, water first, castor seed oil second, cetearyl alcohol third, shea butter fourth, and so on down to biotin at 25th. Read the whole list and the absence assembles itself: no beeswax, no candelilla, no carnauba, no wax of any kind at any seat, because the product is a leave-in conditioning cream, an emulsion, water and emulsifiers doing the body that wax does in a balm. The Bulldog Original, 71, is the second: 24 items on its current packaging list, water first, glycerin second, aloe fifth, shea butter ninth, Parfum 14th with its allergens itemised behind it, an honesty the Card credits, and again no wax anywhere in it. In its home market its own copy calls the jar a beard moisturiser balm with a light hold, which is the cream confessing in its second language what its list confesses in its first. Neither list hides the fact. Water stands at the head of both, in the position of honour, for any reader who opens the document. What hides the fact is the word above the list, the category word, printed on the lid in the largest type on the tin: balm. A buyer who reads lists learns the truth in nine seconds. A buyer who reads lids, which is to say nearly every buyer who has ever bought the category, learns that he has bought a balm, and shapes his beard with a moisturiser.

The seventh tin is the absence in its second form: not a recipe denied but a recipe withheld. The Cremo Styling Beard Balm, 64, makes the strongest hold claim on the shelf, styling and control, just like pomade does for hair, a pomade claim being a wax claim in a louder coat. Its maker publishes no full ingredient list on its own site or in its syndicated copy: a three-item blend claim, beeswax, shea butter and essential oils, is the whole document, and packaging-derived enumerations of ten to twelve items circulate without an order any reader can verify. So the wax that the name promises and the copy amplifies cannot be placed: not third, not thirteenth, not last, not anywhere a second person can point to. On the Card’s own arithmetic the wax is counted as named on this record, six of eight, because the blend claim names it; this column prints that count with its provenance attached, because a wax named in a summary is a different evidentiary object from a wax seated in a list, and the shelf’s honest sentence is the narrower one: the wax stands verifiably in five tins, is claimed in a sixth, and is absent from two. The name, in the Cremo’s case, is the only document, and a name is the one document in the grooming run that has never once been graded as evidence of anything but a claim.

The eighth tin completes the census, and it is the parent argument of this franchise standing in a single product. The Viking Revolution Beard Balm, sent home at 54, is sold on its sandalwood. Its maker’s own site names four ingredients for it, under a 100 percent natural banner: argan oil, jojoba oil, mango butter and beeswax, the wax standing last of the four, in the seat the recipe reserves for its trace elements, on the tin whose whole category promise is that wax. Its maker’s own FAQ, printed for another product, gives the same balm six ingredients, two of them strangers to the product page. And in neither list, in neither version of the document, at no seat, stands the sandalwood: not as oil, not as extract, not filed as fragrance, simply absent, the scent the tin is named for existing nowhere in anything its maker prints about what is in the tin. Take No. 6 is this issue’s parent, and the advance on it is worth stating exactly. There, a shelf of sea salt sprays was sold on an effect carried in the products’ names, and the named thing stood in none of the graded lists: one word, missing. Here the missing word has become a missing substance at two scales at once: at the category scale, the wax, the defining material of the word balm itself, absent from a quarter of the shelf and unverifiable in an eighth of it; and at the tin scale, the scent, absent from four of the five lists whose lids name it. No. 6’s shelf hid an ingredient behind a name. This shelf hides behind the name of the shelf.

Nothing on this page is scored. Every score quoted here, every row, every price and every count is the Card’s, reproduced exactly as it published them: the Honest Amish at 82 and the Duke Cannon at 80 at the head, the two creams at 74 and 71 in the middle, the Cremo at 64, and the Viking Revolution sent home at 54 beneath them. The only arithmetic of this page’s own is juxtaposition and one distinction: the Card’s two counts, wax named on six records and architecture verifiable in five tins, two creams and one silence, printed side by side wherever this issue uses either, because a column about a name that overstates its tin should not let its own headline count overstate its record. The brief for this issue carried the record’s spine, the wax in six of eight tins and the named scent present on one of five, and it survived the record; the precisions the record adds, that the creams are graded as creams and convicted of nothing but their shelf name, and that the sixth wax is a blend claim rather than a seated ingredient, are stated in the honesty section rather than absorbed.

The record, counted

Count the lists first, because this shelf’s foundational count is not the wax at all: it is where the recipe can be read. A full ingredient list published somewhere a reader can check stands for six of the eight tins. A full list on the maker’s own site or in the maker’s own catalog stands for two: the Scotch Porter’s, on the maker’s own site, and the Every Man Jack’s current formula, in the maker’s own product catalog, that tin’s retail label carrying a different and older formula beside it, beeswax second of 17 where the catalog seats candelilla eighth of 18, so that the shelf’s most checkable tin is checkable in two versions and a buyer cannot tell from the front of the jar which one he is holding. The remaining lists stand on the packaging record, on reviewers’ reproductions, on packaging-derived enumerations, and, in the Cremo’s case, on nothing a reader can open. The grooming run’s shelves have been graded on borrowed documents before, and the borrowing is printed on the Card wherever it happens; what is distinctive here is the proportion. Three quarters of a category’s recipes are not published by the people who cook them, on the ground where they sell them, in the one category whose name is its recipe. A balm is the product for which the list is the product description, and the list, on six of eight records, lives somewhere other than the maker’s own page, or nowhere.

Count the wax next, by its seats, because the seat is this shelf’s instrument, the same instrument Take No. 21 built for its clay: the named material read by position in its own list. Beeswax stands third of 13 in the Duke Cannon, behind shea butter and lanolin, the textbook diagram of the recipe, butter for body, lanolin for grip, wax early enough to hold. It stands third of 10 in the Grave Before Shave, behind coconut oil and shea, the classic opening on the shelf’s thinnest full document. It stands second of 17 on the Every Man Jack’s retail label, the highest seat on the shelf, and eighth of 18 in the same maker’s current catalog, where the wax has changed species to candelilla and the formula has gone vegan under the same lid. It stands 13th of 21 in the winner, behind two other waxes, the candelilla ninth and an emulsifying wax behind it, which is exactly the light hold the winner’s wearers report: the seat predicts the behaviour, as it did for the clay. It stands fourth of the four items the skip’s maker names. And in the two creams it does not stand at all, at any seat, in either list, the column’s zero. Read the seats together and they are the shelf’s real ranking in miniature: the wax earliest where the architecture is most classic, latest where the document is thinnest, and absent where the category word is doing the heaviest work. A buyer could sort this shelf by the wax column alone and arrive within a seat or two of the Card’s order, which is another way of saying the list, read in order, is the recipe’s proportions, exactly as the Card’s basis prints.

Count the scent last, because it is the count the tins’ lids are loudest about. Five of the eight records file their scent inside a single Parfum or Fragrance entry, one word carrying the whole formula: 11th of 26 in the Scotch Porter, ninth in both of the Every Man Jack’s records, ninth of 13 in the Duke Cannon, 14th of 24 in the Bulldog, and present on the Cremo’s packaging-derived record at a seat no reader can verify. One tin, the Grave Before Shave, closes its ten-entry list on the two words Essential oils, a catch-all carrying the entire scent system of a line sold in some 14 blends, bourbon and bay rum and pine filed under one plural. Two records carry their scent as named oils only, the winner’s six essential oils itemised in the list’s third through eighth seats, and the Duke Cannon’s orange and clove riding beside its Fragrance entry. And then the count that organises the column, the one the lids print in their largest type after the category word itself: of the five tins sold on a named scent, the Every Man Jack’s sandalwood, the Viking’s sandalwood, the Cremo’s forest blend, the Duke Cannon’s redwood and the Grave Before Shave’s bourbon, the named material appears as an ingredient on one, the sandalwood oil at 11th of 18 in the Every Man Jack’s catalog list, a list its own retail label does not match. Four lids out of five name a material the tin’s documents do not contain, contain only inside a closed word, or cannot be checked for at all. Behind both counts stands the shelf’s constant, the grooming run’s constant: a percentage printed for any ingredient, zero of eight, so that even where the wax stands and the scent is named, the proportions of the recipe are a reader’s inference from seats, on a shelf whose name is a recipe.

The growth sentence closes the census, because it is the record of what fills a document when the recipe will not. Counted across the field, the outright growth promise is made by none of the eight, one better than the oil shelf managed. The borrowed language is made by one: the Scotch Porter’s retail copy promises that its balm promotes healthy facial hair growth, its maker’s collection page says the line’s key ingredients actively condition and encourage beard growth, and the biotin its retail title sells stands 25th of 26 on its own list, in a tin with no wax, sold under a recipe word, promising an outcome no cosmetic list can carry. The Card grades the sentence as copy, and this column’s interest in it is structural: it stands on the shelf’s fullest maker-published list, the document that proves, item by item, that the tin is a conditioning cream, beneath copy that sells it as a growth balm. The better the list, the plainer the gap between the tin and its text. And the honest sentence in the field still stands where Card No. 88 printed it, on a competitor’s sales page: beard growth is determined by genetics, and a topical product cannot change it. The beard shelf’s one sentence about what a tin cannot do was written by the house that declined to sell the tin on it, and the shelf has now run two Cards under its government.

What the missing wax costs

The first cost is the purchase made on the word. The balm shelf exists because a beard past a certain length needs persuading, and the persuading agent in the recipe is the wax and only the wax: butters condition, oils condition, and neither sets. A buyer who reads the category word, as the category intends him to, and buys the Scotch Porter or the Bulldog for hold has bought a conditioner in a balm’s clothing, and his beard will tell him so on the first windy day, in the only review that cannot be argued with. The Card’s own decision section prints the routing honestly, the two creams under the heading conditioning without hold, but the routing is the desk’s repair of the shelf’s signage: the lids themselves route no one, and the routing a buyer actually receives at the shelf edge is the word balm, in the largest type, over a water-based list. The cost is not that the creams are bad products; the Card grades them fourth and fifth on the shelf, ahead of two honest balms with thinner documents, and their reported wear matches their lists. The cost is that the category’s signpost points at a function a quarter of its tins do not contain, so the signpost, not the products, is what a buyer can no longer trust, and a category whose word cannot be trusted sends its buyers to the one instrument that still works, the list, which on six of eight records is not published where the product is sold. Each failure feeds the other, and the feed is the finding.

The second cost is the adjective market the missing recipe sustains, and on this shelf the market is in names at two scales. At the tin scale, the scent names: sandalwood twice, forest blend, redwood, bourbon, evocative words that price a story the list either files inside a closed entry or does not contain at all, the named material standing as an ingredient once in five tries. At the category scale, the word balm itself, which costs a cream nothing to wear and earns it the balm buyer’s errand, his expectation of hold, and his shelf space beside tins that pay for the word in wax. Names, in this run, have been graded in every dialect: Take No. 5 found the name hiding a number, Take No. 11 found the name standing where an ingredient should be, and this issue’s parent found the name absent from the list entire. The balm shelf adds the dialect in which the name is not a product’s but a category’s, printed by eight competing houses over tins their own documents divide into two species, so that the word’s meaning is maintained by exactly the five tins that honour it and spent by the three that do not. A word spent that way does not hold its value: every cream sold as a balm teaches its buyer that balm means a beard product in a tin, and the recipe the word carried for a century becomes a style of packaging. The makers of the true balms, the textbook architecture at 80, the fullest list at 82, are the ones taxed by the debasement, and they are taxed in the only currency this column trades in, which is that their word, printed honestly, buys less belief each year it is printed loosely by the shelf beside them.

The third cost lands on the documents that did everything right, as it landed on the razor shelf in Take No. 23. Two makers on this shelf publish their full lists on their own ground, and read what their honesty buys them. The Scotch Porter’s complete list, 26 items in the open, is the document that proves its tin is not a balm: the maker is convicted by his own transparency, in this column and on the Card, of everything the Cremo’s silence is merely suspected of. The Every Man Jack’s catalog list, the shelf’s second full publication, is the document that convicts its own retail label of being a different formula. Meanwhile the tin with no list at all keeps its wax unverifiable and its claim ungraded beyond suspicion, and the tin with two short disagreeing lists was caught only because it published twice. A shelf that punishes publication and rewards silence in this pattern will get less publication, and the two-of-eight count of maker-published lists is what that incentive looks like after it has run for a while. The column’s standing offer therefore applies here in its plainest form yet: the maker who prints his full list on his own page, with the wax seated where his copy says it is, will be named at the top of the re-argued column, and on this shelf he would not even need to be first by much. He would need to be third.

The other side, stated fairly

The case against this Take is a serious one, and it runs in four parts. First: balm is a texture word now, and language is allowed to move. In modern cosmetic usage the word names a register and a consistency, the rich, slow, waterless-feeling end of a category, and it has already moved once: cleansing balms are oil systems, lip balms are wax systems of a different architecture, and no buyer of either feels defrauded by the recipe this column treats as constitutional. The beard creams feel like balms in the hand and on the hair, they are sold beside the balms, reviewed as balms by the publications the buyers read, and a word whose meaning is set by its users has been reset, legitimately, by a decade of them. Second: the lists themselves are honest, and the desk’s own Card says so. Water stands first on both creams, in print, at the head of documents any buyer may read, and the Card prints that each list states the fact plainly to anyone who reads it. A name is a shelf label and every category has them; the document is the truth, the document is not hidden, and a column that grades documents should be the last to convict a maker whose document is complete, on the wording of his lid. Third: the water-based form is a genuine formulation advance, not a costume. Emulsion systems deliver conditioning agents a melted wax cannot carry, wash out without a clarifying shampoo, spread without the palm-melting ritual, and serve the shorter beards most wearers actually grow; wax is the nineteenth century’s solution, kept by tradition and by the long-beard minority, and grading a modern cream against a heritage recipe mistakes nostalgia for a specification. Fourth: scent names are evocative across the whole of cosmetics, and no shelf itemises them. Fragrance is a protected formula everywhere in the industry, Parfum is the legal line for it on every list this run has graded, and a tin named for a scent delivers that scent to the nose whether or not the source material is an entry; the sandalwood the buyer smells is in the tin, as fragrance, and a count of named materials as ingredients measures an expectation the industry has never set on any shelf.

Each part is true about something, and the record answers each on its own ground. To the language limb, the strongest of the four: conceded that words move, and printed in the thesis that the recipe reading is the trade’s historical one. But a word that has moved leaves evidence of the move, and here the evidence runs the other way: the creams’ own makers do not sell them as a new kind of balm, they sell them on the old word’s promises, hold, shaping, control, the Scotch Porter’s sibling copy reaching for pomade, the Cremo for pomade outright, the Bulldog’s home copy conceding light hold as if hold were the jar’s to concede. The word has not been reset by its users; it is being borrowed against its old meaning by the very tins that would benefit from the reset, and borrowed meaning is spent the first windy morning the cream cannot do the wax’s work. When a maker renames his cream a cream, or sells it on conditioning alone, this column will print the language as moved. Until then it prints the loan.

To the honest-list limb: agreed, and this issue prints it at full size, the two creams carry the shelf’s most available documents and one of them its fullest maker’s page. The answer is in what the honesty is asked to cover. The list is the truth told in the document’s own dialect, in the small type, at the back of the tin and the foot of the page, and the lid is the claim told in the category’s. This desk grades the two documents against each other on every shelf, the copy against the list being Take No. 13’s whole argument, and a complete list does not acquit a contradictory name any more than a complete panel acquitted the bottles in Take No. 22, whose documents existed entire and were withheld from the page that sold them. Here the withholding is of one word’s meaning, and the list’s completeness is what makes the case provable rather than what makes it innocent: it is because the Scotch Porter prints all 26 items that anyone can count the waxes in it and arrive at zero.

To the advance limb: the formulation is real, and the Card prices it, grading both creams as creams and seating them above two wax balms whose documents are worse. Nothing in this issue asks the creams to be balms in performance; it asks them to be creams in name, which costs the formulation nothing and the marketing one word. The advance argument proves the product and concedes the column: a technology that must borrow the previous technology’s name to be bought has not yet been sold on its own merits, and the makers’ own copy gives the reason, which is that hold is what the shelf’s buyers come for, and the cream’s honest offer, conditioning without hold, is printed by the desk as a by-need ruling because no maker on the shelf prints it as a headline. Nostalgia is not the standard here. The standard is the one the Card applies to every tin, that the name and the list describe the same object, and a 2026 emulsion can meet it as easily as an 1890 melt, by saying what it is.

To the scent limb: agreed that Parfum is the legal line and that no regulator asks a maker to itemise a fragrance. The count this issue argues from is narrower than the limb answers. It is not that the scent is filed as fragrance; five tins do that and are charged nothing for the filing. It is that four of the five lids name a specific material, sandalwood, redwood, bourbon, a forest, as the tin’s identity, and in four of the five documents that material does not stand as an ingredient in any form, entry, extract or oil, while in the fifth it does, at 11th of 18, proving the naming can be cashed when a maker chooses. The Viking’s case is the count’s floor and the limb’s limit: its sandalwood stands in neither of its maker’s lists in any form at all, not even inside a Parfum entry its documents bother to print, so the defence that the scent is present as fragrance cannot be run for it from anything its maker publishes. Evocative naming is the industry’s habit. A named material that exists nowhere in the maker’s own documents is not an evocation. It is an ingredient claim with no ingredient, and the shelf’s one honest sandalwood is the proof that the claim and the contents can be made to meet.

The picks, as published on the Card

The discipline for using any of them is the Card’s, unchanged: buy the tin on its list, the wax’s seat read as the hold’s address, the scent read as an ingredient only where it stands as one, and the cream bought as a cream where conditioning is the errand, under its own name in the by-need rulings the Card prints. The standing offer of this column applies to the beard shelf in its own terms, and it is the cheapest offer the column has made, because the apparatus is one word deep: the first maker on this shelf to sell his cream as a cream, or to publish his balm’s full list on the page that sells it with the wax where his copy says it stands, will be named here, at the top of a re-argued column, the same day the document can be read. No recipe needs reformulating, no tin needs retooling. One honest label, one published list, and the word balm will mean on that tin what it has meant for a century.

What this page does not claim

On the evidence. This page scores nothing and tests nothing. Every score, row, price, figure and count is Verdict Card No. 111’s, reproduced exactly as that Card published it, and the Card’s own evidence discipline stands behind them: the desk grades published documents, makers’ pages, catalogs, packaging records and reviewers’ reproductions as read, and asserts nothing about what any balm does in any beard. No tin was opened, no balm melted and no beard shaped for the Card or for this issue. The counts this Take adds are counts of the Card’s printed record, the wax named on six of eight records, the verifiable architectures dividing five anhydrous balms, two creams and one unpublished list, the named scent present on one of five, and are printed as counts so they can be recounted. Where the Card’s record rests on a document that moves, the graded version is the one named: the Every Man Jack in both of its formulas, the Grave Before Shave’s list as reproduced from the maker’s by reviewers, the Cremo’s blend claim graded as a claim and its packaging enumerations graded as none.

On the brief’s premises, checked against the record. This issue was briefed on the beard balm Card, and the brief’s spine survived the record: a balm is wax plus butter plus oil, the wax stands in only six of the eight tins, two ranked balms are water-based creams with no wax of any kind, each list stating it plainly and neither name saying it, and of five tins sold on a named scent the named material is an ingredient on one. Two precisions the record insists on, printed rather than absorbed. First, the two creams are not convicted of being creams: the Card grades each as itself, credits what its document does well, and seats both above two true balms, so the charge argued here is the name above the list and the hold language around it, not the products’ performance, which this desk has never tested and does not grade. Second, the wax count and the architecture count are different instruments and are never merged on this page: wax is named on six of eight records, the sixth naming being the Cremo’s three-item blend claim, while the architectures a reader can verify divide five, two and one, and any sentence that spends either count prints which one it is spending.

On what balms do. Nothing on this page says any tin holds or fails to hold any beard, softens or fails to soften, beyond what the Card prints as reported wear checked against what the formula predicts, quoted here as the Card’s reporting. The hold argument throughout is architectural, not experiential: wax is the recipe’s setting agent, its absence from a list is a fact about the document, and the consequence drawn from it is the Card’s own, that a cream’s hold is the light tidying a cream can give. The growth sentences quoted are graded as copy wherever they appear, and the one outright refusal in the field, Beardbrand’s genetics sentence from the oil shelf, is quoted as a document. This issue’s argument is about what is printed for a reader to read before the purchase: a category word, a list, and the distance between them on eight tins.

On the photographs, and on the record moving. There are no photographs of ranked products on this page because there are none to print: the photo bank holds no beard balm, tin or bathroom-shelf photography of any kind, a gap the Card names on its own page, and the hero and figure here are frames of the subject itself, the Card’s own hero and a beard at working length, captioned for what they show, which is a wearer, not a recipe. The record itself moves underneath this argument: the Every Man Jack’s two formulas are both in circulation and which one a given jar holds cannot be told from its front; the Bulldog’s current list is thinner than its 2019 formulation, its maker’s own edit, so the cream’s recipe has already been revised once under one name; the Cremo’s list may stand in a document this desk could not open, and the day it is published the tin joins the countable shelf; and any maker may rename, reformulate or publish at any time, each of which moves the Card first. The scores and the rule stand as published until a cited record changes; when one does, the Card moves first and this Take is re-argued from it, in the open.

Questions, answered from the record

Next

The record this issue argues from stands in full at Verdict Card No. 111, the beard balm ranking, where every list quoted here is printed with its provenance, every tin carries its own card, and the architecture paragraph this issue argues from stands in the Card’s own words. The shelf beside it is the beard’s other purchase: the beard oil Card, No. 88, where the conditioning half of the recipe is graded on its own lists, the refusal of the growth sentence was first printed, and the same house’s Classic oil won at 85 the shelf this issue’s winner stands second to in its own family. The kinship runs three ways: Take No. 6 is the parent argument, the name is not in the list, since there a shelf was sold on an effect carried in its products’ names and the named thing stood in none of the graded lists, one word missing from every document it advertised; while here the absence has widened from a word to a substance, the defining material of the category itself missing from two tins entire and unverifiable in a seventh, and the tin-level name, the scent, missing from four of its five lists, so the parent’s missing word has become this issue’s missing recipe; Take No. 5 is the grandparent, the name is not the number, the line of descent No. 6’s own Next prints, there the name hid a number and in the parent it hid an absence, and the line runs one step further here, the name now hiding a composition, with the category word itself, the largest name on any tin, doing the hiding for everything beneath it; and Take No. 23 is the nearest sibling, the edge has no number, since there the shave’s defining property carried no measurement anywhere and the claim rode on titles, platinum, chrome, Hi-Stainless; while here the beard shelf’s defining material carries no presence in a quarter of its tins and the claim rides on the category title itself, balm, one word over eight tins, two of them creams, the largest title claim in the grooming run. The franchise so far: No. 1, grooming is sold by the step and works by the habit; No. 2, the number nobody prints; No. 3, one tube, two honesties; No. 4, the pair graded as one record; No. 5, the name is not the number; No. 6, the name is not in the list; No. 7, the number is not the dose; No. 8, the minute is the dose; No. 9, the ritual is not an ingredient; No. 10, the hold is an adjective; No. 11, the name is not an ingredient; No. 12, the burn is not the proof; No. 13, the copy is not the list; No. 14, the number is in another country; No. 15, the rinse is not the dose; No. 16, the step is not a species; No. 17, the oil stands fifth; No. 18, the law prints the number; No. 19, the technology is not dosed; No. 20, the figure is not a scale; No. 21, the clay stands third; No. 22, the panel is not on the page; No. 23, the edge has no number. How every score on this site is built is set out in the methodology. The Takes continue by number; the next one starts, as this one did, from a record that already exists or a blank that is printed as one.