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Monday, 17 February 2014

Oh here we go, she's off again.........

Yes folks, it's been too long

At some point, if I can be arsed, I might go back and comment on some of her more ridiculous rambles through the Space/Time continuum. For now, let's address the small matter of David and Pam Heal, shall we?


When Kate McCann was seized with a sudden need to confess seek comfort in the middle of the night, a few hours after her daughter was stolen by * burglars/tractor drivers/gypsies/aliens/secret government operatives *(delete as appropriate), she sent a serf off to instruct Mark Warner to have the Archbishop of Canterbury attend her immediately.

The serf promptly did her bidding, and it was left to Mark Warner and some uncouth morose plods to inform her that His Bishopness did not make house calls in the middle of the night, especially to some crabby bitch in a Portuguese holiday park with an attitude problem and a ferocious left hook.

So, when the fickle hand of fate subsequently tapped it's bony finger on the shoulder of the Rev Heal, at an unknown time, but certainly no earlier than 3am, he did not leap from his bed, shout ''Away, Pamela, my priestly shoulders are required for the purpose of crying upon! Come, we are needed'' and, pausing only to pull on some y-fronts, a pair of those trousers old men wear with an elasticated waist specifically designed to keep their nipples warm, and a jumper Pam knitted him for Christmas, take himself over to Flat 5A to comfort a grieving despot. No indeed. He (probably) muttered ''What fucking time do you call this?'' and let it go to Voicemail, like we all do.

He did turn up later in the morning, give his number to Russell O'Brien before whizzing off to a bring and buy sale. And he and Pam did return later on the 4th May with tea, sympathy, several sturdy pieces of 4''by 2'' and a bumper pack of wood glue, and tended to Kate as she sobbed hysterically and expressed her grief by kicking seven kinds of shit out of the bedroom furniture and throwing a telly out of the window.

For some unknown reason this non-story was picked up by some shitty little magazine for pre-menstrual ex-pats in Spain. Textusa regards that as the fountain of all knowledge, but then she always does, if a publication says what she wants it to say.

Of course what it actually says is that Dave was contacted that night - not that he immediately threw his strides on and went to see the mad cow. He went at a civilised hour the following day, like all normal people would.

But the other mad cow already knows that. Problem is, she already has her next post lined up, and she's buggered if I am going to crap on it from a height.

Which is a problem really. Because I just did......