Which reminded me. Back in the days of yore - must have been about '86, since Alex hadn't been moved to Edinburgh very long, IIRC - I once laid into, in print, a certain denizen of this parish. He was 15 or so, and had written a LOC (Letter of Comment) to Alex's zine; Alex was typing up responses, and he got sick of doing it, and tossed me the electric prosepunch. Alas, I was already pretty drunk (I swear it was on Alex's lovely Polish vodka, not Corflu) at the time, so when I read this LOC, my brain switched to a kind of Gonzo Editor mode, and I ranted. For some reason, the one phrase I used that stuck in everyone's mind was that, in my opinion, the writer of the LOC should be spreadeagled across the bonnet of a car and buggered with a halberd lubricated with his own vomit.
I know, I know. I was drunk. Mea maxima culpa.
Eh dear, those were the days. And the writer of the LOC became one of my very dearest friends, which he still is. Funny how these things happen, eh?
And now, back to the forms.