Dear Sir,

It is with great regret I write to you today. Not, I hasten to add, because of any complaint I have as regards your august publication. But because of nothing less than the state of the nation today. I have corresponded with my MP, taken advice from lamas of far and near eastern cults, discussed with stout men in a drinking establishment and even asked the Gentleman on the Clapham Omnibus but I am none the wiser. And so I have turned to that esteemed collection of savants that makes up your readership.

Allow me to furnish some background to my quandry. I, being a man of independant means, have been raised to believe that there are certain standards that should be met by such to ensure the smooth and orderly running of the country. One should never be seen without a tie or hat. One should do all in ones power to aid the less fortunate in life and one should never over-decorate ones transportation.

Thus you can imagine my horror when I exited my lodgings last May to discover that my '86 Mark IV Hovering Alvis had acquired about its rear viewing mirror a pair of fluffy dice. I was quite taken aback and had to return indoors for a swift Macallan while my man removed the offending item. By the time I had reached my club that afternoon I had convinced myself that it was a prank by one of the Rickson boys, down from Oxford for the day. Soon enough the incident was driven from my mind when I discovered quite what a thrashing our boys were getting from that new Mars team.

Nothing else untoward occured for the next few weeks until, returning from a visit to my Aunt Maud, I could have sworn I heard the last few bars of something I remember Nanny describing as Techno. Nanny had always felt that it was vitally important to learn as much of past cultures as one could, so as not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Thus she had introduced me to such horrors as Techno, Drum and Base and Val Doonican. The aim being to make sure that, should I take up a musical hobby, I would not fall down these blind alleys. For the same reasons she forced me to read an ancient newssource called the Sun and watch something called Neighbours. It was thus that I recognised the noise coming from my rooms but, by the time I had passed through security and decontamination, all was quiet. Two snifters later and I was happy to believe it was mearly a mental aberration brought on by the visit to my aunt.

Maud, while a lovable old bag with a strange interest in the doings of her least useful nephew, can be most trying and the problems with obtaining a constant Oxygen supply on Calisto normally leave me with quite the headache. Thus it is quite normal for me to return home less than fully compus mentus.

It was two days later that all this strangeness was explained. I had been sleeping late due to a very enjoyable Port the night before and was rather surprised to hear the voice of Heathcote-Walliams in my hallway. He made some strange greeting to my man as if he owned the place and took himself into my drawing room. Aghast by the sounds coming through my door I hastily donned my afternoon dressing gown and hurried out.

Imagine my shock as I entered the front room to discover Heathcote-Walliams dressed in what I believe was once called a 'Shelled Suit'. Not that it looks anything like a suit, of course, but that was as nothing to the noise. There was my man blithely playing what I later learned was 'The Cheeky Girls' through his chest speakers at full volume while pouring my so-called chum a glass of super strength lager.

It transpired that Heathcote-Walliams (who I had very swiftly blackballed) had become embroiled in an 'Historical Re-enactment Society' and had taken things too far. He had re-programmed my Butler to fashion him with all the old fashions and accesories he could think of. And at my expense!

So, my question is; Where can I purchase a Robotic Butler with better security protocols then the Bletherskite MMM such that it cannot be re-programmed by any old prat?

Yours sincereley,

T Whipsnade-Blair Drummond Esq.

Next Time: Plus R or Minus R, the DVD/Complex number quandry

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