give me liberty or give me a bacon salad with pork chops on the side and a couple of gugs

Coffee with Uncle Scutch in the Tearman Cafe Kilcullen.
"I don't like the ranting on your blog," quoth he.
"Ranting?" quoth me.
"Well what would you call it?" quoth he.
"I'd call it literary polemic," quoth me.
He left soon after.
I sat a moment alone and disconsolate-ish.
The ghost of Sheena Easton approached and laid a lily hand on my shoulder.
She began singing the theme tune from the James Bond film Octopussy.
(Useless film but the best ever opening sequence, where Rodge is captured by South American communists while trying to blow up a delivery of Soviet jet fighters. A group of leering communist militiamen are leading Rodge away when his sexy accomplice distracts them with a flash of boob, rescues Rodge, and sets him on his way in a mini jet plane that she had concealed in a trailer disguised as a horse. Seriously. Rodge is now flying along free as a bird without a care in the world until the commies loose a heat seeking missile after him. There's some standard theatre business with the heating seeking missile as it whizzes past the canopy of Rodge's plane and Rodge looks pained as it whizzes around again still on his trail. Out of the corner of his eye he spots something on the ground. He spins his mini jet down towards the hanger where the Sov planes he'd lately been trying to destroy are stored. And he flies right through the hangar as the ground crews race to shut the doors. It's brilliant. The stunt is brilliant. The mini jet really flew through the hanger. I'm not saying Rodge really flew it. The unknown stuntman flew it. And the sequence is edited so perfectly. And the whole narrative has an unlikely logic and indeed humour. The heat seeker follows Rodge into the hanger. Rodge side slips the plane through the fast closing exit door at the far end. The whole thing blows. And Sheena Easton sings. Just as she's about to sing to me.)

Back in what passes for the real world down our way, ie the Tearman Kilcullen, Sheena Easton sings apparently a propos my literary polemic:

"Nobody does it better
Makes me feel sad for the rest.
Nobody does it quite as good as you
Oh Heelers, Heelers
Baby darlin
You're the best."

The ghost of Bob Geldoff gets up from an adjoining table, gently takes the mircrophone from Sheena, and contributes his own Free Billions For African Dictators worth.
Bob sings in his inimitable thick tongued mumble:

"Nobody does it better
Though sometimes I wish somebody would
Nobody does it quite the way you do
Oh Heelers Heelers
Noble and mighty Heelers
You're just incredibly bloody good."

You've gotta hand it to Sheena Easton and Bob Geldoff.
Aside from Sheena's oft stated willingness to sleep with Bill Clinton, and Bob's rather naive insistence on extending the life of psycho Islamist African bigot dictatorships by cancelling their bank debts, aside from this I say, clearly they both know a thing or two.