Usually at this time of year you can find me propped against the bar at Club Derrig, my Jagerbombe clenched firmly in my fist, while I review my doings of the past 12 months to the assembled congregation.
This year I realise I have no need of this, as my webberlog stands examination time and again, there in perpetuality for all who want to read and re-read my adventures on behalf of mankind.
So I will use this opportunity to deal with a scurrilous rumour that has followed me around since I returned from my foray into Africa, the magical continent of jumbucks and biltong.
I believe that Mr.Benjamin Thomas has been the purveyor of this gossip, holding court in the gutters he occupies when not emptying the Club Derrig spittoons and flushing out his pipes.
The story being circulated is that my African exploration included absolutely no dalliances with laydeez and that it was a romantic desert as far as I was concerned.
Well, to quash this ugly mistruth, let me state here and now that my luck was in and I quite literally came across a lovely young laydee, holidaying alongside me, all the way from darkest Hertfordshire.
And for those who may doubt this tale I am prepared now to give the full and detailed story featuring the who, what, where, when and frequency of all our carryings-on.
The mystery woman in question is called...Sorry, that's the phone. I'm waiting on an important call from my stockbreaker. I'll be right back. Don't go away.
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