Noone preshiates me

Keith's nice. He's friendly. But he doesn't preshiate me. Dafvffn. Daaffnee. Daphphn. Mrs Hnaef doesn't preshiate me either.

M going to Bradford. That's what m going to do. To Bradford. Slike a bard with a ford, and bards are Beakerish. M only a chief assistant to the Archdruid here, but I could have my own Moooot Howse! My own one! There's a druid-sship there, n I think I'd be good druid. Brrilliant! Could have my own tea lights. N pebbles. No stupid, stupid reindeer to cleen. An tea lights. Have beakers, of course. Must have beakers. N tea lights. Tea lights.

But then, was does Keith say? What does he say? What? I'll tell you. What did he say again? He said something bout it.

Yes. I 'member. He says 'sno point going to Bradford, coz they're knocking it down. No. Not knocking it down. They're mangling it. Amangling it. Amalgamamting it. Joining it with a the other part of Yorkshire. The west part. Or the north part. S if there wasn't enough Yorkshire anyway. There won't be a Moot House in Bradford. Just one somweher else. So why to go Bradford?

But if I want to be my own druid, n my own Moot House, I can be a druid in Bradford if I want. N I don't have to ask Davnee. Daafffnn. Daffkne. Mrs Hnaef. M going on my own. Just need another beer furst. Let them try'n malgamate me!

Check-in at the White Horse

Young Keith
Young Keith just checked in at the White Horse.

Noticed Hnaef behaving very strangely, and wandering from hedgerow to hedgerow, as if looking for flowers. And buzzing to himself. Guided him to the White Horse in an attempt to get him out of the cold. He's refusing to drink anything but Wells' & Young's "Waggle Dance". Through a straw. Something about a proboscis. Am so worried about him I considered calling Mrs Hnaef. Then thought better of it.

A late-nighter

It is unlike me to be awake so late at night.

I can hear the sound of the drunkards in the Crown and Cushion. They sound so happy in their sin. By what definition do we declare them "miserable" sinners?

I console myself that the day will come when they have to account for every pint of Everard's they have consumed. Then the smiles will be on the other sides of their faces - when they fall into the vengeful hands of a loving God.

Poured out as a Drink Offering

I have been busy in the garden all morning, in between dodging the showers.  The Revd Syston Whyte-Plumb seems to have filled every inch of the ground with buried bottles and cans. I am told this was an attempt to hide his "habit". He received his drinks orders from the Tesco Internet service, but was too embarrassed to take the empties to the bottle bank or put them in the recycling bin. So he buried them at night.

After a couple of hours of digging I had a pile of bottles and a pile of cans, each as high as Goliath's navel and probably rather less appealing. And by this stage I was feeling quite tired. I sat down on the bench in the porch for a moment to have a short rest, and must have fallen asleep.

I was woken just a moment ago by two of my chapel members - the ones who saw me outside the Crown and Cushion last Friday night. Maud has rather a loud voice, and what dragged me out of the dreamless sleep of the innocent and godly were the words "No wonder he's asleep - look what he's got through already this morning." To which Elsie responded "Yeah, just the same as the last one."

I care not for the good favour of Man, but at this rate nobody's going to take the slightest note of my sermon on the dangers of intoxicating spirits in a few weeks.