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Whither Curly, Larry and Mo?
on 6 December 2014
I was just on my way out to the doctors when I remembered I hadn't reviewed this one yet. I've literally got five minutes so please excuse me my uncharacteristic brevity. I wouldn't want to appear dismissive. It's just I've been having these terrible heads of late accompanied by what I can only describe as an almost complete derangement of the senses (see Rimaud, Art., not Rambo, John). For example, I was in Presto the other day, there to buy a lemon and a pair of socks, when it appeared that the old woman behind me was leading a bullock rather than pushing a trolley. It was only later that I recalled that Presto had ceased to exist years ago! Then there was the occasion a couple of weeks back when I could have sworn that a small dog called me a 'Preening tart' in the local park. There are many more episodes but I don't want to miss my bus. I could drive but the idea of my having one of my 'visions' at the wheel frightens me. I dread to think of what sort of mayhem might ensue were I to see Rolf Harris riding a reindeer down the high street dressed in tight Pink Panther pyjamas, while in command, or not, of the Sierra.
Which said, I bought this believing it to be the comedy trio and haven't even listened to it yet. I'll probably pass it on to my son, Leif, after the singer, Garrett, a great favourite of my late wife Judy, after the singer, Garland, a great favourite of her even later father Bing, after the singer, Crosby, a great favourite of his mother, whose name I forget, who recently began a course of antibiotics for a bit of trouble he's having 'downstairs' and needs cheering up. It's more likely his kind of thing. He's very keen on The Busted or something. Must dash.