The end of a new beginning.
Wherein our heroine discovers a fate worse than pain, piles and incontinence: taxation.
It has been brought to my attention again that there are those among them that are here assembled who have no intention of reading the works of ol' Dougie What's-his-face, including the stentorian tome that gave it's name to this site.
And I say you curse your children when you withhold the wisdom of this esteemed effort of broken deadlines, interminable baths and hurried assemblage of sandwiches so that just the right crumbs and bits of animal could bless the exposed mechanism of his sainted typewriter... from your possession and their future encounterance.
There are those who say that British humour is predictable.
There are those who say that the intent of this site is not worship.
There are those who say they have better things to read or think about.
There are those who say that joining the cult of merchandising that surrounds the book(s) in question is against their principles.
To which I say, then don't read them, but for God's Cat's sake, buy them! There are enough cheap omnibus editions about. Used, even.
But when your child or your android comes up to you in the future to engage in intelligent (or semi-so) discourse with reference to the Unholy Writ, you should be capable of bowing your head in shame and admitting, 'I bought them, but I've not gotten around to them. I shall erase my error soon, I promise.'
By that time, they should be distracted enough by the brightly coloured cover and the proximity of familiar solace to snatch the literature from you and snarl, 'Never mind! I'll just take this for safe
keeping. Besides, I haven't read it in a week or so...'
And then your zaddik destiny will have been fulfilled and you can go back to your reading of Salad Utensils Quarterly or whatever sodden rag it is that you peer at...