Today, Pete Cogle, the famous babbling pseudo-Tibetan Dave Gilmour look-nearly-alike podcasting nutcase was 200 years old. I'm sorry, I mean issued his 200th podcast (an easy mistake to make - Pete's almost Yoda-like presence makes him strangely difficult to age, though I have considered sawing off one of his legs and counting the rings, just to be sure).
As a part of the celebrations for this and other notable centenarian podiversaries (for messers Cool Clitheroe and Dark Cutler), we met in London last week as I have already noted. So why am I harping on about it again now? Well, the thing is, he recorded quite a bit of our conversation...
That's not a dead mouse you see him holding here, its a microphone. I have it on very good authority that the 'wind shield' (for such it is) that adorns the microphone is actually made from werewolf-fur which Pete's good lady wife was keeping in a box in the attic. Its possible that something of the terror that the fur's previous lycanthropic owner could inspire still clings to this rather pathetic remnant. I have seen grown men and women turn pale, or flinch when Pete thrusts his rather scruffy and moth-eaten appendage towards them in search of a juicy quote (and the same goes for the microphone, ho ho!). Anyway, the dratted thing may no longer be attached to a man-eating monster, but its still bloody dangerous because it can still pick up an injudicious comment from twenty feet away.
After a few beers I have been known to talk a fair amount of bollocks (qv 'Testiculator'), but the thing is it doesn't usually come back to haunt me. Well, obviously sometimes it does, otherwise there is no earthly way I could explain my first marriage. On this occasion, though, I had the chilling experience of hearing it all played back to me, and to make matters worse, there was some good music in the podcast, so I couldn't even turn it off.
To be fair, I have absolutely no-one but myself to blame for the awful 'Julian and Sandy' impersonations to be found at the beginning of Ourobouros Podcast #36. (Ooooh, Isnt he bold!) I'm not even too bothered about having claimed to live in a shed (after Mrs Grumbler reads this, there's likely to be more than a grain of truth in that assertion). Its almost impossible to hear what I said my favourite long word was, and even if you can make it out, I can weather that storm too.
However, just in case anyone gets the wrong idea (particularly any warped publicist who reckons it might make a good stunt) I need to take the opportunity in these pages of pointing out that I don't really have any intention of stuffing Russell Brand's Booky Wook where the sun shines not, in a manner of speaking. No. I don't want to be within six feet of either object, thank you very much.
 No, I don't think he knows why, either.
 This is a cheap shot and entirely unjustifiable - its only in for comic effect. And in any case, chronologically speaking, the first marriage involved a goat in a prehistoric Mongolian village (they made me their chief!) after I accidentally fell into a time warp in my local supermarket last Easter while reaching for a packet of Frozen peas, but I've been trying to hush that up.