It has been decided that the Mem and I should take a short holiday to recuperate from the stresses of our divergent realities. Thus, upon the weekend, we will be travelling together and in the company of understanding friends to our divergent destinations; she, the Mem, will be spending a pleasant week on the Northumbrian coast whilst I will be visiting Ganymede and testing the viability of the Struthius Warpdrive as well as seeking a suitable site for erecting the first Jovian system observatory which is currently taking shape in my back garden.
I have received a communication from my old friend and mentor Professor Premchandra (Omigosh) Chukkabhutti whose work in ultra low temperature physics has inspired the “Struthius Warpdrive”; he asks me to point out that should a failure occur* in the struthical containment field it will probably be due to the nails and poor quality glue that I have been forced to use as I ran out of screws - and not his design for the freezer unit!
He further points out that I have not made it clear that the nature of the “struthical” is so strange as it does not and cannot exist in nature and can only be described by a mathematical model involving the Clausius-Clapeyron equation modified by a string of sub-variable trans-ordinal Hamiltonians.
The good professor is due to visit India to lecture at the University of Jolliphur on his research into more efficient local climate control systems and will demonstrate the modified system fitted to his car.
We wish him well.
Well, there it is then, a week away existing in two mutually exclusive realities, the Mem in realis primus and I in realis hedonis. I’m buggered if I know where our friends will end up but that’s another day. I must sign off now as my cork leg has swollen due to the damp weather.
Sincerely, Klaus W. Schmellingpantz
* heaven forefend!!
Friday, September 28, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
De profundis
In my previous communication it was mentioned that Struthius was facing a further charge - which is that he has lost his grip on reality! Now, this rather begs the question as to the nature of reality. I (change to 1st. person) submit that I have, over some 50 years, been able to take a different and more all-embracing view of the subject and having been, from early youth, made aware of the philosophy of David Hume, Bishop Berkeley and others of the idealist school of thought I am convinced of the mutability of reality and time; a view perhaps supported latterly by A.N. Whitehead.
Now, it is a fact that from an early age it became evident to me that nature had equipped me with a mediocre mind and a lack of physical fortitude which, being the case, meant that the chances of my living a life of any interest or significance was minimal.
It was the historian/philosopher Diogenes Laertius in the 2nd c. A.D who tells of the anchorite Onan Tosoffalotides, a follower of Simeon Stylites, who in order to gain insight into the nature of reality mortified his flesh for 37 years in the desert living off a diet of grubby chitinous creatures, mushrooms and cactus. By his 12th year of solitude, no doubt helped by his diet of cactus and mushrooms (Probably a species akin to psilocybe semilanceata) he found himself living on his pillar with a friend Angus who cooked for him 3 times a week a meal which amounted to a menu of Petit porc roti avec pommes de terre nouvelle et legumes du jour et biere glacee avec un gros figment de l’imagination.
Given, therefore, that the mutability of reality has worked for others I see no need to apologise for creating what Suetonius has called realis hedonis. It has enabled the oft beleaguered Struthius to lead an enviable and fascinating life.
In my early 20’s I was able to follow in the footsteps of Hanibal and then to visit the Dalai Lama who was still in Tibet.
I have fought as a mercenary in the Congo where I was held prisoner by the pygmie Fukawe tribe. I lost my left leg to an enraged crocodile and was only saved by the fact that a passing contingent of St. Johns Ambulance volunteers (Hasting’s Branch) happened to be carrying a cork prosthetic which they were able to fit after some gruesome surgery.
I have enjoyed a passionate relationship with Miss Shirley Eaton, Miss Deborah Kerr (dressed as a nun), Miss Julie Andrews (dressed as a nun), Miss Mariella Fostrup (dressed as a nun) and Mrs. Margaret Thatcher (dressed as a woman). I still remember the nights of carnal delight with Samantha (I’m sorry I haven’t a Clue)
I have, created a spacewarp drive following my discovery of a particle to which I have designated the name “struthical”. It possesses neither colour nor charm and unless contained within a force field will move in ever decreasing circles finally disappearing up its own fundament.
Finally, in addition to finding some use for the Clausius-Clapeyron equation I have solved Bodger’s last theorem!
Well, there we are, I rest my case.
Worrying, isn’t it?
Now, it is a fact that from an early age it became evident to me that nature had equipped me with a mediocre mind and a lack of physical fortitude which, being the case, meant that the chances of my living a life of any interest or significance was minimal.
It was the historian/philosopher Diogenes Laertius in the 2nd c. A.D who tells of the anchorite Onan Tosoffalotides, a follower of Simeon Stylites, who in order to gain insight into the nature of reality mortified his flesh for 37 years in the desert living off a diet of grubby chitinous creatures, mushrooms and cactus. By his 12th year of solitude, no doubt helped by his diet of cactus and mushrooms (Probably a species akin to psilocybe semilanceata) he found himself living on his pillar with a friend Angus who cooked for him 3 times a week a meal which amounted to a menu of Petit porc roti avec pommes de terre nouvelle et legumes du jour et biere glacee avec un gros figment de l’imagination.
Given, therefore, that the mutability of reality has worked for others I see no need to apologise for creating what Suetonius has called realis hedonis. It has enabled the oft beleaguered Struthius to lead an enviable and fascinating life.
In my early 20’s I was able to follow in the footsteps of Hanibal and then to visit the Dalai Lama who was still in Tibet.
I have fought as a mercenary in the Congo where I was held prisoner by the pygmie Fukawe tribe. I lost my left leg to an enraged crocodile and was only saved by the fact that a passing contingent of St. Johns Ambulance volunteers (Hasting’s Branch) happened to be carrying a cork prosthetic which they were able to fit after some gruesome surgery.
I have enjoyed a passionate relationship with Miss Shirley Eaton, Miss Deborah Kerr (dressed as a nun), Miss Julie Andrews (dressed as a nun), Miss Mariella Fostrup (dressed as a nun) and Mrs. Margaret Thatcher (dressed as a woman). I still remember the nights of carnal delight with Samantha (I’m sorry I haven’t a Clue)
I have, created a spacewarp drive following my discovery of a particle to which I have designated the name “struthical”. It possesses neither colour nor charm and unless contained within a force field will move in ever decreasing circles finally disappearing up its own fundament.
Finally, in addition to finding some use for the Clausius-Clapeyron equation I have solved Bodger’s last theorem!
Well, there we are, I rest my case.
Worrying, isn’t it?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
For better or for worse
It’s been a strange and difficult time in the Struthius household leading to tensions between the Mem and myself.
I have grown used over 40 years of marriage to dismissing Mrs. C’s moithers concerning her appearance and weight in a manner least likely to cause misunderstanding or offence. Thus, in response to the oft asked question, “Am I getting fat?” the wisest response is, “No dearest heart, of course not.”
Following, however, 2 rather large post prandial brandies I fell victim to that hiatus between brain and vocal apparatus that occurs following copious alcohol consumption and feeling in the playful mood that usually precedes unconsciousness responded, when the matter was yet again brought before me, by saying, “No of course not dearest however,.....and here lies the root of the problem,…. I am constantly amazed at how far the human skin will stretch.” Bad Mistake.
Now, and with the benefit of sobriety I realise that given the fact that the Mem had posed the question just prior to retiring and herself in a state of dishabille it was not a good time to attempt levity.
The ensuing barrage contained not only the usual restating of my foibles and failures but an attack on my current tendency to blog which, I learn, only goes to show the world at large what sort of idiot I am (she apparently has more than one category). After several minutes of unbroken criticism she concluded with comment on my alcohol consumption.… “You’ll carry on ‘till it kills you and I’ll be left a widow!”
I, reasonably, pointed out to her the axiomatic nature of the first part of this statement (unless of course she knows something that I don’t, perhaps there is an afterlife) followed by the incorrect assumption contained in the second part which is that I have within my gift the power to leave her something in my will that I don’t possess. What I can leave include, a collection of “Boys Own Comics,” followed by 3 dozen copies of, “Spick and Span” circa 1960 plus my photos of Miss Shirley Eaton both of which assisted me through the delights of night manipulation during puberty. There are my slide rules, one 6” flat and one circular (a reminder of our wedding day). What I cannot leave is a widow!
Time has, however, healed and I’ve been allowed back on the Babbage engine. During this week a further charge has been laid before me but I shall the sad details until the next blog.
I leave you with this thought, “in vino veritas”
Sincerely yours, P.J. Cobbledick
Friday, July 6, 2007
Further lamentations
Peritis in sua arte credendum (Beware the know-all)
An event this morning has convinced me to enter into a diatribe against the self-styled expert, the enthusiast, the driven fiddler and tweaker for whom life's entire raison d'etre is the improvement of all that they happen upon.
Jerome K Jerome in his book "Three Men on the Bummel," makes clear his own antagonism towards the dastardly self-assured (the bike improver).
My own sad encounters with these blithe, excremental do-gooders began in the first year of marriage
My first T.V. set, cheap, second-hand and cheerful an excellent instrument until it fell under the scrutiny of an electronics expert, a visitor whose immediate reaction upon seeing it was a sharp intake of breath through pursed lips, "Oooh, your wobbulator's misaligned and the focussing coil needs re-setting, it'll just take a few minutes." Sadly the bastard didn't die when the set did; his excuse, "It was on it's way out anyway." So was he and 4 months elapsed before I could afford another T.V.
A year or two later, the story of my mortice chisels, sharp enough for D.I.Y needs and in a pleasant red plastic case. Enter stage left another bright bastard, again the required sharp intake of breath as I hacked a hole in the back door, "God knows how you can work with these, let me have them I'll have them sharp in no time." I was still young and green so instead of saying, "Thank you for your concern, fuck off," I relinquished them to the mercies of this enthusiastic Chippendale. After 2 weeks of phone calls their remains, now a good 3/4" shorter, were delivered back to me minus (of course) the hardened edges which now lay as filings beside this f***pig's* grinder. His excuse, "Had a little trouble with these, this is what comes of buying cheap tools and I'm sorry I've lost the case." Oh dear, 3 fucking useless lengths of soft steel and he apologised for the case!
Time heals, and so it came about that 4 years ago I fell foul of the smooth and convincing tongue of another enthusiastic fiddler. I had just finished cutting my grass when a former neighbour had the goodness to inform me that the motor on my mower was missing. I pointed out, quite reasonably, that had this been the case it wouldn't have started and in any case it was evidently still in place.
"No, no, no I mean that it's running unevenly, if you don't adjust it the grunge wheel will cause wear to the spigot drive, you'll ruin it, I'll adjust the carburettor for you."
Now, a brighter and more worldly person would, at this juncture, have simply stabbed him in the throat with the garden fork; I am kinder and stupid. The later cost of professional repair ran to £45!
This mornings encounter with a "Skoda" enthusiast on ASDA's car park who, in return for me opening the lid of my machine, was prepared to "advise me" on certain "improvements to the setting of (again, the carburettor) which would improve the m.p.g. of my motor. This led me, after an initial good natured refusal, to become quite scathing of experts and enthusiasts. He seemed a little put out at the thought of having his scrotum and its contents boiled and departed in a huff. I'm learning.
P.S. My self-appointed proof reader (the Mem) informs me that I owe any readers a missing word from my last Lamentation - "where"- Last paragraph. Satisfied?
* An appellation brought to my youthful attention by a certain Drill Sergeant W. "Billy" Wright which, he assured me formed the backbone of his descriptive vocabulary, used to describe the indescribable, the f***ing excremental and the totally f***ing useless. His words not mine but how apt.
Jerome K Jerome in his book "Three Men on the Bummel," makes clear his own antagonism towards the dastardly self-assured (the bike improver).
My own sad encounters with these blithe, excremental do-gooders began in the first year of marriage
My first T.V. set, cheap, second-hand and cheerful an excellent instrument until it fell under the scrutiny of an electronics expert, a visitor whose immediate reaction upon seeing it was a sharp intake of breath through pursed lips, "Oooh, your wobbulator's misaligned and the focussing coil needs re-setting, it'll just take a few minutes." Sadly the bastard didn't die when the set did; his excuse, "It was on it's way out anyway." So was he and 4 months elapsed before I could afford another T.V.
A year or two later, the story of my mortice chisels, sharp enough for D.I.Y needs and in a pleasant red plastic case. Enter stage left another bright bastard, again the required sharp intake of breath as I hacked a hole in the back door, "God knows how you can work with these, let me have them I'll have them sharp in no time." I was still young and green so instead of saying, "Thank you for your concern, fuck off," I relinquished them to the mercies of this enthusiastic Chippendale. After 2 weeks of phone calls their remains, now a good 3/4" shorter, were delivered back to me minus (of course) the hardened edges which now lay as filings beside this f***pig's* grinder. His excuse, "Had a little trouble with these, this is what comes of buying cheap tools and I'm sorry I've lost the case." Oh dear, 3 fucking useless lengths of soft steel and he apologised for the case!
Time heals, and so it came about that 4 years ago I fell foul of the smooth and convincing tongue of another enthusiastic fiddler. I had just finished cutting my grass when a former neighbour had the goodness to inform me that the motor on my mower was missing. I pointed out, quite reasonably, that had this been the case it wouldn't have started and in any case it was evidently still in place.
"No, no, no I mean that it's running unevenly, if you don't adjust it the grunge wheel will cause wear to the spigot drive, you'll ruin it, I'll adjust the carburettor for you."
Now, a brighter and more worldly person would, at this juncture, have simply stabbed him in the throat with the garden fork; I am kinder and stupid. The later cost of professional repair ran to £45!
This mornings encounter with a "Skoda" enthusiast on ASDA's car park who, in return for me opening the lid of my machine, was prepared to "advise me" on certain "improvements to the setting of (again, the carburettor) which would improve the m.p.g. of my motor. This led me, after an initial good natured refusal, to become quite scathing of experts and enthusiasts. He seemed a little put out at the thought of having his scrotum and its contents boiled and departed in a huff. I'm learning.
P.S. My self-appointed proof reader (the Mem) informs me that I owe any readers a missing word from my last Lamentation - "where"- Last paragraph. Satisfied?
* An appellation brought to my youthful attention by a certain Drill Sergeant W. "Billy" Wright which, he assured me formed the backbone of his descriptive vocabulary, used to describe the indescribable, the f***ing excremental and the totally f***ing useless. His words not mine but how apt.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Lamentations amd Punctuation
Dear readers, you, will, I'm sure have noticed that I employ a goodly number if commas, parentheses, semi-colons, interjections and other minor punctuation marks in my text.
For this, I make no apology.
I stand accused, close to home, of superabundant, even, dare I say, plethoric use of these devices; even my own "Babbage Engine" has turned against me chiding me thus:- ( this sentence is fragmented consider another option) Sodding cheek! "Infamy, infamy, they've all got it in for me." *
Well, the cheeks of my arse to my detractors!
I hold the view that if the Almighty had intended simple sentences then SHE would not have given us punctuation. What, I ask, is the point of all these little delights if they are not going to be used? Do my critics fear that they will run out, become exhausted through overuse?
Why do we have subordinate clauses and other grammatical sub-constructions if they are going to left in the drawer like unwanted gifts?** How would we successfully parse a sentence without guidance from the little buggers?
If complex sentences were good enough for Dostoevsky then they're fine by me.
Of course, I realise that there is some virtue in using punctuation correctly and I freely admit that my enthusiasm for giving it an airing oft supersedes care but "ARSE" I will not see these grammatical devices left unused.
I, further, hold the view that punctuation is truly Universal, indeed, that The Creator (Bless Her) has put in place a continuous creation of commas etc. (were Hoyle and Wickramasinghe almost right?) a veritable cornucopia, and that in all civilised societies including that on the small, but nicely marked, planet of P'tong in the constellation of Orion highly intelligent grubby little bastards are merrily puctuating with The Creator's (Bless Her) plenitude of grammatical gifts.
Well, that's it then, I suggest a collective noun for punctuation - a proliferation? What think you m'learned friends?
Finally, my thanks to "Junket" and "Biddster" for supportive comments (if they were) over the last week and the wizzard Rincewind wishes it to be known that his centipedal wooden familiar is never far away.
* Mr. K. Williams as Caesar.
** Who did buy us the Korean travel clock that plays the Korean national anthem, apparently backwards at warp speed?
For this, I make no apology.
I stand accused, close to home, of superabundant, even, dare I say, plethoric use of these devices; even my own "Babbage Engine" has turned against me chiding me thus:- ( this sentence is fragmented consider another option) Sodding cheek! "Infamy, infamy, they've all got it in for me." *
Well, the cheeks of my arse to my detractors!
I hold the view that if the Almighty had intended simple sentences then SHE would not have given us punctuation. What, I ask, is the point of all these little delights if they are not going to be used? Do my critics fear that they will run out, become exhausted through overuse?
Why do we have subordinate clauses and other grammatical sub-constructions if they are going to left in the drawer like unwanted gifts?** How would we successfully parse a sentence without guidance from the little buggers?
If complex sentences were good enough for Dostoevsky then they're fine by me.
Of course, I realise that there is some virtue in using punctuation correctly and I freely admit that my enthusiasm for giving it an airing oft supersedes care but "ARSE" I will not see these grammatical devices left unused.
I, further, hold the view that punctuation is truly Universal, indeed, that The Creator (Bless Her) has put in place a continuous creation of commas etc. (were Hoyle and Wickramasinghe almost right?) a veritable cornucopia, and that in all civilised societies including that on the small, but nicely marked, planet of P'tong in the constellation of Orion highly intelligent grubby little bastards are merrily puctuating with The Creator's (Bless Her) plenitude of grammatical gifts.
Well, that's it then, I suggest a collective noun for punctuation - a proliferation? What think you m'learned friends?
Finally, my thanks to "Junket" and "Biddster" for supportive comments (if they were) over the last week and the wizzard Rincewind wishes it to be known that his centipedal wooden familiar is never far away.
* Mr. K. Williams as Caesar.
** Who did buy us the Korean travel clock that plays the Korean national anthem, apparently backwards at warp speed?
Saturday, June 30, 2007
lamentations and slide rules
Do slide rules, as I remember them in the mid to late 60's still exist?Am I right in thinking that the truly avant-garde amongst the young carried a circular slide rule?
Friday, June 29, 2007
Lamentations continue
I'ts been a funny week, again.
Tensions in the Struthius household have been exacerbated by the following:-
1. An invitation to watch a friends play with their wee.
2. Upsetting the Memsahib (my dear lady-wife) by recounting a story of our wedding day
3. Failing to read the instruction booklet accompanying my latest car.
Last weekend found the mem and I visiting good friends where we were invited to play with their wee. Now, this is not a gross perversion for consenting adults involving bodily waste; it is a game (almost certainly Japanese) which requires the participant to hold a handset and flail his (or her) arms and generally cavort in front of the television in order to simulate sporting activity, (in this case tennis) following which, the machine gives an assessment of the age of the participant.
Considerable prompting and cries of "party pooper" eventually persuaded me to "have a go". It will come as no surprise, therefore, to those who know me that an assessment of my age based on speed and agility finally translated as being a few years older than "Heinrich" the 307 year old moribund tortoise of 17, Acaia Crescent, Galapagos! The mem is mortified.
An amusing but innocent story which I later recounted caused a frosting of marital harmony as I had not realised that the "D" notice slapped upon it 40 years ago by the mem. was still in place. It involved me, the mem, wedding photographs and a 6" slide rule, (do slide rules still exist?) I had intended to tell the story at the recent troglodytic wedding but given the reaction of "She who must be obeyed" it's a bloody good job that time ran out. I am, consequently, in the domus canem; woof woof.
On Wednesday I returned my car of 2 months (The Popemobile) to the salesroom with a faulty air vent. This slot on the dashboard had failed to produce wind since day 1. It is with a certain discomfiture that I must report that the "air vent" turned out to be a record machine for compact discs. This boob was well received at the garage who, to the mem's further mortification, have promised to treasure this story and recount it for the entertainment of future customers. My precarious intellectual standing in the eyes of the mem has dipped to an almost all time low.
On the whole, not a great week,
regards, A Pismo Clam B.Sc (Gt. Wittering) failed
Tensions in the Struthius household have been exacerbated by the following:-
1. An invitation to watch a friends play with their wee.
2. Upsetting the Memsahib (my dear lady-wife) by recounting a story of our wedding day
3. Failing to read the instruction booklet accompanying my latest car.
Last weekend found the mem and I visiting good friends where we were invited to play with their wee. Now, this is not a gross perversion for consenting adults involving bodily waste; it is a game (almost certainly Japanese) which requires the participant to hold a handset and flail his (or her) arms and generally cavort in front of the television in order to simulate sporting activity, (in this case tennis) following which, the machine gives an assessment of the age of the participant.
Considerable prompting and cries of "party pooper" eventually persuaded me to "have a go". It will come as no surprise, therefore, to those who know me that an assessment of my age based on speed and agility finally translated as being a few years older than "Heinrich" the 307 year old moribund tortoise of 17, Acaia Crescent, Galapagos! The mem is mortified.
An amusing but innocent story which I later recounted caused a frosting of marital harmony as I had not realised that the "D" notice slapped upon it 40 years ago by the mem. was still in place. It involved me, the mem, wedding photographs and a 6" slide rule, (do slide rules still exist?) I had intended to tell the story at the recent troglodytic wedding but given the reaction of "She who must be obeyed" it's a bloody good job that time ran out. I am, consequently, in the domus canem; woof woof.
On Wednesday I returned my car of 2 months (The Popemobile) to the salesroom with a faulty air vent. This slot on the dashboard had failed to produce wind since day 1. It is with a certain discomfiture that I must report that the "air vent" turned out to be a record machine for compact discs. This boob was well received at the garage who, to the mem's further mortification, have promised to treasure this story and recount it for the entertainment of future customers. My precarious intellectual standing in the eyes of the mem has dipped to an almost all time low.
On the whole, not a great week,
regards, A Pismo Clam B.Sc (Gt. Wittering) failed
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Lamentations and Questions
This week I have re-read after 50 years, "An Imitation of Christ" by Thomas a Kempis. This and the accompanying commentaries has, left me wondering why, in my youth, I was so impressed by the the views of this mystic Divine, particularly, his emphatic view on humility a quality that, then as now, was never my strong point; in short I am, and always have been an arrogant bastard..
It is interesting to note that in recent years I have re-read Dostoyevsky with the same result. What is it that so impressed me in my youth that I learnt Russian just to read him in his own language? Why don't I enjoy with the same sense of wonderment "The Idiot" or "The Devils"? Why is it that today I would much rather read Terry Pratchett?
Is it just a matter of changing emphasis in my life as I enter old age or is it a fundamental change of philosophical and literary taste? If the latter, when did this change occur? Does everyone experience such profound changes of thought and outlook as they get older? Is it, perhaps, that memory plays me false and the enthusiasm of youth just never existed?
Bollocks!, does it matter?
Sincerely,
Algernon Quim (aka Rincewind)
It is interesting to note that in recent years I have re-read Dostoyevsky with the same result. What is it that so impressed me in my youth that I learnt Russian just to read him in his own language? Why don't I enjoy with the same sense of wonderment "The Idiot" or "The Devils"? Why is it that today I would much rather read Terry Pratchett?
Is it just a matter of changing emphasis in my life as I enter old age or is it a fundamental change of philosophical and literary taste? If the latter, when did this change occur? Does everyone experience such profound changes of thought and outlook as they get older? Is it, perhaps, that memory plays me false and the enthusiasm of youth just never existed?
Bollocks!, does it matter?
Sincerely,
Algernon Quim (aka Rincewind)
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The Lamentations of Struthius
Well, here I am in the the 21st. century still equipped with a 19th. century mind. In my dotage I find myself "Blogging". Now, over the last 65 years I have in all honesty done and even practised (usually unsucessfully) some strange pastimes but blogging never!
It's been a funny old weekend rescued only by the company of good friends. On the home front I have been under siege following my return from Crete. I stand accused of being a humbug, a dissembler, a deceiver, a tartufe; this calumnous slander of my veracity I vigorously deny.
Well, say I to the accusing shitniks, Arse. I really did see the posted ad. for the Cretin night and the fact that it was almost 11 of the clock p.m. is the reason I did not have upon me my camera to add supporting evidence, short of purloining a board measuring about 2ft. 6" by 4ft and carrying the sodding thing back to the hotel with the attendant risk to life and limb by enraged Cretins I could only expect to have my story believed. Further, the refusal of my detractors to visit the site of the restaurant in the cold light of day the following morning only reinforces my sense of betrayal. The fact that these same doubters plus a coachload of others saw the later ad. outside Heraklion (Real Greek Food) has not softened the opinion of Mrs. C and others that I am tantamount to being a lying toad.
Sincerely, Eustace Mc Gargle
It's been a funny old weekend rescued only by the company of good friends. On the home front I have been under siege following my return from Crete. I stand accused of being a humbug, a dissembler, a deceiver, a tartufe; this calumnous slander of my veracity I vigorously deny.
Well, say I to the accusing shitniks, Arse. I really did see the posted ad. for the Cretin night and the fact that it was almost 11 of the clock p.m. is the reason I did not have upon me my camera to add supporting evidence, short of purloining a board measuring about 2ft. 6" by 4ft and carrying the sodding thing back to the hotel with the attendant risk to life and limb by enraged Cretins I could only expect to have my story believed. Further, the refusal of my detractors to visit the site of the restaurant in the cold light of day the following morning only reinforces my sense of betrayal. The fact that these same doubters plus a coachload of others saw the later ad. outside Heraklion (Real Greek Food) has not softened the opinion of Mrs. C and others that I am tantamount to being a lying toad.
Sincerely, Eustace Mc Gargle
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