The anniversary - 100 years tomorrow.

What else could one blip on such an historic occasion? History in the very making:

‘And so they’ve killed our Ferdinand,’ said the charwoman to Mr Svejk, who had left military service years before, after having been finally certified by an army medical board as an imbecile, and now lived by selling dogs – ugly, mongrel monstrosities whose pedigrees he forged.
Apart from this occupation he suffered from rheumatism and was at this moment rubbing his knees with Elliman’s embrocation.
‘Which Ferdinand, Mrs Muller?’ he asked, going on with the massaging. ‘I know two Ferdinands. One is a messenger at Prusa’s, the chemist’s, and once by mistake he drank a bottle of hair oil there. And the other is Ferdinand Kokoska who collects dog manure. Neither of them is any loss.’
‘Oh no, sir, it’s His Imperial, the Archduke Ferdinand, from Konopiste, the fat churchy one.’
‘Jesus Maria!’ exclaimed Svejk. ‘What a grand job! And where did it happen to His Imperial Highness?’
‘They bumped him off at Sarajevo, sir, with a revolver, you know. He drove there in a car with his Archduchess.’

And so begins the story of the good soldier, which has probably made me laugh more often than any other thing written. Be brave our hero.