Megan then takes us to see some of the whisky shells she has produced. The shells, she explains, have been soaked in flame retardant and Juan’s Special Reserve. They don’t explode on landing, she says, so they are harmless, but the fumes from just one of these shells will intoxicate a city for a week. I say that they’re not exactly harmless as, if a shell landed on someone’s head, it would definitely harm them, and I ask Megan why we can’t just spray the Special Reserve. She tells us that, delivered by spray, the Special Reserve droplets drift with the wind and, landing on agricultural land, mutate the crops and makes the livestock uncontrollable. However, Megan tells me, each shell has been fitted with bagpipe drones which, on the way down, shriek like Juan playing a hornpipe, this makes most people run away and, as well as this, the shell emits such noxious fumes that, by the time it lands, most people are too pie-eyed to care if they are hit on the head. Reassured, I thank Megan and we head on to the flight deck, reeling from side to side, bouncing off the walls and spinning around helplessly, we throw malt in all directions trying to drink to Megan and everyone who helps make things safer and more fun. Now, hopelessly befuddled, rumbelowishly delayed and rustically behind schedule, crashing off corners, falling down ladders singing Catherine Ogie, Highland Mary and The Birks of Aberfeldy at the top of our voices, we stagger to the flight deck, as fast as we possibly can.
Professor Humperdink’s Diary