Gyppo has recalled an incident where the trip-switch between his brain and mouth failed, with potentially incendiary consequences.
Many a young blade has been felled by this fault, as was landfall-in-motion Neil Kinnock.
I remember his being interviewed about the Falklands not long after he became Labour leader. The BBC pencil-neck said something about Mrs Thatcher having shown "guts" in her conduct of the war.
"Oh no!" I wailed "Don't do it, Neilo! Don't throw it all away for the sake of a quip! It may sound droll to you, but the press and public will know you for the twat you are and we'll be Thatched for ever!"
He clearly couldn't hear me from the depths of my Swansea petri dish. "Pity so many soldiers had to leave theirs all over the Falklands so that she could show she had guts, innit, eh? Lovely!" he drivelled.
"So that's the 1987 election we won't need to prepare for then," sighed the Gnomes of Walworth Rd.
How many more teeth might we all have between us if we'd not essayed that witty attaque au fer on the collier in the Sketty Arms and just agreed that we were, on balance, probably a passive homosexual with English tendencies, and inquired whether it would nonetheless be alright to buy him and all his other little Scargills a few drinks each?
The gob of shite is a shute that shuttles us down to many circles of Hell:
- the burning at the Javanese stake;
- the last Roman-candle splutter of a political career that was not meant to be: and
- the use of one's face as a dartboard, pissoir and brieze block by irked troglodytes.
And all because the Shadow didn't fall quite fast enough between the essence and the descent.
The tightest circle of all is reserved for those who put the bon mot before a good bedding. We have all enjoyed George Bernard Shaw's reputed exchange with Isadora Duncan.
"With my looks and your brains, what children we could produce," cooed the doomed hoofer.
"Ah yes," parried Shaw, "But what if they had my looks and your brains?"
It took the sturdily demotic Mary Whitehouse Experience to follow the scene to what all men know was its logical conclusion:
Shaw left the salon in a glow of applause and laughter - laughter that turned hollow as he slowly doubled up, clasped his head in his hands and moaned "Oh no, I can't believe I just turned down a sure-fire shag!"
I too have crept around that circle many times, and if only it had been my head in my hands.
The moment I recall most frequently from the forced march of my love life was a Russian literature seminar at the University of Wales's concrete country knocking-shop, Gregynog Hall, back in the 80s.
A fetching lady lecturer of a certain age and bouyant embonpoint had caught my bloodshot, ravenous eye one morning during her paper on the "Anal Triad of Nikolai Gogol". Later at elevenses she was fussing happily over the coffee jugs. I approached, cup in hand.
"Shall I be mother?" she simpered.
"Only if I can be Oedipus," I leered. The room fell silent, and my pasty features gurned back at me from a row of unforgiving tea urns.
"A fence for wisdom is silence", said shepherd and sage Rabbi Akiva (Ethics of the Fathers, III). He may have added that this fence can serve as a ladder to a primo bunk-up too, but the Mishnah does not record it.
He would not have approved of pretending to be a Greek pervert, either.