Further Correspondence from the KL Archives

Charlie you filthy, quasi-continental bounder,

How dare you refer to my expeditions as 'little jaunts'! Those are rich words indeed from a man who considers it an adventure to take extra Vinegar with his pommes-frites, and who to my knowledge got lost for four weeks in the stationery aisle at Tesco's in '84. If it weren't for the nutritional value of pencil shavings I dare say we would be down one posing, self promoting blaguard and all the happier for it. As for your supposed loyal service to the king of Belgium, I have always found this allegiance of yours baffling, coming as it does from a man who never set foot outside England before the age of forty and whose closest encounter with Belgium was when he slipped over on one of those little map things you get inside a packet of Guylian fine chocolates.

I suppose the attempt is pointless, nevertheless I shall endeavor once again to instil some understanding in your feeble consciousness of what it is to be a real explorer. I relate below a brief summary of perhaps my tenth most well known expedition, a gloriously unsuccessful attempt to circumnavigate the world in eight days.

It was that idyllic time in the early part of this century when, apart from two world wars, the resurgence of the black death on the continent and the almost titanic struggle between Joey and Trisha on 'who wants to be a Tory Headkicker', all was well with the world. I was casting about for something to occupy my time, having been dishonourably discharged from the service for hiccoughing too quietly. It happened that while I was reading a copy of Reader's Digest 'Worlds best Holidays' my eye was caught by an advertorial for Contiki-Tours of the Mediterranean. Like lightning it struck me, a collossal electric shock from my malfunctioning radio-alarm clock. Revovering in hospital several weeks later one of the nurses suggested I attempt to circumnavigate the world in eight days. It seemed like as good idea as any.

Seven and a half days later I was still waiting for my train at Sodor station. It was not until weeks later that I realised Sodor does not exist outside the fictional world of Thomas the Tank Engine.

I returned home disappointed, and had to console myself with a seven figure book-deal for the journals of my voyage.

Yours In Trousers,


Kensington Longreach, Esq.
Gentleman Explorer

PS. The rash is clearly Mexican Shrieking Thrush, apparently you have been getting too close to some ill Macaques. I recommend a strict course of French for Beginners.