2001-05-10 - 10:20 p.m.

�I know my place, I know my place, I know my place�I�m a slave��

It fills me with much regret and self-reproach that, at twenty-something-noneofyourbusiness, I�ve never been to Scotland. Wales, Ireland, even the Isle of Man, but never past Hadrian�s Wall. People say to me, �But Pablo, how can you not have been to such a great place that�s rather shamefully a mere matter of hours away from the very place you spent your formative years?� To which I say, �Who�s round is it? I think I�ll have a Guinness.�

This is all about to change as I�m about to catch the midnight train to Edinburgh. As has been well documented, I failed to persuade any one of either genderal persuasion to accompany me, so I must brave it alone. I get a well cushy double berth sleeper carriage all to myself, assuming there are no minor soap nymphettes frequenting the buffet car that I can lure back. At 4am we pass through my home town, so I�ll be sure to be poised at the handle to flush the on-board toilet. And I�ll wake up in Scotland. That wasn�t so hard, now, was it?

�I catch a ride on the railway, but everywhere�s just the same��

Today�s entry is bought to you by the word �crotchal�, which was invented by a very funny person and which I�m appropriating for my own nefarious means. Of course it just means �of the crotch�. For example, �Getting to third base involves remedial crotchal manipulation.�

�I�m for sale, I�m for sale, I�m for sale, yeah baby yeah, I�m for sale�

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