Voy Por Ustedes

Note to self; do not eat canned spaghetti before going to bed - or hellish nightmares endure. Soon after dabbing up the remaining tomatoey spaghetti goodness of my 3am supper with a slice of Warburtons I dreamt I had been roped into a bare knuckle fight above a pub. Scared I was.

I arrived at the pub early (which took great courage in itself if you ask me) and was shown to a seat in the corner. My opponent was pointed out to me and I stared in horror at a figure standing roughly seven feet tall shuffling across the floor towards me supported by a walking stick, his huge black cloak and hat concealing his identity.

Dear gah, is this the product of a marriage twixt Ebenezer Scrooge and Frankenstein's monster? The ghostly figure stopped at the bar and removed his hat and in his unmistakable feminine lispy twang ordered up a, "gin and tonic please Daphne." He took the tiny glass in his claw like hand, turned his sinister countenance towards me and downed it in one. It was John Pertwee! It's ham sandwiches for supper for me from now I can tell you.