Birdie in the hand for life’s rich demand

…and when I opened the door, there she was, playing the trombone with…Oh hello again, we were just thinking about yesterday’s triumph.

A man can do it ! I am the living proof.
The secret is to cram your guts utterly with canapés and savouries and limit yourself to white wine and use this mantra :
don’t get drunk don’t get drunk don’t get drunk.
We got an export award yesterday and the very sensible minister from the Executive said how wonderful we all were (he was looking at me when he said it). Like the priest leaving the wedding, we relaxed when he went and the Saturnalia began.
Later, on my way out, I was disgusted to see Dicksplash with pastry flakes on his chin chatting up one of the prodigies (the good looking one). He’s such a ridiculous figure now and him a father again.

Mynah Bird says he can’t report his findings because of Haloscan. Well Mr Bird, I’ve heard them all mate. The dog ate it, it blew away in the wind, I caught dysentery and had no toilet paper; whatever. We will assume he’s with us. In fact, yes, I can feel his mischievous presence, he’s close, very close.
So it’s onward with the gas turbines. Don’t grumble, just skip the blue bits. HA HA HA asked about turboprops, and GB made a point, a salient one about propellers or airscrews as we call them.
I might split the posts from now on because it gets involved quite quickly and I want to do it justice.

Stop press: Alan Bennett at the Clyde Auditorium tonight, I wonder if I will spot the alabaster form of Audrey Hawtrey among the butchers and fishmongers.