July 11, 1914.
One of the fancy themes of a certain paper the other week has set me wondering. Readers are asked what sort of people they would like to see exterminated. I have been thinking over that theme; the lust for blood is high in me at the moment, and ere the fire is quenched, let me proceed.
Whom shall we exterminate first? That is the question. Ought we not to start with editors? What a job lot they would look as they were drawn up in line ready for the slaughter, with me as slaughterer in command. I feel the greatest satisfaction even in the contemplation of the idea. I am not vindictive, and I would not have any human being tortured, leave alone editors.
No, I would be quite content, and would smile with glee as I watched the thin blue-lead line of editors marched out to Tyburn Tree, ready for the fray. And there they might be politely told that they were about to be promptly sub-edited.
That is to say, they would be beheaded amid the plaudits of the gathered poets, writers, and readers.
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One holiday a year is enough - but let it be 52 weeks.
Perhaps the best place to go on holiday is California. I say perhaps because I have never been there. The chief objection being that before you have stopped being seasick you discover it is time to be going home, and they have to call in the services of Mr Marconi to send you home by wireless.