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Frood and I don't spend a lot of time together. Conscientious as he is, he works long hours and is often back late. He rarely gets much time off. Weekends are a rarity. Thus, we seem to have a lot of conversations late at night, and many of them involve a bottle of something he has brought home. Eric used to get involved too, when we were living in Oxford but mostly just fell asleep on the chair worrying about where Florence lives. These days the Booze Monkey provides a conversational foil, and while he is rarely as drunk as Eric was and doesn't listen to nearly enough comedy on Radio 4, we seem to be managing. As you may have gathered from the Sam Rantz cartoons, particularly No. 8, some of these conversations can be quite bizarre. As both Frood and I have rather large parallel processors, odd connections can be made between the strangest things - particularly as Frood appears to be slightly deaf and I am often distracted, so much mishearing of words goes on. This page is dedicated to the sometimes startling finales of those conversations. You may, of course, take a guess as to what concatenation of spoonerisms, drunken slurring, misunderstandings and sheer looniness led to these, and, naturally, there is the omnipresent mars bar on offer for the sender of the correct answer. That is assuming I can remember myself, of course. Good luck. You'll need it.
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