Long ago, in times past...

Long ago, in times past, a man with silly hair and soulfoul eyebrows stared into a Charlie Chaplin mirror and reflected.
The yawns that came next weren't silent movie star induced, they were simply a symptom of boredom.

'Boredom is as boredom does' is the mantra of my cat, but then, he licks his own testicles, so is not to be trusted. Anyway, anyone taking advice on boredom from something with a tail needs checking, I mean really checking. In fact, most times that humans have taken advice from tailed species has resulted in carnage.
Let us take, for example, the fictional example soon to arrive i.e. the one that my sleep deprived brain has yet to come up with. You know, that time when the Japanese were conviced to bomb Pearl Harbour on the say so of an erudite gibbon.
Well why else would they have done it?

Anyway, to topic!

Herbert and I recently went on a small journey to one of the most troubled areas of liverpool - an ill persons bathroom - but it is not this picture I wish to grace you with, it is that of me rescuing Herbert from certain doom.
DOOM, I tell you.

With the return of the wee highlands lass there was an attempt on Herbert's very existence! I couldn't believe that someone who saves lives for a living could think of sacrificing someone so wooden, so giraffey and so inanimate.
Hastily, but not without skill, I removed our poor unfortunate from the front room where he had for so long held counsel, and unleashed upon my room.

'Bit gloomy in here, isn't it?' It seemed he was doing his best 'Compo From Last of The Summer Wine' impression.
'Shut up, it's my room - it's nice.'
'I can already tell that the blanket which doubles for a curtain never gets moved and the only 'nice' bit of the room is where I can make out carpet, or is that dead animal fur?'
'Oi! It's carpet, thats premium beige that is.'
'Otherwise known as 'covers up poo and sick brown.' Frankly, I'd had enough.
'Look Herb, it's in here or it's down and deadly with the crazy kilt! What's it going to be?' I should have known immediately that it wasn't going to go well for me, threatening him.
'What's it going to be? Who are you? John blumming Rambo? Do me a favour!' At this point he adopted a silly cockney accent and unleashed the full heck of his ninja fury.
You'd all forgotten that he was a ninja, hadn't you? I had.
I sprung for my rubber dart guns - all 3 or them, knowing that one would be spare and that only 3 rubber dart guns could save me from a maniacal ninja girraffe. [Maniacal, really? That seems a bit harsh. - Herbert]
I unleashed the full fury of my attack, firing both my double-barreled surnames at him, closely followed by my pump action cliche launcher.
'Harris-Smith and Pembroke-Wallasby, you fiend! You're not the man I married.' Ka-chunk, I pumped that action! 'You're under my roof, you'll live by my rules!' Ka-chunk, more action pumpery. 'Never in month of blue moons!' I was getting flustered and then, BAM, my pump action cliche launcher jammed! 'Now look here...'

Defenceless I threw myself onto the floor to surrender. Luckily the pile of clothes that I had strategically (shush you lot) placed there cushioned my fall enough so that I was completely pain free.
Until Herbert stabbed me in the face with his euphemism.


Thankfully we've made up now.