As the Moose is a shuttle service, my travel companions vary. For my sins, I am currently surrounded by English
girls, with names like Emma, Claire, Trish, Claire, Cath and Claire. Of course I`m much older and more experienced
than they all are, so naturally they pick on me relentlessly. Being from the straightforward Saxon
world they call my black Ulster humour `sarcasm` and ask me why aren`t I nice. I think that `nice` means your average
southern English rugby and ale stuffed halfwit. Anyhow, sorry Trish for calling you a little power packet, it only
shows that I respect you enough to think you can take it. I have to have the discernment to be myself.
And I did warn you that I belonged to the devil.
There`s a good chance they may read this before I finish this leg of my tour,
so if this channel goes silent, look for my body buried, stake through my
heart in a crossroad in the Cotswolds. And never fear, my grave shall be kept fresh,
and watered by meaty nice guys, stopping
for a restful moment after watching the rugby, with twenty pints of bitter, down the pub.