04 November 2003 18:21
Yes - you'd think, wouldn't you, that someone who is not only an accomplished merchant banker, but also a fencing master, friend of the aristocracy, and quite posibly a brain surgeon to boot, would have a far more polished, precise, and indeed correct prose style. I couldn't help thinking he may have had the germ of an idea last week if only us poor mortals could understand it. But I do seem to recall he's had germs before, and judging by the look on his face, he ain't shaken them off yet. Probably trying to drown them in Doom Bar, or John Smiths Smoothflow or whatever they get in Lunnun.
Talking of which, I have just discovered the Old Chimneys Brewery. I'll be working my way through the range for you, but so far the Great Raft bitter, The Meadow Brown mild, the Black Rat stout, the Leading Porter porter, and the Golden Pheasant bitter are all pretty OK. I might head over there Saturday to restock...
05 November 2003 08:44
Perhaps, in those various roles, he's had one too many liquid business lunches, poked himself in the brain with an epee, been guillotined and botched his own operation. Then again, maybe he is just cutting out the unnecessary journeys by manifesting the Doom Bar straight into his bloodstream!
Or quite possibly living in the Big Stench has a debilitating effect on his ability to pass himself off as a sentient being (it seems to have had that effect on most of the visitors emanating from that bum boil of a burg).
PS. If you've shifted that lot already don't you think you might have to give the Old Child Chimney Sweep a bit more time so that they can restock?
05 November 2003 15:39
We are beginning to get the tiniest little possibility of a suspicion that there may exist the merest scintilla of a chance that he couldn't, in fact, manifest his way out of a damp paper bag. That's the trouble with these fringe Celtic Sunday league B saints, all mouth and trousers. Or cassocks.
Hope you've got over your burpday celebrations by now. You'll soon be as old as the rest of us.
Think I'll just go and see my new friend, Mr Chimney.
05 November 2003 17:31
Probably not in either case. Either he manifests the Doom Bar and swigs it or he doesn't. In either scenario, no one else benefits!
PS. I've just used 'either' in three consecutive sentences. My lack of rhetorical art leaves me depressed. Does that make me an either down?
05 November 2003 18:10
Either the Injun?
06 November 2003 08:09
That's a point. I wonder if you can get Ivor the Engine goodies. Do you remember Idris The Dragon? I'm sure Soupie wouldn't mind a bit of male draconic companionship during the long winter nights!
Now, if you'll excuse me I'm just off to lead an expedition to conquer the north face of the Either.
06 November 2003 08:34
Not sure I remember Idris, but wasn't there a man-eating, fire breathing dragon on Postman Pat which terrorised Greendale, tearing the heads off screaming, innocent children, burning people and their pets alive, and torching anything in it's path?
Remember to take plenty of oxygen with you, you'll be high up in the either on the north face of the Either.
.....or was that Jake and Dinos again?
06 November 2003 13:31
No, you're thinking of the episode where Tony & Cherie had the place levelled and the inhabitants deported so that they could enjoy a quiet family holiday.
06 November 2003 15:35
OH MY GOD! I've just realised that in my last electric mail I wrote "anything in it's path." This is, of course, completely, utterly and despicably wrong, and should have read "anything in its path." I apologise unreservedly to your reader, and will at once don sack cloth and ashes and crawl on my hands and knees to the Old Chimneys Brewery in an attempt to gain absolution. Or possibly oblivion.
Talking of which, I was put in mind of the old quotation:
"I feel no pain dear mother now,
But oh, I am so dry!
O take me to a brewery,
And leave me there to die."
Which, so Google tells me, is by Anon. I thought it was by somebody else (VJ?). Perhaps your learned and erudite correspondents could enlighten us. Or, failing them, Winwaloe.
06 November 2003 17:42
I'm sorry, it has been a long day and I am unable to indulge in flights of poetical fancy.
Other than to say I was musing on the poppies and the current crop of imbeciles in the pub and thinking 'most of these people think that Wilfred Owen used to be in Take That and Siegfried Sassoon is a hair stylist'.
How come we never hear their stuff orated in memorial services? How many people know that Benj Britten put Owen's stuff to classical music to create his War Requiem? A gilt-edged case of prophets without honour in their own land.
Winter thoughts. I hope no one else (a la Borheady) will try to crucify me for an off-the-cuff (Erich Maria) Remarque.
The f-wits have probably no idea of what I blather but I remember them.
07 November 2003 07:48
Send them off to see "Oh, What a Lovely War"
But you've got me with Borheady.
07 November 2003 08:46
What are you doing with Borheady? Put him down immediately, you might catch something narsty off him (like idiocy)!
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