Which Downer Am I!

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

And, lest I be called on being off-off-topic

Heaven forfend.

Long years past it was the custom in these parts to toast live butterflies over an open refrigerator on St. Brigit's Day. In these more lemon-scented times, however, the practice has given way to an annual race between two teams of gooseberry rollers from the great universities of Harrogate and Christmas Island.

As the legendary 'Cicero of Skegness', Obadiah Ottershaw, once put it "I am, of course, pulling your leg. I was wondering how long anyone would read a quotation for before they realised that it was completely invented by me." I am disinclined to argue with his undeniably prescient words.

Also, apparently, sprach Zarathustra. But that is a different story entirely, and a dark and terrible tale it is too.

There follows the answer to Bethberry's guesses, disguised as a gratuitously parenthetical quotation. Let's pretend it's from last week's Sunday Times.

Those are indeed great names (although Lord Syslox could have obtained a far punchier name by omitting a location), but how many times have we seen greatness denied? This, I fear, is to be one of those times, since none of those undeniably departed members is the long-defunct forum correspondant of whom I speak.