popliteal fossa

English as tuppence, changing yet changeless as canal water, nestling in green nowhere, armoured and effete, bold flag-bearer, lotus fed, Miss Havershambling opsimath and eremite, feudal still, reactionary Rawlinson End.

As I was browsing the dearly departed Ivor Cutler's works on Amazon, I couldn't help but notice a ubiquitous "customers who bought this item also bought: Sir Henry at Rawlinson End; Audio CD ~ Vivian Stanshall". Cutler's wikipedia entry also acknowledges a kinship: "see also Vivian Stanshall" it advises.

Listening again last night to the Ginger Geezer's masterpiece I couldn't help but wonder if my obsessive squirreling of nuggets to feed the blog is not in danger of turning me into Reg Smeeton, Rawlinson End's resident pub know-it-all: 'Did you know there is no proper name for the back of the knee?'

Reg Smeeton, floccose red wig like a kipper nailed to his bonce, nodded with ill-feigned interest; but the butterfly flexions of his face muscles argued the mental tumult within - urging fervid facts chattering in Stockhausen tongues.

"Drawing from my vast, though admittedly unresolved catalogue of general know-it-all, facts of interest etcetera, corroborated, corroboree: a sacred or warlike assembly of aboriginals, may I remind you of ........"

Another stray thought, is Beachcomber's Lord Shortcake perhaps the missing link between Sir Henry and Wodehouse's Blandings Castle?