Your letter arrives on the morning post amidst a wave of propitious news. The barman you assaulted at the Bishop's Taint on the afternoon of Dunfermline's 1-nil defeat to the mighty Falkirk, has risen from his coma in a near vegetative state and with no clear memory of the events of that evening. With his testimony regarding your attacks and my misguided intervention (where I got a stop sign I'll never know) now a matter of hearsay, the local constabulary will not have any viable means to pursue charges or press for civil compensation. Only a poorly received petition from local church groups and women's organizations can keep us from a quiet pint of an afternoon at the Taint. It is only my gentle and forgiving spirit that keeps me from seeking recompense from the Officers who subdued me with such vigor. I can find no pity for their burns, bites, and bruised scotums after they were so free with their rubber truncheons and water cannons. So fear not my dear friend, we need not seek solace in the gusset staining draft of The Scrubbing Dutchman, or the vile piss streaked walls and ungodly stench of Madonna's new Kabbalah Schmooze House. All the best to you and yours until next we correspond.