Chaps...

Here is a potentially dangerous part of the Monkstone Path. It occured to me that should anyone decide to end it all, this would be the ideal jumping off platform (no pun intended). The tree looks sturdy enough to bear a man's weight on the end of a rope but should the bough break, gravity will take over and the ensuing 70 foot drop should be enough unless the fall is broken by a slab of Upper Carboniferous limestone.
Should Charon feel cheated as he seemingly waits in vain for payment to cross the River Styx he will gain satisfaction from the advancing tide which will eventually submerge the broken form leaving the remains to be hygienically disposed of by dogfish, crabs, gulls and ravens.

All in all the perfect place to depart this mortal coil...

Folks,

Dux:

That is a lovely photo indeed. All your photos have been picture perfect of course.

The sea in your pix is clear and a beautiful Carolina blue. That is a good thing particularly so since you say the river stinks. The Welsh do have a quaint way of spelling English words. It must be a nasty trip indeed if you have to pay some bloke with a lady's name to row you across it. Don't they have power boats and bridges in Wales?

I do hope that seriously dangerous drop is not on your way to or especially from your favorite watering hole. If it is it might be devilish tricky if not to land on that bough then to hold onto it until help arrives. If I were you, I'd do a little local research to figure out what the Welsh word for 'HELP' is and the best, most compellingly pleading way to pronounce it. To be extra safe I'd Google the word "repelling" online and take some notes. They could come in quite handy.

Unfamiliar with the climate of Pembrokeshire, I'm wondering jf you'll have snow for the holidays? We probably will not as usual. Today we had blue skies with morning temps hovering in the 50s F. They have stayed there all day. They may drop into the low 40s F. tonight. According to my little weather station, visibility is 10 miles however as it is dark now I have my personal doubts about that.

Greetings all,

Apologies for my absence, i have had the notice through that i am due re-assignment and will be based in Germany from January. So it's off to the land of sausages and lederhosen for me. I haven't done much flying recently, so i hope everything is well with you all and i should be on here again before Christmas........

Folks,

DK:

Welcome back and bon voyage. I understand that living conditions in Sausage country have improved markedly since 1945. I wish you the very best my friend. I look forward to your return to the forum.

It has been some time since I could do any flying at all and I do miss it. When I visited C51 in Canada in the summer of 2015 I was able to see a spitfire up close for the first time. That was a joy for me. I also stood under the yawning bombay doors of a restored Lanc. I shall never forget all that and the hospitality of C51, his wife, family and all the Canadians that I had the great pleasure of meeting. May your days in Germany be just as interesting and pleasant.

For a time I was able to get "Cliffs of Dover" up and running and I enjoyed that but COD never replaced the pleasure of flying BoB even though at the time I was unable to benefit from the new BDG patches and later when I had a better computer system and could have run it fully patched BoB would not function with Win 10. Just bad luck or just deserts for past transgressions I suppose.

Thanks for posting.

Folks,

Dux:

I am unaware of the temperature highs and lows of your part of Wales. I imagine the sea has some effect. Here we are finally having some colder weather. Temps were down around 28 F./-2 C. last night and today with full sun the mercury is struggling to climb to about 40F./4 C. of course it is about time for it as the winter solstice is only a bit less than 2 weeks away.

I suppose you will sorely miss out on all the Druidic celebrations, rites, ceremonies and attendant falderol you have been accustomed to in the chilly Peaks Dist. of Derbyshire. On the other hand, just as I was checking Amazon to see if there was anything Druid-like I might send to you to help celebrate the Solstice as in the past, it came to me there are likely a few Celts and Druids around Pembrokeshire. Who Knew? I whipped out my newly minted copy of the 200th edition of the HWH handbook in 29 gilded volumes bound in beautifully hand tooled under water by rare Welsh pygmies in finest Welsh mock turtle skin. Sure enough, on page 70,034 of volume 28 the very first entry lists a "Temple Druid Grade II". The John Nash house in West Wales, Pembrokeshire.

Principal Area: Pembrokeshire
Ceremonial County: Dyfed
Country: Wales
Sovereign State: United Kingdom
Post Town: MAENCLOCHOG (I defy anyone other than a born Welshman to pronounce this correctly)

It is named after a series of standing stones and cromlech. As you would know, but I did not, a cromlech is a megalithic tomb consisting of a large, flat stone laid on upright ones. According to vol. 28, at least from what I read during the 30 seconds I perused it before dropping off to sle... stopping to eat a sandwich and take a short nap, there has been quite a bit of Druidic activity where you are.

One might therefore suspect that there could be at least something planned by someone to celebrate something like the Solstice in your neighborhood. At least there might be a glorious bonfire, trees to hug, gallons of honeyed mead for the drinking from ceremonial animal horns and maybe a certified virgin or two for (ceremonially) despoiling. This of course provided there are any virgins still to be found in your part of Wales. Your having been to Wales so often gives me less reason to hope. I'm told that the likely beauty of any virgin past the age of 21 is often in inverse proportion to the number of years they have continued to be one past the age of 21.

I will therefore cancel my rush order, guaranteed to arrive in time for holiday giving, for a complete set of genuine Druidic ceremonial gear including: (1)plastic hood with ties,(1)deluxe plastic robe with secret symbols printed thereon, (1)6 foot, machine carved wooden staff with gnarled end and a 2" inlaid Cubic Zerconia jewel. And I must not leave out, if I place my credit card order before December 15 I would get free shipping and (2) one size fits all, genuine, imitation leather Druid sandals color: brown.

Happy holidays friends, and you too Dux.

Folks,

Do any of you gentlemen remember a very talented holiday decorator by the name of Aretha Holly? She was the go to person for everything decorative from seasonal window dressings to in-home holiday decor both in the town and in all the stately homes of Studley Grange for miles around. Miss Holly was especially popular during every Christmas holiday season for years.

That Dux will remember Aretha I am absolutely sure. It was she, one fine December 1st, who handed him an axe and sent him off into a minor blizzard to fell a suitable fir tree, genus Abies to be precise. Said evergreen to stand a month on the town common especially during the annual Studley Grange Christmas Fete, Female Father Christmas Lookalike Contest and Fried SPAM Covered Dish Supper.

Perhaps in hope of currying favor with the base C.O., or maybe because Aretha Holly was strikingly beautiful, Wing Commander Dux,DFC, DSO, E,I,E,I O, had volunteered to help the town decorating committee that year. I must say in his defense that sending Dux off with anything sharp in hand charged with cutting pretty much anything down without precise parameters, meticulous cautions and at least the specific threat of all dire repercussions, both military and civilian that would fall upon his head should any of the former be ignored, was likely asking for big trouble. Sadly Dux received no such instructions from a trusting and possibly somewhat romantically smitten Miss Holly.

Supplied with all the required heavy drought (draft) livery and an elderly but still stately and clearly very powerful Shire horse (standing 18 hands high in fashionable black, flat, iron shoes) by the unlikely name of Pee Wee; Dux took the reins, yelled a respectable "GeeYup!" that instantly got all 1,525 lbs of shire horse muscle into first gear. Man and beast moved out of the town mews and set out into the blinding storm.

TO BE CONTINUED

Gents,

Roger; I don't think I ever had the pleasure of meeting Miss Holly, or if I did bump into her, it must have been during one of the blackouts. The Blitz Roger, the Blitz, not the sort of blackout courtesy of Chateau Thames Embankment blackout you were thinking of! How you were ever able to let that liquid pass your lips I never fathomed, it tasted far worse than fitter Stan's enema, which as you will remember was extremely high-proof and volatile due to the inordinate amount of coolant and glycol he consumed at all times.

Folks,

MG:

I'm not surprised that you never met Aretha Holly since you were stepping out with the homicidely jealous Mona Lott at the time. She kept a painfully tight rein on you, or so I'm told.

Speaking of blackouts, in truth, it was only Dux who had the phenomenal constitution required to imbibe that dreadfully caustic stuff in any quantity without a physician and ambulance with its motor running standing by. As for flatulent Stan, I recall that, after that unfortunate explosion, none of the men would smoke around him anymore.

Folks,

Those of you with masochistic tendencies who happily read through the beginning of this story posted above, do please feel free to read the following installment as many times as you wish. As for the rest of you, once may well be more than enough.

CONTINUED FROM ABOVE

An hour ago, Aretha Holly had stood for a long moment at her door watching Dux trudge away into the falling snow. From his foot prints she could easily gauge that the snow was now deeper than she had expected. Fixing her gaze upon Dux’s red hat, set jauntily upon his head, and then on the axe she had given to him, now resting upon his shoulder, Aretha saw that they were already coated with soft flakes. This she observed had happened even before Dux reached the rutted dirt road that was now nearly white with snow as well.

She watched, not without some justifiable marvel, as the decorated wing commander continued tramping purposefully ahead despite the obviously increasing wind and the pouring snow. It was half a mile to the town mews alone. Aretha was about to call the man back but all too soon Dux had now become all but lost from her sight. The large man’s form was now reduced to only a tiny dot moving slowly away in the swirling storm. He would never hear her call above the wail of the storm. Aretha sighed and mentally she wished him luck.

With an involuntary shiver, the women turned about and went back inside her home. Firmly closing her door against the storm, and also at the same time closing her mind from further concern for the dependable Dux, she bolted the big door. Despite tightly bolting the heavy oak door, Aretha still heard a rattle as the wind outside begin to whistle by and buffet her west windows. Then it became a howl above the crackling of the hearth.

As she returned to the pleasant warmth of her fire, the increasing wind flowing over the chimney top caused the hearth to blaze up shifting an ember and thus sending a beautiful spray of hot sparks that looked not unlike a shower of stars against the darker bricks above the flames. “How lovely indeed.” thought the delighted decorator. If only there were some way to create that delightful effect at the fete.

At the time, Aretha Holly had no possible way of knowing she had already set into motion events that guaranteed there would be many more sparks flying about in the snow of Studley Grange very soon.

TOO BE CONTINUED

Chaps,

Another trip back to Derbyshire for odd & ends. Came back on the train which took longer but less stressful.

JRT,

I have been through Maenclochog quite few times recently on the way to see K or stay over for a while. One night I missed the turn and had to ask a formidable-looking welsh lady the directions to that village which I knew was quite close to where I wanted to go. Obviously, I pronounced the name incorrectly and her correction showered me with a fine spray of spit which I ignored lest I hurt her feelings somewhat. I prefer to call it Cloggy.

K has now become engaged and broken many hearts as a result. I will attempt to PM you a recent pic.

Folks,

Dux:

You popped in just as I was typing. It is good to hear from you even when caught in the act of maligning your character as it were. Sorry about that (being caught, I mean).

The delightful "K". My sincere congratulations to the groom and my very best wishes to the most beautiful bride. I have the delightful photo in hand and if, the groom is neither larger than I, a karate expert or plans ever to visit the states, place that photo in a place of honor on my desktop this very hour. Gawd! I knew she was, as you Brits might say, a "corker" but oh, my goodness. Is there time before the nuptials for me to send her a very old photo of me? No! OK, I don't suppose she prefers older gents anyway.

Better start wearing your motorcycle helmet with the visor/spit guard in place in case you need to ask directions again mate.

Well gentlemen, just as you have hesitatingly checked your e-mail and, finding nothing from HWH, you were congratulating yourselves and possibly wishing blessings upon my head for not posting more unadulterated dribble this otherwise unblemished holiday season; I have spoiled your fun once more. As always, those too ill for the strain upon their nerves sending a suitably explanatory note written on a $20 bill by their mother or spouse will be mercifully considered exempt from today's reading.

CONTINUED FROM ABOVE

The last delightfully warm thing Dux would see for the rest of that awfully cold and miserable day came from the rear end of the horse. Relieved, his tail lowered and away Pee Wee plodded, the bells on his harness jingling merrily, with a not so merry old Dux hanging on the reins with a steady hand and a weather eye on the ah… well, the weather. Did I say “steady hand”? I meant to say “unsteady” hand upon the reins. One could have followed Dux that snowy day even without the large hoof prints left by the unlikely named giant Pee Wee or his own deepening footprints which were becoming more and more erratic and oddly spaced by the minute.

All one had to do, should anyone have been either ill advised or ill minded enough to wish to follow him into the growing wilderness of visually impenetrable snow, was to keep an eye out for the occasionally evenly spaced but always empty bottles of Chateau Thames Embankment Vin. several hours ago carelessly strewn along his path across the snowy tundra of rural Studley Grange and its lovely tree studded environs.

About to drain the final drop and toss away his last empty with a wink and a loud “hick-up” that was instantly blown away by the gale, Dux was having second, possibly even a third thought about the cutting down of Christmas trees in a blizzard business. What ever had possessed him he wondered? Here he was hanging on for dear life, being dragged through a blizzard behind a monstrous, feces disgorging beast, freezing his bum off for no good reason. Why had he allowed that wrong minded woman to talk him into this dreadful mess on a day like this? JRT had once warned him a woman would be the death of him. At the time Olga was the likely one to do him in.

Miss Aretha Holly, he suddenly determined, was rather a pushy sort and, on further reflection, not even all that lovely to look upon after all. Just then an evergreen branch hit him squarely in the face and, passing over his head, it dropped a pound of cold snow (could there be any other kind?)right down the back of his fur collar. Shaking his head hard in what proved to be a futile attempt to rid himself of the white stuff, he had only managed to get the freezing mass to settle down around his belt line where it would remain on this cold day un-melted for hours.

At that moment, and in mid shiver, he could have sworn he heard that evil horse Pee Wee snicker. Dux knew that malevolent, revengeful beast had intentionally pulled him under that low branch. But our hero had not (recently at least) fallen off a turnip truck. Dux realized PeeWee was his only hope to get home beyond his stumbling into a unbelievably wayward Eskimo with a dog sled and a compass. He needed Pee Wee to get back with or without the blasted tree. So, pondering on it for only a moment, Dux thought it might be far wiser not to throw that last empty at his delinquent minded horse’s head. He thereupon concluded the sound in question might have more likely been instead the sighing of the wind and the track taken had most likely been controlled by him.

Dux had completely gone off Aretha by now and wasn’t too keen on Christmas trees, snow or even horses as well. Aretha was indeed a difficult, opinionated, pushy woman thought Dux, who was now completely souring on the cause at hand. At the same time he was trying again unsuccessfully to shift the snow stretched out uncomfortably inside his shirt. With another uncontrollable shiver.he told himself he had a mind to turn around and go back and give Aretha Holly a good piece of his mind. Dependable to the end, he somehow thought better of it and did not. Yes, most of us who know him well might have, as perhaps you may have also observed, that he was right thinking on that score as he had precious little mind left to spare by the time he had finished that final bottle as it was.

Why, thought Dux, a bloke could throw this empty bottle into any thriving metropolis in Britain. A place literally filled to over flowing with all manner of male humanity without fear of even touching a single fellow who would willingly marry that women without first being completely anesthetized by strong drink. With that pithy thought held firmly in his dwindling mind, and carefully noted by the mildly worried Pee Wee, Dux discharged the last empty wine bottle in such a well practiced arc of such perfect symmetry that it stuck, off to his right, upright, and half hidden in a large drift. Hurump! Every boy would be holding up a ten card for that one! Let old Charlie Chunkboddle, an accomplished competitor for the weekly empty wine bottle toss at Old Merriweather Crutchbreaker's School for the Beastly Untidy and Chronically Rowdy Young Child, best that one, thought Dux proudly.

The wind was whistling by his very pink ears as he turned his powerful steed right into its full force. Man and horse headed onto a barely discernible path winding among a snow bent stand of tall evergreens that ran up one of the wooded hills that surrounded the town. The snow had lessened a bit but the light was beginning to fade now as the gray clouds of the storm descended upon the very tops of the trees hiding them completely.

This would make choosing a tree deucedly difficult observed the chilled and tiring Dux. Yes, dear reader, it would indeed.

TO BE CONTINUED

Folks,

Those of you who are still childishly minded or otherwise mentally resilient enough to have trustingly read through that last chapter unscathed or those who attempted reading without a strong libation on hand may be scratching your head right now thinking something like "Old JRT has certainly taken up smoking those unusually odd smelling cigarettes again." If you fall in either category you should perhaps run through the mess above again as I have attempted to improve it in several ridiculously hopeful edits done in a fit of pure, misplaced vanity I'd say. Well, I would say that if I weren't the author.

Of course to you the unaware, or the blissfully unconcerned, that may seem a bit of pure self effacement. Not at all. In fact, I cannot ever remember being anyone else but me; so I must therefore BE the author. Well, OK, there was that two week period after Olga threw me out that second story window, and I hit my head on the tree branch that slowed my fall, when I thought I was Winston bloody Churchill. After only two strangely unresponsive speeches in Parliament, those ice filled enemas, prepared by Matron, soon brought me 'round.

What's that? Someone said it was Dux who suggested that particular remedy to Matron.... DUX!!!

Folks,

Should anyone be wondering why anyone would post such childish rubbish on any page of our beloved forum, I would quickly refer you to the very first post on page one of the BoB forum where we are all admonished, upon pain of being expunged forever from the long list of those happy devotees allowed the high privilege of posting here, never to post mature material of any kind.

CONTINUED FROM ABOVE

Back in her comfortable home so conveniently located on the outskirts of the rural town of Studley Grange, Aretha Holly was looking out her frosty window at the heavily falling snow. The white stuff was beautiful to behold and only just now beginning to cover anything either less than a foot tall or unable to move elsewhere. How she loved the holiday season. This much snow was a huge bonus. She might well have thought of Dux and instead said to herself “a bonus for some”.

With an affectionate sigh, she wondered where Dux was and how he was faring on his quest for the perfect Studley Grange town common Christmas tree. She should never have allowed him to convince her to allow him to go out in such terrible weather. Whatever had he done to convince her to allow such a thing? Dux, she had determined, was a very pushy man indeed. Dux was in fact a military hero quite used to giving orders and instantly getting whatever he wanted. She didn’t care much for that. Aretha was used to giving the orders herself.

Yes, there was no arguing with a man like Wing Commander Dux. She turned back to the fire while suddenly wondering just what it was that had attracted her to the man in the first place. He was arguably handsome in his RAF uniform, she had to give him that. But he was also bone headed, overly willful, oppressively opinionated, unreasonably conceited, prone to lengthy, intolerable spells of bloviating and above all, incredibly certain he could do no wrong. Those were his only good points she finally concluded.

Picking up a large piece of wood for the weakening fire, she thought to herself that one could toss that thing into most any large city in Britain, a place veritably packed to the overflowing with women of every possible age, size and political persuasion, without the slightest danger of touching even one female that would agree to marry that impossible man unless she was completely anesthetized by alcohol or a full load of hallucinatory drugs.

Tossing the wood on the fire and rubbing her numbing hands to restore circulation, Aretha Holly solemnly promised herself to give the man a good piece of her mind, and perhaps surgically remove his manhood with her rusty kitchen shears, if’, and that was a big “if”, he managed to survive the storm and return to her with even one egregious complaint.

Several thousand snow drifts away, and blissfully unaware he had just been mentally emasculated, Dux was now standing in an unusually broad clearing, more than ankle deep in snow and eyeing a likely candidate for the Studley Grange town common Christmas tree now so conveniently in front of him and thus ready for chopping down. Standing by, but protesting, Pee Wee seemed somehow reluctant not to move on.

“Stop pulling you daft, (expletive deleted) beast!”, shouted Dux ,using his best Sergeant Major voice. As usual, Pee Wee, who had apparently never encountered a Sergeant Major, paid him no attention whatsoever. The protesting shire horse just snorted loudly, and knowing no puny man could ever hold him should he really wish to gallop off. Hope being eternal, one supposes, he lightly pulled on the reins once again.

Retrieving the very sharp axe, Dux, unwisely, as it would turn out, ignored both the protestations of the very intelligent horse and, oblivious to the fact that the “tree” in question was both unusually free of visible branches and almost perfectly straight as far up as his bloodshot eyes could see into the lowering gloom, he reared back and took his first powerful swing.

Missing his target altogether, this undoubtedly due to having guzzled down no less than six full bottles of wine in the past hour and a half, Dux involuntarily let go the axe which now shot off into the darkness with a discernible Whizzz! and instantly followed by another (but much stronger) but now deleted expletive.

Tramping after the axe, our intrepid, if rather slightly intoxicated, woodsman clearly heard, even over the roaring sound of the whipping wind, another, but rather much louder, derisive snort or snicker that came from the general but undoubted direction of his impatient draft horse.

This might be an opportune moment for me to mention, especially for all you animal lovers, that if horses could cover their ears I believe Pee Wee would have done so and in that way perhaps the innocent horse might have been spared hearing the veritable torrent of choice, and may I say, rather enviable and inventive stream of expletives let loose toward him at that particular moment. Unfortunately, though he anticipated the need for it and flicked both his ears away, he could not cover even one.

Returning, no, better make that staggering back with the axe, Dux took several more determined swings with the axe. All resulted in about the same lack of success as before other than his not letting go the axe again and with a clear but humiliating (at least for the embarrassed horse) lessening power as time and the number of futile swings progressed.

Although Pee Wee wisely tried his best to get Dux to move on to some other target, Dux was steadfast in his determination to fell that particular “tree” and none other. As the eternally ambitious, yet blind, bushy tailed rodent may eventually find an errant acorn has somehow fallen into his grasp, our intox…inebria… slightly tipsy woodsman, eventually hit pay dirt.. ummmm, make that “struck wood”.

This our boy accomplished with a loud and satisfying WHACK coming from the “tree” with the expected accompanying shout for joy from the surprised but highly elated woodsman. That exclamation of delight was followed immediately by an exceptionally loud and disapproving “GROAN” coming from the, ahh, from the horse. Much encouraged by his success, there followed many additional WHACKS as the axe repeatedly found its mark and struck the “tree”. Finally, it was clear to a worn out, but much warmer, Dux that just one more chop would drop the thing, possibly right in his lap.

This possibility, (Pee Wee, who has demanded editorial privileges, has asked me to change that to “probability”) was not missed by the horse who had so wisely managed to surreptitiously move a good bit farther away and out of danger during all the chopping.

The appropriate word “TIMBER!” forming on his rather painfully chapped lips, Dux spit into his palms, gripped the axe (tightly this time) and took one more powerful swing.

Regrettably,
TO BE CONTINUED

Just now catching up on your breathtaking adventure Roger. To distract me from watching the tumble drier. I am reminded when I first joined the Squadron as a junior sprog officer and everyone told me to avoid those two chaps sitting aimlessly at the bar as they were nothing but trouble and always larking about. I promptly went over and introduced myself. That's how I met you and Dux. remember that, chaps?!

Your tale sets the mood for the coming festive season perfectly whereas I can only relate how I was stuck in a queue on the outskirts of Copenhagen in Surburbia, witnessing Christmas trees being ferried home on the roof of the two of the cars in front of me, and driving around looking in vain for empty parking spots at one of the larger shopping malls. The Germans have a wonderful word for that; "parkraumsuchverkehr". The weather is so grey and dreary, semi-dusk prevalent most of the short daytime so I didn't feel like bicycling today, thinking Dux will enjoy Christmas in his new "Home By The Sea".

I have invented a new brilliant TV and am considering contacting Tim Cook, asking him to hire me to head the development of said TV. So far my search for Tim in my trusty old Rolodex has come up with very little to show for it.

Must dash, the drier has finished. Cheerio chaps!

Folks,

Thank you for reading and commenting. I wish you a very merry Christmas Jens and ditto that sentiment to anyone else that might be silently hanging about in the shadows this very cold and foggy day.

Readers, I realize it may be warm and sunny where you are, but, here on the east coast of the US, in NC, it has been quite cold with freezing rain here last night and dense fog this morning. We were far enough south to be luckier than Canadian C51 and our northern US brothers and sisters who are still enjoying the brunt of a bitter day of sub zero wind chills from what the Weather Channel so descriptively calls an 'Arctic Blast'. There was a little black ice here early this morning. However, as the freezing part of "freezing rain" ended early morning the danger from icy roads has greatly diminished. Fortunately for those who actually enjoy an exciting game of auto roulette, that icy condition was immediately replaced by the blinding fog.

Jens, I don't know anything about that new and apparently brilliant TV of yours. However, you have if nothing else, found the first reasonable excuse (the blues of wash day)I've ever heard for reading my curiously convoluted junk. Hmmmm. I gather that your idea might be for a Danish TV/Tumble Dryer combo. Great idea! We also have a tumble dryer and I bet many others that drop in from time (possibly also on wash day) do as well. Thanks awfully old chap. BTW, this would certainly be a (presumably safer) variation on that other "brilliant" TV invention idea that you came up with last year for a combination live fish tank and solid state color TV. Bravo! Let us know when that particular package is available for free delivery by drones on Amazon.

If I remember correctly, your previous invention prototype (not a flat screen) had some rather sticky but minor development problems. I have been dying to ask you two questions regarding that. 1) Did you ever manage to stop the water in the tank from leaking onto the bare wires and circuit boards on the TV chassis? 2) How long did it take for your scorched eyebrows to grow back?

Gents, Rog;

The drier idea didn't work out so well.... all was tickety-boo until I cut a hole in the front door of said appliance and there I was, covered in semi-dry laundry. Oh well, my new idea has far bigger scope and ambition. It will be a flatscreen and no, Roger, it doesn't involve any heavy-duty industrial equipment to squeeze the panel to it's desired proportions and flatness. Sorry to disappoint you on that score.

The first prototype, as you mention, didn't work out at all and I subsequently scrubbed that line of development completely so it went back to being a dedicated fish tank, and the scorched eyebrows grew out again in about 6 weeks.

Once I have taken out the patent for this new, much improved version of my McGonigle-Vision, I will let you and the readers know all about it.

Folks,

According to the latest gilt edged version of the HH handbook in 29 costly, hand tooled Komodo skin bound volumes, a widescreen aspect ratio was first seen in a movie in 1926. This technique was much refined by scientists at 20th Century Fox in 1953. This mind boggling innovation was developed in hopes of competing favorably with television. That was called CinemaScope. CinemaScope was soon followed in 1954 by VistaVision from Paramount Studios.

And so, my dear friends, in the natural course of scientific innovation, it has finally come to pass that we have McGonigle Vision coming to our personal home theaters. This perhaps to compete favorably with something else though I am at a loss right now to think of it. Wait, that could be cell phones! If so, I cannot find words to express my utter amazement and complete delight.

I have this very morning completed some superficial research regarding our dear friend Jens' largish team of Danish scientists and engineers assembled at the Victor Borge Institute of Applied TV Technology, Advanced Piano Tuning and Comedic Monologistic Research. A very tired Arassmus B. Dragen, chief scientific researcher, advised me that it had been a long and difficult two or three weeks of very difficult work. Further, although it had surely been a labor of love for most, everyone was elated by their success, but also bone tired. I would have asked a long list of even more probing questions had the poor man not fallen off to sleep.

Have you ever imagined an electric Bubblebath Despenser/Bathtub Ring Remover/Industrial Grade Toilet Bowl Cleanser with Heavy Duty Plunger Attachment combo? Get that patent for the TV and do keep up the good work MG!

Chaps,

JRT, Jens et al...

Despite the approach of Christmastide, that time which heralds thoughts of goodwill to all, I decided it was about time that your deliberate and blatant expose of my private life should be curtailed forthwith. I have forwarded a carefully compiled dossier of libelous material gleaned from these pages to my esteemed solicitors; Messrs., Hunt, Brunt, Lunt & Cunningham. You can expect them to be in touch with you directly.

Today, I visited the Church of St. Mary's in Tenby which proved to be the most uplifting experience since a certain Ms Parton tried on her first bra. Being virtually empty it afforded the spiritual comfort and relaxation that I most sorely needed after the pressures of recent weeks. The scent of oak pews, smoke from the candles and the very ornately carved stonework itself set the mood for quiet contemplation while the organ pipes vented Christmas tunes and other pieces of music which I could never put claim to having heard before.

After that spiritual cleansing I emerged into the street, now thronged with Christmas shoppers and congratulated myself in having attended such a holy place without having stripped some lead from the roof.

Christmas Day falls on Advent Sunday. I know that because it was proclaimed on an A4 sized printout detailing church events for December...right next to a County Council notice demanding that gentlemen must adjust their dress before exiting the nearby public urinal.

Folks,

Dux!

Don't get yer long winter undies in a twist mate. The only libelous statement I am presently aware of ever having been posted here were the several times when MG or I mistakenly referred to you sir as a gentleman. I shall therefore in all future posts refrain from doing so unless you instantly drop all charges.

Meanwhile, I will contact my own advising solicitors who are, as you must certainly know from painful past experience, Messers Grabbit, Quick & Hyde situated in the city of London down the alley but two doors West from the old Bailey in the same chambers as the highly respected barristers Kanwee, Cheetum & Howe. MG, I would recommend that you contact the firm of Shyster, Shyster, O'Neal and Praye located but one door farther down, just in case this becomes a class action suit.

You were in church you say? Anyone living there reading that surprising information and taking it seriously might reasonably assume that there will be a lot of heavy snow falling in the hottest regions of the Sahara desert this holiday season and therefore take all reasonable precautionary measures. I believe the last time you were reported to be in church that salubrious event was noted in the Studley Grange Evening Gazette, coincidentally, on the very same page that the local Vicar was reported to have found a gold candlestick and a full bottle of ceremonial wine missing. If it weren't for the threat of tedious and unnecessary court action against me I would otherwise feel much encouraged for your future spiritual well being.

Folks,

It is a rather chilly, drippy, drab and dreary day hereabouts. Even a day without sunshine can be a good day depending upon your personal proclivities and emotional outlook. On a day such as today I choose to remember one of those humid, hot, cloudless days back in August when I, in sweltering desperation, pointed an accusing finger up at Old Sol and wished he's hide his @$@!@@@## blistering face. That cheers me up just a bit.

Frankly I am a rather hot natured person. Preferring as I do the cooler to cold temperatures of our fall and winter to being roasted alive by the southern sun and/or smothered by the heavy moisture laden air. It does me good then to remember my acute suffering in the igneous atmosphere of those sizzling hot days of deep summertime. After such a long life living here in the south you'd think I might have acclimatized by now or at least come to better terms with the summer heat.

If nothing else, my fair skin, blue eyes, and light hair give a hint as to my likely ancestry. I am perhaps mandated by my genes to be better suited for Jen's territory than here in North Carolina particularly during the summer. Nevertheless, I consider myself a lifelong, fully fledged, card carrying son of Virginia and North Carolina. A true, blue, (wait, 'blue' doesn't sound right somehow). Them thar DamnYankees (one word) wore blue. OK, a true gray southerner then. Hmmmmm. That sounds very odd to me as well. OK, I have it now. I am a true red, white and blue southerner and very proud of it.

So, my unsolicited advice to anyone griping about the chill and not presently shoveling his long front walk without a snowblower or digging his car out from a deep pile of snowplow deposited white stuff, is to just sit back, take a very deep breath of forced, heat treated air, think of a hot summer, and just un-lax. Rest. You will need all your strength to get through reading the final installment of my story. that is coming soon to a forum near you.