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.
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