Happy St Salmon's Day

Greets.

Saw a man today, ambling airily down Marchmain Avenue. He was an upright cat with looks to suit his posture: Mancunian brow, herbivorous elbows, stern buttocks protruding loftily from the usual area. His gaze swept in an arc from side to side following a long cylindrical tool as it thrashed about in a subdued manner.

You might say here, 'Stop!' or 'Wait!' or 'Shut the hell up you absolute lunatic!' as one man did to me quite recently, shortly before suffering a massive heart attack by my hands. You might then continue, "this object was both thrashing and subdued?"
"Why yes, you cock and balls, it was," I would reply "and when you see a fellow of this man's ilk you'll understand precisely what I'm on about!"

I approached him, trying to look uninterested by his swishing-wand and engaged him a fairly nonchalant manner

"Get your lips off my metal-detector, sir." He belched violently at me very nearly removing my false moustache. "That is my very expensive property, you shit, and if you don't start removing your body parts from it I shall have them removed (by court order)!"
I returned to face him eyeball to eyeball. Then, when it became obvious that there was no way to hold a conversation in this stance I took a step back leaving a 2'3" gap (69.5cm) between us.

"A metal detector!" I swooned (away from him, and slightly to the right) "of all the majestic devices to be held by you sir, that one takes the jelly!" I was clearly over-awed by this device, having not seen one since its first invention in the 1930s. A mélange of bodily fluids swelled in me at its sight.

"Indeed." he replied, continuing to swoosh his steel magneto-baton.

"Then that, by Henry, makes you a metal detective, does it not?" I asked with rhetoric, in the knowledge that I was lexically correct.

"YOU WHAT?" His tonsils nearly quit his head with the shout he levelled at me. "I am a 'Metal Detectorist', you heaving imbecile! A 'METAL DETECTORIST'!"

I kept my composure.
"Indeed. And do you, then, 'detector' metal for a living?"

"It is not a living, it is a hobby and I detect it, you...you..." His chest heaved. I could smell the yell brewing in his veins. I decided I must take action and immediately popped my larger cork between his rosy mouth-flaps.
He, of course, burst and Doggo had quite a feast that night!
I believe it was fine come-uppance for such wild and deluded use of the English language.

Doggo, by the way, is my new puppy. Kalim Gerald Barkleton Twing sadly passed away. The coroner's report mentioned something about dogs not being able to survive in the vacuum of space, but I say where else can you go to take a dog for a walk when you live in a space shuttle?

Anyway, the hearing's on Friday so I'll let you know how that goes. You never know, it might be back to lovely prison for me!

S-S-S-Sarlog