In which our intrepid hero seeks to quell millenarian concerns.

I have a few admissions to make. Yes, I have a goatee and a moustache. Yes, I am of above average height and build and of narky demeanour. Yes, I got horribly sunburnt at yesterday’s Greek Festival and my face is nearly as red as a cherry tomato.

In light of these admissions, and for the benefit of several homeless people; a couple of train-dwelling weirdos; and the large family decked out in their quasi-Edwardian Sunday best, standing outside St George’s Presbyterian Church, waiting for their 6pm "Lord’s Day" service; I would like to make it perfectly clear that—resemblances aside—I am not in fact Satan.

You need not cower and scream as I pass. In fact, this practice is seriously beginning to freak me out. I do not intend to harbinge the Apocalypse, and in fact any binges I indulge in the near future are unlikely to be of the "har-" variety.

Thank you, and good night.