After dragging Rory from underneath the bookcase and reviving him with a bottle of Vintage Caperdonich Private Reserve, he totters backwards and forwards until he crashes into a door and collapses, moaning. Albert tells Juan to stop laughing, I assures Rory that everybody walks into doors, it's perfectly natural. The next time he wants to go through a door, I advise, he should note where the hinges are, this often offers a clue which side of the door will swing open. However, in this particular instance, I inform him, the door has false hinges, so he should take that into account. Rory, wounded and turning green, shouts that he doesn't care, he is going to be sick, and, so saying, he sprays vomit in all directions. Albert, again, tells Juan to stop laughing, Rory, he declares, is obviously in distress.
Although I may be slurring and, in spite of the fact I don't know what I am talking about, I feel that Rory would benefit from a lecture, so I tell him that he should not worry about having walked into the door, or being sick, it's perfectly natural, the door it is made from sandalwood so, normally, it would smell of sandalwood, but the smell has been heavily disguised so it is not recognisable as a sandalwood door, this is because the King of Padmanabhapuram wants his door back, so Fred Litchfield disguised it by soaking it in rats' urine for twenty years. But, irritatingly, I cannot say 'Padmanabhapuram'. After many attempts, Juan hits me over the head with a bottle of Tennessee whiskey, to shut me up.
George says that, even though the door doesn't have the beautiful aroma of sandalwood and, although it stinks of urine and vomit, it is covered with recognisable carvings, so the king would notice it immediately. There is an obvious answer to this but I can't quite think what it is, so, rather than addressing the issue, I punch Juan in the kidneys. He might have been right to shut me up, but being right is not an excuse for violence.
After Juan throws me against George's easel and, as I shove Juan's head through George's canvas, George yells that he is trying to paint and he wants us all to go away. I remind everyone that we are on a desperately urgent mission of vital importance, we are jabbishly behind schedule and we don't have time to be creative. George says that he needs to concentrate on painting tits. When I object again, Juan shouts at me to shut my stupid mouth, all George ever does is churn out pictures of birds, which are about as interesting as a train-time table, and as useless, if George wants to paint tits, Juan yells, nobody should stop him, then he smashes me in the face with a bottle of Southern Comfort, to shut me up, and orders Vintage Tobermory, Balblair, Glendullan, and Cragganmore Special Reserve, to celebrate.
Raising our glasses and saluting George's creative spirit, we offer toast after toast to the king of Padmanabhapuram, fail to say 'Padmanabhapuram', argue violently, then, spluttering, holding our noses, gagging and retching, slithering on vomit, we kick Rory out of the way and stagger towards the stinking door, as fast as we possibly can.
Professor Humperdink's Diary