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This is the story of Manfred Clootie?Rest assured, he exists, not perhaps as someone you could bump into, but certainly as an embodiment of poetic larceny (which is poetic licence applied to minor crime, in his case manticulation, commonly known as pickpocketing).Nobody is quite sure that he is still among the living. He has twisted and turned his biography so grievously that some people have reported that they attended his funeral more than once. Certainly he took his first breath some time before the Second World War; whether or not he has yet taken his last is a difficult question but not one that is beyond all conjecture.The compiler of these recollections has attempted to gather Clootie’s writings and to place them in a single archive. Alas, the man was a slovenly organiser and so his slaves, ex-proofreaders and minor editors, some of them barely literate, have been forced to gather up the scattered leaves that contain his scribblings and have tried to bind them together into one volume, which is this book.The poor old manticulator has no real use for mobile phones or blogs. His phone number is unlisted,