Keith Springer doesn't really do birthdays. That's just as well, because when he turned 55 a few weeks ago he was on a forbidding lump of rock, south of the Roaring Forties. His handful of companions made him a cake, and that was that. I wonder what sort of presents he normally receives. What do you get a guy who's one of the most prolific killers on earth?
Springer carries an air of steely determination. H