“Lord, how I hate the night-time”

THE scene is the dark, doom- haunted skool of st. custards chiz chiz moan drone where the tiny pupils live a life of friteful sufering at the hands of the headmaster GRIMES and his band of thugs who hav the impertnence to call themselves masters. Our hero dashing NIGEL MOLESWORTH hem hem is stroling the dank flagstoans his hansome brow furroed in thought his lithe yung muscles bunched like a traned panther. 0 wot can ale thee, knite at arms? cry FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS, the skool gurly. Our hero lash out with left jab folloed by right upercut, hurra hurra scream packed masses in madison square gardn, but FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS meerly nip behind MA TRON'S skurt, shreeking "\'\'ot dredfull thing hav got into Molesworth, matron, he is normly the most humain of men help help!"

If animais were more like politicians, says MAHOOD, London Zoo would soon be packing in the crowds again.

FROM Binion's Horseshoe casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, I bring glad tidings of great joy to those aged 25 and under, tidings of great gloom to those of us ageing fast enough to think that senior citizens, let alone policemen, look younger every day

THERE are, the landlubber notices at once, more nautical spots. The breeze bears petro-chemical fumes rather than sait and not even the worst navigator among sea-birds would alight here. The honk of horns would drown any whistling of wind in the rigging and the only bollards at which to tie up are green posts with devices to swallow coins on the top. Kensington High Street is not, after ail, the open sea.