The Verdict

Dear Diary,

More developments in relation to the case: it is readily apparent that the mess is being resolved (more or less) amicably. It is a sensitive issue, and I should n'er breath a word of it here. It is also apparent that I have been treated unfairly, but submit to the will of the Senate, therefore mustn't gripe. I was not suspended from duty, likewise neither was I expelled. I could appeal, in truth, I should appeal, but sagacity tells me not to.

Seconds out, round two! *ding ding*

Stone, moving in with Machiavellian manipulation makes a move wide of Maxy's centre. She swings with a hook, knocking him for six. He staggers back, reeling from the force of the blow, but manages to steady himself and remain standing. Max tries to retaliate, but to little avail. The wild series of rabbit-punches seem to have little or no effect on the analyst. He clinches. She shrugs him off with ease, only to deliver a final devastating uppercut which puts him flat on his arse. He's trying to get up by climbing the ringside ropes, but doesn't manage to get back on his feet. The ten count, and he's outta there. The crowd goes wild! The title fight is won, the game is over, and the shrewd and cunning puligistic phycho' analyst wins the fight. It's a knock out.

Brainiacs and whatever-heads from all corners of the blogosphere cry out in admiration, jubilation, at the verdict. The speaker hails over the microphone:

"The winner of the metaphorical match up title-fight, by knock-out in the second round, ladies and gentlemen: the new heavy-weight champion of the world, Rosetta Stoooooonnnnneeeee!" *cheers* *cries of joy* Stone takes the microphone, addressing the audience of duped intellectuals.

"I'd like to thank my trainer: Niccolo Machiavelli, my coach John Malthus, and my manager Adam Smith, for this victory. I want a full and frank apology, publicly, from Maxwell."

Max is being rushed to hospital, suffering badly from concussion, but as he's being loaded on to the stretcher simply shakes his head in adamant defiance. His trainer Karl Marx and coach Freiderich Engles are trying to help Max into the ambulance now. Leon Faucher, Max's manager is swearing in French at the devious capitalists that have become the bane of Maxy's life. It falls on deaf ears, only Niccolo Machiavelli comprehends the obscenities, and retorts in equally acidic and vulgar outpour in Italian.

So it's over. Thank God for that (not that it is popular to believe in God or truth nowerdays, being shrewd and secular is far more a la mode.) It could have been a lot worse, for either party, but business as usual, justice was served in the very same manner for Maxy as t'was for John Herman Brian (1683-1707) and Stephen Ward (1910-1963).

Pangloss once spoke of a trial he had been to in Italy, where the man up on the stand, facing charges, opted to defend himself. His defence was eloquent, the gypsy-gangster said to the judge, "I am [so and so] from the noble family line of the Brigante." (Brigands) An unfavourable verdict was given. The fellow then began scrabbling about on the floor, clawing the ground. The judge asked, "What are you doing man?" The man's response? "Where is the justice? I'm looking for the justice." The judge doubled his sentence, to two life-terms.

It is not wise to speak of these things, I am in danger of landing myself in further hot-water. Can Maxy stop blogging? Erm, no. I compare thee, not to a summers day, mine most worthily requited opponent, but instead compare thee to Alfred Hinds (1917-1991). A highly intelligent person. In-particularly what Superintendent Herbert Sparks had to say about the 1964 trail against him. The two people (Hinds and psycho'-analyst) are remarkably similar in intellect and methods. Let this be the last remark either of us make about this ... traumatizing miscarriage.

On a lighter note. Maxy managed to hold out all of two hours without any baccy, raiding his piggy bank of enough for a pouch. A good job too, he needs it after reading the verdict. Anyway, at least God is looking out for me, from the Emperyean. On my way home I found a gemstone studded treasure, only a small artefact, possibly worth a fair few bob (though I would need someone like Pangloss to verify that) and certainly aesthetically very pretty indeed. My instinct tells me to hand it in to the authorities, I shalt not lose faith in the system. I was tempted to give you people an object-centred approach analysis of the artefact, but to avoid further prosecution, I will keep a lid on it. Very cool man. Very cool indeed. I am truly blessed. However, it is certain that the metallic animal studded with precious gem-stones I found will be put to good use in a Dungeons and Dragons session (to represent a creature) as it's the right scale, and I don't have many of that type of animal. It seems a bit of a waste, as I could quite easily sell it, but thankfully I am to the extreme Left. So care more for the artefacts means of production, rather than money.

I must make it to my resident gig this weekend, as Gulliver is due to pick some banjo. Yet Maxy is taking another direction with his musical development, practicing Classical Guitar. My "Master" (O-Sensei) Tony Dodds once taught me some pieces from a marvellous book he'd written. Ten English Pieces for Guitar. After re-learning these dainty tunes, I intend to buy the rest of the books from his Capriol collection, namely: Thomas Arne: Sonata No.7, Airs and Dances (traditional pieces from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales), and perhaps [providing I can find someone equal or better than me on the instrument] English Music for Two Guitars. I am toying with the notion of learning both guitar parts from that book, then hitting the studio to put them down.

So anyway, a bath, a cigarette, and to forget all my troubles, and just be happy to be alive. Not slung out of the University, nor suspended. Despite my gripes, my rants, I feel blessed (lucky) to hath stumbled across such valuable treasure today, heaven sent judicious satisfaction.

Take care of yourself, and each other,

Stay On the Flex,

Max-out.