It Is Not That Sport, Over-indulged In,

When George Vi - Displaying A Flair For Timing That Was Utterly Absent In His Lifetime - Upped And Died, The Way Was Clear For Her To Inhabit Her Logical Position As The Eminence Cerise, The Bolster Behind The Throne.

It Is Not That Sport, Over-indulged In, Coarsens The Mind; It Is That It Dulls It.

The High Arts Of Literature And Music Stand In A Curious Relationship To One Another, At Once Securely Comfortable And Deeply Uneasy - Rather Like A Long-term Marriage.

...catching A Glimpse Of His Rather Hippyish Form In A Mirror, He Wonders At This Atavism Of Apparel, Is It An Inversion Of Foetal Ontogeny, In Which The Phenotype Passes Through Previous Fashion Stages? Soon There Will Be Gaiters And Gloves...i Will Probably Die, He Thinks, Clad In Animal Skins.

Ideologists Of All Kinds Find A Strange Sort Of Comfort In The Madness Of The Crowd; It Confirms Them In Their Suspicion That History, Far From Being Made By The Great Mass Of Individuals - As Marx Averred - Is Rather Unmade By A Single Massive Individual, A Collective Other, Who Stands In Stark Contrast To You And He.