I know metablogging is just about the most tedious form of navel gazing, but this might just be amusing enough to make the cut.

Some time in 2004, I wrote a bitter aside about how the “Real Radio Fugitive” competition had caused me some minor inconvenience, and in the intervening two and a half years I promptly forgot about it. But its effect lingers on, because on “Good” Friday, the following comment was left (it hardly seems necessary to say it, but, in what follows, sic):

you want to try getting off your high horse my pal and i took 11 GRAND off your real radio pish , spose though you are some snotty wee glasgow uni middle class daddy weres my cheque student have fun eatin you cheese and chips in yer damp bed sit i am now in amsterdam steak dinner washed down with a bollinger 99 .

Proof if proof were needed that money cannot buy you happiness!

A footnote: You’re probably wondering why I didn’t call attention to the fact that our correspondent here is wasting time whilst on holiday to seek out excuses to spout his paranoid delusions. Perhaps you were hoping I’d say something like, “Maybe all the prostitutes were busy.” No such worry! A reverse lookup on his IP address reveals that he was actually writing from a Blueyonder account somewhere in Lanarkshire. Which at least explains the chip on his shoulder….

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