Who won the bloody war?

You may find both my English and American passports in a Zip-lock bag on a small secluded beach just beyond Rye Playland, beside the neatly folded stack of clothes.

The upper lip re-stiffens.

Okay, after England's performance today, I'm grudgingly willing to resume to mantle of Albion. But what a great -- and well-deserved -- result for the hard-working USA team.

I think I have this whole football thing worked out: England has never invented a sport that the rest of the world hasn't learned to play better; while America has never invented a sport that the rest of the world has learned to play.

All the news that's fit to print.

Headline from Associated Press:  "Miley Cyrus: I'm really comfortable with my body."

Oh good. I was so worried. (Oy.)

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I've been wondering about the suitability of this next one, which has been sitting on my desk for a month. If you still retain any respect for me as a writer and humorist (ha!), stop now: do not read any further. But there's such an irresistible ambiguity, particularly for American readers. Ah, what the heck, I'm 53, go for the funny.

This is from the British Press Association, via the Guardian newspaper. Children and those of a tasteful disposition have been warned. Under the headline "Pensioner imprisoned for having s*x with donkey and horse." (See, I told you.)

A 66-year-old-man was jailed today for having s*x with a horse and a donkey. Joseph Squires was sentenced to a total of 22 months, a Leicester crown court official confirmed today. He previously pleaded guilty to bu**ery of a donkey between 2 February and 5 February 1999, and b*gg*ry with a horse between 15 and 18 March 2004. Squires, of Leicester, also admitted charges of damaging property -- relating to the two animals on the same dates . . .

On the same "dates"? Dates. Was it dinner and a movie first? That would account for the property damage -- it's hard for a donkey to work those tip-up seats in the multiplex. But what movie would you choose to get her in a romantic frame of mind? (Note that I say "her." I'm assuming, of course, that the animals were female -- I'd hate to see this cross the line into something kinky.)

And why so late? I mean, did the donkey suddenly say, "Hey, that guy said he'd call me, and it's been eleven years . . ."

Okay, enough with the filth. But it makes you proud to be British, which is more than can be said for the England football team, who need a collective kick up the a--

No! Must . . . resist . . . lure . . . of  . . . cheap  . . . equine . . . pun . . .

You had me at "toga."

I'm usually far too late with interesting links, etc. But if you're a film buff, here's a link to three and a half minutes that'll gladden your heart, a reminder that movies have words, too. Are you not entertained?

Who needs an Edgar when you get this honor!

No, it's not my character Finsbury the Ferret. It's my character Oliver. Or at least a real beast that was specifically named after him. Courtesy of Diane Plumley and Paul Petrocelli. (Mind you, I named a fictitious London suburb after her.)

I am an American.

Still half-English? Not any more. Not after this evening's pathetic goalless draw against Algeria. Algeria. (Who played very well, incidentally.) From now on, you can call me Al. And I shall be leaving the letter U out of all further utterances. Sorry, ot of all frther tterances.

That hint of leek.

One of my friends (and favorite authors) is the pseudonymous Rhys Bowen, who like me has set stories in Britain (Wales in her case, so I can't say "England"*) that have found their audience on this side of the Atlantic. Here's an interview with her in the UK's Daily Telegraph online from earlier this week. I hope it inspires you to explore her back catalogue while you're waiting for me to get my act together.

Rhys also maintains an excellent and in my opinion oversubscribed blog called "Rhys's Pieces" (how does she come up with them?) which you can find by hopping over to http://rhysbowen.blogspot.com. After you've read my blog entries, and then only if you send all her followers back in this direction!

(Did I mention we're old friends?)

Here's a quick Rhys (aka Janet) story. When I still lived in Manhattan, I'd arranged to meet Rhys the Bowen for coffee during one of her visits from California. On my way out of my apartment building, I remember telling someone -- possibly a neighbor, could have been the doorman -- that I was on my way to meet "a famous writer." The cafe where we were meeting was about ten blocks away, and halfway there, I spotted a frail Arthur Miller, heading along the sidewalk in the opposite direction. So I was able to tell Rhys that we now had a standard for her fame -- someone you'd pass Arthur Miller to get to.

*A prophetic aside, given England's dismal World Cup performance a few hours after I first published this post.

You were brave.

There's a killer in the family.

A couple of weeks ago, Leila caught her first chipmunk. A sudden dart into some undergrowth while we're walking on Milton Road and there's something brown between her jaws, protesting squeakily. I make her drop it, and an unscathed chipmunk scurries back to its loved ones with a tale to tell that rivals Beowulf. But the white devil has tasted victory.

Today, she is rooting among the hydrangeas in the back yard when she emerges suddenly, mouthing a clump of gray fur, like a dull purse. It takes three "drop it" commands for her to release her booty, and I drag her into the house, leaving the children to surround the still-squirming rodent. By the time I come back, they inform me that it's dead. A mouse or a shrew, perhaps a baby mole, something vaguely verminous, folded paws in the air, bright blood on the head.

Those of you with cats must deal with this all the time. This is a new experience for the Beechey boys. Their puppy has murdered Mickey.

Primus slopes off, uninterested. I tip the body into an open container and prepare to dispose of it in the garbage, the same way I dealt with its dead cousin found in the basement a week or two earlier. Secundus protests -- we have to bury "Soldier," as the ex-mouse has been rather belatedly named. (I didn't know he'd seen Key Largo). He will be the gravedigger and immediately starts chopping at the turf beside the body with a small hammer he'd already been using for backyard excavation. I suggest that we try to keep the lawn intact. He chooses another location for the grave, also under grass. I gently redirect him and Tertius to an earthy spot under a pine tree.

Secundus fetches a spade from the garage, and I try to dig a hole deep enough, between the rocks and stringy tree roots. Secundus speaks comforting words to Soldier, telling him that he'll have a grave as large as an apartment, with big closets. I smile. Tertius instantly scolds me for not taking the event seriously.

Soldier's body is tipped into the the dirt. We refill the hole. I haven't checked yet, but I think Secundus has made him a gravestone out of paper. He is sad this evening. I hope it doesn't rain tonight.

The daily . . . what? Insult? Compliment? Can't decide.

Primus: "There aren't many dads like you."

Self: "Explain."

Primus: "Well, with you, I get a dad and a dictionary." He pauses for a moment's thought. "And an encyclopedia."

I guess I talk too much. He wouldn't be the first to complain.