THE OLD DUDE’S BEEN losing his mojo for a while now. The swordsman of Seville can’t really be bothered to haul it out of the scabbard these days. And those trusty lines, the repartee, the badinage and persiflage: even the chocolate-factory ladies of York are beginning to find it a bit ripe. He’s even tried going gay, but a paltry mille e tre just seemed, well, a bitgay.
Now you’ll just find him, arthritic, unshaven, eyes like bloody oysters, in the corner of some old pub, sucking on roll-ups and dribbling into
