I was Adam West's love child

I was going to have an elongated whinge about not getting on with the end of the book, because I've been up to my ears for the last couple of weeks. You know the kind of thing: blaming sunspots and the proliferation of pasty people in colourful shorts. Soon as the sun comes out they're everywhere -- hairy milk bottle legs reflecting back the rays like they've been wrapped in tinfoil, dazzling passers by. And they're not even bright enough to plaster on suntan lotion, so two days later they look like bacon. Me? I'm wearing factor fifty, which is the lotion equivalent of staying indoors. Only stickier. And everyone loves sticky crime write-ists.

Anyway, like I said, I'm not going to do any of that, I'm going to bugger off and, you know, ACTUALLY WRITE SOMETHING INSTEAD. Shudder. Well, it has to be done I suppose, there are aardvarks at the door, and those little sods don't come cheap. Hairy chocolate-filled bastards…

So I leave you with a link filched from the lovely TSJ -- TheSneeze.com presents things Steve shouldn't eat... but does. Funny as a monkey in a bucket of fish.

And now -- to the Beard Cave!