So now we enter into this, a fruitless competition of words thrown at one another like dung. The winner will be the one who comes to their senses first.

Loath me or hate me, we can agree on one thing: I'm assembling a tiny army of intelligent, misanthropic bacteria who will stop at nothing to destroy us all. Try and talk me down at or bury me in abusive tweets at @paulmfox.

I should tell you, though, that if you send me nonsense you'll make the acquaintance of my two fists, Luther and Martin. Twin brothers, but as you may end up seeing, they've never really got on. When Luther learned how to write and Martin failed to make the grade, well, that was it for their fraternal bond. Martin went off the rails, abdicating his responsibilities in favour of booze and whores; Luther adhered to a strict path of rational stoicism. The only time they really see each other anymore is when someone threatens, bores or in anyway annoys their momma: me.

The original odd couple, a loose cannon and a prissy bureaucrat, the laughing stock of my arm-ends. But when the fur starts flying and the going gets rough, the smiles get knocked upside down. I got's me a pair of jokers, and both of 'em are wild. Superb job, boys. Capital punchmanship.