Come one, come all to the Archancellor's Excuse Me

Off to the wilds of Hinckley (near Leicester) for the weekend for Discworld con (dwcon.org), with my trusty Nac Mac Feegle outfit, my 'ah, fuck it... er... default costume? Ancient Brit/Gladiator, that'll do.' Tors is attempting to make me convert it into a Conina the Barbarian Hairdresser outfit. How it's all taking up as much space as my usual 3-4 pairs of shoes and 3 costumes I have no idea. Anyway, if you hear me muttering, traumatised, about Highland dancing, blame derryderrydown. That is all.

I leave you with the first verse of Truly Awful Poetry :

'Oh, as ah went doon t' London town an' had some fun on the under-"

Thwacked across the back of the head by Fion. "Nae that poem! It may be terrible but we were thinkin' o' yer ain. Daft eejit. Get on wi' yerself."

:rubbing head: "Oh, aye, sorry aboot that." :clears throat:

In the time of yore, when sheep wiz poor, an' the baccy were smoked all day
Did an o'er weight lass with a massive ass - and yes we did mean donkey -
Take a trip doon the river that werenae bad for her liver an 'ended up in Biscay.
Biscay be a awfae place, ye ken, an' e'en worse for yon donkey.
The drink is weak, an' the people meek,

(There will be further innuendo laden-things about the donkey)