Busy, busy, busy! That's my excuse, anyway. The planned review of 2011 will have
to wait a day or two yet. Groida has suggested my nerve has gone and I daren't
risk my sanity by looking back at the maelstrom of events which have made up the
year.
I am confident my followers recognise me as a mantis of fortitude, conscience and
humility, who would never shy away from reflecting on lessons that might be
learned from life's turbulent journey. It was when the spiteful bugger called me a
morally weak fantasist and indolent toerag that I got the red mist and lamped him
between the eyes with a tin of greengages in light syrup.
When he regained consciousness, I pointed out that he has been wasting his own
allotted span recently by fooling about constructing Cludgiebreath, a ventriloquist's
dummy made of driftwood and items stolen from charity shops. Hopefully when he has
given it a few licks of Humbrol, he will donate it to a real vent. His own grotesque
attempts to throw his voice sound like a combination of an exorcism and a lunatic in
the throes of drowning. He was more intelligible when recently babbling away in his
lingua faux, Ohara.
More to the point, I would have thought that tinkering with this absurd mannequin
warranted a lower priority to tracking down his previous monstrosity, Mr Prendergast, the renegade automaton who has been missing, presumed on the loose for close on a year since we attempted to commit him to the sod just outside Macclesfield. That's Groida for you. I think I will clump him again, on the stroke of midnight.
I must get on. Auntie P has asked me to think up the ten worst things it is possible
to do with a spatula and a gherkin. Not content with her reign of terror at the
Krazy Kurnow tea rooms, she now wants to acquire Hairy Jacob's Fish Bar and is determined to persuade him it is a good idea.
Happy new year! Oh, I can taste the chips, cod roe, saveloys, pies, curry sauce ... hehehe!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
An Apology
The Ambrosia Players wish to express sincere regret for the cancellation of their production "The Murder in the Red Barn" due to a mysterious explosion which destroyed the St Agnes scout hut in the early hours of Boxing Day.
As ticket holders should already be aware, their purchases are rendered null and void and all monies are forfeited to the administrative accounts of ACPM Insurance and Llareggub Refunds (Rhyl) under existing terms and conditions. Any grievances may be discussed with either Uncle Lucas or Auntie Pamela in the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms car park at any time after sunset.
Unsubstantiated rumours have suggested that the venue was decimated by a missile launched from a "bizarre-looking contraption". We can now reveal that independent data from the G M Scorpion Observatory confirms "unusual aerial activity in the vicinity at the time" and "it was the Venusian SAS what done it". Watch the skies!
As ticket holders should already be aware, their purchases are rendered null and void and all monies are forfeited to the administrative accounts of ACPM Insurance and Llareggub Refunds (Rhyl) under existing terms and conditions. Any grievances may be discussed with either Uncle Lucas or Auntie Pamela in the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms car park at any time after sunset.
Unsubstantiated rumours have suggested that the venue was decimated by a missile launched from a "bizarre-looking contraption". We can now reveal that independent data from the G M Scorpion Observatory confirms "unusual aerial activity in the vicinity at the time" and "it was the Venusian SAS what done it". Watch the skies!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
The Glorious 25th
That's the big day almost done and dusted. "El Cid" is brilliant, eh? What a wicked scam too. The bravest cadaver in all Christendom! I hope when I make my final, heroic journey in the harmonium I will be as cold as a Mivvi and held erect by a scaffolding pole stuck up the back of me jumper.
Anyway, the debris from the board games is being swept up and the losers are enslaved into washing up chores. I am nicking the wee purple Quality Street (okay, and the green foil triangles) while nobody is watching.
The festive nosebag has been ace. The pheasant satay, skewered on Plessey welding rods (I knew they'd come in handy one day) made an unseasonal change. For a while I was concerned we would be partaking of Her Majesty's old man with a Granny Smith stuck in his cakehole as a main course but my fears proved unfounded.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Uncle "bring out your dead" Lucas and Auntie Pamela we feasted on a remarkably tender baboon, rolled in breadcrumbs and stuffed with Dairylea and sandwich spread.
Physical altercations were relatively light and in the spirit of the day, nobody was actually cuffed, although a few fixed penalty notices were issued. I look forward to the spectacle of Bro and Groida with their Harpic and bog brushes!
Anyway, must sign off now. The nuts and Satsumas are being handed round soon and then we can all drift off into bouts of snoozing and an ensemble recital of squawking, babbling bots.
Anyway, the debris from the board games is being swept up and the losers are enslaved into washing up chores. I am nicking the wee purple Quality Street (okay, and the green foil triangles) while nobody is watching.
The festive nosebag has been ace. The pheasant satay, skewered on Plessey welding rods (I knew they'd come in handy one day) made an unseasonal change. For a while I was concerned we would be partaking of Her Majesty's old man with a Granny Smith stuck in his cakehole as a main course but my fears proved unfounded.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Uncle "bring out your dead" Lucas and Auntie Pamela we feasted on a remarkably tender baboon, rolled in breadcrumbs and stuffed with Dairylea and sandwich spread.
Physical altercations were relatively light and in the spirit of the day, nobody was actually cuffed, although a few fixed penalty notices were issued. I look forward to the spectacle of Bro and Groida with their Harpic and bog brushes!
Anyway, must sign off now. The nuts and Satsumas are being handed round soon and then we can all drift off into bouts of snoozing and an ensemble recital of squawking, babbling bots.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Enjoy ... or else!
Apparently the ACPM Team are going to have a happy Xmas, by order. Auntie Pamela has threatened us with all the horrors of hell if we act up over the festive season. She has even prepared a "naughty shaft" in the mine, fitted out with manacles and a CD of Bing Crosby set on repeat play. Just the one song, and you can guess which. It's that bit when he starts whistling that drives me mental.
Anyway, that puts paid to my cherished hope of throttling Groida across the Monopoly board. I thought outbreaks of long-suppressed feuding, along with gluttony, are what the day is all about, but it would seem I have been mistaken.
Auntie P becomes more autocratic by the day. Firstly, the Krazy Kurnow has become a place of unease under her iron claw. She stalks amongst the customers in her lace pinny, brandishing an extendable polis baton. No one dares challenge the amount of jam on their scone or her erratic issuing of change. Even on the first day of her regime, a foolish punter expressed admiration for her grand opening and consequently is not expected to leave hospital until February.
Then there is our Xmas Day scoff. She has banned turkey "in retaliation for outrages commited on the person of T E Lawrence". I should never have let her see the fillum.
Thankfully we already have some emergency pheasants gently decomposing in a sack, courtesy of road kill (in the loosest sense as it involved the harmomium's infra-red searchlights and Gatling guns). Furthermore, Uncle Lucas, in his capacity as contract executioner at Newquay Zoo, has learned on the grapevine that a poorly resident may shortly be up for grabs. I hope the wretched creature makes it through to 2012 as I won't look forward to tucking into the stringy carcass of an elderly hippo or llama with my sprouts, parsnips and bread sauce.
In the mean time I shall attempt to exercise tolerance and smile sweetly as I am forced to endure Auntie P's relentless carols while she prepares the Bread & Butter Stollen ("destined to last last a thousand years"). Try to imagine Bonnie Tyler belting out "O Come All Ye Faithful" after several pitchers of Armenian Tizer and you'll have a rough idea of conditions down the mine.
Anyway, that puts paid to my cherished hope of throttling Groida across the Monopoly board. I thought outbreaks of long-suppressed feuding, along with gluttony, are what the day is all about, but it would seem I have been mistaken.
Auntie P becomes more autocratic by the day. Firstly, the Krazy Kurnow has become a place of unease under her iron claw. She stalks amongst the customers in her lace pinny, brandishing an extendable polis baton. No one dares challenge the amount of jam on their scone or her erratic issuing of change. Even on the first day of her regime, a foolish punter expressed admiration for her grand opening and consequently is not expected to leave hospital until February.
Then there is our Xmas Day scoff. She has banned turkey "in retaliation for outrages commited on the person of T E Lawrence". I should never have let her see the fillum.
Thankfully we already have some emergency pheasants gently decomposing in a sack, courtesy of road kill (in the loosest sense as it involved the harmomium's infra-red searchlights and Gatling guns). Furthermore, Uncle Lucas, in his capacity as contract executioner at Newquay Zoo, has learned on the grapevine that a poorly resident may shortly be up for grabs. I hope the wretched creature makes it through to 2012 as I won't look forward to tucking into the stringy carcass of an elderly hippo or llama with my sprouts, parsnips and bread sauce.
In the mean time I shall attempt to exercise tolerance and smile sweetly as I am forced to endure Auntie P's relentless carols while she prepares the Bread & Butter Stollen ("destined to last last a thousand years"). Try to imagine Bonnie Tyler belting out "O Come All Ye Faithful" after several pitchers of Armenian Tizer and you'll have a rough idea of conditions down the mine.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Slaughter in a Scout Hut
Inspiration has once again come up trumps and my reputation is saved! Sod the panto idea. Last year's effort in Rhyl was a total disaster anyway, and you couldn't get me up another beanstalk for an entire articulated container vehicle loaded with stewed apple baby dessert.
We'll do a musical version of the old standard "The Murder in the Red Barn". It shouldn't take more than an evening to pen a few catchy ditties. We have the harmonium, Groida's violin, the brace of Aznavour memorial clarinets and Auntie P has even found a washboard in the cupboard under the sink.
Tickets available from Wednesday. Cash only, no refunds.
We'll do a musical version of the old standard "The Murder in the Red Barn". It shouldn't take more than an evening to pen a few catchy ditties. We have the harmonium, Groida's violin, the brace of Aznavour memorial clarinets and Auntie P has even found a washboard in the cupboard under the sink.
Tickets available from Wednesday. Cash only, no refunds.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Muse Address
Is it like this for every genius? Did Chaucer, Shakespeare, Goethe and that chap who thought up "In the Night Garden" lose sleep, weight and confidence in agonies of self-doubt and despair?
The Panto is due to commence on Boxing Day at the scout hut in St Agnes and we have no established star name leading the cast and, more to the point, nothing even resembling a coherent script.
What am I to do? Ask Mrs Krilencu from the Post Office to inflict her medley from "Niet, Niet, Nadia" on a barely enthusiastic (or indeed sentient) audience? I think not.
If inspiration hasn't come my way by dawn, the only workable and honourable solution will be for me to press the big red button on the harmonium and be projected into the firmament like a dodgy kebab.
It isn't exactly the Nelson-like deathbed scene I had envisaged as my heroic life drew to its close, but better to go like a firework than suffer the indignity of failure.
The Panto is due to commence on Boxing Day at the scout hut in St Agnes and we have no established star name leading the cast and, more to the point, nothing even resembling a coherent script.
What am I to do? Ask Mrs Krilencu from the Post Office to inflict her medley from "Niet, Niet, Nadia" on a barely enthusiastic (or indeed sentient) audience? I think not.
If inspiration hasn't come my way by dawn, the only workable and honourable solution will be for me to press the big red button on the harmonium and be projected into the firmament like a dodgy kebab.
It isn't exactly the Nelson-like deathbed scene I had envisaged as my heroic life drew to its close, but better to go like a firework than suffer the indignity of failure.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 24
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| X is for Xmas Pud. What did you expect? You try finding Xerxes the Xenophobic Xylophonist on Google Images! |
Products That Have Come My Way # 23
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| W is for Watermelon. Actually I couldn't care less. I just want to finish this silly bloody alphabet before the year is out. |
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Ripping Calico In Park Lane
How many cream cakes do you think it would take to bankrupt a five-star hotel? Well, by the time the ACPM Team had left the Dorchester (intact, for which they may consider themselves fortunate), we had agreed terms for them to reopen the Krazy Kurnow tearooms in Cornwall solely as a drop-off for their daily protection dues of scrummy choux buns, eclairs, horns and turnovers. Auntie Pamela has agreed to be employed as manageress and enforcer. Quite a result! To hijack Mr Rushdie's famous advertising slogan, naughty, but nice.
After a temporary delay to our mission, thanks to Uncle Lucas being felled by lumbago, we finally got under way in the harmonium with Groida, primed with pease pudding, sprouts and sherbet fountains, tied to a commode on a quick-release trailer behind us in case of accidents en route. Had he not been our star performer, I would have jettisoned Bubble Bum without a further thought after his twentieth "are we there yet?" but my patience paid dividends and I merely crowned the sod with an iron ladle a few times during the journey to subdue him. "I spy with my black eye". He he he!
We stopped off to say hello to the wee ducks on the Sepentine and I was touched to discover they remembered me and have been following our merry band's exploits online. They even had Xmas cards ready for us! Thank goodness Mordecai thinks of such contingencies and had stuffed a box of Wilko cheapies plus a biro in the gauntlet compartment, so I was able to hide behind a large tree and write out a few while Bro distracted them with his Aleister Crowley impersonation.
Then we closed in on our target. As regular followers will know, I do not normally encourage Groida in his peculiar and revolting behaviour but on this occasion I gave him a firm slap on the thorax and sent him forth. I even shed a wee tear as I watched his ghastly form shuffle bravely into the cocktail lounge.
In less than a minute he had been ejected. His pitiful grasp on reality had led him to claim to be the bastard of Kathleen Ferrier and Ming the Merciless and thus had security of tenure in the penthouse zoo. Worse still, he wanted an ambulance called because his anus had "healed up".
Plan Two was initiated within moments. Disguised as paramedics, we dragged him back into the foyer, Auntie P blew down his throat and I inserted a Hoover extension tube up him, which thrashed about like an enraged cobra before letting loose a salvo of stinkers which sent punters diving for cover.
The outcome, if not the procedure was successful, but at the time it felt more like a full dress rehearsal for Dick Whittington Eats His Weight In Clay (the latest, desperate panto idea).
After a temporary delay to our mission, thanks to Uncle Lucas being felled by lumbago, we finally got under way in the harmonium with Groida, primed with pease pudding, sprouts and sherbet fountains, tied to a commode on a quick-release trailer behind us in case of accidents en route. Had he not been our star performer, I would have jettisoned Bubble Bum without a further thought after his twentieth "are we there yet?" but my patience paid dividends and I merely crowned the sod with an iron ladle a few times during the journey to subdue him. "I spy with my black eye". He he he!
We stopped off to say hello to the wee ducks on the Sepentine and I was touched to discover they remembered me and have been following our merry band's exploits online. They even had Xmas cards ready for us! Thank goodness Mordecai thinks of such contingencies and had stuffed a box of Wilko cheapies plus a biro in the gauntlet compartment, so I was able to hide behind a large tree and write out a few while Bro distracted them with his Aleister Crowley impersonation.
Then we closed in on our target. As regular followers will know, I do not normally encourage Groida in his peculiar and revolting behaviour but on this occasion I gave him a firm slap on the thorax and sent him forth. I even shed a wee tear as I watched his ghastly form shuffle bravely into the cocktail lounge.
In less than a minute he had been ejected. His pitiful grasp on reality had led him to claim to be the bastard of Kathleen Ferrier and Ming the Merciless and thus had security of tenure in the penthouse zoo. Worse still, he wanted an ambulance called because his anus had "healed up".
Plan Two was initiated within moments. Disguised as paramedics, we dragged him back into the foyer, Auntie P blew down his throat and I inserted a Hoover extension tube up him, which thrashed about like an enraged cobra before letting loose a salvo of stinkers which sent punters diving for cover.
The outcome, if not the procedure was successful, but at the time it felt more like a full dress rehearsal for Dick Whittington Eats His Weight In Clay (the latest, desperate panto idea).
Monday, December 5, 2011
The Wind Beneath My Tablecloth
Groida's guts really are the bowels of Hades. He let one fly earlier today and although it made no more noise than the single clap of a bairn's wee hands, within seconds I had hit the deck, temporarily robbed of my sight and desperately fighting for breath.
Less than two hours earlier, as we all sat agog, watching the brave Space Family Robinson on TV, little did we know that a weapon of mass disgust was about to make its debut from the marginally worst end of Big G. Auntie Pamela's winkle & parsnip rissoles (not one of her more appealing concoctions) certainly played a part in fuelling the awesome chemical reaction within her nephew's unwholesome plumbing, but I am equally convinced that the sod took an evil delight in letting loose something the world was not prepared for.
Amazing, isn't it? Just when I was despairing of a plan to duff up the Dorchester Mob, fate intervenes and presents me with a scorpion's sphincter! You couldn't make it up. I reckon if we gorge the clueless oaf with enough mince pies and Supermalt he could feasibly blow out the windows on all floors, or at least cause varying degrees of distress, nausea, suffocation or permanent brain damage amongst staff and guests to make the long haul to London in Y Nauci 14 worthwhile. Uncle Lucas is at work as I type, improvising some heavy duty breathing apparatus, and Auntie P is preparing the packed lunches.
Now it is all down to teamwork and encouraging the maximum effort from Groida to squeeze a stomach-churning skirl from his leather kazoo ...
Less than two hours earlier, as we all sat agog, watching the brave Space Family Robinson on TV, little did we know that a weapon of mass disgust was about to make its debut from the marginally worst end of Big G. Auntie Pamela's winkle & parsnip rissoles (not one of her more appealing concoctions) certainly played a part in fuelling the awesome chemical reaction within her nephew's unwholesome plumbing, but I am equally convinced that the sod took an evil delight in letting loose something the world was not prepared for.
Amazing, isn't it? Just when I was despairing of a plan to duff up the Dorchester Mob, fate intervenes and presents me with a scorpion's sphincter! You couldn't make it up. I reckon if we gorge the clueless oaf with enough mince pies and Supermalt he could feasibly blow out the windows on all floors, or at least cause varying degrees of distress, nausea, suffocation or permanent brain damage amongst staff and guests to make the long haul to London in Y Nauci 14 worthwhile. Uncle Lucas is at work as I type, improvising some heavy duty breathing apparatus, and Auntie P is preparing the packed lunches.
Now it is all down to teamwork and encouraging the maximum effort from Groida to squeeze a stomach-churning skirl from his leather kazoo ...
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Scorpions Might Fly
Are we truly living in an age of miracles? Groida has apologised for his catapult outrage on my nether regions and has even voluntarily shared with me some of his blackjacks, fruit salad chews, red laces and flying saucers as a peace offering.
It always unnerves me when he is not playing up, but when his quiescence is supplanted by an uncharacteristic act of kindness, all my inner alarms go off like a desperate choir similar to a WW2 air raid siren. Hopeless lunatics intent on taking a pot shot at yours truly do not normally hand over their sweeties, especially without threats. The trusty old antennae are twitching away.
Just to put me even more on the defensive, he has made suggestions for "improving" the panto script. It is now a done deal that Auntie Pamela will play some exotic species of fairy Godmother but the Clown with Claws has raked up from the midden of his mind an ironic refinement to the plot. This could see her initially unmasked as Janet Radcliffe Richards and then further revealed under torture as a Martian spy. What a heap of twaddle!
I have reviewed the intergalactic element and it is as plain as the aerials on me bonce that Mars is old hat. By way of research I have been watching the groundbreaking 1960's documentary series "Lost In Space". There was a spiffing green bint in Season 2 but she has probably floated half way to eternity by now. Young Penny Robinson, on the other hand, has matured into a magnificent mommy, returned to Earth and currently resides Stateside.
She originally hailed from these very shores, so if I can coax her back over the pond and give her a re-spray in the appropriate metallic verdant hue, I am confident she could be our big star; something between Cinderella, Lizzie Borden and Gracie Blofields. Anything is preferable to wrangling the dismal dearth of talent loitering in the mine shafts into a "company".
I must adjourn for a moment. Big G has jabbed Mordecai in the lughole with a mop handle and I want to watch the unpleasantness escalate ...
It always unnerves me when he is not playing up, but when his quiescence is supplanted by an uncharacteristic act of kindness, all my inner alarms go off like a desperate choir similar to a WW2 air raid siren. Hopeless lunatics intent on taking a pot shot at yours truly do not normally hand over their sweeties, especially without threats. The trusty old antennae are twitching away.
Just to put me even more on the defensive, he has made suggestions for "improving" the panto script. It is now a done deal that Auntie Pamela will play some exotic species of fairy Godmother but the Clown with Claws has raked up from the midden of his mind an ironic refinement to the plot. This could see her initially unmasked as Janet Radcliffe Richards and then further revealed under torture as a Martian spy. What a heap of twaddle!
I have reviewed the intergalactic element and it is as plain as the aerials on me bonce that Mars is old hat. By way of research I have been watching the groundbreaking 1960's documentary series "Lost In Space". There was a spiffing green bint in Season 2 but she has probably floated half way to eternity by now. Young Penny Robinson, on the other hand, has matured into a magnificent mommy, returned to Earth and currently resides Stateside.
She originally hailed from these very shores, so if I can coax her back over the pond and give her a re-spray in the appropriate metallic verdant hue, I am confident she could be our big star; something between Cinderella, Lizzie Borden and Gracie Blofields. Anything is preferable to wrangling the dismal dearth of talent loitering in the mine shafts into a "company".
I must adjourn for a moment. Big G has jabbed Mordecai in the lughole with a mop handle and I want to watch the unpleasantness escalate ...
Friday, November 25, 2011
In the Wee Small Hours
There is no peace for the moderately wicked. Just before dawn I was padding around Number One Galley Shaft in me tartan dressing gown, availing myself of a few leftover herring & Stilton escalopes, when Groida shot me in the backside.
It isn't funny. Even a ball of tin foil propelled by a rubber band is a hell of a shock if it catches the target unawares. Just for the record, I didn't scream. That was my Bruce Lee Deadly Chicken Battle Cry. I am in a permanent state of readiness to deal with potential attacks. Woe betide any cheeky foe who is rash enough to consider interrupting me at my repast.
Anyway, the Tragic Turnip at first denied responsibility for the impudent assault, claiming to be one Caesar Endicott, a train driver who "must have suffered a petit mal and taken a wrong turning at Swindon". I have put up with this brand of insolent tosh for far too long, so I fetched him a beauty on his napper with a catering-size tin of plum tomatoes and sent him back to bed.
How am I supposed to create a pantomime masterpiece when my moments of inspiration are sabotaged at even the quietest times of the day? I am going to silence that bugger once and for all if he is not careful. In the mean time, Auntie P is making us Japanese Rice Krispies for supper, so I'll stab her nemesis of a nephew in the fundament with me chopsticks. A bum eye for a bum eye ...
It isn't funny. Even a ball of tin foil propelled by a rubber band is a hell of a shock if it catches the target unawares. Just for the record, I didn't scream. That was my Bruce Lee Deadly Chicken Battle Cry. I am in a permanent state of readiness to deal with potential attacks. Woe betide any cheeky foe who is rash enough to consider interrupting me at my repast.
Anyway, the Tragic Turnip at first denied responsibility for the impudent assault, claiming to be one Caesar Endicott, a train driver who "must have suffered a petit mal and taken a wrong turning at Swindon". I have put up with this brand of insolent tosh for far too long, so I fetched him a beauty on his napper with a catering-size tin of plum tomatoes and sent him back to bed.
How am I supposed to create a pantomime masterpiece when my moments of inspiration are sabotaged at even the quietest times of the day? I am going to silence that bugger once and for all if he is not careful. In the mean time, Auntie P is making us Japanese Rice Krispies for supper, so I'll stab her nemesis of a nephew in the fundament with me chopsticks. A bum eye for a bum eye ...
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Soupercharged
I am pleased to report that Auntie Pamela's "Welsh Chapel Penicillin" has cured us all of our colds, but at a cost. I believe she may have included some sort of mysterious fungi with the seaweed which has led to some peculiar side-effects.
Mordecai has been running about like a three-year-old, which is unfortunate as he keeps falling over and grizzling his eyes out. Uncle Lucas has also suffered the indignity of having the ground come up to meet him, which he petulantly attributes to "these bloody bifocals", despite not wearing specs. Even I, with my superb constitution, have been affected. I would swear on a crate of Libby's Victoria plums in light syrup that I have started picking up "The Archers" on me antennae.
Groida has discovered that he is able to insert all five of the Aznavour clarinets in his gob in a fan formation and has been roaming the mine shafts issuing an unholy racket reminiscent of a herd of startled moose. I can at least put a stop to that, if my nerve snaps, with a few well-chosen words of reproach and a judiciously applied lump hammer.
As the Ambrose and Mordecai toy project has been put on ice until next year, all my efforts are now being directed toward the panto. Auntie P has told me in no uncertain terms that she will only participate if she gets to play a fairy godmother. I had earmarked that particular role for Janet Radcliffe Richards but (a) she never answers my letters and (b) I don't want laver bread & chestnut stuffing inserted into my body cavities.
Frankly, I believe the entire team is in need of a fillip. Therefore I propose a surprise staff Xmas party. Well, it will be a surprise for the staff of the Dorchester anyway! If we tunnel up from the sewers we can be in situ before they have a chance to erect barricades or call the Polis. Trop tard, Maitre d', and just see what happens when you point out we are not wearing ties ...
Mordecai has been running about like a three-year-old, which is unfortunate as he keeps falling over and grizzling his eyes out. Uncle Lucas has also suffered the indignity of having the ground come up to meet him, which he petulantly attributes to "these bloody bifocals", despite not wearing specs. Even I, with my superb constitution, have been affected. I would swear on a crate of Libby's Victoria plums in light syrup that I have started picking up "The Archers" on me antennae.
Groida has discovered that he is able to insert all five of the Aznavour clarinets in his gob in a fan formation and has been roaming the mine shafts issuing an unholy racket reminiscent of a herd of startled moose. I can at least put a stop to that, if my nerve snaps, with a few well-chosen words of reproach and a judiciously applied lump hammer.
As the Ambrose and Mordecai toy project has been put on ice until next year, all my efforts are now being directed toward the panto. Auntie P has told me in no uncertain terms that she will only participate if she gets to play a fairy godmother. I had earmarked that particular role for Janet Radcliffe Richards but (a) she never answers my letters and (b) I don't want laver bread & chestnut stuffing inserted into my body cavities.
Frankly, I believe the entire team is in need of a fillip. Therefore I propose a surprise staff Xmas party. Well, it will be a surprise for the staff of the Dorchester anyway! If we tunnel up from the sewers we can be in situ before they have a chance to erect barricades or call the Polis. Trop tard, Maitre d', and just see what happens when you point out we are not wearing ties ...
Friday, November 11, 2011
Hanky Panky
If you were wondering why news reports haven't been coming in of the cataclysmic destruction of the Dorchester Hotel, it's because Ambrose's Marauders have been laid up with colds. I don't think driving up and down the coast on windy nights pretending to be a lighthouse has done me and Bro any good, but I lay the blame firmly at the door of the pestilent Groida. I have no evidence to support this accusation, but it makes me feel better.
Needless to say, the great goof has made a three-act opera out of his own malaise. True, he is a martyr to croup but I don't see the necessity for him to smear his hideous thorax with a mixture of Swarfega and wormwood. It's like sharing a gaff with something recently exhumed.
Auntie Pamela has been feeding us up with her legendary seaweed broth which could wipe out the plagues of Egypt, so hopefully we will be back to our version of normal very soon. In the mean time I am trying to overcome a case of writer's block and get a bend on with the panto script. I shall do a Marcel Proust, plump up me pillows and suck pensively on a stick of rock. Martians. Yes, they are always popular. We'll have a chorus of Martians in it ...
Needless to say, the great goof has made a three-act opera out of his own malaise. True, he is a martyr to croup but I don't see the necessity for him to smear his hideous thorax with a mixture of Swarfega and wormwood. It's like sharing a gaff with something recently exhumed.
Auntie Pamela has been feeding us up with her legendary seaweed broth which could wipe out the plagues of Egypt, so hopefully we will be back to our version of normal very soon. In the mean time I am trying to overcome a case of writer's block and get a bend on with the panto script. I shall do a Marcel Proust, plump up me pillows and suck pensively on a stick of rock. Martians. Yes, they are always popular. We'll have a chorus of Martians in it ...
Friday, November 4, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 22
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| V is for V8 "drinking salad". Groida swears by it, although never in front of Auntie Pamela who would wash his mouth out with Fairy Liquid. |
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 21
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| U is for Ugli Fruit. What sort of twisted mind dreamt up this illustration? It could give wee ones nightmares! |
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Huzzah!
Tha Aznavour Quins are no more. Well, not on the soil of our sacred homeland, anyway. They were last observed frenziedly swimming in the general direction of Gaul, denuded of their bum hairs. It just goes to show that even a ruthless monster like Uncle Lucas can exercise leniency when he has a mind to. With a bit of luck the contemptible, swarthy gnomes will disseminate a clear message across the waves that offending the Ambrose posse will inevitably result in an eye-watering fate.
Talking of booty, we are now richer by five clarinets, several cases of pickled green chillies and a veritable Aladdin's caveload of novelty seaside rock. All except the pineapple flavour which is my favourite and as Director of Punitive Operations I got first bags at. Indeed, I suck on a stick as I compose this missive.
The intelligence report from Auntie Pamela isn't quite as rosy. She had to do a runner from the Dorchester Hotel after a midnight raid on the kitchens. To compound her perils, she hid in London's Chinatown the following day and went on a noshing spree throughout the restaurants. Apparently she has now enraged the Triads and at one point was chased down Gerrard Street by a sizeable platoon of cleaver-wielding gentlemen. I would have words with her about attracting so much attention but I don't relish being stung to death.
I have been trying to keep Groida busy (and quiet). He got bored with the crayons after creating a mural of a weeing tapir on one of the mine shaft walls so I gave him a book of fairy tales, asking him to adapt one for the pantomime. I have no intention of using it but I'll do anything to ensure he is occupied.
So far he has come up with three ideas; "The Egg & Spoon Master Race", "An Unholy Tortoise" and, most mystifying of all, "Wat Peploe Must Be Neutralised". It concerns a plague-carrying door-to-door brush salesman. Strewth.
Anyway, must be off now to tune up the harmonium. She's in fake lighthouse mode tonight. Bro and I are going to take full advantage of the clocks going back and make an early start enticing those container vessels onto the rocks.
Talking of booty, we are now richer by five clarinets, several cases of pickled green chillies and a veritable Aladdin's caveload of novelty seaside rock. All except the pineapple flavour which is my favourite and as Director of Punitive Operations I got first bags at. Indeed, I suck on a stick as I compose this missive.
The intelligence report from Auntie Pamela isn't quite as rosy. She had to do a runner from the Dorchester Hotel after a midnight raid on the kitchens. To compound her perils, she hid in London's Chinatown the following day and went on a noshing spree throughout the restaurants. Apparently she has now enraged the Triads and at one point was chased down Gerrard Street by a sizeable platoon of cleaver-wielding gentlemen. I would have words with her about attracting so much attention but I don't relish being stung to death.
I have been trying to keep Groida busy (and quiet). He got bored with the crayons after creating a mural of a weeing tapir on one of the mine shaft walls so I gave him a book of fairy tales, asking him to adapt one for the pantomime. I have no intention of using it but I'll do anything to ensure he is occupied.
So far he has come up with three ideas; "The Egg & Spoon Master Race", "An Unholy Tortoise" and, most mystifying of all, "Wat Peploe Must Be Neutralised". It concerns a plague-carrying door-to-door brush salesman. Strewth.
Anyway, must be off now to tune up the harmonium. She's in fake lighthouse mode tonight. Bro and I are going to take full advantage of the clocks going back and make an early start enticing those container vessels onto the rocks.
Friday, October 28, 2011
A Farce To Be Reckoned With
I have recently encountered criticism over my treatment of Groida and my misgivings regarding his fitness to participate in the team's daring and heroic exploits. Okay, I will try to refrain from labelling him a dud, dope or disaster-in-waiting, but allow me to explain the sound reasoning behind judging him a liability.
Last summer, my inspired and meticulously planned stunt to sabotage the Epsom Derby was rendered a fiasco by the tomfoolery of the vacuous arthropod in question. I was poised to unleash a devastating wasp attack from the cunningly disguised harmonium, only to find myself abandoned amid the throng while the gormless dullard wandered off "on his own initiative" to work a hopelessly mad version of a notorious but lucrative racetrack scam.
The simplescorpion had learned of the age-old "three thimbles and a pea" trick and decided to improvise and adapt, i.e. re-scale it for his clumsy great pincers. Thus, masquerading as "The Great Turdox", with the aid of a trio of chamber pots and a Maris Piper the size of a grenade, he proceeded to lose our entire emergency fund in under ten minutes. We were also unceremoniously ejected from the enclosure and indeed the course, leaving a thin trail of pathetically tired wasps in our wake. I rest my case.
Excuse me, I have just received a text from Uncle Lucas. He informs me that he has located the execrable Anznavour Quins and awaits my order to give them a bloody good towsing. Oh, that his numpty nephew was of the same calibre!
Last summer, my inspired and meticulously planned stunt to sabotage the Epsom Derby was rendered a fiasco by the tomfoolery of the vacuous arthropod in question. I was poised to unleash a devastating wasp attack from the cunningly disguised harmonium, only to find myself abandoned amid the throng while the gormless dullard wandered off "on his own initiative" to work a hopelessly mad version of a notorious but lucrative racetrack scam.
The simplescorpion had learned of the age-old "three thimbles and a pea" trick and decided to improvise and adapt, i.e. re-scale it for his clumsy great pincers. Thus, masquerading as "The Great Turdox", with the aid of a trio of chamber pots and a Maris Piper the size of a grenade, he proceeded to lose our entire emergency fund in under ten minutes. We were also unceremoniously ejected from the enclosure and indeed the course, leaving a thin trail of pathetically tired wasps in our wake. I rest my case.
Excuse me, I have just received a text from Uncle Lucas. He informs me that he has located the execrable Anznavour Quins and awaits my order to give them a bloody good towsing. Oh, that his numpty nephew was of the same calibre!
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Long Arm of the Mantis
There has been progress, of a sort. Thanks to a timely tweet, I have received intelligence reports that the Aznavour Quins are operating a kebab & novelty rock joint in Brighton. I have dispatched Uncle Lucas with some spending money, a canister of DDT and an old carpet.
Groida, the bane of my existence, is playing up. He has pennant envy and refuses to take part in any further activity until he has his own unique gimmick. I have suggested he nips into town tonight and misappropriates a revolving hazard warning light from road works and wears it on his sting. With a bit of luck he will get himself arrested.
Auntie Pamela is ensconced in the Dorchester Hotel on a recce, posing as Lisabet "Dixie" Autoschnot, light opera diva and slalom gold medallist. This is costing me a fortune! I must make sure we liberate the safe before sending the place sky high.
Anyway, Bro is on kitchen duties during her absence. He's just dishing up the bubble and squeak. An appropriate description of the soundtrack we will no doubt be providing overnight. . .
Groida, the bane of my existence, is playing up. He has pennant envy and refuses to take part in any further activity until he has his own unique gimmick. I have suggested he nips into town tonight and misappropriates a revolving hazard warning light from road works and wears it on his sting. With a bit of luck he will get himself arrested.
Auntie Pamela is ensconced in the Dorchester Hotel on a recce, posing as Lisabet "Dixie" Autoschnot, light opera diva and slalom gold medallist. This is costing me a fortune! I must make sure we liberate the safe before sending the place sky high.
Anyway, Bro is on kitchen duties during her absence. He's just dishing up the bubble and squeak. An appropriate description of the soundtrack we will no doubt be providing overnight. . .
Friday, October 14, 2011
Unfinished Business
As this year creeps inexorably towards its conclusion, the daunting prospect of clearing the backlog of incomplete missions is making my heart sink like a crateload of canned rhubarb jettisoned in the Solent.
The Xmas merchandising and panto aside, I still haven't even attempted to track down and exact sweet revenge on the vile Aznavour Quins or wreak a final act of destruction upon the Dorchester Hotel. Nor have I got round to driving along the coast at night in Y Nauci 14, pretending to be a lighthouse. It all seems too much for one mantis to accomplish.
I must get the team in a huddle (provided Groida can keep his claws to himself) and allocate specific tasks to the most ably suited. Bro, obviously, is my closest and most trusted ally and can be relied upon in any situation, except when it involves the supernatural, when he tends to get a bit windy. Mercifully, encounters with wraiths, the Nosferatu and walking hodmadods are not currently on our agenda.
Groida has a wealth of experience assisting me in my exploits and occasionally displays a talent for inspired lunacy and mayhem. Unfortunately these bouts are few and far between and as a rule he tends to be as much use as a Bakelite suppository. At least he will make up the numbers and generally contribute to any havoc if nothing else.
Uncle Lucas is quietly determined, resourceful and the maestro of poker-faced menace. He also has a temper forged in the fires of Rhyl, as evidenced when he is trying to give the harmonium an overhaul.
What would our merry crew do without Auntie Pamela? She cooks like an angel and sings like a Saturn 5 launching. She also maintains discipline among us. She is the female of her species, Welsh and capable of hurling any of us the length of a football pitch. Need I say more?
I may also put out a call for Groida's mad cousin Vernon to swell our ranks and if we can find Big G's errant automaton Mr Prendergast, that would be a boon (okay, I mean asking for trouble - as long as it is not heading in our direction).
The run up to D-Day must have felt like this. I, of course shall lead from the front in the harmonium, like a gallant tank commander. Auntie Pamela has knitted me some long stripey socks which, once tied to my antennae, will trail behind me in the slipstream like pennants. It's all very exciting, isn't it? Excuse me, I think I need the loo.
The Xmas merchandising and panto aside, I still haven't even attempted to track down and exact sweet revenge on the vile Aznavour Quins or wreak a final act of destruction upon the Dorchester Hotel. Nor have I got round to driving along the coast at night in Y Nauci 14, pretending to be a lighthouse. It all seems too much for one mantis to accomplish.
I must get the team in a huddle (provided Groida can keep his claws to himself) and allocate specific tasks to the most ably suited. Bro, obviously, is my closest and most trusted ally and can be relied upon in any situation, except when it involves the supernatural, when he tends to get a bit windy. Mercifully, encounters with wraiths, the Nosferatu and walking hodmadods are not currently on our agenda.
Groida has a wealth of experience assisting me in my exploits and occasionally displays a talent for inspired lunacy and mayhem. Unfortunately these bouts are few and far between and as a rule he tends to be as much use as a Bakelite suppository. At least he will make up the numbers and generally contribute to any havoc if nothing else.
Uncle Lucas is quietly determined, resourceful and the maestro of poker-faced menace. He also has a temper forged in the fires of Rhyl, as evidenced when he is trying to give the harmonium an overhaul.
What would our merry crew do without Auntie Pamela? She cooks like an angel and sings like a Saturn 5 launching. She also maintains discipline among us. She is the female of her species, Welsh and capable of hurling any of us the length of a football pitch. Need I say more?
I may also put out a call for Groida's mad cousin Vernon to swell our ranks and if we can find Big G's errant automaton Mr Prendergast, that would be a boon (okay, I mean asking for trouble - as long as it is not heading in our direction).
The run up to D-Day must have felt like this. I, of course shall lead from the front in the harmonium, like a gallant tank commander. Auntie Pamela has knitted me some long stripey socks which, once tied to my antennae, will trail behind me in the slipstream like pennants. It's all very exciting, isn't it? Excuse me, I think I need the loo.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Wrecked 'em!
Trials of the remote control harpoon have met with mixed results. In manoeuvring Y Nauci 14 off road and onto the harbour wall, we managed to run over and crush a row of bicycles but fortunately the noise didn't disturb the slumbering locals. Then Bro and I got into a bit of a scuffle over who would have first go, until Uncle Lucas restored order by threatening to shoot the pair of us with it.
Anyway, we managed to bag three warning buoys and a passing plywood door, so there is nothing wrong with the guidance system, but until we encounter a genuine shipwreck we cannot really prove the device's worth. Groida - who else? - suggested fitting a small warhead and putting a hole in a container vessel. I suspect the mentally enfeebled lout has been reading Daphne du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn".
I sarcastically enquired why we should stop at wrecking but perhaps go in for a bit of piracy and the dolt replied he was up for it, and even has a suitable hat. I considered clouting him but after Uncle Lucas's earlier display of Mega-Scorpion diplomacy - and the prospect of no supper from Auntie Pamela - I thought better of it. Instead I presented the dozy pillock with a bar of rum & raisin chocolate, along with firm instructions to sit and eat it quietly, without interference, comment or any signal of his presence.
The notion of launching missiles at defenceless merchant marine traffic is abhorrent to me. Far less suspicion is aroused by luring them aground or onto rocks. With that in mind, I am designing a model decoy lighthouse to fit atop the harmonium. Softly, softly catchee lychee (in syrup).
Anyway, we managed to bag three warning buoys and a passing plywood door, so there is nothing wrong with the guidance system, but until we encounter a genuine shipwreck we cannot really prove the device's worth. Groida - who else? - suggested fitting a small warhead and putting a hole in a container vessel. I suspect the mentally enfeebled lout has been reading Daphne du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn".
I sarcastically enquired why we should stop at wrecking but perhaps go in for a bit of piracy and the dolt replied he was up for it, and even has a suitable hat. I considered clouting him but after Uncle Lucas's earlier display of Mega-Scorpion diplomacy - and the prospect of no supper from Auntie Pamela - I thought better of it. Instead I presented the dozy pillock with a bar of rum & raisin chocolate, along with firm instructions to sit and eat it quietly, without interference, comment or any signal of his presence.
The notion of launching missiles at defenceless merchant marine traffic is abhorrent to me. Far less suspicion is aroused by luring them aground or onto rocks. With that in mind, I am designing a model decoy lighthouse to fit atop the harmonium. Softly, softly catchee lychee (in syrup).
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Thar She Blows
The one part of my philanthropic marine salvage work which I find an absolute fag is retrieving the pesky cargo bobbing about on the briny in the dark. It is like trying to operate one of those grabber things in the amusement arcade, blindfold and balanced on a bouncy castle. The locals aren't very happy about the requisitioning of their craft, either. What do they expect? I can't ask them, as most of them are either in bed by that time or locked in the pub, and I can't use the harmonium in hovercraft mode as it causes too much of a racket for covert operations. Forget that last remark.
So I am highly delighted that Uncle Lucas has built me a device to bring the goodies inshore without all that fuss and rancour. It is a wire-guided, rocket-propelled harpoon with a night vision CCTV console and hydraulic winch, all of which sits neatly on the top of Y Nauci 14.
I was hoping to give it a trial in the early hours of tomorrow, practising on a few lobster pots or buoys, but I may have to rein in my enthusiasm for a bit. Auntie Pamela is doing us mince, mash and dumplings tonight, and as she usually makes enough to feed the five thousand we all will probably be immobile for at least eighteen hours.
So I am highly delighted that Uncle Lucas has built me a device to bring the goodies inshore without all that fuss and rancour. It is a wire-guided, rocket-propelled harpoon with a night vision CCTV console and hydraulic winch, all of which sits neatly on the top of Y Nauci 14.
I was hoping to give it a trial in the early hours of tomorrow, practising on a few lobster pots or buoys, but I may have to rein in my enthusiasm for a bit. Auntie Pamela is doing us mince, mash and dumplings tonight, and as she usually makes enough to feed the five thousand we all will probably be immobile for at least eighteen hours.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Product Recall
Some things are too easy for words while others are definitely not. Such is life. My Wee Ambrose dolly has had to return to the drawing board after his antennae proved to be more tricky than a tubful of buggers. Groida said they looked more like antlers and I considered shaking and spraying a can of Fanta over him, until I noticed Auntie Pamela was watching. At least he has ceased babbling in his ludicrous Ohara patois and his outbursts are now reasonably intelligible.
My guest visit to the Padstow Produce Fair, on the other hand, may go down in the annals as one of my classic victories. The trusty "Octomac", with its labyrinth of poacher's pockets was discovered, on inspection, to have been rendered holy (unusable) by nocturnal nibbling things. Luckily, my devious mind's ability to improvise a scam didn't fail me.
Firstly, I got Bro to lock the other judges in the toilets while I declared proceedings closed, deeming all entries unfit for human consumption. Right on cue, Big G and Uncle Lucas appeared, posing as council health & safety officials and confiscated everything in sight. We all made a swift escape with our laden wheelbarrows, no doubt looking like contestants in "It's a Knockout". It certainly was that, in the first round, too!
We now have enough mouth-watering provisions for a siege, which may be a blessing if the polis come sniffing around. So it's marrow chutney with our fishcakes tonight!
My guest visit to the Padstow Produce Fair, on the other hand, may go down in the annals as one of my classic victories. The trusty "Octomac", with its labyrinth of poacher's pockets was discovered, on inspection, to have been rendered holy (unusable) by nocturnal nibbling things. Luckily, my devious mind's ability to improvise a scam didn't fail me.
Firstly, I got Bro to lock the other judges in the toilets while I declared proceedings closed, deeming all entries unfit for human consumption. Right on cue, Big G and Uncle Lucas appeared, posing as council health & safety officials and confiscated everything in sight. We all made a swift escape with our laden wheelbarrows, no doubt looking like contestants in "It's a Knockout". It certainly was that, in the first round, too!
We now have enough mouth-watering provisions for a siege, which may be a blessing if the polis come sniffing around. So it's marrow chutney with our fishcakes tonight!
Monday, September 19, 2011
Distracted Times
Groida is refusing to communicate in anything except Ohara, which I suspect he is making up as he goes along. For example, I can see nothing Celtic or indeed Oriental in him describing me as a "steel rake", which is clearly an insult as it is accompanied by him covering his nostrils and pulling an imaginary toilet chain.
The madness seems to be infectious. Bro has become enchanted with Big G's idea of developing a computer game based on our exploits. If I do relent and agree to developing such a foolhardy project, it will be conducted under my strict supervision. I detect the intent of mischief, even at this early stage and by you-know-who.
I have tried to divert interest by suggesting the arthrosod creates his own toy for Xmas. Groida's Brittle Biscuit Bakery Bagatelle would allow kiddies to make their own flour and water figures of him from a mould and then destroy them with ball bearings. I thought it was an inspired notion - if a little cruel - but Auntie Pamela has told me to leave him alone or I won't get any tea.
I wish her loopy nephew would reciprocate and allow me a bit of peace. I am still trying to iron out a few glitches with the Wee Ambrose dolly. The head has stayed attached for nearly 48 hours now, but the arms have fallen off. I shall persevere, but it isn't easy with that deranged buffoon jabbering away in the background like a parliament of exotic fowl.
The madness seems to be infectious. Bro has become enchanted with Big G's idea of developing a computer game based on our exploits. If I do relent and agree to developing such a foolhardy project, it will be conducted under my strict supervision. I detect the intent of mischief, even at this early stage and by you-know-who.
I have tried to divert interest by suggesting the arthrosod creates his own toy for Xmas. Groida's Brittle Biscuit Bakery Bagatelle would allow kiddies to make their own flour and water figures of him from a mould and then destroy them with ball bearings. I thought it was an inspired notion - if a little cruel - but Auntie Pamela has told me to leave him alone or I won't get any tea.
I wish her loopy nephew would reciprocate and allow me a bit of peace. I am still trying to iron out a few glitches with the Wee Ambrose dolly. The head has stayed attached for nearly 48 hours now, but the arms have fallen off. I shall persevere, but it isn't easy with that deranged buffoon jabbering away in the background like a parliament of exotic fowl.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Pest Control
As I was making final adjustments to the prototype Ambrose action figure (i.e. trying to stop its head falling off), Groida sidled up to me and explained that he had discovered why Esperanto had never caught on as a universal language. I am sure he chooses his moments with great deliberation and malicious glee.
I had instructed him to design and build a new ground-to-air missile system for the harmonium in the mistaken belief that it would keep him from under all my feet for some considerable time. I should have known better.
Anyway, he reckons that a 21st century lingo shouldn't be "too Spanish" and intends to create one based mainly on Gaelic and Japanese, called Ohara. True, there could be a big publishing deal, but finding the books piled high in 99p shops in a year's time might be more than my normally robust spirit could endure.
I have tried to gently discourage him, with comments such as "naff off, you deluded cretin" but as yet to no avail. Every time he scuttles past he enquires "habla Ohara?" and on one occasion my nerve went and I hit him with Wee Ambrose, whose head shot off yet again. Perhaps I should fashion a Groida doll, stick pins in it and hope for the best.
I had instructed him to design and build a new ground-to-air missile system for the harmonium in the mistaken belief that it would keep him from under all my feet for some considerable time. I should have known better.
Anyway, he reckons that a 21st century lingo shouldn't be "too Spanish" and intends to create one based mainly on Gaelic and Japanese, called Ohara. True, there could be a big publishing deal, but finding the books piled high in 99p shops in a year's time might be more than my normally robust spirit could endure.
I have tried to gently discourage him, with comments such as "naff off, you deluded cretin" but as yet to no avail. Every time he scuttles past he enquires "habla Ohara?" and on one occasion my nerve went and I hit him with Wee Ambrose, whose head shot off yet again. Perhaps I should fashion a Groida doll, stick pins in it and hope for the best.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Hi Ho, Hi Ho, etc ...
Working our way through these tins of Chesswood creamed mushrooms, rendered misshapen and unsaleable by Groida's explosive cave-in, is proving to be a demoralising fag. On toast, sploshed on omelettes, in vol-au-vents, quiches, curries, you name it and we've tried it. Auntie Pamela has even attempted using it as a moisturiser. We are all close to breaking point.
That unhinged nincompoop Groida causes no end of trouble. He can't even resume his firework-making activities using the stuff as a propellant as it is inert ... until digested. Nights round here sound like a convention of banshees on Benzedrine, accompanied by the Dagenham Girl Pipers.
Uncle Lucas reckons it would stick to the mine shaft walls if we used it as plaster. It would certainly present a novel rival to Polytex, with a built-in smell of fungal mould. Perhaps I can unload some of it at the Padstow Produce Fair when I go back to do the judging. Or at least I can utilise it as ballast in my Octomac, switch it for the jams and chutneys and leave looking the same shape and size as when I arrived.
Big G is moaning about having nothing to do. He has been nosing around me and Bro as we try to come up with some prototypes of our "Mantids of the Universe" action figures for the lucrative Xmas mallarkey. I told him to bugger off and design a Groida pyjama case but he scoffed at the idea, saying that a computer game would be more likely to find favour with today's savvy tots. He is not getting his claws on my laptop, lest he hack into some unsuspecting nation's ICBM early warning system and none of us sees the festive season. Finally, in desperation, I quipped that a "My Little Scorpion" potty would be a winner and he clubbed me with a log until I saw stars. Just like old times!
Anyway, we're all (okay, nearly all) grafting away down here in the mine, trying make a buck or two. Whatever happens, we won't starve. Mushroom smoothie, anyone? Excuse me while I open a tin of crushed pineapple to refresh me jaded palate...
That unhinged nincompoop Groida causes no end of trouble. He can't even resume his firework-making activities using the stuff as a propellant as it is inert ... until digested. Nights round here sound like a convention of banshees on Benzedrine, accompanied by the Dagenham Girl Pipers.
Uncle Lucas reckons it would stick to the mine shaft walls if we used it as plaster. It would certainly present a novel rival to Polytex, with a built-in smell of fungal mould. Perhaps I can unload some of it at the Padstow Produce Fair when I go back to do the judging. Or at least I can utilise it as ballast in my Octomac, switch it for the jams and chutneys and leave looking the same shape and size as when I arrived.
Big G is moaning about having nothing to do. He has been nosing around me and Bro as we try to come up with some prototypes of our "Mantids of the Universe" action figures for the lucrative Xmas mallarkey. I told him to bugger off and design a Groida pyjama case but he scoffed at the idea, saying that a computer game would be more likely to find favour with today's savvy tots. He is not getting his claws on my laptop, lest he hack into some unsuspecting nation's ICBM early warning system and none of us sees the festive season. Finally, in desperation, I quipped that a "My Little Scorpion" potty would be a winner and he clubbed me with a log until I saw stars. Just like old times!
Anyway, we're all (okay, nearly all) grafting away down here in the mine, trying make a buck or two. Whatever happens, we won't starve. Mushroom smoothie, anyone? Excuse me while I open a tin of crushed pineapple to refresh me jaded palate...
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The Sod
Groida isn't deaf. I'm not even sure the explosions have affected his particle of a brain. I was sauntering around the entrance to the mine, innocently sucking on a cola cube when one dropped from the bag and within what seemed like a nanosecond he was at ground level, scraping about like a hog seeking a truffle. Devious lout.
After shovelling away Auntie Pamela's dinner of Toad in the Alcove, Haricots Phall und Bombay Kartoffel, he chose to inform us that nobody should blow off while he demonstrated his latest fireworks. I think it was just a pre-emptive excuse to blame others for his ineptitude.
True, I have never seen such gargantuan clouds of smoke - and in subtle hues of sepia and violet - issuing forth from modest bog roll tubes. Then again, I've never known everything go black, the roof cave in and having to burrow my way through several hundred tins of Chesswood creamed mushrooms. I'll never sell them on now.
I've told him to take a rest from his tinkering with things that can produce startling chemical reactions. Preferably until 2039. I for one would like to see old age.
After shovelling away Auntie Pamela's dinner of Toad in the Alcove, Haricots Phall und Bombay Kartoffel, he chose to inform us that nobody should blow off while he demonstrated his latest fireworks. I think it was just a pre-emptive excuse to blame others for his ineptitude.
True, I have never seen such gargantuan clouds of smoke - and in subtle hues of sepia and violet - issuing forth from modest bog roll tubes. Then again, I've never known everything go black, the roof cave in and having to burrow my way through several hundred tins of Chesswood creamed mushrooms. I'll never sell them on now.
I've told him to take a rest from his tinkering with things that can produce startling chemical reactions. Preferably until 2039. I for one would like to see old age.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Frazzled Arthropod
I can see why some people are afraid of clowns. Groida, in his relentless pursuit of the ultimate firework, has already managed to blow himself up twice. Congratulations, you dozy pillock. Have a Curly Wurly and a Jamboree Bag for your efforts.
Thank Janet Radcliffe Richards he is conducting his experiments in one of the deeper mine shafts. I keep expecting to hear reports on the news of earthquakes in Cornwall, but so far he has failed to draw the attention of the authorities to our cosy hideout.
Each time he sways unsteadily from his laboratory, he increasingly resembles the Robertson Golly (careful, Ambrose, you don't want to alienate the more politically correct amongst your fan base) and his hearing is going. After screaming myself hoarse trying to explain that Auntie Pamela was dishing up the egg and chips, his only response was that he would never vote for them again. An alternative explanation is that his excuse for a brain has melted.
Mercifully, there is no news of Vernon. I have enough to cope with as it is. With a bit of luck he is lurking in the hold of a ship heading somewhere distant. Pity the space shuttle is in mothballs. He was half way to the Moon even here on Earth.
Thank Janet Radcliffe Richards he is conducting his experiments in one of the deeper mine shafts. I keep expecting to hear reports on the news of earthquakes in Cornwall, but so far he has failed to draw the attention of the authorities to our cosy hideout.
Each time he sways unsteadily from his laboratory, he increasingly resembles the Robertson Golly (careful, Ambrose, you don't want to alienate the more politically correct amongst your fan base) and his hearing is going. After screaming myself hoarse trying to explain that Auntie Pamela was dishing up the egg and chips, his only response was that he would never vote for them again. An alternative explanation is that his excuse for a brain has melted.
Mercifully, there is no news of Vernon. I have enough to cope with as it is. With a bit of luck he is lurking in the hold of a ship heading somewhere distant. Pity the space shuttle is in mothballs. He was half way to the Moon even here on Earth.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Bangers & Nosh
Oh, I wish I was a swan! For a start, I wouldn't have to sit here on me laptop, bringing you bad news. That wily toerag Vernon is on the loose yet again. He managed to dupe the polis into believing he knew the location of a buried Beatles commemorative tea tray, worth £1000 on ebay and scuttled off while they were laying waste to the Lost Gardens of Heligan with their tin spades. Even worse is I suspect we will hear from the wretched creature again before too long.
Groida's firework factory has suffered a setback. The blasting gelignite he found turned out to be even more unstable than Big G himself, so he dumped the lot in a boating lake to be on the safe side. However, like a true alchemist and monomaniac, he has been developing home-made compounds from readily available ingredients, including Ajax, curry powder, crushed Swan Vestas, Dylon and his own dried wee. I managed to persuade him to substitute fruit gums for shards of glass in his "fairy rain" mortars, so with a bit of luck he won't concoct anything potentially dangerous. Well, lethal, anyway.
The largess of his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela seemingly knows no bounds. While their barmy nephew was engrossed in trying to blow himself up in a deep mine shaft, they took the opportunity to invite the rest of us to a newly opened pizzeria in St Ives. Now, I'm not really au fait with this sort of cuisine but I must confess I love the local variations, especially the Mussel & Strawberry Impenetrable Crust. Not with my mandibles, sunshine! The cheroot ash gelato was a bit overpowering, but I suspect there may have been a mishap during preparation.
Anyway, we had agreed to take back some tepid munchies for Big G to sustain him during his crazed endeavours so we began loud discussions about phlegm, decomposition and prolapsed recta to clear the joint and allow us to claim the abandoned meals as leftovers. At first the staff kicked up a fuss, but after Uncle Lucas (with a sardonic grin playing about his normally inscrutable mush) threatened to snip off the manager's feet, we left with a "Groida Bag". Result for the team!
Groida's firework factory has suffered a setback. The blasting gelignite he found turned out to be even more unstable than Big G himself, so he dumped the lot in a boating lake to be on the safe side. However, like a true alchemist and monomaniac, he has been developing home-made compounds from readily available ingredients, including Ajax, curry powder, crushed Swan Vestas, Dylon and his own dried wee. I managed to persuade him to substitute fruit gums for shards of glass in his "fairy rain" mortars, so with a bit of luck he won't concoct anything potentially dangerous. Well, lethal, anyway.
The largess of his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela seemingly knows no bounds. While their barmy nephew was engrossed in trying to blow himself up in a deep mine shaft, they took the opportunity to invite the rest of us to a newly opened pizzeria in St Ives. Now, I'm not really au fait with this sort of cuisine but I must confess I love the local variations, especially the Mussel & Strawberry Impenetrable Crust. Not with my mandibles, sunshine! The cheroot ash gelato was a bit overpowering, but I suspect there may have been a mishap during preparation.
Anyway, we had agreed to take back some tepid munchies for Big G to sustain him during his crazed endeavours so we began loud discussions about phlegm, decomposition and prolapsed recta to clear the joint and allow us to claim the abandoned meals as leftovers. At first the staff kicked up a fuss, but after Uncle Lucas (with a sardonic grin playing about his normally inscrutable mush) threatened to snip off the manager's feet, we left with a "Groida Bag". Result for the team!
Friday, August 26, 2011
A Crabber of Fools
Things aren't shaping up quite as I'd wished. Groida's Mad Cousin Vernon has been the source of much disruption, especially with the play. In fact, I'm seriously thinking of postponing it until Christmas and putting it on as a pantomime, which it has come to resemble in rehearsals anyway.
I have acquired a copy of "Harry Price - Psychic Investigator" which I might combine with my Janet Radcliffe Richards book to produce a really vicious mongrel of a script. After all, "The Towering Inferno" was based on two stories!
Bro reckons we should create a range of Ambrose & Mordecai toys for the festive market after our popularity with the wee holidaymakers down here. Groida, of course, had to get in his two pennyworth and suggests cashing in on November 5th (i.e. October to January) by manufacturing fireworks, especially as he's discovered a cache of explosives in one of the mine shafts. After nearly putting himself into orbit with his fuel experiment I may give him the green light in the hope he succeeds this time.
So that's Xmas and Bonfire Night sorted as potential money-earners. Sadly Halloween is a washout as it is the only time of the year when nobody takes any notice of us. At least we have a temporary respite from Vernon, who is helping the polis with their enquiries after being caught stripping lead from the roof of Truro Cathedral. Apparently he wanted it to build a radiation-proof toilet cubicle. Give me strength.
Anyway, the rest of us are off to Hairy Jacob's fish restaurant in a minute. Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela are treating us to a blowout destined to pass into legend. Now why can't all Mega-Scorpions be like that?
I have acquired a copy of "Harry Price - Psychic Investigator" which I might combine with my Janet Radcliffe Richards book to produce a really vicious mongrel of a script. After all, "The Towering Inferno" was based on two stories!
Bro reckons we should create a range of Ambrose & Mordecai toys for the festive market after our popularity with the wee holidaymakers down here. Groida, of course, had to get in his two pennyworth and suggests cashing in on November 5th (i.e. October to January) by manufacturing fireworks, especially as he's discovered a cache of explosives in one of the mine shafts. After nearly putting himself into orbit with his fuel experiment I may give him the green light in the hope he succeeds this time.
So that's Xmas and Bonfire Night sorted as potential money-earners. Sadly Halloween is a washout as it is the only time of the year when nobody takes any notice of us. At least we have a temporary respite from Vernon, who is helping the polis with their enquiries after being caught stripping lead from the roof of Truro Cathedral. Apparently he wanted it to build a radiation-proof toilet cubicle. Give me strength.
Anyway, the rest of us are off to Hairy Jacob's fish restaurant in a minute. Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela are treating us to a blowout destined to pass into legend. Now why can't all Mega-Scorpions be like that?
Friday, August 19, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 20a
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| T is also for Treacle Tin Lantern. A wicked idea suggested by a kind follower. I tried making one with the harmonium's riot shotguns but forgot they were loaded with 9 ball bearing SG round and the tin sort of disappeared. Will try again with a different gauge. |
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Bang Goes The Neighbourhood
They're here! Groida and his loathsome clan rolled up right on cue to disrupt Bro and I in the middle of our supper. Typical!
Admittedly I did shed a tear as the unwholesome maniac embraced me, but that was only because he managed to tread on three of my feet. His apology might have had a ring of sincerity if he hadn't delivered it in Pidgin English, accompanied by a devastating bottom cough. Nor did it escape my notice that his peace offering of a sackload of Bahlsen biscuits and fondant fancies had reached their sell-by dates. Yes, it's the thought that counts. That's why I want to swat his tiny mind into fragments.
In contrast, his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela exuded their familiar homely warmth. Thank Jupiter their killing season isn't until mid-February. Cousin Vernon may prove to be more of a challenge, especially if he is to join the cast of our play. He has already tried to snog Bro, threatened to excommunicate my elves and reindeer and claims to be a heron. The king of them, no less. I think my holiday may be over.
Admittedly I did shed a tear as the unwholesome maniac embraced me, but that was only because he managed to tread on three of my feet. His apology might have had a ring of sincerity if he hadn't delivered it in Pidgin English, accompanied by a devastating bottom cough. Nor did it escape my notice that his peace offering of a sackload of Bahlsen biscuits and fondant fancies had reached their sell-by dates. Yes, it's the thought that counts. That's why I want to swat his tiny mind into fragments.
In contrast, his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela exuded their familiar homely warmth. Thank Jupiter their killing season isn't until mid-February. Cousin Vernon may prove to be more of a challenge, especially if he is to join the cast of our play. He has already tried to snog Bro, threatened to excommunicate my elves and reindeer and claims to be a heron. The king of them, no less. I think my holiday may be over.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 20
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| T is for Treacle. Demands a little courage and patience. Take a diver's breath and neck it straight from the tin. |
Sunday, August 14, 2011
The Curse of the Mega-Scorpions
Bloody hell! Groida and his barmy charabanc have been stopped by the polis on the A49 on their way down from Rhyl. What is it with that collection of dozy arthropods? Can't they even manage a six hour journey through the Queen's realm without getting mistaken for a dangerous mob? The only threat they pose is to anyone with a sense of smell being overcome by the foul miasma of their personal gases. Incidentally, Groida, if you are reading this on your Fartleberry, or whatever it is called, your pleading Dutchman phone call was about as convincing and amusing as your double glazing salesman from Nassau. Don't expect a hug of reconciliation when you and your lugubrious tribe finally desecrate Cornish soil. Wear shin pads. All over.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Leading Mantis
The Mantis Brothers' production of "A Pain In The Rectory" (now renamed "The Buggering of Borley") is well under way. Most of the St Austell Players have been wise enough to resign and the remainder are on extended sick leave after my necessary artistic changes and so-called unacceptable behaviour. The scenery was rubbish, anyway and made an impressive blaze at the beach re-launch party.
Now our good companions are somewhat depleted in number, Mordecai (imagine Lew Grade with antennae) has taken charge of recasting, while I concentrate on trying to inject some credibility into a hopeless script. I have already composed a couple of new numbers; "A Martyr To Wind" and "Look What I Did With A House Brick". The audience will be asking for the CD in the interval!
Bro suggested Groida and his crazy brood would bolster the cast nicely and said it was time I buried the hatchet anyway. Initially I misunderstood and thought he was giving me carte blanche to terminally cleave the sod's diseased napper, but after he stubbed out a potato croquette in my eye I realised he was serious. Showbiz is a tough old lark!
So Big G, his Uncle Lucas, Auntie Pamela and Mad Cousin Vernon (who has been hiding with them after yet another escape from the laughing academy) will be descending on us shortly. All we need is Mr Prendergast and the Aznavour Quins to create a theatrical experience that Cornwall will be talking about for generations. Assuming anyone survives.
Now our good companions are somewhat depleted in number, Mordecai (imagine Lew Grade with antennae) has taken charge of recasting, while I concentrate on trying to inject some credibility into a hopeless script. I have already composed a couple of new numbers; "A Martyr To Wind" and "Look What I Did With A House Brick". The audience will be asking for the CD in the interval!
Bro suggested Groida and his crazy brood would bolster the cast nicely and said it was time I buried the hatchet anyway. Initially I misunderstood and thought he was giving me carte blanche to terminally cleave the sod's diseased napper, but after he stubbed out a potato croquette in my eye I realised he was serious. Showbiz is a tough old lark!
So Big G, his Uncle Lucas, Auntie Pamela and Mad Cousin Vernon (who has been hiding with them after yet another escape from the laughing academy) will be descending on us shortly. All we need is Mr Prendergast and the Aznavour Quins to create a theatrical experience that Cornwall will be talking about for generations. Assuming anyone survives.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Mysterious Ways
Last night's jaunt to the Spiritualist meeting got off to a less than promising start with Bro trying to wriggle out of it, complaining of mild bronchitis and a grazed knee. The windy bugger! As I had utilised that particular canard myself on several occasions it cut no ice and off we trundled.
I did try to console him with a stop off at the Chinese chippie for a generous haul of nosh to sustain us during Fright Night and that seemed to settle his nerves a bit. We had to play up in order to get served quickly ("or your ceramic cat will never wave its paw again") and even then we were late and had to scuttle into a dimmed auditorium.
An amply proportioned lady had already taken to the stage and for a horrible moment I suspected we had goofed again and were gatecrashing a session of Weight Watchers. However, once she started addressing unseen entities and a cake stand began moving of its own volition I guessed we were in the right place.
Strewth, she really was a porker, but as I'd heard how some of the fraudulent characters attracted to this lark were in the habit of secreting cheesecloth phantoms in their unmentionables I thought she might be carrying excess baggage. I could see the headlines: "Visiting Celebrity Unmasks Wicked False Ghoulie Scam".
Bro was clearly distressed by the proceedings and was dipping his battered sausage in the Special Satay Chow Mein and trying to insert it up his nose. There was an occasional stifled whimper and I am sure I smelled wee. Talk about letting the side down!
At this point a door opened behind Meaty Matron and a ghastly little man entered, announcing himself to be "Harry Price". He seemed solid enough not to be mistaken for an intruder goblin and I began to wonder what the heck was taking place. It was then that a rather emotional gentleman leaped up from his seat in the stalls and cried "Yanto, where are your bloody dentures?"
It transpired that we were in the midst of rehearsals for the St Austell Players' production of "A Pain in the Rectory", a comedy based on the sensational tosh whipped up about Borley, the so-called "Most Haunted House in England".
Seizing the opportunity for self-publicity and to cover my embarrassment, I immediately offered my services in the cause of the performing arts. As a result, a part is being hastily written in for me. They are even prepared to construct a special hydraulic device under the stage's trap door so I will be able to manifest myself in compliance with health and safety regulations!
Funny thing is, as I was rummaging about in the harmonium for my "Ambrose and the Beanstalk" press cuttings, I found the missing ignition keys. They had been in the gauntlet compartment all the time! Truly, strange forces are at work ...
I did try to console him with a stop off at the Chinese chippie for a generous haul of nosh to sustain us during Fright Night and that seemed to settle his nerves a bit. We had to play up in order to get served quickly ("or your ceramic cat will never wave its paw again") and even then we were late and had to scuttle into a dimmed auditorium.
An amply proportioned lady had already taken to the stage and for a horrible moment I suspected we had goofed again and were gatecrashing a session of Weight Watchers. However, once she started addressing unseen entities and a cake stand began moving of its own volition I guessed we were in the right place.
Strewth, she really was a porker, but as I'd heard how some of the fraudulent characters attracted to this lark were in the habit of secreting cheesecloth phantoms in their unmentionables I thought she might be carrying excess baggage. I could see the headlines: "Visiting Celebrity Unmasks Wicked False Ghoulie Scam".
Bro was clearly distressed by the proceedings and was dipping his battered sausage in the Special Satay Chow Mein and trying to insert it up his nose. There was an occasional stifled whimper and I am sure I smelled wee. Talk about letting the side down!
At this point a door opened behind Meaty Matron and a ghastly little man entered, announcing himself to be "Harry Price". He seemed solid enough not to be mistaken for an intruder goblin and I began to wonder what the heck was taking place. It was then that a rather emotional gentleman leaped up from his seat in the stalls and cried "Yanto, where are your bloody dentures?"
It transpired that we were in the midst of rehearsals for the St Austell Players' production of "A Pain in the Rectory", a comedy based on the sensational tosh whipped up about Borley, the so-called "Most Haunted House in England".
Seizing the opportunity for self-publicity and to cover my embarrassment, I immediately offered my services in the cause of the performing arts. As a result, a part is being hastily written in for me. They are even prepared to construct a special hydraulic device under the stage's trap door so I will be able to manifest myself in compliance with health and safety regulations!
Funny thing is, as I was rummaging about in the harmonium for my "Ambrose and the Beanstalk" press cuttings, I found the missing ignition keys. They had been in the gauntlet compartment all the time! Truly, strange forces are at work ...
Sunday, July 31, 2011
A Spiritual Bloomer
It never ceases to amaze me how even an innocent night out can turn into a farce. Last Tuesday Bro and I dutifully turned up at the Padstow Assembly Rooms for a peek into the hereafter courtesy of the local Spiritualists. We were not looking for trouble, had parked the harmonium off-road and were determined to scoff our refreshments with the minimum amount of racket. We were going to be good boys that evening.
I thought it was a bit odd that the medium seemed to be worshipping at an altar of roses, carnations and chrysanthemums but naturally assumed this was some local Druid offshoot cult. However, as the strangely didactic monologue continued, it began to dawn on me that we may have mistakenly wandered into a flower arranging class.
Quietly securing a snoozing Mordecai in a head lock I began a stealthy but awkward retreat towards the exit. That was when some daft bint began screaming and we were subjected to a frenzy of hysterical swatting as if we were wasps invading a Portaloo. No doubt some twisted unfortunates would derive unwholesome satisfaction from being thrashed with gladioli but I can assure you it is not nice at all.
Luckily, with cries of woe and limping worthy of Olivier I managed to effect a truce and earned us a reprieve from a vicious towsing. In fact the atmosphere warmed considerably after I complimented them on their displays and once I had explained my interest in preserved fruit I was asked to return later in the year to judge the harvest jam and pickle competition.
I can't really demand payment for that gig but I'll wear my Octomac (see "Also Ran" in The Ambrose Files # 7) with its multitude of deep pockets. I won't be leaving without a hefty stash of tasty and nutritious perks. Ambrose comes up smelling of strawberries in light syrup yet again, he he!
So it's holding hands with ghosties next Monday at the St Austell Old Mackerel Sheds & Community Centre at 7.30 sharp. If it all goes nipples-skyward I'll give Mordecai such a clump. Not that it will be his fault, but in Groida's absence ...
I thought it was a bit odd that the medium seemed to be worshipping at an altar of roses, carnations and chrysanthemums but naturally assumed this was some local Druid offshoot cult. However, as the strangely didactic monologue continued, it began to dawn on me that we may have mistakenly wandered into a flower arranging class.
Quietly securing a snoozing Mordecai in a head lock I began a stealthy but awkward retreat towards the exit. That was when some daft bint began screaming and we were subjected to a frenzy of hysterical swatting as if we were wasps invading a Portaloo. No doubt some twisted unfortunates would derive unwholesome satisfaction from being thrashed with gladioli but I can assure you it is not nice at all.
Luckily, with cries of woe and limping worthy of Olivier I managed to effect a truce and earned us a reprieve from a vicious towsing. In fact the atmosphere warmed considerably after I complimented them on their displays and once I had explained my interest in preserved fruit I was asked to return later in the year to judge the harvest jam and pickle competition.
I can't really demand payment for that gig but I'll wear my Octomac (see "Also Ran" in The Ambrose Files # 7) with its multitude of deep pockets. I won't be leaving without a hefty stash of tasty and nutritious perks. Ambrose comes up smelling of strawberries in light syrup yet again, he he!
So it's holding hands with ghosties next Monday at the St Austell Old Mackerel Sheds & Community Centre at 7.30 sharp. If it all goes nipples-skyward I'll give Mordecai such a clump. Not that it will be his fault, but in Groida's absence ...
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mantis of the Moment
What an odd couple of days! I guessed things would get a bit more frantic here in Cornwall as the wee ones broke up from school, but I never imagined that I would find myself the centre of their attention. Wherever we go, Bro and I keep getting stopped and asked if we will pose for photos with the cheeky mites. It would have become something of a nuisance had we not twigged that a fee could be extracted from their already careworn parents and now the two of us are doing very nicely, thank you very much.
We have been spreading a rumour that our appearances are part of a promotion for a new 3-D Pixar epic called "Ambrose C P Mantis and the Harmonium of Doom" (coming to a fleapit near you). We may even have some tickets fabricated for a lucrative "charity" raffle.
On a sadder note, one of our favourite venues, the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms has been closed down after a raid. Apparently there is a law against their Happy Scones. Bloody bureaucracy.
Anyway, must nip off to wash me neck. Almost time to saunter down to the Spiritualist meeting. Got plenty of samosas and Supermalt to fuel a few unearthly noises and odours from beyond the grave ...
We have been spreading a rumour that our appearances are part of a promotion for a new 3-D Pixar epic called "Ambrose C P Mantis and the Harmonium of Doom" (coming to a fleapit near you). We may even have some tickets fabricated for a lucrative "charity" raffle.
On a sadder note, one of our favourite venues, the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms has been closed down after a raid. Apparently there is a law against their Happy Scones. Bloody bureaucracy.
Anyway, must nip off to wash me neck. Almost time to saunter down to the Spiritualist meeting. Got plenty of samosas and Supermalt to fuel a few unearthly noises and odours from beyond the grave ...
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 18
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| R is for Rice. Creamed Rice. A fine product wisely given a noble name. |
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Products That have Come My Way # 17
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| Q is for Quince Jelly. Serving suggestion: Try sucking it through a thin straw until you faint. |
Products That Have Come My Way # 16
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| P is for Prunes. Marvellous little buggers for unclogging gluttons like my brother Mordecai. Note the explanation of what a prune is, presumably for idiots like Groida. |
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Back in Action
Whizzo! The harmonium is up and running again. The correct FDIDA (Failsafe Disengage Iconic Disco Anthem) came to me as I lifted me sleepy head this morning. It is "Feels Like I'm In Love" by Kelly Marie. No wonder I was flummoxed. The song got nowhere until its UK re-release in 1980. Me bonce was in the wrong decade.
With some trepidation I tapped out the correct code sequence based on the melody and as I wasn't suddenly being transported down a long tunnel towards a light, I realised all was well. Thereafter it was just a case of attacking a few bolts and a bit of moderate swearing as I tangled with some wiring before I'd improvised a temporary ignition plate. Okay, it's just the guts from a pocket torch sellotaped inside a Golden Virginia tin, but I'd challenge anyone to do better at dawn with a rumbling tummy.
Anyway, she's ticking over nicely. I've bashed out a few standards to get back into practice and I'm surprisingly not that rusty. I did hit a couple of bum notes on "Underneath the Arches" and accidentally launched a Sidewinder which truncated the church spire somewhat, but nobody was seriously injured.
I shall treat Bro to some days out in the country now I've got wheels again, but as I also need to thoroughly test the half-track, skidoos and hovercraft skirt I think I'll stay down here for a few more weeks. I have also decided to go the the Spiritualist meeting for a bit of fun, as we are still banned from the local cinema.
A certain pestilent numpty will have to await my wrath a little longer. I have received an email purporting to come from the Chinese embassy regarding outstanding parking fines, courtesy of "Comlade Gloida". Bro has a roll of carpet he doesn't want. It will make an impressive cosh.
With some trepidation I tapped out the correct code sequence based on the melody and as I wasn't suddenly being transported down a long tunnel towards a light, I realised all was well. Thereafter it was just a case of attacking a few bolts and a bit of moderate swearing as I tangled with some wiring before I'd improvised a temporary ignition plate. Okay, it's just the guts from a pocket torch sellotaped inside a Golden Virginia tin, but I'd challenge anyone to do better at dawn with a rumbling tummy.
Anyway, she's ticking over nicely. I've bashed out a few standards to get back into practice and I'm surprisingly not that rusty. I did hit a couple of bum notes on "Underneath the Arches" and accidentally launched a Sidewinder which truncated the church spire somewhat, but nobody was seriously injured.
I shall treat Bro to some days out in the country now I've got wheels again, but as I also need to thoroughly test the half-track, skidoos and hovercraft skirt I think I'll stay down here for a few more weeks. I have also decided to go the the Spiritualist meeting for a bit of fun, as we are still banned from the local cinema.
A certain pestilent numpty will have to await my wrath a little longer. I have received an email purporting to come from the Chinese embassy regarding outstanding parking fines, courtesy of "Comlade Gloida". Bro has a roll of carpet he doesn't want. It will make an impressive cosh.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Memory Mantis
Funny how things stick in your mind. I can clearly recall the time and place of the first bet I won against Groida (to see if he could keep a Jaffa cake on his sting if I flicked lighted matches at it) yet for the life of me I can't remember what I've done with the harmonium's ignition keys.
True, I can always fly short haul to the Co-op or a takeaway in an emergency and it does give me an excuse to stay here in Cornwall with Bro for a bit longer, but that is not the point. I need the mobility, freedom and fearsome weaponry which Y Nauci 14 affords me.
Now, I am fairly nifty when it comes to hot-wiring vehicles but I know better than to tinker with this baby. I built it to go bang. If any sod tries to fiddle with the controls, an automatic self-destruct programme is initiated and the miscreant gets an express trip to his ancestors on a pillar of fire.
I would be able to override the booby trap by hitting every third note of a certain iconic disco hit of the 1970's, except the song in question has slipped my memory. Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" is playing dimly in the back of my swede but I don't want to kiss goodbye to half a million quid's worth of ex-military hardware and an antique ivory keyboard merely on a hunch.
In my desperation I even rang Groida. Although his Auntie Pamela answered and called him to the phone, he insisted I had the wrong number, claiming to be one Evan Phetau and tried to sell me double glazing in a ludicrous Caribbean accent. He has gone too far this time.
There is a Spiritualist meeting in the town next week, so I will pop along and enquire beyond the veil as to the whereabouts of the keys. Failing that I'll try the hypnotist in the end-of-the-pier show or the Royal Engineers.
In the mean time I shall meditate on how to exact a truly awful revenge on that pea-brained jackanapes for his impertinent tomfoolery.
True, I can always fly short haul to the Co-op or a takeaway in an emergency and it does give me an excuse to stay here in Cornwall with Bro for a bit longer, but that is not the point. I need the mobility, freedom and fearsome weaponry which Y Nauci 14 affords me.
Now, I am fairly nifty when it comes to hot-wiring vehicles but I know better than to tinker with this baby. I built it to go bang. If any sod tries to fiddle with the controls, an automatic self-destruct programme is initiated and the miscreant gets an express trip to his ancestors on a pillar of fire.
I would be able to override the booby trap by hitting every third note of a certain iconic disco hit of the 1970's, except the song in question has slipped my memory. Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" is playing dimly in the back of my swede but I don't want to kiss goodbye to half a million quid's worth of ex-military hardware and an antique ivory keyboard merely on a hunch.
In my desperation I even rang Groida. Although his Auntie Pamela answered and called him to the phone, he insisted I had the wrong number, claiming to be one Evan Phetau and tried to sell me double glazing in a ludicrous Caribbean accent. He has gone too far this time.
There is a Spiritualist meeting in the town next week, so I will pop along and enquire beyond the veil as to the whereabouts of the keys. Failing that I'll try the hypnotist in the end-of-the-pier show or the Royal Engineers.
In the mean time I shall meditate on how to exact a truly awful revenge on that pea-brained jackanapes for his impertinent tomfoolery.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 15
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| O is for Opal Fruits. Manufactured to assist the production of saliva.This wasn't my idea. Mordecai thinks it is highly amusing. Sometimes he's as daft as Groida. |
Products That Have Come My Way # 14
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| N is for Nectarine. An innocent-looking but effective projectile. Makes a satisfying noise and mess on impact if sufficiently ripe. |
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Twilight World of a Sleeping Mantis
Had a seriously loopy dream last night. I was serving tea at the Dorchester to the Aznavour quins, Groida was the Maitre D (unaccountably wearing an eyepatch) and the cabaret was provided by the resurrected Mr Prendergast in a nurse's uniform, blowing furiously on a digeridoo with "Y Nauci 14" inscribed along its length.
A hole opened up in the floor and Janet Radcliffe Richards, in a gown bejewelled with Spangles and Jelly Tots, rose up on a hydraulic plinth and declared she was the Ghost of August Bank Holiday Monday Yet To Come and arrested me for being naughty, painted the wrong shade of green and over the regulation mantis height.
I'd set fire to that bloody book of hers if it wasn't being used to shore up a dodgy prop in Mordecai's tin mine.
A hole opened up in the floor and Janet Radcliffe Richards, in a gown bejewelled with Spangles and Jelly Tots, rose up on a hydraulic plinth and declared she was the Ghost of August Bank Holiday Monday Yet To Come and arrested me for being naughty, painted the wrong shade of green and over the regulation mantis height.
I'd set fire to that bloody book of hers if it wasn't being used to shore up a dodgy prop in Mordecai's tin mine.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Words and Music
Strewth! This Janet Radcliffe Richards book is heavy going. Funny peculiar but not very amusing. In fact it could have been written by Groida's mad cousin Vernon. Green paint, falling off ladders and predatory females! Now, as a he-mantis, that equates with being eaten, so I'm not exactly going to hoot with laughter over the subject.
It doesn't help that there are questions at the end of each chapter, as if to check if I've been paying attention. Janet, I hang on yer every word but give us a break, love. It's worse than homework. I'll do it as it's you, but how about a signed photo as a reward? I've asked often enough.
Anyway, I'll persevere but if there isn't a murder or at least a decent gag soon I'm going to take the book back to Oxfam and demand a refund. I'm hoping it won't come to that as the shop assistant befouled himself when I tried to pay for the thing, so heaven alone knows what reaction I'll get if I complain.
Sunday's brass band concert was a let-down too. Mordecai and I arrived after hoovering up the buffet at the Mysore Ass Indian nosherie but we'd no sooner settled ourselves in the park when there was a prolonged clatter of emptying deck chairs. Admittedly we were a tad flatulent but there was no need for a mass evacuation (if you'll pardon the expression).
Even the band seemed paralysed by stage fright and the conductor kept turning round to look at us, which was hardly professional. Bro asked if they did requests and I enquired if they would consider selling their instruments and opening a whelk stall instead. I think it must have been about then that some sour toad phoned the polis.
The Dead Loss Orchestra decided to make a run for it and Bro came up with the bright idea of living things up with a bit of impromptu karaoke. We had hardly launched into a wicked rendition of White Horses when the bandstand collapsed under our combined weight and that's when the rapid response unit turned up.
I want to make it clear that at no time did I become hysterical. It was merely the effects of the tear gas and I am having a notice put in the local rag to that effect. And possibly getting some T shirts printed.
It doesn't help that there are questions at the end of each chapter, as if to check if I've been paying attention. Janet, I hang on yer every word but give us a break, love. It's worse than homework. I'll do it as it's you, but how about a signed photo as a reward? I've asked often enough.
Anyway, I'll persevere but if there isn't a murder or at least a decent gag soon I'm going to take the book back to Oxfam and demand a refund. I'm hoping it won't come to that as the shop assistant befouled himself when I tried to pay for the thing, so heaven alone knows what reaction I'll get if I complain.
Sunday's brass band concert was a let-down too. Mordecai and I arrived after hoovering up the buffet at the Mysore Ass Indian nosherie but we'd no sooner settled ourselves in the park when there was a prolonged clatter of emptying deck chairs. Admittedly we were a tad flatulent but there was no need for a mass evacuation (if you'll pardon the expression).
Even the band seemed paralysed by stage fright and the conductor kept turning round to look at us, which was hardly professional. Bro asked if they did requests and I enquired if they would consider selling their instruments and opening a whelk stall instead. I think it must have been about then that some sour toad phoned the polis.
The Dead Loss Orchestra decided to make a run for it and Bro came up with the bright idea of living things up with a bit of impromptu karaoke. We had hardly launched into a wicked rendition of White Horses when the bandstand collapsed under our combined weight and that's when the rapid response unit turned up.
I want to make it clear that at no time did I become hysterical. It was merely the effects of the tear gas and I am having a notice put in the local rag to that effect. And possibly getting some T shirts printed.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Some Holiday Reading
Browsing through the local Oxfam shop for a bit of light reading during me extended vacation here in Cornwall, I happened upon a well-thumbed copy of an Open University book by the wonderful Janet Radcliffe Richards. It is called "Human Nature After Darwin" and although it doesn't have any pictures I am hoping there are at least a few jokes. I bet she likes a good laugh, even if her photo suggests she has just sat in something and is pretending otherwise.
Bro is looking after me wonderfully and we are going to a brass band concert tomorrow afternoon. May pick up a few ideas for some new harmonium arrangements. God alone knows what Groida is up to, but I am sure news will filter down to me if he has been up to any foolish shenanigans.
Anyway, must get cracking on the book. That Darwin would have thrown a fit if he'd seen me, eh? A lifetime's theorising down the pan!
Bro is looking after me wonderfully and we are going to a brass band concert tomorrow afternoon. May pick up a few ideas for some new harmonium arrangements. God alone knows what Groida is up to, but I am sure news will filter down to me if he has been up to any foolish shenanigans.
Anyway, must get cracking on the book. That Darwin would have thrown a fit if he'd seen me, eh? A lifetime's theorising down the pan!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Products That have Come my Way # 13
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| M is for Mandarin Segments. Great for playing with in the mouth and causing endless irritation to those nearby. |
Monday, June 27, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 11
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| K is for Kiwi Fruit. Rich in vitamin C. Also buggers up jelly setting and gives me wild squirt. |
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Lourdes On A Wet Afternoon
English summers! I spent yesterday afternoon with Bro at the local fleapit watching a re-release of "The Song of Bernardette". It was really creepy, like that one with the miserable Swede and the Man from UNCLE in it. You know. John Wayne turns up a the end with a one-liner gag.
Apparently the tunes in both were done by the same chap. I may try out an arrangement of "Bernardette" for the harmonium, but leaving out any swirly violin parts in case You-Know-Who gets any ideas. I once attempted a reggae version of the theme from "Jesus of Nazareth" and Groida ended up on his back, crying with laughter. Tin-eared sod.
Anyway, back to the fillum. Gladys Cooper was cracking good as the sadistic nun, but Vincent Price wasn't up to his usual carpet-chewing and eye-rolling standard. He didn't even murder anybody. Perhaps he was having a bad day. Mordecai suggested loudly that "Vince has got a boil on his nuts" but the usherette told us to shut up or she wouldn't give us any more Cornettos (Cornetti?).
The ghost was a bit of a let-down too. She just materialised occasionally with a daft grin on her face. No cackling or spitting nails or anything. Could have been someone's favourite auntie. The "magic water" idea was a bit far-fetched as well.
Also, the man in the seat in front of me was making a nuisance of himself. At first I thought he was aping the biblical Onan until I realised his increasing frenzy was the result of trying to pluck the cellophane wrapping off a box of Maltesers. I leaned over his shoulder to ask him if he wanted any help and suddenly we were engulfed in a hailstorm of confectionery.
Bro and I pulled up a few rows of seats to stop the chocs from rolling under them and that's when the management turned the fire hoses on us. Honestly! We might as well have stayed out in the rain and saved our shillings. "The Adventures of Robin Hood" is on next week so we'll slip in, disguised as a couple of mighty oaks ...
Apparently the tunes in both were done by the same chap. I may try out an arrangement of "Bernardette" for the harmonium, but leaving out any swirly violin parts in case You-Know-Who gets any ideas. I once attempted a reggae version of the theme from "Jesus of Nazareth" and Groida ended up on his back, crying with laughter. Tin-eared sod.
Anyway, back to the fillum. Gladys Cooper was cracking good as the sadistic nun, but Vincent Price wasn't up to his usual carpet-chewing and eye-rolling standard. He didn't even murder anybody. Perhaps he was having a bad day. Mordecai suggested loudly that "Vince has got a boil on his nuts" but the usherette told us to shut up or she wouldn't give us any more Cornettos (Cornetti?).
The ghost was a bit of a let-down too. She just materialised occasionally with a daft grin on her face. No cackling or spitting nails or anything. Could have been someone's favourite auntie. The "magic water" idea was a bit far-fetched as well.
Also, the man in the seat in front of me was making a nuisance of himself. At first I thought he was aping the biblical Onan until I realised his increasing frenzy was the result of trying to pluck the cellophane wrapping off a box of Maltesers. I leaned over his shoulder to ask him if he wanted any help and suddenly we were engulfed in a hailstorm of confectionery.
Bro and I pulled up a few rows of seats to stop the chocs from rolling under them and that's when the management turned the fire hoses on us. Honestly! We might as well have stayed out in the rain and saved our shillings. "The Adventures of Robin Hood" is on next week so we'll slip in, disguised as a couple of mighty oaks ...
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