Kentucky Fried Son of a Bitch War - it's good for something, Edwin, like keeping munitions factories steadily employed rather than earnings gone on horses, booze, ass-grooves impressed so deep on bar-stools archaeologists in 500,000 years might consider them completely different species - anonymous maximus; War gave us Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sasoon, Richard Whidmark, Florence Nightingale, dogs who carry honorary ranks Walt Disney make wholly distorted films about, but hey - it's all good, Edwin. Sometimes I feel like a Kentucky Fried Son of a Bitch having these conversations over and over. How Dresden and Coventry united us as a global community, yin and yang like two sages sitting beside me, neither satisfied at how far I will take them, before the fluttering wings of waitresses twist on the stench of spilled draught and bathroom odours, reminding me of wars still raging. Yeah, he's a Kentucky fried son of a bitch they say, passing elbows elbows nudge me like shells pounding on Dresden and Coventry. The thrill of it all.