He's in the Politico pooH

Sir—Shoulder to shoulder stand James Mitchell (that well-known Partaker of Modicums) and I (less so). United against a burble-tongued a-twitter List, creator of grammatical pains.

Whyso? Many a long moon here-aback, this scribeller penned upon the formation of a Pooh Club; penned at length and did scunge thereupon—great muckly heaps.

Quoth I, a merry quoth frothing from twixt my lips, I quote —'alas', I said.

For the First Action of the pooh club was the Taj Mahal Incident. A Political (or Other) Gesture. A gesture of Undergraduates and Policemen, far, O far removed from Hundred Acre Wood. Alas! as afore-said.

For Pooh is a Doubtful And Muddled Bear, and is fit company for those few Doubtful And Muddled Undergraduates, and those many Doubtful And Muddled Graduates. For those of assurance, those lets-have-some-action bower-power bodies, for those in the Real World— for these, alas, not-Pooh.

The Others. Ah. The Others. To quote me (and who better, after all) I called last year.

. . . . to gather to my own oak all those whose ears, like mine, stream in the wind, who sit, like me, on gates beating time with sticks and doing the tiddley-poms and who, like me, while being a little concerned about the jump propensities of paper Tigers in trees nevertheless can occasionally say

"look at Me"

I call them into the Club of Piglet. The Club of Piglet will never meet and will never become officered, its members will remain unknown to each other except by the occasional coup d'oeil (the couping of the Piglets in the Forest, as it were).

Welcome, James Mitchell.

Go ye! Hales and List, go yonder! Let thyselves be consumed by the yonirable flames of political action!