One of the children in the dungeon I operate (for the benefit of mankind) loaned me a copy of 'The Alchemyst' -- a scurrilous waste of paper authored by a certain Michael Scott -- which paints my friend, Dr. John Dee, in a rather dim light. Or so I have been led to believe, having consumed only fifty pages of this maggot scat to date.
Mr. Scott: John Dee was a friend of mine. And at no time did he summon riparian demons to wreak their muddy havoc upon the world. (I do, however, recall a St. Swithin's Day celebration during which the estimable Dr. Dee brought forth ale, finger food and scantily clothed sheep aplenty. But that is another story.)
I shall arrest my anger at this point and finish the remaining chapters of the book. Doubtless, there will be much to say at that time. In the meantime, Mr. Scott, know this: we may be dead, but we are yet able to fuck up your cable reception.