MRS HUDSON: It's a letter... for you, Mr Sherlock.
HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders. That will be all. Watson?
WATSON: Oh, yes, quite. It's a poem, Holmes. I think.
HOLMES: Well, read it, then, man.
WATSON: Right you are, mon Liege.
An idiot who lived in a hovel
Just published a best-selling novel.
Though his vomitous drivel
Would make your head swivel
He fancies himself Vaclav Havel.
HOLMES: Is that it?
WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. What do you suppose it means?
HOLMES: Let me see. I fear, and I hope I'm mistaken here, Watty, old boy, but I fear that it means that Dan Brown has published a sequel to the Da Vinci Code.
WATSON: Surely not, Holmes. Not after the film flopped so atrociously.
HOLMES: Listen carefully, Watson, because I shall only say this the once. Those who can, can. Those who can't, write best-selling novels.
WATSON: Oh, good Lord, you've got me there, old bean. My dendrites are in a veritable twist, what what what. I don't suppose you'd care to elucidate?
HOLMES: Persist. Conquer.
WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. You've lost me.
HOLMES: Or as Flaubert put it: "Nothing is more humiliating than to see idiots succeed in enterprises we have failed in."
WATSON: Ah, yes, indeed. But what is literature, anyway, hmm, but the pursuit of inner happiness by other means?
HOLMES: (drops pipe in lap) What did you say?
WATSON: Don't you agree?
HOLMES: Quite incredible. You know, Watson, I've given this some thought and I think that now may well be the time...
WATSON: To write all our adventures down so that we may inspire future generations of readers and writers and super sleuths?
HOLMES: Just so, Twotty Watty. But where to begin?
WATSON: Oh, I don't know, what about the Blood Hound Of The Biscuit Thrills? Remember, we never did find the tin.
HOLMES: Indeed. A splendid idea, my good man. Hand me that, pen, Watson. Time to show Dan Brown and his ilk what real literature is all about.
WATSON: Nobel at eleven, Holmes.
HOLMES: Booker at twelve.
WATSON: Eh?
HOLMES: Never mind, old chap. (writes) Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually quite comatose in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night drinking the finest malt whiskey and sniffing substances from test tubes, was splayed out at the breakfast table. I stood upon the shag pile and picked up the biscuit tin which Mr Borat had left the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of tin, suffused with herbs and spices, with a charming illustration of Hunting and Polymer's finest choccie biscuits for dunking...
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