WE STUMBLE off, laden with peroxide for the fading blondes of Domesstuss City, on the final stage of our quest for eternal boredom and impenetrability. Once again I put scratchy quill to ageing parchment in the back of a dingy taproom and manage to answer three mundane questions posed to me by a drunken tramp whom I encountered and savaged by the roadside.
Sigmund the Freud Patater, of Scrungethorpe mutters about his travels with The Habit in Muddle Earth, and suggests that Gillian may be avoided by running away. Fellow travellers on the path to adventureing may wish to ignore that one.
Many of the assembled company who join me on the sawdust strewn floor of the hostelry as the evening progresses express a difficulty in dealing with the evil Trill Scalding, oft encountered by unwary hacks passing through the dingy passage known as Frindon Line in deepest Londres. I hail them with the answer and win undying gratitude as well as many pitchers of sle for informing them that this whingeing beast may be easily pacified by a software wizard who has the power to cast a spell of Exclusivity.
Should an unfortunate traveller hark upon the Scalding and not have an exclusive to hand, fear not, I reassure my audience. Merely tell him you have one to give anyway, else he will he forced to create one! Cast the word in front of his path, and he will fall at your feet snivelling his appreciation, before running off, clutching it to his chest — and you may then easily pass him by and achieve greater things.
Indeed my companions at the Pussycat and Noose offered me such a volume of mead as reward for telling them of the means by which the Scalding trill may be avoided, that I passed out ere much more of the evening elapsed.
Gordon Gutbucket, Landlard