The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was, sadly, in a small town in Alabama that I first encountered Atkinson's Rockford Ice. My nostrils somewhat jaded by a surfeit of exquisite and expensive fragrances, I wandered into a dime store and became unaacountably enamoured of this cheap minty monstrosity. After a liberal application, I handed over a paltry sum and walked out with a bottle of the stuff.
I was no sooner in the street when a couple of policemen, noses twitching in horror, pounced on me and put me in a restraint hold. They demanded that I assume the position while they searched me for weaponry. Discovering the bottle of Rockford Ice in my pocket, they understandably placed me under arrest for possession of a deadly weapon and read me my rights, informing me that I had the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney but that anything I said could be used in a coht of loh.
Blushing deeply with shame, I wisely chose to remain silent, fully aware that it was the fairest of fair cops.'