Jim Foster

I would like to be remembered for doing something brave when I’m on my way out, but I suspect the hero the world will talk about for centuries won’t be me.

Men too have sacrificed themselves for a cause, but not as often.

If one is taking a chubby chap to a beach, far too often, he is surrounded by animal activists, wetted down, and dragged into the ocean.

Oh, and one more – under no circumstances will I take New Year’s advice from some loony columnist about anything…

“Well to be honest, Mr. Sharpe, I’m not sure if I know what happened. Let me see – I remember coming down the chimney. It’s a very nice one by the way, a straight shaft with none of those curves and right angles in it.

Snowbirds know where he goes but they keep that kind of information to themselves. They ply the old goat with booze so they get first crack at the goodies next Christmas.

I don’t doubt when he jotted down the poem, old Clement was pretty well juiced.

Under the terms of the union contract at Otaco (re: statutory holidays) he shouldn’t have been paid for Christmas at all.

“Look, he’s not talking to some jerk on the other line right now; he’s talking to me… What do you mean it’s the same thing?”

My first thought was perhaps a lonely bachelor had just finished off a bottle of Bombay gin and realized another evening was over and once again love had passed him by and…