Poor spaw. He must have read my post above.

'if you have ever read the fiction of P.G. Wodehouse, you know that when a man slips into a bedroom at night, he is bound to knock over a table covered with china dogs or to step on a cat's tail. This is precisely what the Rev. Williamson did. He collided with a bunch of tirly-whirlies (knicknacks), and they o'd. (Went over.) Bertie Wooster would tell you that it happens every time.'
=======
Let's face it, Spaw is a gallant and faithful man, but he is never going to be a Bertie Wooster. Nobody is ever going to invite him for a long weekend at a stately home. He will never have a Jeeves to do all his laundry and bring him a cup of tea in bed, to be followed by bacon, eggs and toast. Never will he go to a jazz club and swing a swift shoe till the wee hours. Wearing a tux.

So what does Spaw do? Takes it out on Dainty Davy. I ask you!