"The cat died, Ozzie."

"What cat?"

"That horrible-colored thing you shot in the garage."

'It's like bleeding Daktari in our garage," mumbles the star. "You could go on an expedition in there and never come back."

A little later a friend who lives near Ozzie's stately home reports that a Gentleman's Shoot the star was asking about will cost 1,000 pounds per week. Too much.

"A thousand pounds?" repeats Ozzie, midly disgusted. "I'd do better to pick off some more of the chickens."

We're into our sixth Pernod and water by now, but Wednesday night in Bradford still ain't looking too wonderful. Geezer had some sense: he shot off to Worcester right after the gig.

OZZIE AND THE GOOD BOOK

A young man reclines on a hotel divan. His long, fair hair criss-crosses the pillow and his triple-decker platforms are hurting his feet.

He lifts the telephone.

"Reception? Listen, how about coming up here to keep a lonely man company? No? Well, listen, how does a sparrow make an emergency landing? Eh?

"With a sparrow chute!"