Gentle folk, prithy a few of your moments for the announcement of my poor unworthy souls arrival upon your virtual shores.

A fine gentleman of my acquaintance contacted me the other day via the devils horn and told me that this stout party were desirous of bacon but misery! Little was to be found in these parts.

So I made haste by horse and cart, ate radishes and then proceeded by hoarse and fart and here I am.

For I am Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, First Viscount of St Alban, but you merrie colonials may address me as Frankie. Alternatively Sire the Baconmeister or the Big B.

I must apologise for what I understand is my avatar. I commissioned the finest artist and avatar monger and when I was presented with what appears to be a map of Gaul with meat products bestrewn over it, I felt a great rush of blood to my head and exclaimed varlet, what the ffucketh is that? To which the rogue responded shyly well you Lordship, it was a difficult brief but I felt I have captured what you asked for, Frances Bacon.

Idiot. Well I guess I am stuck with it now.

I hope to get to know thee more fully over the next few weeks but there maybe times when I dont quite catch the idiom of this century and other times were the tempestuous tides of my humours, of profound melancholy and moon struck, march hare madness will strike me dumb.

For now, I await your comments with eager anticipation.

Your obedient servant and savant, Francis Bacon.