No, don't bother to wipe your feet - it's only shed of a homepage

Well, a very good whatever-it-is-in-your-timezone to you.

After loafing around for a period of geological proportions, I've finally hauled myself off my backside - no, hang about, that's not right... I'm sitting down to type this rubbish - to produce perhaps the least anticipated page in the history of the 'net.

Me? I make a nuisance of myself way over on stage-right playing with Geckoes, a band very highly regarded in English Ceilidh circles. (They'll be Sicilian circles, then?) Or so it thinks.

And you'll be glad to learn that I'm kept off the streets by dancing with the Ducklington Morris... well, actually, they keep me on the streets because that's where they dance, like as not. If you can call it dancing. More like formation shambling about, these days. I've started to assemble some morsels of information - some of it even truthful - about this Oxfordshire village team. Be warned: the gen is far from complete. But on the basis that half a loaf is better than two in the bush, here it is.

If you notice a certain nervous tic in the Cheyne visage, it's because I'm a follower of those perennial masters of the last-day-of-the-footy-season-escape-from-the-precipice, Everton Football Club. And so, naturally, I'm a regular visitor to Lyndon Lloyd's superb Evertonia site where I search in, usually, vain for news that offers a sliver of hope that the club are at last returning to the overwhelming success that is, lets face it, every Evertonian's birthright. Or, failing that, a return to the dizzying heights of mediocrity.

The obligatory links section

By now you'll be desperate to get out of here. I do so understand. No need to look sheepish about it. So. Some good escape routes are:

	PG Wodehouse. The master. On second thoughts, don't follow the link. Just go and read all his 90-odd novels.
Ralph Vaughan Willams. If you actually want the hairs on your neck to stand at right-angles to the skin - and I daresay that need arises for all of us sooner or later - RVW's "Fantasia on a theme of Thomas Tallis" is guaranteed to get the follicles in a frenzy.
	Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. The greatest single of all time? You got it. (Who says so? only Mojo magazine, that's who.)
Will Hay. On a small-hours drive home from a Geckoes gig, it was scientifically proven that "Oh, Mr. Porter!" is the finest film ever made.
And finally (for now)...
	Jaques Tati. Whose alter ego, Monsieur Hulot, is the patron saint of this website.

Cheerio for now. I'll get back to modelling my existence even more closely upon those two rôle models, those exemplars, Eric Cartman and Homer Simpson.

If you catch me in the right mood, I might even respond to any emails you might squirt in my direction.