Thursday, 21 June 2007

How I Trumped Perry Mason

Woof again. Woof is Dogspeak for hullo.

Woof, in Dogspeak, also happens to mean goodbye. And what's for dinner? Not to mention Iraq's looking like a dog's breakfast, hey? And, frankly, everything else in the human vocabulary. Dogspeak is a very easy language to learn. No gender agreement between nouns and adjectives, no subjunctive, no dangling participles. Not even a clause. Or an adjective. Or even a noun.

I highly recommend Dogspeak as a second language. It's international. Get off a plane in Paris, walk up to the nearest poodle and say Woof. He - or, indeed, she - will immediately agree with you that the country has taken a hard right turn.

Email me for details of my exclusive one-on-one classes in Dogspeak. All for the price of a brisket bone.

But I digress.

Over the past month or so, something should have dawned on keen followers of this blog. Which is to say, I haven't been troubling the ether with many posts. Equally keen disciples of the Comments section of this blog will be aware that the little white rat initiated legal action against me - in the form of an injunction preventing me from posting - on the basis that I had defamed her by comparing her with Barbra Streisand.

Off to court we went. I represented myself, adopting the traditional - if you're English, as I am - barrister's head apparel in the form of a wig:

Shame I washed it the night before.

And Barbra? She didn't even turn up. She forgot to set the alarm:

I've always said she does her best work on her back.

Cupping my oversized paw to my oversized ear, do I hear another defamation action trotting up the garden path?

Be that as it may, I am delighted to report here that I triumphed in court.

Barbra had engaged Perry Mason to argue her case. I immediately jumped to my hind legs and objected on the obvious grounds that Mr Mason is a fictional character. Of course the Judge agreed with me.

Hence here I am posting again.

Woof.

That's Dogspeak for I think it's aperitivo-o'clock.

14 comments:

Judith said...

You know, Dermott? You're sexier with eyes. Eyes are the window of the soul, eh? Little eyeliner, mascara, but even a headband would be a start.

Don't fuss about the little bitch. How much could she hurt you?

Dermott said...

She plays games. With my mind.

I end up a dribbling idiot.

I dribble anyway, it's the idiot she turns me into that's the problem.

Delina said...

woof woof woof? Or woof?

Dermott said...

Delina, you've just told me, in Dogspeak, that the bar's open, it's your shout, and would I like ten bottles of Veuve.

Yes please.

Delina said...

woof??!! *+@**!!! Woof woof!!

Dermott said...

Translation: "Did I only offer ten? *+@**!!! Make that a dozen, and one each for all the little dogs in Castiglion Fiorentino!"

Judith in you know where said...

Really, Dermott, there is hardly anything less attractive than a dog gone legless. You really should be thinking of your image if you want to overcome the princess factor.

Dermott said...

Pfffft. Love me, love my liver.

Judith the bruised hearted said...

Alas, now I know that you are a gigolo who will take up with any old lady carrying bread.

Dermott said...

I'm willing to change my ways.

For cake.

Africantapestry said...

You blew me over...never knew you had this blog too!
You are a distinguished personality Dermott, and of course I side with the judge!
Ronell

Giusi said...

I gave you cake!

Dermott said...

Mais oui!

Got any legal problems? I'm available for court work. No case too big or small.

Dermott said...

giusi - more importantly, you gave me lamb bones!

I do hear tell, though, that you sent a raspberry cake home to me.

It didn't arrive.

In my gob, anyway.

I think they fed their faces with it.

Have they no shame?