"Welcome Sir Dennis! Make yourself at home," they keep saying to me. Well, I've got news for you, I've been trying to leave this place ever since I got here in 1959. Where are The Alps? Where's all this "skiing" I was told about? Now they're telling me this isn't Austria after all, but Australia. Well, blow me down. Why wasn't I told about this beforehand? Make no mistake, I shall be complaining to the proper authorities once I locate them.
But you've got to move on . . .
1997: what will it hold? Well, if it's anything like a fish tank, it'll hold a bit of water, a few weeds and some fish. Speaking of drinking, have you ever tried speaking while drinking? It's bloody good fun, I can tell you that. Of course, one tends to end up with a bit of tipple down the front of one's vest, but that's of little consequence when the thin-client crowd is nearby, if you catch my drift.
If you don't mind, I'd like to spread a bit of canned tuna on my forehead. It does wonders for the flies in that it doesn't so much attract them, as it says "Hello, I'm here and I'm doing a bit of moving around. Come aboard, if you like." The flies appreciate the candour, and so do I.
Big money sits
But, yes, I'm leaving. I'm going back to Dear Old Blighty where a man can stuff prawns down his socks to his heart's content, without being branded as "pointy" or "paste minded". In any case, I once stood in a basement talking to some people about some old load of rubbish. When I left, it was as if I'd gone. Now, when I try to go back and find the place, it seems to have disappeared. There's plenty of subterranean rooms about, but they're not really basements, are they?
Having said that, I never felt at home in discos when I was younger. Instead, I felt as if I were standing in some sort of a place that played music and served drinks. There was also the odd bit of dancing going on. No, it wasn't "homey", at all. I kept asking people where my toothbrush was and where they had hidden all my vegetables. I can tell you now, they weren't very helpful. (Memo to Agate: give me back my cheese! It's got to the point where a man can't sit a block of cheddar down without some cheese-bludger coming along and nicking it.)On my way to Gosford the other day - there's a lot of Belgians lurking around there - I found myself in Kangaroo Valley. There were these little places you'd drive through that would have a couple of shops, a petrol station, perhaps a post office and, often, a church at the end. I thought they looked like little towns. In one such place, I stopped and quickly drew a sketch of a PC and handed it to a local woman before running off. I can't help thinking she was delighted by this simple act of kindness. Alright, I'm off. Please pay the bills and forward the post.