Brian Eno sang "Blank Frank is the messenger of your doom and your destruction". I might be blank but my name's not Frank. Fact. Last night I smelled a rat, there was something fishy going on. I could feel that someone was trying to have a laugh at the poor redundant (!?!) Rev. Dr's. expense, not a good thing to do, believe you me. I was told at 7am on Moday morning 16.3.09 by Keith Masters, General Manager of the Royal Terrace Hotel (17-21 Royal Terrace, Edinburgh), that the position of Night Manager was being made redundant; I had been doing that job at that hotel for nearly a year. I received a letter on 17.3.09 confirming this. Fact. As the fumes from the boiling vat of fish juice wafted beneath my quivering nostrils I thought I would do a little bit of the old Sherlock, my dear what's on. I phoned the hotel at 1am using a false voice I borrowed from an angry Aberdonian called Ian McGregor and made enquiries. I was told by Martin Kopriva (the complete idiot I had to train to replace me) that he was the night manager. Fact. I then sent a text to Gerry, the lazy portly porter, which said 'are you working tonight?', he replied 'yes with Martin', I texted back 'is he Night Manager?'. I could feel a palpable dull thud as the shit hit the wall of his skullduggery, he still has not replied and this silence speaks volumes. At 8.55am I sent a further message to Gerry saying 'What's up porky has the cat got yer tongue?'. Fact. I like facts, in a situation like this they are nice things to have around. They can be on your side or against you or neutral but they are there. Fact. So now I have an incriminating body of evidence against these clever bastards. What to do with it, I wonder? Give it to the law I say. That's what the law is there for, to protect people like me from wrong-doers who think that they are above the law. As Discharge sang - " The nightmare continues". Or is it a lucid dream...