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24.8.10

Return to the Selborne Arms




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Before reaching aunt Humperdink’s airfield we stop to fortify ourselves with Vintage Tamnavulin, Glenesk, Highland Park, and Tomatin Special Reserve, the befuddling effects of which cause us to inadvertently carry on in the same direction from which we came. We notice this when we see the Selborne Arms again. This is irritating as we are meant to be collecting a new airship and we are chittirlillingly behind schedule, nonetheless, whatever the circumstances, seeing the Selborne Arms is always a good thing and, as we are here, we decide that it would be stupid not to call in for a quick pint, to help us on our way.

In the bar, we see that Roly and George are still here, sitting on the floor, surrounded by puddles of ale, pools of blood, gobs of paint, smashed chairs, bent cutlery, shards of glass, broken brushes, screwed up canvases, and piles of half eaten smoked salmon. Seeing me, Roly waves a painting in the air, shouting that George has painted a storm petrel but, like all George’s paintings of birds in flight, it’s rubbish. George leans over, pokes Roly in the eye with a brush and says it’s not rubbish; it’s one of his best paintings. Roly hits George over the head with a broken plate and yells that the petrel doesn’t stick its legs out when it’s flying, so all George has done is paint a standing bird and stick it over a seascape. George kicks Roly in the jaw and bawls that the petrel snatches fish from the waves with its feet, and that’s why it has its legs extended, Roly twists George’s foot and bends it backwards, shouting that that the petrel catches fish in its beak, and anyone who knew anything about birds would know that. George, screaming that he knows more about birds than Roly ever will, strikes out with his other leg and, catching Roly in the ribs, knocks him across the floor. Roly, spinning towards the wall, grabs at something, which happens to be Juan’s leg, pulling Juan, and the six pints of ale he is carrying, to the floor.

At the other side of the bar, I notice that Albert and Romain are still fighting over Romain’s fashion drawings and, although Romain is trying to pull Albert’s moustache off, Albert, punches George in the stomach and shouts that, without any measurements, Romain’s models are of an indeterminate size, which is just stupid, and succeeds in thrusting Romain’s head into the spittoon.

Seeing all this, Juan comments that everyone seems to be having fun, then, urgently needing more ale, we head back to the bar, as fast as we possibly can.

Professor Humperdink’s Diary