As I end another weary day at the rigorous coalface that is the promotion of private theatres in Berlin, I return to this small home I have carved for the echo of my body - that is my soul - to find the strangest creature slumped in the armchair 'pon my hearth. My own armchair! I exclaimed internally, and thought of the many evenings I have spent within its magnanimous arms, a crumpet between my toes and a pot of tea perched 'pon my pot-belly. He has a moustache of abnormal size, wherefrom I deduce him to be German.

"Did you get in here by Herr Zeppelin's latest hare-brained invention?" I exclaim, hoping the irony would thrust through my new companion's culture-bone.

"No, for it is to be St. Swiven's Day, and I cannot pay you for another week."

"Aha!" I begin to wonder where my new friend is from, and whether he has an idea of the bottom of the glass I have begun to fill. Is this Nietzsche? I wondered vaguely, again keeping my meditations to myself.

Have I really met the greatest philosopher of the Post-Romantic age?
Will I get my comeuppance on St. Swiven's day?
Do I have the biggest balls in Europe?

Find out in the next episode of Sven, Where's The Broiler?