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The last time I was bested by the Havisocks was deplorable. I set off towards Havisock HQ with the best of intentions to grease up their windows real sweet. By Jove, things did not go according to plan.

About half way there I was as far as, and things went to cock. As I was looking for a tasty rock to perch on while drinking my 7/16ths way there can of Green Grolsch I noticed activity in a proximate bush. It was The Celio, planning to enter into a night swimming race against some local otters he claimed to have a relationship of acquaintance with. He immediately stripped my of my grease and began a reflection about his long held ambition to swim the length of the Seven Bore. I busied myself with the beer; if I had to remain immobile and grease-less, why not imbibe? Eventually we heard the hooting of an owl, which he took to be the starting signal for his escapade, and he hurried into the brackish water.

My own interpretation of the owl was clouded by fear of The Belgian and his machinations (cf. Westphalians) and I realised that I could no longer feel safe lonely, drunk and lost in the wilderness (a quick fact I forgot to mention earlier: while I do know where Havisock HQ is, I did not know where I was when I started out on the trip). I called the Societal helpdesk and told them I was in a pickle, but the only response was a roar of laughter and an abrupt proposal that I ‘piss-off’. I was up against it, and the rise of the sun was still some hours away.

My keen skills as a mendicant told me to keep moving, lest Jack Frost be allowed to get inside my chilled bones. After an interminable walk I ended up on the outskirts of Arhus. I was both sickened and delighted. Urban environs offer the accommodationless excellent opportunities to nap, and that was certainly a blessing. On the other hand, I was obviously in Denmark which was a bit of an unpleasant surprise. When these things happen to me, it is usually because I have been drugged by The President and dispatched on one of the ‘missions’ he sometimes believes to be necessary in his fevered mind.

Was I just a drifter to the Danish authorities, or was I considered a vicious criminal? Why did I have a map in my pocket with directions to a hardware store and the Danish translation of ‘pickaxe’ written in the Presidential hand? Self preservation has always been the quality I most admire in myself, so I naturally was rather delighted when I decided to peg it. The obvious choice would be to get to Ejsberg and try to return to the sweet shores of Northumbria, but I considered that would be too obvious. I would have to make my way to Sjaelland.

A wise man once said “Accelerate the process”. Indeed. It was time to get to the core of things. Running down the main street I quickly found yet another unpleasant surprise – Ambuscade! I was bundled to the ground and given a comprehensive kicking. God knows who the initial aggressors might have been, but I am sure the last stage of the infamy was conducted by a bunch of a half dozen Havisocks who amused themselves for about three-quarters of an hour playing hopscotch on my back. When I regained motor functions - mouth filled with the repugnant taste of tarmacadam - all I cared to do was weep.

After weeks of further injustices and indignities, I eventually made it to Sund, where I intended to seek passage, but fearing extortionate costs associated with paying the Sound Due I stole both a bicycle and a dirigible and headed south towards the Kiel Canal. Upon my return i was demoted by the President and made to do sentry duty outside the societal bee-hives for the next three months.