A Minor Alteration (Brutal Tailoring in Andaluz)

It doesn't happen too often thankfully, given my propensity for frequenting bars of notoriety, that I get into an unresolvable disagreement with a fellow fool. Thus it was last Saturday that a gentlemanly disagreement compelled me to turn a chair over a chap of minimimilist logic. He left quickly.

I felt badly afterwards but felt much worse when a fellow patron of the bar pointed out the poorly executed alteration the fleeing fuck-wit had made to my jacket. I was however relieved that I managed retain some dignity; my silk pocket square stayed in place during the entire cuffufle.

I usually remove my hat before embarkation, as this usually signals to any fellow wrangler of my unhappy intentions, i.e. To instill a firm understanding of “The Gooobye Look.” He shall be hearing from my Tailor!


I was murdered by Tufty

As the accident occurred, my life flashed before me recalling, amongst other dull things, a succession of dead squirels, their entrails strewn across the Tarmac in gruesome spatterings in bloodied homage to Jackson Pollock. The regularity of those images seen upon the highways and byways of England's countryside, was evidence of a significance that had never occurred to me to question why?Until today.

When I was a child I was subjected, along with many million other unfortunate Sugar Puff addicts to a bombardment of propaganda featuring a cartoon squirrel that looked like a rat with an overacive thyroid gland dipped in red dye, his name was Tufty.

Tufty preached to children on the relative merits of crossing the road safely, he also went so far as to patronise parents by instructing them, should they care, to reveal the adult secrets of successful road traversing to their naturally suicidal toddlers. Tufty was an maniacal egotistic pompous lunatic lying bastard. How you say?

If the above seems to echo the language of the military, it is because it does. Drill you say?, Halt. Quick March you say? Off we jolly well go with Red Squirrel Von Barron.

So then to my accident. I had intended to march forcefully across a quiet village street here in Andalusia. As indoctrinated by Tufty, I looked dutefully Right then Left then Right again and guess what happened? I was killed, well almost, by an octagenerian man with Parkinson's disease on a moped with a dog in the front basket. I was killed, if not completely, by the thought that I might have met my end in such a trivial and predictable way. The oldman was totally unharmed and seemingly unaware of the accidents' occurrence, but the dog took note. I suppose it could have been worse, or better, if I had been terminated by a Mister Whippy icecream van, a demise that would surely have provided enough material for the uncomfortable suppression of a smirk at the funeral.

In the film The Italian Job Michael Caine advises his band of patriotic criminal getaway drivers with this final warning before they embark on their continental misdemeanour; “Just remember this, over there they drive on the wrong side of the road.” Well thanks for that Michael but Tufty got to me first with his fatally flawed teachings,

Thus it seems then that Tufty's campaign was to wipe out all future Brits trying to make their way Abroad. Perhaps he was the creation of a disenfranchised Musssolini protege.

The fact is the little red rodent had no idea how to cross a road. He had lied through his buckteeth to make money.


What the F££k? I might sue the bastard.