“We can't stop here, this is bat country!”

Judging by the increasingly esoteric nature of his recent ramblings I am beginning to suspect that KFD stands for "Kieran For Dalai Lama".

Should I rush to inform the present incumbent that his job is under threat? Please advise urgently!

“Holts, if you are seeking the truth, is better than a lie detector.” Just another reason why you should never drink Holts before writing up your match reports at 4 in the morning.

And Fr Megson would never want to get into a conversation with Graham Greene. He was a thinking Catholic and if there is one thing they taught us young career priests in the seminary it was never to get into a conversation with a thinking Catholic; heaven only knows what sort of embarrassing questions they might pose.

Though I did call into the Continental Hotel in Saigon last March to see what he was scribbling. Fortunately he was out at the time trying to find a quiet American and the receptionist said he may be some time. So I had a small beer which cost about the same as a night's lodging in my rather nice small hotel about a mile down the road and left. I hope he found his quiet American.

And Mobo, my son, I had approx 3,217 rants all written up and ready to post last week but I had to abandon them at the border because, backstop or no backstop, I couldn't get them smuggled past the Fascist Robot police. Had to dig a tunnel in the end.

They are a very effective deterrent, them wee jigsaw things with bits of traffic lights and lorries and bridges and fcek knows what else painted on them. I might install one of them in front of my confession box to stop Protestants sneaking in and picking up a cheeky and thoroughly undeserved Ego te absolvo at my expense.

Yes Megson, Holt's indeed. The Ambrosia of the godless, the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster of of the Heatons, South Manchester and all points of view. But we had travelled the wrong way up Parrs Wood Road to Nether Fallowfield and the Levenshulme borders. To the dark side where the death stare is to be found in the heart of the Stadium of Murk. So we were drinking London Pride, handed down to us with little ceremony and no cheer by a fierce custodian of all matters on her side of the bar. A smile costs nothing and she appeared to be on piece rate for there was no prospect of a friendly grin lightening the encompassing gloom.

Incidentally your old presbytery was reeking from a very recent lick of paint when we visited. I assume it has been in a major shunt and the paint was a desperate attempt to conceal serious structural damage.