Hair of the dog? Try a fur ball.

Oh, my head, I’m in agony. I’ll never drink so much forty year old Colheitas port again. Lord Rutherfuthereton and I decided to venture down Monsieur Wother-Borrington’s Gentlemen’s Club last night, an institution we have avoided since the incidents of our last visit. However, we reasoned that Wother-Borrington could not hold it against us forever, so we decided to make amends and visit. The evening started well: we imbibed a few scotches and generally re-established broken relations. But then Rutherfuthereton decided to order a bottle, and then another, of Monsieur Wother-Borrington’s finest vintage.

I awoke this morning with a pounding headache – as though twenty workmen were drilling for oil inside my brain – to find my bed strewn with travel brochures and Rutherfuthereton’s top hat balanced precariously on the top of an enormous white elephant which has taken up habitation in the corner of my room. I have as of yet been unable to evict it from the room and so have elected to call it Horatio.

So, what has been in the news: well, it’s snowed. A lot. I hate the snow: it gets all over my fur and collects around the rim of my bowler hat, so that when one takes it off, one is met with a veritable avalanche.

HMV and Blockbusters have gone. Again, if they’d told me they were in trouble, I could have done something, pulled a few strings, talked to the right men, clawed them in the leg, the usual thing. Not that I ever buy films: I just get the actors to do a private rendition when I’m bored.

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