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As long as I get paid, I care not... (he said, playing up to the 'lawyer' cliché which is of course not always warranted )
"...the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices..."
As long as I get paid, I care not... (he said, playing up to the 'lawyer' cliché which is of course not always warranted )
Dickens loved lawyers didn't he?
"Why, I don't exactly know about perjury, my dear sir," replied the little gentleman. "Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It's a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more." Pickwick Papers.
Rather than see the 'AA' thread come to a grinding halt, I propose to reveal the remainder of the answer to the current question at 2.00 p.m. today if nobody has had a stab at it. I would suggest that mercia then set the next question if further contributioins have not been forthcoming.
Rather than see the 'AA' thread come to a grinding halt, I propose to reveal the remainder of the answer to the current question at 2.00 p.m. today if nobody has had a stab at it. I would suggest that mercia then set the next question if further contributioins have not been forthcoming.
You have indicated that they are palindromic. Perhaps another hint first before you spill the beans, Norfolk?
Am I missing something? The A answer has been found, no? It's ABBA and mercia got that...
It remains simply to flesh out the elements: "I do, I do, I do...&c" apparently being one of their songs, and the other clues pointing to other ABBA songs? I only know 'Waterloo'... and I can't make ....
Was there a clairvoyant journalist called Fernando something?
"...the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices..."
He libelled Liberace and got heavily walloped financially
Possibly the libel trial of the 20th Century. Liberace famously said he "cried all the way to the bank" after winning.
These were the words by 'Cassandra' complained of:
"I have to report that Mr. Liberace, like "Windstarke Fuenf", is about the most that man can take. But he is not a drink. He is Yearning Windstrength Five. He is the summit of sex—Masculine, Feminine and Neuter. Everything that He, She and It can ever want.
I have spoken to sad but kindly men on this newspaper who have met every celebrity arriving from the United States for the past thirty years. They all say that this deadly, winking, sniggering, snuggling, chromium-plated, scent-impregnated, luminous, quivering, giggling, fruit-flavored, mincing, ice-covered heap of mother love has had the biggest reception and impact on London since Charlie Chaplin arrived at the same station, Waterloo, on September 12, 1921.
This appalling man—and I use the word appalling in no other than its true sense of terrifying—has hit this country in a way that is as violent as Churchill receiving the cheers on V-E Day. He reeks with emetic language that can only make grown men long for a quiet corner, an aspidistra, a handkerchief, and the old heave-ho. Without doubt, he is the biggest sentimental vomit of all time.
Slobbering over his mother, winking at his brother, and counting the cash at every second, this superb piece of calculating candy-floss has an answer for every situation. Nobody since Aimee Semple MacPherson has purveyed a bigger, richer and more varied slag-heap of lilac-covered hokum. Nobody anywhere ever made so much money out of high speed piano playing with the ghost of Chopin gibbering at every note.
There must be something wrong with us that our teenagers longing for sex and our middle-aged matrons fed up with sex alike should fall for such a sugary mountain of jingling claptrap wrapped up in such a preposterous clown."
Hilarious!
The nub of the case was whether the real meaning of the three highlighted words was that Liberace was gay. He denied this on oath in his evidence....
"...the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices..."
Love it. What wonderful prose. You don't get the likes of that in the Daily Mail
My favourite bit is:".... emetic language that can only make grown men long for a quiet corner, an aspidistra, a handkerchief, and the old heave-ho."
Now where's Norfy got to (the solemn 14:00 deadline having passed) and has mercia got his B ready???
"...the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices..."
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