It might be wondered how the trio, the hitherto self-appointed triumvirate, had survived the explosion brought about by a catastrophic failure in the steam-pressure system of the theological sauna in Finnish Lapland, and that despite obituaries and notices in theological journals and a rise in global temperatures and contamination of land masses due to subsequent stratospheric pollution, they were now to be found in this obscure hostel of ill-fame in one of the capitals of central Europe.

In fact, there had been no such explosion, the event being disinformation put about by the theologians, under cover of which they were able to make their way south and east across Europe in sealed trains under a variety of disguises and pseudonyms.

By the time of the convocation, which it is the sad and onerous duty of this correspondent to bring to the attention of visitors to the website, events had moved on, and most of those represented by the somewhat minority interest of habitués and frequenters to the rarefied theological world of Sir Toby’s had simply forgotten the incident, or were mythologising it into some distant folk memory, and were not surprised at all to receive the announcement which had drawn them to this place and time.

It should therefore not be wondered that no questions were raised concerning the reappearance of the trio, and the duo, at the hostel, nor even the sale and refurbishment of the hostel to its former identical condition. This was, after all, Kafka’s Prague, and these were things that scarcely registered in the consciousness of the theologians, whose attention was engaged by far more pressing concerns and interests.

This unexpected intervention leads us into uncharted and dangerous waters. Stalling for time, whilst a further appropriate instalment is concocted for this surprising twist in the narrative, it perhaps needs to be said, for clarification, that the al fresco café arrangements and the Alpine package holiday were not simultaneous events. The reader must fill in the gap between one instalment and the next. To recount how and why the four had come to a decision to embark on the journey, the travel arrangements, arrival at the airport, etc would be tedious. Hence the jump in the narrative.

Also, the café was not in London; merely in the provincial outpost of Guildford, some 30 miles from central London. It is also the author’s home town. The constant trips to Prague were becoming too disorientating and expensive for him (pound/euro exchange rates etc), and in view of the recession, global warming and carbon off-setting etc, it was felt incumbent by the production company to cut costs and go for the budget option of a home produced movie. On the other hand, the excursion to the Tyrol would seem to contradict this explanation.

Let the reader understand.

“A word in your ear,” murmured the Trappist to the Nestorian, pulling him to one side and away from from the bar, where the philosophising Sage was regaling a small audience, who were hanging on his every word.

The two figures retreated from the throng to a quiet alcove. “We have got to put a stop to this,” whispered the Recluse. “If he continues in this vein, not only will there be gross error, but our cover is completely blown!”

A pair of eyes glinting from within the Nestorian’s cowl blinked in nervous assent.

“The existence of the real,” uttered the Recluse, “whether perceived or not by the perceiver, has as little ontological significance as the relation of the referent to the referee or the signifier to the signorina. Any novice in semiotics knows that. Now take this monopoly money,” he handed a small Euro note to the Nestorian, “and give it to that large gentleman over there,” he pointed to the Tyrolean bandmaster, “and tell him to create a diversion!”

So saying, the Nestorian scuttled over to the Tyrolean band, who were enjoying a krug or two, and hastily conducted some muttered negotiations with the bandmaster. A raucous guffaw from the same indicated the success of his mission. Back at the bar, the Sage was getting into his stride.

“Of course, the postmodern denies the possibility of the real as objective truth,” he informed his audience at the bar. “There may be a real, or there may not, objectively understood. That is as relevant to us as Mozart’s wiener schnitzel. We are all isolated within the cells of our own being, where the only real is that which is inwardly understood. We grope towards our fellow beings, narrating stories around our campfires, in the hope that through narrative, the illusion of order and significance may be imposed on our uncertain lives, until the reality of the non-real, as it were, notwithstanding the existence or not of the real, which can never be known, comes crashing down upon us as the cave collapses through the heat of the fire.”

A round of applause greeted the impartation of this astonishing piece of wisdom. The Sage collected his breath for a second onslaught of his longwinded oration - but at that moment, there was a loud musical report from the band, as accordian, drums, guitar and euphonium simultaneously introduced a chord.

Tne group round the bar turned towards the band, and downing their beverages, moved en masse towards the dance floor. Protesting, the Sage was carried forward with them. In the centre of the floor, the bandmaster pointed to him. 

“And now vee vill hoff a demonstration from our Englisch friend of a tradizionell representation when the young mädchen from the valley meets her loved one in the high alpine pastures, and the very interesting courtship they must go through, before he brings her back to his bauernhof in the valley.”

Beaming through his handlebar moustache, the bandmaster turned to the band, and they struck up a Tyrolean melody with a heavy oompah rhythm. A buxom lady clad in traditional dirndl stepped onto the dance floor in front of the Sage, and eyed him squarely. The guests formed a close-knit square around the two.

In vain did the Sage protest “But I’m an American citizen! Somebody call in the Marines!” There was to be no escape from the spectacle it seemed he must inevitably present to the Gasthof Park and its guests.

The small screen of the Trappist’s i-phone glowed as the device warned him of a further instalment of the Sage’s reveries, forwarded from some remote automated messaging service - presumably by electonically activated timing, since the ‘real’ Sage was still cavorting on the dance floor of the Gasthof Park.

The triumvirate huddled together around the phone, peering at the screen to see what the message might perpend.

“Oh that’s nothing new,” said the Trappist, relieved that further error was not about to be compounded upon previous errors based on theological novelty. “He’s now just restating the standard Greek Orthodox position - that the incarnation of Christ affects every inhabitant of the planet whether they realise it or not. The task of the faithful is to bring that universal reality to light.”

Relief was evident on the countenances of the Antipodean and the Nestorian also. The former drained the last dregs of his Andreas Hofer, banging the krug to the table with an exhalation of alcohol-laden vapour carried on a satisfied sigh. The Nestorian wriggled his toes contentedly.

The merriment on the dance floor seemed to have come to an end, and the Elderly Man was being carried, shoulder high, with some difficulty and not without protests of modesty, back to the bar.

Some could not help wondering how it was that this personage who normally could not locomote without sticks to maintain himself in the vertical, could have demonstrated such athletic agility on the dance floor. But such questioning doubts were brushed aside in the common desire to share in the triumph of the moment.

In Vienna’s Café Central with its fine Neo Gothic vaulted ceiling, the four adventurers sat in a row in front of their crêpes and coffees, each intently viewing the glowing screens of their iphones.

“A veritable barrage of posts,” murmured the Sage.

“He’s desperate to throw us off the scent,” declaimed the Antipodean.

“Having blown his cover,” added the Recluse. “But now it’s out in the open, that all this high-flown theological sophistication is merely a cover for the watered-down penicillin racket, what else are we to do? We might just as well do as he says, and get the next plane out.”

At that moment, something caught his eye. A cat, that had been curled up on a window sill in the sunlight behind a gauze curtain, suddenly sat up, stretched itself, and ran across the floor in front of the four to a side door, which was standing just ajar.

Momentarily, the Trappist caught sight of a familiar face in the gap between door and doorframe. Then a waiter with a tray piled high with coffee cups and Viennese pastries passed by, so that when he could see the door again, cat and face were gone.

The startling disclosure had the others on their feet in an instant with a snapping shut of iphones, immediately followed by a dash for the door. The room to which it gave access was some kind of cloakroom, with cubicles for the staff, who looked atonished at this unexpected invasion of their privacy.

On the far side of the room was another set of doors, which gave out onto a small courtyard, on the opposite side of which was an dark opening, which seemed to lead to some steps. They were just in time to see the cat disappearing into the alleyway, as if it were following something, or someone.

The four split into two pairs - the Antipodean and the Nestorian summoning the help of the city authorities by means of their iphones, the Sage and the Recluse plunging into the dark alleyway and throwing themselves down the steps into the void, as if into the very bowels of hell itself - the Viennese city sewerage system.

Maybe we’re just getting moribund. I had a strange feeling of moribundity over Christmas. It came over me again last night.

The Sir Toby thread suggested that the proprietor was letting the blog wither on the vine a long time ago. The thread had also gone to the heart of the issue in its groundhog day obsession with the proprietor and the project. Take these away, Sir Toby dies, OST dies, we all die.

I’d have thought the time was ripe for a takeover. Unfurl the Jolly Roger, come alongside and swing the mizen from the yardarm. Don’t spare the horses, James. Avast there, haargh haargh Jim lad! Pieces of eight! 

Amidships, larry91403 was keeping to his post aft of the gunwales, but it had to be admitted, a distinct list of the ship towards the starboard prow was becoming evident, and what was that long line of furry creatures emerging from the foc’sle and heading purposefully towards the jolly-boat? Was the Hispaniola about to go down to Davey Jones Locker, and all because of the onset of patent cures for the removal of cellulite?

[Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose?]