Slopping through the slough of a chapter now, ink-thick and babble-tongued in Alan Moore’s mad Jerusalem, I am. yes, dragfoot and fogbrained, sentence winding round itself like a drunken priest’s sermon, and poor old Jimmy J. himself, God rest his lexical gymnastics, would tilt his noble head and mutter what in the bally blue blazes is this babelish blather, aye, scratching at scalp in baffled awe.
