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I scorn the woffling burble of puffed up turkeys, working the windbag in vaunted gobbling boasts, most of it insubstantial and bereft of factual action - promised pacts with let-out clauses. When wars are waged, the glory goes to the man whose hand plies the knife, or trips the trigger - bigger than life with an omnipresence bolder in cold-tempered purpose than any Goliath. Crying for the best battle with a trumpet tongue, I'd sprung the balustrade of safety - the champion rampant with a sword in hand, brandished, cleaving, leaving a trail behind me of dismembered foes.      It cost me bruises and a broken bone -      quite cheap as access to a hero's throne!