There have been some very scurrilous things written on this stupid forum lately, and I intend to set the record straight.
I am not blond nor am I effeminate, as you will find out, Oakley, should our paths cross. They are, however, unlikely to. Much as I would like to impress upon you a certain measure of both respect and caution, I have been advised not to by Ms Penelope Rutledge, as I think you know. Very well. In my opinion, the woman has totally lost her bearings and is adrift in a schoolgirl fantasy of her own devising, this due to spending too much time engrossed in idealistic pursuits gleaned from archaic novels written by depressed Victorian female poets, and succoring lost pets, but...I know Penelope, and she is no more easily turned from her chosen course than was the Titanic on its way to meet the iceberg.
Nor shall I attempt to turn her from it. There are plenty of fish in the sea, and I am hardly at a loss for amusement. Hardly.
Now, as for that slobbering, incoherent, foul-mouthed, cretin of a guitar player, Mr. Phil "T" Habetz, well...I expect he will shortly find himself up before the local magistrate on some heinous charge such as public mischief, gross indecency or statutory rape, hopefully in some place like Uzbekistan, where they have the kind of brutal penalties appropriate to degenerate scum with no redeeming charactistics. He is a louse on the body of society.
I happened upon his cacaphonic "band", Screw the Pooch, in a noisome club in Hull, while attempting to find your band. We had words. (At least I did...his speech was almost indecipherable.) I decided to put him in his place, but his drummer, a fat, slimy-looking young man with a mass of curly hair, stepped between us and I knocked him flat, at which point five bouncers intervened and one hell of a ruckus ensued. It was nip and tuck for awhile, but we succeeded in eventually reaching an agreement outside the doors of the pub. We agreed that I would leave off if they did and they did, so that ended it.
I would send Mr. Habetz a bill for scuffs on my boots and a rip in one sleeve of my jacket, but I am not so foolish as to try and get milk from a male pig, as it were, or to attempt to get him to appreciate Chopin.
You have speculated about my appearance, Oakley. I have short dark, straight hair, a medium sized mustache, and am 6'1" tall, strongly built. People say that I closely resemble Oliver Reed in the late 60's, as he appeared when making the film "Women in Love", but I would say I am a little narrower across the lower part of the face, not quite so fleshy. Otherwise, the comparison is apt.
I rather like his films. He had a cold steeliness that I identify with entirely.
Some people don't like me, Oakley. They say I am cruel, arrogant, and self-absorbed. I relish their disapproval. I enjoy making the weak nervous. It amuses me.
Penelope disapproves of my drinking. Let her. I am entirely in control of my alcohol intake, and it has never prevented me from accomplishing anything I set out to accomplish. Penelope has many fine qualities, as I think you know, but she is altogether too idealistic. I am a pragmatist. I do not let myself be swayed by romantic, fuzzy-headed balderdash, but go straight to the point like an arrow to its target.
I frankly do not think Penelope and I are suited to one another. It's a pity, but there it is.
Your correspondences have impressed upon me one thing...your sincerity. Well, I'm not above a certain sporting instinct, so I am going to wish you good luck. Taking on Penelope Rutledge is a task not for the faint of heart, I can assure you. The woman has the unwavering will and utter focus of a bloodhound on the trail. Quite impressive, really. That's why I was interested in her.
I'm still wondering exactly what she did to that pervert, Buggeroll, that evening when they were in the VI library. The bastard looked quite shaken upon emerging, which he did a minute or two after she stalked out, cheeks aflame like the victorious Boadicea. I've a notion he tried something he shouldn't have. Ho! Ho! I wish I had been a fly on the wall for that one. They say a cutlass (off the same wall) was found embedded in the back of an oak chair. My, my...
I would gladly have broken his neck, but, alas...I didn't have a good opportunity to do so. Besides, neck-breaking is still illegal in Twillingsgate, even for a Wellington-Jones. Too bad. I'd have broken fifty or so by now, I think...
Well, that about sums it up. Best of luck, old chap! Tally ho! Brush up on your Strauss waltzes and keep a stiff upper lip, you poor South Ferriby sod... (*wink)