In days gone by when a chap made a social faux pas, you know the sort of thing; wore his fob in the wrong waistcoat pocket, invested the family loot in a dodgy railroad or was caught buggering the under butler, the only recourse to infamy was either an insufferable life in exile amongst Johnny foreigner, or a short stroll into an empty room with a loaded service revolver.
Somehow I fear James Gordon Brown lacks the intestinal fortitude for either action....
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