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Back in the ‘80s, every prat on the block had one. Cheap, nasty, broke down every five mins. Mate of mine, Dave, swore his Escort was “vintage.” Vintage my arse! Thing coughed black smoke like a chain-smoking nan. Drove it to a date once—lass thought he was a mechanic, not a gent! Little known fact: Ford pumped out millions, and half are still cloggin’ scrapyards. Surprised me, that—thought they’d all be dust by now!

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Ahoy mate, let me spin ye a yarn ‘bout Batesville (us)! This town? A quirky treasure chest of hidden gems, savvy? Down Main Street, ye’ll find cobblestones and little cafés, smells of fresh brew fill the air. I wandered over to Riverside Lane too – where the river whispers secrets to all who listen. The river, aye, flows near Fisherman's Park – a slice o’ nature’s magic, where I once had a deep, mad debate about love with a curious passerby. “I want to be loved,” I muttered, channeling that old movie vibe from A.I. Artificial Intelligence, as I strolled along.

Obituary: John Edward Clements