Who is he?

It's all a bit of a mystery really. Hard to tell how old he is. Hard to tell where he came from. Once he said he was from Louisiana, another time from Newcastle in England. He sleeps in the greenwood, the ditch and swanky hotels where obsequious doormen nod their heads in recognition and sucky-up valets carry his battered case. Says he's a doctor of broken hearts. Says he can sell you a cast iron cure for a cast iron hangover. Says he blew in on a warm Moroccan wind.

The man's a damned liar and that's the truth of it!

But when it gets a little swampy, when the light gets a little low, when the girl in the corner with the upside down smile stares into the melting ice of a drunken glass, when the sad-old young boy closes his eyes and dreams of Jennifer who once was, when the brave boys with nowhere to go came roaring in... then the Doctor weaves an enchantment, pours a modest potion, and conjures up the spirit.

And we remember how it once was and how it will ever be.