....my symptoms were palpitations, fever, inability to focus, confusion, word blindness, irrational behaviour, feelings of insecurity, lack of direction, and repetitive strained phalanges.
"Have you been doing anything unusual lately?" he asked.
"No! Nothing more than the usual" I replied.
He did a few tests, looked at me with his lugubrious expression (I almost saw tears welling in his eyes) and with utmost concern he said "I've seen these cases before, some worse, but yours is particularly advanced."
I prepared myself for the worst, I thought I just had a virus, but I braced myself for the news as he poured a large Glenmorangie and handed it to me.
"You'd better drink this" he said. "You've got Wizzleyitis!"
I was speechless. His words hovered around my head like the blue smoke from the Havana cigar that I was puffing profusely.
"Wizzleyitis! Is it serious doc?"
"Well, you'll have to cut down on your very bad habits" he said.
"Good Grief!" I replied. "Surely you're not asking me to give up Wizzley?"
Chuckling away here!
That being said, there are valid reasons for favo(u)ring Lederhosen over kilts, especially when there is fair chance that intoxicated specimen of your kind might mistake them for the slighly more desirable female version.
