Meant to mention, last night at the pub, a bunch of aging hippies came in after finishing their Buddhist retreat up in the hills some-god-forsaken-where.
Lots of hair, body odour, crystals, badly-tuned guitars, not a bra to be seen, battered copies of Walden ... that sort of thing.
All looked like they could do with a decent steak and a beer; but it was vegie burgers and orange juice all round.
Leader of their troupe, whoop or band was a guy appropriately called Alf or perhaps ALF: long paisley robes, staff, everything but the pointy hat.
Because he thinks he's a wizard, he calls himself GrandAlf.

Now, like most blokes I know, I'd rather blow-torch my own testicles than talk about Love.
But nothing could stop Alf.
Spookie and Chopper were laughing like drains into their beers.

Proclaims Alf, inter ferkin alia:
"Love is like toothpaste.
"Makes your mouth feel good at least twice a day.
"And it does you good.
"But it doesn't last forever.
"Sometimes you just have to go out and get a whole new tube".

Looked like he hadn't brushed his teeth since Woodstock.
With philosophers like this -- as Paris Match said about Jean-Paul sanglant Sartre after he claimed the Baader-Meinhof mob were being starved when they were, in fact, on hunger strike -- who needs idiots?
(As you will have guessed, I have my copy of Paris Match on regular order at the Minjup deli.)

Sledge