There’s an old Sunday newspaper editor who, like many in his trade, was fond of keeping the ink in his blood balanced with booze. Now Fozzie, as we’ll call him, was prone to all-night sessions and tended to get rather muddled.
One night he headed home before sunrise and was obviously sober enough to find his car. (These were the days when that was proof enough of your ability to drive.)
Anyway, Fozzie got home safely enough, parked the car in the driveway, somehow made his way inside and upstairs to bed beside his dearly beloved and promptly began to snore away like he hadn’t a trouble in the world.
At least, that’s the way he tells it.
Early next morning he rolled over, almost killing his wife with his beery breath, opened one bloodshot eye and thought, ‘Hang on a minute … something’s not right here.’
Poor Fozzie had woken up next to his first wife and somewhere in an adjacent suburb the second one was waiting in a very cranky mood.
‘Bloody car went the old way home,’ he told us later.
We believed him, but we’re not sure if wife number two did.