Similarly, we get frequent messages in our In-Box along the lines of "What the Hell is THIS ?" So, to those who still wonder, why not think along the lines of "Terrapin Station", or any whichever other album didn't sit quite as comfortably with you as you might have wanted it to. Perhaps you remember that when you played it a few times, it had a lot going for it after all ? Don't get us wrong, we're not making comparisons, just trying to suggest a useful context.

It can be whatever you think it might or should be, much like Modern Art but, again, we ain't claiming to be anything other than very primitive daubers. Those of you who were old enough, and sad enough (allegedly, but myths are exactly that), to have experienced some semblance of consciousness during the Sixties may well remember a spoof Dylan-esque folky-type song of the same name. This is an attempt to further the search for answers - for there may be more than one - (not counting three weeks from Tuesday, or two weeks from . . . or whenever that bloody car will be ready) - !

In the song, the spoof Dylan asked . . in typically nasal fashion,

Nay, nor was it at all clear what the actual question was, either. My guess is that it's like the old saying about Rock'n'Roll . . . if you had to ask what it was, then you'd missed the point. ( Similar to "Well if YOU don't know, I'M not telling you . . ! - Have you been there as well ?) And still answer came there none !

If you don't believe me about the song, let's try an experiment in persuasion and you can all (both of you) write in a request to get "Your Old Mate" (Brian Matthew - even older than us) to play it on "Sounds of the Sixties", Radio 2, Saturday mornings from 08.00 to 10.00. The name of the Artiste is not known. Go on, get writing, semaphoring or whatever to the Old Boy . . .

Decades later, a surprisingly similar character is asking the self-same thing, so it MUST be a "perennial", no ?

An examination of detailed case studies on record reveals that, of the many who have been asked, quite a sizeable number say that the only answer is a simple, unequivocal "YES !", (especially all the CheeseHeads in Green Bay, Wisconsin). Others would disagree, saying:

"Cheese is against my religion", (e.g. those in Chicago, Detroit, Tampa Bay and the entire State of Minnesota !), or

"This isn't cheese, this tastes like mad dog shite !" - (Northern Europeans on first visit to France/Italy/Greece etc.),

"Cheese is really, really bad for varicose veins, actually ! Not that I've got any . ." - (Carol Vorderman),

"Cheese-ing causes under-age halitosis" - (hip orthodontic hygienists of the vegan persuasion),

You pays your money . . . just like always. The choice is yours. What do YOU think ? As ever, we're here to help. Why not share with us those concerns that you share with your special friends, (animal, vegetable, mineral, invisible or otherwise) ?

After all, some of us are Half-Human.

Some of us are all Half-Human, after all.

Half of us are half-cut some of the time . . .

Some of us are half-cut half of the time . . .

Cut me another half slice, pet . . . Mmm . . .

Too much cheese . . . Zzzz . . . Back soon.

Whoa ! . . that was a canny twiglet pet . . .

Just for a laff, me and my new invisible chum interrogated the clipart - we did a spoof survey, and this is a fairly representative cross section of what we've found ! In the absence of Brian Snow, you can each work the Swing-O-Meter yourselves. This site is double-brimming with treats, innit ? Where else can you get such an offer ? And there's more . . .

Let us start, as always, with the rather Well-To-Do, where caution is always preached, (if not always practised !)

The kids always want what they can't have . . Yah ? The rich might have pots o'brass but it hasn't stopped 'em from raising snivelling little gits by the bucket-load . . AND they still have to wipe their backsides, just like the rest of us, though there are those who would have us believe otherwise !

Like Lord & Lady Nevershite.

Tried it once, didn't like it, eh ? - How utterly beastly !

However, those Victorians got up to all manner of things, didn't they ? Yon Sherlock Holmes was into All sorts . . . (yeah, him and Dirty Bertie Bassett) . . . used to smuggle it in from the Continent in his violin case . . and it went right to the very top !

Albie ate so much that he turned into a shed-load of monuments ! So did his lass, too ! Ruled the World in them days - a Bulldog Economy fuelled by good, honest, down to earth British Cheese. Remember Ben Gunn ? His descendants carried on the tradition . . this one's from down under (laff !) . . . (Correspondent Rip Spandex tells me it's all the rage there.)

You see, the Working Classes will always want what the Hoi Polloi tells 'em they can't have. Militants throughout the Ages have stood up to be counted. (There's usually ten in a packet !)

You all surely know which Working Class Hero parcelled THIS one up ? You might also recall his other anthem, which he wrote 'on the spot' when the all-night dry cleaners couldn't get the stain out of his new loons after a mishap in a fast food outlet freebie in Greenwich Village . . . you must remember "Gift Cheese to Pants" ?

Yes, the power of the pro-cheese lobby cannot be denied. Some folk will always swear by it, like the famous who risk being ostracised by announcing their unswerving allegiance to and reliance on cheese or other, kindred "dangerous" substances. Legends grow up around them. The Young look up to them and strive to look like and be like their heroes . . and who can blame them when this is what they hear ?

A young Belfast Boy springs to mind, as does another from humble beginnings who called on The Almighty to give him a helping Hand once upon a time down Mexico way . . . And the women scream and chase them around and beg for it. Then these shameless husseys get approached by some nasty tabloid and tell all . .

and the shit hits the fan . . . (probably the one who went for the Bovril at half-time. Serves him right for being a fan, I say !)

Five or ten years later, after these groupies have notched up another few hundred or so Celebrity Conquests, it all comes apart at the seams and the same tabloid comes back with another approach - "'Ere, Maff-yew. Bung her a few quid, get her squiffy, tell 'er she looks a million dollar$ and keep the tape rolling while she reminisces, my son !". By now the poor dear is befuddled and skint because she's had far too much cheese over the years. She (ex?)poses for a few snaps and gleefully accepts the "Pony for expenses darlin' yeah ?" She still wears the gear she wore at eighteen but now she's washed up, going mouldy round the edges where she's been nibbled, and looks something like this . .

Looks like melted cheese, eh ? This was taken after the wig came off . . . it affects some more than others. This one's still big on lippy though, a game old girl ?

In times of Enlightenment, a sense of Fair Play prevails . . attempts are made to "top-up" the cheese rations for those on the bread line. Governments, as ever, feel the need to introduce a Policy here and an Initiative there, though, in the main, most Governments are out to "save us from ourselves". (Nanny knows best !)

And when the economic going gets tough, and there's a universal cry for "Someone . . . Somewhere . . ." to do "Something . . . Anything . . ." there's always the Last Resort Solution . . . the Deadly Duo, Prohibition in harness with Patriotism . . . ("Huh, sorry you asked now, suckers ?")

"Twenty hand-picked Officers from The Federal Bureau of Investigation, under the command of its Director, ace Illegal-Dairy-Produce-Gang-Buster, J. Peasemold Grunt-Futtock, today made dawns raids on a string of ChompEasys across the Mid-West. This Special Task Force destroyed four major illicit Cracker-Cheese distribution centres and confiscated several thousand tons of illegal Danish imports, in the process smashing the evil NorseBoys Chapter of the infamous Smurf Network and despatching several leading members of the gang to Valhalla. The contraband has now been pulped at an un-named Federal Facility."

Cue stirring patriotic music . . .

( . . . Er, thank you Mr. Hendrix . . . we'll get back to you . . . )

Yeah, right . . . That's when they keep it all for themselves . . (hence the term "Big Cheese') . . . or try to ! However, human nature being what it is, there's always the Yellow Black Market, the cheese that "fell off the back of a rickshaw" etc. It can always be smuggled in disguised as antique urns from Mesopotamia or somesuch. So, all is fine until The Customs & Excise Man and his mates get that all-important tip off, then it's . . .

and here's us just getting ready for a Fondue Party and a big spread . . . Life's a bitch ! Edam and blast !

We started by asking the band, but by that time two had gone to the pub to drown their sorrows, one was in hiding / boxing clever and the bass player was in bad odour because he'd opted for the witness protection program, so that just left Davey to sum up on behalf of the others. Despite mulling it over this way and that, even secretly jamming it in A flat, he was forced to concede that the answer was "Nothing to report as of this time'. They had reached discord rather than concord, (nothing unusual there, then), and they were all exhausted . . . not just tired, but completely devoid . . . Cheesed-Off . . . physically, spiritually, socially, emotionally and psychologically spent . . . (just like in the "Gannin' Doon The Road, Feelin' Shite" version of Franklin's . . .) He was his usual forthright self !

Get well soon lads. There might be a gig to do !

 ******************************************************

Now for a bit of Danish Blue and a slice o'cake.

Mmm . . Nice !

Nah, sorry. All gorn. Come back next month, eh ?

There's a bloke comin' down from Fryupdale . . .

(I hope he didn't get his car from you-know-who !)

Following a lengthy, co-ordinated, round the clock, cross-border surveillance exercise, Officers from Scotland Yard, led by the recently appointed Cheese-Czar, High Commissioner Sir Wilf Hookham, today swooped on the sleepy backwater of Fryupdale in the North of England and humanely slaughtered the last remaining dairy herd on Planet Earth.

Several members of the self-styled Sons of Mutoc (Mesopotamian Urns To Overseas Comrades), an illegal organisation dismissed as nothing but "a raggedy-arsed, cross-cultural, old tossers collective" in a recent statement by the disgraced former Goat Minister, (and half-brother of the Cheese-Czar), Lord Alf Hookham-Hall, were later taken into custody without resistance.

Unconfirmed reports suggest that those arrested include the suspected Mutoc Mastermind and Commander-in-Chief, the notorious French centenarian non-conformist and 'underground' philosopher-poet, Louis D'Cadnov, known in the shady cheese underworld as 'The Udder Buddah'. All those detained have been remanded in custody for processing.

A large mirrorball was later damaged in a minor scuffle when protestors, attempting to enter a caravan, were attacked by ferocious dogs. Police quickly intervened and removed a quantity of nude photographs of young women and several holdalls containing large denomination banknotes and dogshit, which were sent for analysis.

Further reports allege that Arresting Officers were acting on information received from a former member of the collective, a recent inductee into the controversial "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire Witness Protection Programme". This informant is said to have left the Sons of Mutoc after a disagreement with D'Cadnov and passed on several of D'Cadnov's secret coded manuscripts and tape recordings of his rallying speeches.

So ends the longest cow-hunt in history, thus providing the final, definitive answer to the perennial Cheese Question. Quite simply, once existing yellow black market stocks are exhausted, there will be no more cheese ! When news reached the Stock Market there was pandemonium, and trading in Goat futures was suspended.

__________ That is All ! __________