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There was once a miller who lived in a small village. The miller was somewhat prone to exaggeration, and the villagers were heartily fed up with his tall tales. For example, he did indeed own a car, but it was not the Ferrari Daytona that he claimed. It was in fact a very old Ford Capri, with an appalling body kit, which the miller himself had painted red (badly). On the back, it proudly proclaimed its false provenance in indelible black marker pen. Now, were it dusk, and you were partially sighted, wearing dark glasses, and you caught sight of this car in your peripheral vision, with your eyelids half closed, it is just about conceivable that you might, should you know very little about cars, mistake it for a Ferrari, but even then it would only be an even chance at best.

It so happened that one evening the village men folk were gathered in the local tavern, The Poisoned Apple. They were busy debating the political issues of the day whilst downing foaming tankards of the local brew, a noxious substance that could result in temporary or sometimes permanent blindness. Unfortunately the local medics had failed to make the connection, instead putting the blindness down to mass debating.

As the men debated en masse, oblivious to the risks, a stranger entered the tavern. The pub fell silent, not because he was a foreigner in a pub full of inbred rednecks, but because he had just produced an enormous gun and fired it into the ceiling. The locals stared, ...

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