Sir Arthur Conan Tinsfoil goes to West Virginia, Part I

Dear readers, rather than return to my native Luton in the lovely county Bedfordshire, which decided in what can only be the most egregious of bureaucratic errors that not only was this not the place of my birth and precious adolescence, but indeed that I'd never visited, could not claim British, let alone royal, ancestry, and was not so much as permitted, due to that fine invention of the Common Law "parole," out of the city of Pittsburgh at the present time. To which I reply: hog's wash. Shame on you, Luton. Shame on you, homeland.

My animus so blithely rejected by my own kinsmen, I went--in violation of parole! pah!--to Pennsylvania's bucolic neighbor West Virginia where all my desires--culinary, alcoholic, and phallic-shaped--might be fulfilled. What restaurants did I visit, what delights did I partake in? A burger king on the way there at a rest stop stinking of piss, or the huddled masses, or both. The den of thieves--I paid ten quid for insipid chips, a "char-broiled" burger (which I can only assume means a sharpie was employed to draw on the burn marks, rather than lead based paint as I understand the previous practice to have been), and a shake in which I detected not a hint of bourbon-- a problem, I assure you, quickly solved and, what's more, not frowned upon but indeed greeted with nods of enthusiasm by my peers.

Subsequently, a tortuously mountainous trek left me reeling in the char broiling and I found myself examining, with the utmost intensity, the foliage of the Western Sibling of Virginia, a topic which, neither being edible nor distillable, interested me not in the slightest.  A continuation of the voyage found me at my residence, itself full of its own set of surprises.

Next Week: Sir Arthur Conan Tinsfoil gets arrested.

The Pilot

Sometimes a gentleman, at an advanced and comfortable stage of life, wants nothing more than to enjoy a fine cigar and a snifter of brandy over the course of his prix fix, in this case Quizno's $5 menu, only to find that this desire, expressed so strongly by the more noble and less beastly fathers of this country (I tip my hat to you, John Adams) is forbidden by the petty laws of his municipality and finds himself, as it were, extracted from the premises. Oh, my sandwich was fine; I forwent the prix fix in favor of the more stately a la carte menu-- me loves the double cheese chessesteak, dipped in vinaigrette (spiked, of course, by my prized portable bottle of Lafite).  I adore the way the grease lingers on the wrapper, the passionate tango of the melted provolone and sauteed onions, the fact I'm just a pinch bellow "full" and so tantalized by the prospect of potato crisps (the very memory of the incessant crinkling of the Sun Chip bag still rattles me prematurely from my slumber and so I will abstain, dear Ruth, fair Quizno's team member, oh I will abstain) following my meal. The lust for life! The indigestion! But if I'm to accept this sort of treatment as par for the course, then to St. Andrew's I shall return. Can't smoke a cigar or drink a brandy. For shame!