Days from a Downtown Dosshouse IV

Hello Readers. It's your very own Dossmeister here, refreshed and reporting for duty after a hectic week housing half of Whitby’s Gothfest. (Well, we were all young once!)

A new branch of Music Zone has opened up here in Fiddlington. Your waggish Wogan blog type and the Dossmistress ventured in there, braving the whiff of patchouli oil and stale lager emanating from some yeti-type beings. Feeling ever so slightly nauseous, we re-entered planet real world with a copy of The Prodigy’s ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ for yours truly and The Val Doonican Collection for the little lady.

It was only when we came back on to the street that it suddenly dawned on me that there is a recent trend which has gone unremarked by most of the public. Is it only me - your trusty purveyor of wit-ramble, monthly supplier of vanity-waffle, tireless progenitor of nothingness and vacuous gobshite extraordinaire - who has noticed the rise in tartan dog-collars? Where do they come from? Who buys these things? Why are they only deemed suitable for very small dogs, especially irritating little terrier dogs who bark and growl at visitors? Are there so many Scottish people around or are they bought for Scottish dogs?

I’ll tell you what. Both the Dossmeister and his long-suffering wife are completed foxed by it all. But for now we’ll live with our bafflement. And you never know. Maybe one day, just maybe, we’ll be collared* into buying a tartan dog appendage for our own new Scotty*. There's life in the old Dogmeister* yet!

(*Note to Blogmeister – these are not spelling errors but a very clever way of resolving the article with amusing puns and wordplay.)