 |
| M is for Mandarin Segments. Great for playing with in the mouth and causing endless irritation to those nearby. |
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Products That have Come my Way # 13
Monday, June 27, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 11
 |
| 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 ...
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 10
 |
| J is for Jelly. If adding pineapple, always used tinned, as (a) fresh stops it from setting and (b) otherwise you are doing me out of a living. |
Products That Have come My Way # 9
 |
| I is For Infant Food. Wrong warehouse. Guess who? Luckily okay poured over chips. |
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 7
 |
| G is for Grapefruit Segments. Tamed. No safety goggles required. If you miss being squirted in the eye, stand on your head when you pee. |
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
A Mantis of Leisure
Anyone for prunes and smoked brisling? Shaft number five is piled high with boxloads of them after last week's nocturnal salvage mission. Oh, and pitted black olives in brine and tins which are almost certainly corned beef (the labels were washed off).
The manifest said fruit, so I don't know what went wrong, unless that gormless zero from Rhyl has been moonlighting as a shipping clerk. Talking of whom, he's sent me a present of mint-flavoured rock fashioned into wee pink shrimps. What a nice gesture! I'll try one out on Bro first, in case they've been steeped in toilet medicine.
Which brings me back to the prunes. If it wasn't for them, I'd be getting seriously clogged up, what with cafe fry-ups for breakfast, carvery lunches, clotted cream teas, fish & chip suppers and between-meal snacks of the best pasties in the world (with meat up one end and jam up the other).
I really do wish you were here, to see how smart I look in my kiss-me-quick hat (adapted with holes for the antennae). No takers as yet. Frankly, I think they are all a bit mental round here. Even the polis are strange. I asked one if it was all right for Bro and me to have our afternoon nap on the floral clock. No answer. He just stood there like a statue and tinkled in his trousers. Inbreeding. I'd stake a gross of Morton's cherry pie filling on it.
Anyway, if you fancy taking pot luck with any of our waterlogged windfall (I was going to put "cargo trouve" but I can't find the acute accent on this bloody keyboard) you know how to get in touch. Keep the faith! Yer Happy Holidaymaker, Ambrose.
The manifest said fruit, so I don't know what went wrong, unless that gormless zero from Rhyl has been moonlighting as a shipping clerk. Talking of whom, he's sent me a present of mint-flavoured rock fashioned into wee pink shrimps. What a nice gesture! I'll try one out on Bro first, in case they've been steeped in toilet medicine.
Which brings me back to the prunes. If it wasn't for them, I'd be getting seriously clogged up, what with cafe fry-ups for breakfast, carvery lunches, clotted cream teas, fish & chip suppers and between-meal snacks of the best pasties in the world (with meat up one end and jam up the other).
I really do wish you were here, to see how smart I look in my kiss-me-quick hat (adapted with holes for the antennae). No takers as yet. Frankly, I think they are all a bit mental round here. Even the polis are strange. I asked one if it was all right for Bro and me to have our afternoon nap on the floral clock. No answer. He just stood there like a statue and tinkled in his trousers. Inbreeding. I'd stake a gross of Morton's cherry pie filling on it.
Anyway, if you fancy taking pot luck with any of our waterlogged windfall (I was going to put "cargo trouve" but I can't find the acute accent on this bloody keyboard) you know how to get in touch. Keep the faith! Yer Happy Holidaymaker, Ambrose.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 4
 |
| D is for Doris Day Dog Food. Groida is I for Inept. Wrong consignment. |
Products That Have Come My Way # 2
 |
B is for Banana. The happy banana man got locked in the toilet. When he escaped, all his bananas had gone and he was very cross. |
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Dunkirk Spirit
Never let it be said that I don't try to help others. Bro and I were stretched out on the town roundabout's floral clock, sleeping off our fish & chips when all hell broke loose. At first I thought it was passers-by distressed by evil odours puffing out of our bottoms, but it transpired that a loose cargo of tinned fruit was floating towards the shore. Well, cometh the hour, cometh the mantis!
Hastily, Mordecai and I marshalled all able hands and told them to evacuate the town, preferably several miles away, as the crates contained an illegal shipment of dried Nygoli lizard, which is fatal on contact. Then we set to collecting anything buoyant; pedalos, paddling pools, vinyl hippos and inflatable ladies.
We are now ready to string them together as a flotilla and, precarious as the task will be, salvage the lost treasures of the Man from Del Monte. Admittedly it would all look rather comical, if we weren't doing it under the cover of darkness. I didn't say that.
Hastily, Mordecai and I marshalled all able hands and told them to evacuate the town, preferably several miles away, as the crates contained an illegal shipment of dried Nygoli lizard, which is fatal on contact. Then we set to collecting anything buoyant; pedalos, paddling pools, vinyl hippos and inflatable ladies.
We are now ready to string them together as a flotilla and, precarious as the task will be, salvage the lost treasures of the Man from Del Monte. Admittedly it would all look rather comical, if we weren't doing it under the cover of darkness. I didn't say that.
The Ambrose files #7
The best laid plans of mice and Mantids often disappear down the plughole, and sadly this turned out to be the case with my magnum opus. I cannot currently reveal what happened on the fateful day but here is the ominous lead-up ...
3 June
Derby Day - Plan D (sort of)
Right, I think I've finally got this Derby lark sorted. I won't give out any details until after the event in case one of you windy herberts snitches to the polis and buggers up proceedings.
Incidentally, many thanks to my imaginative correspondent who suggested putting Groida in an invalid carriage. I have had much the same thing in mind for ages. Unfortunately I haven't got the time to borrow one or prepare the rocket motors, which is a pity. It would be worth it to see him reach escape velocity over the Downs, screaming and waving his claws as he disappeared forever. But sadly we can't have everything we want in this life.
Now, in case the authorities don't see the funny side of our prank, I have arranged to stay with my brother Mordecai in one of the deeper mine shafts he keeps in readiness for me in his Cornish hideaway. Similarly, Big G will be holed up in the secret headquarters of his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela in Rhyl. No-one with an iota of sense goes anywhere near Rhyl, so he should be both out of sight and in good company with the out of mind.
Wi-fi reception is a bit dodgy in mine shafts and subterranean caverns, so I am relying on you all to keep the faith until I instruct Groida to see if the coast is clear. If anyone asks, we are on holiday. I've even cancelled my banana milk. Antennae crossed for tomorrow!
One day I may feel able to recount the awful events of June 4th, but for the moment, here is the aftermath ...
5 June
Hello folks. Just a quickie, posted from the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms, where I'm having a bit of scoff with my brother Mordecai. He says they have "special" scones which make you laugh, but although I feel like a lift, I don't want to end up like Groida when he's been on Armenian Tizer.
In fact, I'm trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. This bin bag on my head is really clammy, but at least it hides the antennae. It's pretty close inside this raincoat too (actually eight of them, stapled together - no sewing machine available). What with all that and the jam clogging up my horsehair beard and this little outing isn't a pleasurable experience.
As you have probably gathered, I headed south-west as intended. For all I know, that nincompoop Groida made it to Rhyl, but equally it wouldn't surprise me if he found himself in Aberdeen. Great dozy clown.
Never work with wasps or disturbed Mega-Scorpions. It is still too painful for me to relate the details of what should have been my crowning achievement yesterday, but which quickly degenerated into a dismal farce. You will get it, chapter and verse, once I feel stronger in myself and the bouts of alternate fury and weeping subside.
I think I'll have some cheese straws and blow my nose. Never mind, eh? There's always next year, and I understand H M Queen will be attending as part of her Jubilee celebrations. My devious mind is already starting to click and whir...
7 June
A fish & chip eaterie with wi-fi reception! Brilliant. Just sent Mordecai to get us some more hake and pickled eggs. I think the waitress is hiding. Must be shy. Just to let you know I'm having a spiffing sabbatical with Bro. May invite him back home to put Big G's nose out of joint (in both senses).
And that brings us neatly up to date, with today's dispatch ...
Just got a card from Groida, who made it to Rhyl in one piece and is staying with his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela in their secret underground headquarters. He is thinking of remaining there for the summer season and subjecting the populace to his notorious Punch & Judy show. Considering the trouble it got him into last year, I think he must be even more unhinged than I gave him credit for. Allow me to explain with a second-hand report I received of the abomination he visited upon unsuspecting holidaymakers in 2010:
In Groida’s dystopian world view Mr Punch was a transvestite Cyclops, Judy being portrayed as his psychiatric warder (and a distant cousin of Osama Bin Laden), the dog became a mummified cat through which discarnate spirits uttered ancient blasphemies and the policeman was reinvented as an incontinent trapeze artist with Tourette’s Syndrome. The absence of the baby and Devil characters was explained away in a prologue, by their arrest at a football match.
Eyewitness statements also mentioned a working model of an electric chair and bags of worms being thrown into the audience. Furthermore, due to the enormous size of Groida’s claws, the puppets were larger than life and several performances ended prematurely with the entire marquee-sized booth toppling over with our Monster of Ceremonies descending into a blind rage and nearly choking on his swazzle. A number of spectators are still receiving counselling.
If he thinks I am going to thunder up to Wales in Y Nauci 14, machine guns blazing, to rescue him, he is tragically mistaken. I am busy plotting outrages of my own down here with Mordecai and I am not going to get sidetracked by that reckless, feeble-minded bugger.
I hope you will stick with yer Uncle Ambrose and his fiends as we cut a swathe through the dodgy crust of civilisation and merrily lay waste to this Septic Isle in the months to come!
3 June
Derby Day - Plan D (sort of)
Right, I think I've finally got this Derby lark sorted. I won't give out any details until after the event in case one of you windy herberts snitches to the polis and buggers up proceedings.
Incidentally, many thanks to my imaginative correspondent who suggested putting Groida in an invalid carriage. I have had much the same thing in mind for ages. Unfortunately I haven't got the time to borrow one or prepare the rocket motors, which is a pity. It would be worth it to see him reach escape velocity over the Downs, screaming and waving his claws as he disappeared forever. But sadly we can't have everything we want in this life.
Now, in case the authorities don't see the funny side of our prank, I have arranged to stay with my brother Mordecai in one of the deeper mine shafts he keeps in readiness for me in his Cornish hideaway. Similarly, Big G will be holed up in the secret headquarters of his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela in Rhyl. No-one with an iota of sense goes anywhere near Rhyl, so he should be both out of sight and in good company with the out of mind.
Wi-fi reception is a bit dodgy in mine shafts and subterranean caverns, so I am relying on you all to keep the faith until I instruct Groida to see if the coast is clear. If anyone asks, we are on holiday. I've even cancelled my banana milk. Antennae crossed for tomorrow!
One day I may feel able to recount the awful events of June 4th, but for the moment, here is the aftermath ...
5 June
Also Ran
Hello folks. Just a quickie, posted from the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms, where I'm having a bit of scoff with my brother Mordecai. He says they have "special" scones which make you laugh, but although I feel like a lift, I don't want to end up like Groida when he's been on Armenian Tizer.
In fact, I'm trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. This bin bag on my head is really clammy, but at least it hides the antennae. It's pretty close inside this raincoat too (actually eight of them, stapled together - no sewing machine available). What with all that and the jam clogging up my horsehair beard and this little outing isn't a pleasurable experience.
As you have probably gathered, I headed south-west as intended. For all I know, that nincompoop Groida made it to Rhyl, but equally it wouldn't surprise me if he found himself in Aberdeen. Great dozy clown.
Never work with wasps or disturbed Mega-Scorpions. It is still too painful for me to relate the details of what should have been my crowning achievement yesterday, but which quickly degenerated into a dismal farce. You will get it, chapter and verse, once I feel stronger in myself and the bouts of alternate fury and weeping subside.
I think I'll have some cheese straws and blow my nose. Never mind, eh? There's always next year, and I understand H M Queen will be attending as part of her Jubilee celebrations. My devious mind is already starting to click and whir...
7 June
Me Hols
A fish & chip eaterie with wi-fi reception! Brilliant. Just sent Mordecai to get us some more hake and pickled eggs. I think the waitress is hiding. Must be shy. Just to let you know I'm having a spiffing sabbatical with Bro. May invite him back home to put Big G's nose out of joint (in both senses).
And that brings us neatly up to date, with today's dispatch ...
A Message from an Idiot
Just got a card from Groida, who made it to Rhyl in one piece and is staying with his Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela in their secret underground headquarters. He is thinking of remaining there for the summer season and subjecting the populace to his notorious Punch & Judy show. Considering the trouble it got him into last year, I think he must be even more unhinged than I gave him credit for. Allow me to explain with a second-hand report I received of the abomination he visited upon unsuspecting holidaymakers in 2010:
In Groida’s dystopian world view Mr Punch was a transvestite Cyclops, Judy being portrayed as his psychiatric warder (and a distant cousin of Osama Bin Laden), the dog became a mummified cat through which discarnate spirits uttered ancient blasphemies and the policeman was reinvented as an incontinent trapeze artist with Tourette’s Syndrome. The absence of the baby and Devil characters was explained away in a prologue, by their arrest at a football match.
Eyewitness statements also mentioned a working model of an electric chair and bags of worms being thrown into the audience. Furthermore, due to the enormous size of Groida’s claws, the puppets were larger than life and several performances ended prematurely with the entire marquee-sized booth toppling over with our Monster of Ceremonies descending into a blind rage and nearly choking on his swazzle. A number of spectators are still receiving counselling.
If he thinks I am going to thunder up to Wales in Y Nauci 14, machine guns blazing, to rescue him, he is tragically mistaken. I am busy plotting outrages of my own down here with Mordecai and I am not going to get sidetracked by that reckless, feeble-minded bugger.
I hope you will stick with yer Uncle Ambrose and his fiends as we cut a swathe through the dodgy crust of civilisation and merrily lay waste to this Septic Isle in the months to come!
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Ambrose Files #6
The latest look back on recent events brings us to preparations for the 2011 Epsom Derby and the surprise I had in store for the assembled crowds. First, however, there was the matter of my confiscation of Groida's prize from the Royal College of Nursing - a smart plastic box of Teatime Assortment biscuits ...
31 May
I have just returned Groida's wretched box of biscuits. I am not bowing to pressure, I just got fed up with him calling me "arse-ache" and "git" all day. Also, he threatened to tie my antennae in a special Shinto pearl-diver's knot, so it seemed like a wise course of action. More to the point, I need his wholehearted support for Saturday's Derby operation.
We are running short of time, thanks partly to the shenanigans in NW3, so our bread van mock-up is a bit of a rushed job. In fact it is a plywood box. With "bread van" written on it in marker pen. And a smiley stuffed pillowcase tied to the top. Somewhere between concept and execution we have been found wanting. A radical re-think of the whole plan is required, and I can't do that on an empty stomach.
So, it's fish finger and salad cream butties for tea. I've sent Groida out for a lemon meringue pie, but I'm hoping he gets it wrong and returns with an Arctic roll or a bag of parsnips so I can assault him with a table. We need a good bundle to get things back to normal.
1 June
Groida and I have been having a brainstorming session about Saturday's Derby mission over a plate of Teatime Assortment. I think it was sweet of him to share them with me after our little falling out. He said I could choose any variety I fancied, except the rings with the pink and white icing, which if he caught me even glancing at would result in him pulling my head off.
Anyway, with the bread van ploy on indefinite hold, we have been looking at workable alternatives. I suggested building some giant hats (a la David Shilling) out of chicken wire and crepe paper, with sprung tops so that the concealed wasp cages could be opened in a trice. This didn't appeal to Groida, who pointed out that I had the advantage of antennae and an orientable head which were essential for covertly operating the device and, indeed, keeping it on.
I came up with the idea of him mingling with the crowd in the guise of a Lucky Snail raffle ticket seller, courtesy of a cardboard, wasp-filled "shell" and a couple of sink plungers on his bonce. He said he would look into the practicalities and went off to Argos to borrow some props. Two hours later he returned, with a polythene Wendy house draped over him like a psychedelic cloche. I think that Armenian Tizer has damaged him.
He also voiced some concern that although I can literally take flight (when I can be bothered, which is rarely these days) he would be left at the mercy of an angry mob without the harmonium as a getaway vehicle. I suppose he has a valid argument there, but I wish he wasn't always thinking about himself.
So it looks like we are going to have to dream up a Plan C. There is one other alternative, of course, but it is fraught with danger and we will need to move fast. I am talking about ... Mr Prendergast. More anon.
2 June
Once, just for once, I hope someone has put one over on me. Otherwise there could be weeping & wailing in Albion. Allow me to explain. Last Xmas, Big G, his auntie and I appeared in the pantomime, "Ambrose and the Beanstalk" at the Pavilion Theatre, Rhyl. Frankly it didn't go well. In fact it closed after one performance. I lost my nerve and got stuck up the beanstalk and only after the deployment of a tranquiliser dart were the stagehands able to retrieve me with a block and tackle. In addition to my woes, Groida and his Auntie Pamela were literally fighting for laughs. You get the picture.
Anyway, in the second act, Groida introduced his "surprise special guest". Mr Prendergast, a steam-powered automaton. I don't recall this character appearing in the Bonnie Langford version, but at least it was a novel idea. All that tosh about repairing lawnmowers in his shed!
Unfortunately, the Prendergast machine showed no desire to obey Groida's increasingly hoarse and desperate commands, choosing instead to lurch about the stage like a truculent golem, occasionally swatting at yours truly, barely conscious from the Ketamine but heroically clinging to its legs in a futile attempt to halt any further advance. Eventually, Auntie Pamela got it in a half-nelson and all three of us, locked in an involuntary conga, staggered out into the foyer with Groida in tepid pursuit, brandishing two buckets of sand.
Mr Prendergast finally ran out of steam just west of Macclesfield three days later and was buried where it fell. For me and big G it was a chastening experience and we both achieved growth through the ordeal. Auntie Pamela only recently started talking to us again. Groida rang her last night and asked if his Uncle Lucas could pop over to the secret grave, have a dig around and see if there was anything salvagable we could use as a makeshift iron bogeyman and wasp dispenser at the Derby. I got a call back this morning to say that there were no remains, just a whacking great hole.
I am praying more than a mantis usually does that a northern version of the Steptoes have had it away with Mr P for scrap. The alternative explanation is grim. That is, we buried it in a dormant but functioning state and that it is on the loose, possibly since January. I still have to come up with a Plan D for Saturday, but it is a horrible thought that Plan C is stomping about somewhere out there ...
We're heading towards the finishing line as our story comes up to date. How will it all end? ...
31 May
Enough!
I have just returned Groida's wretched box of biscuits. I am not bowing to pressure, I just got fed up with him calling me "arse-ache" and "git" all day. Also, he threatened to tie my antennae in a special Shinto pearl-diver's knot, so it seemed like a wise course of action. More to the point, I need his wholehearted support for Saturday's Derby operation.
We are running short of time, thanks partly to the shenanigans in NW3, so our bread van mock-up is a bit of a rushed job. In fact it is a plywood box. With "bread van" written on it in marker pen. And a smiley stuffed pillowcase tied to the top. Somewhere between concept and execution we have been found wanting. A radical re-think of the whole plan is required, and I can't do that on an empty stomach.
So, it's fish finger and salad cream butties for tea. I've sent Groida out for a lemon meringue pie, but I'm hoping he gets it wrong and returns with an Arctic roll or a bag of parsnips so I can assault him with a table. We need a good bundle to get things back to normal.
1 June
Derby Day - Plan B
Groida and I have been having a brainstorming session about Saturday's Derby mission over a plate of Teatime Assortment. I think it was sweet of him to share them with me after our little falling out. He said I could choose any variety I fancied, except the rings with the pink and white icing, which if he caught me even glancing at would result in him pulling my head off.
Anyway, with the bread van ploy on indefinite hold, we have been looking at workable alternatives. I suggested building some giant hats (a la David Shilling) out of chicken wire and crepe paper, with sprung tops so that the concealed wasp cages could be opened in a trice. This didn't appeal to Groida, who pointed out that I had the advantage of antennae and an orientable head which were essential for covertly operating the device and, indeed, keeping it on.
I came up with the idea of him mingling with the crowd in the guise of a Lucky Snail raffle ticket seller, courtesy of a cardboard, wasp-filled "shell" and a couple of sink plungers on his bonce. He said he would look into the practicalities and went off to Argos to borrow some props. Two hours later he returned, with a polythene Wendy house draped over him like a psychedelic cloche. I think that Armenian Tizer has damaged him.
He also voiced some concern that although I can literally take flight (when I can be bothered, which is rarely these days) he would be left at the mercy of an angry mob without the harmonium as a getaway vehicle. I suppose he has a valid argument there, but I wish he wasn't always thinking about himself.
So it looks like we are going to have to dream up a Plan C. There is one other alternative, of course, but it is fraught with danger and we will need to move fast. I am talking about ... Mr Prendergast. More anon.
2 June
Derby Day - Plan C
Once, just for once, I hope someone has put one over on me. Otherwise there could be weeping & wailing in Albion. Allow me to explain. Last Xmas, Big G, his auntie and I appeared in the pantomime, "Ambrose and the Beanstalk" at the Pavilion Theatre, Rhyl. Frankly it didn't go well. In fact it closed after one performance. I lost my nerve and got stuck up the beanstalk and only after the deployment of a tranquiliser dart were the stagehands able to retrieve me with a block and tackle. In addition to my woes, Groida and his Auntie Pamela were literally fighting for laughs. You get the picture.
Anyway, in the second act, Groida introduced his "surprise special guest". Mr Prendergast, a steam-powered automaton. I don't recall this character appearing in the Bonnie Langford version, but at least it was a novel idea. All that tosh about repairing lawnmowers in his shed!
Unfortunately, the Prendergast machine showed no desire to obey Groida's increasingly hoarse and desperate commands, choosing instead to lurch about the stage like a truculent golem, occasionally swatting at yours truly, barely conscious from the Ketamine but heroically clinging to its legs in a futile attempt to halt any further advance. Eventually, Auntie Pamela got it in a half-nelson and all three of us, locked in an involuntary conga, staggered out into the foyer with Groida in tepid pursuit, brandishing two buckets of sand.
Mr Prendergast finally ran out of steam just west of Macclesfield three days later and was buried where it fell. For me and big G it was a chastening experience and we both achieved growth through the ordeal. Auntie Pamela only recently started talking to us again. Groida rang her last night and asked if his Uncle Lucas could pop over to the secret grave, have a dig around and see if there was anything salvagable we could use as a makeshift iron bogeyman and wasp dispenser at the Derby. I got a call back this morning to say that there were no remains, just a whacking great hole.
I am praying more than a mantis usually does that a northern version of the Steptoes have had it away with Mr P for scrap. The alternative explanation is grim. That is, we buried it in a dormant but functioning state and that it is on the loose, possibly since January. I still have to come up with a Plan D for Saturday, but it is a horrible thought that Plan C is stomping about somewhere out there ...
We're heading towards the finishing line as our story comes up to date. How will it all end? ...
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Ambrose Files #5
And so to a weekend I would rather forget. But first, a little nature ramble ...
26 May
During my early morning perambulations I encountered a wondrous sight. A tiny, purple flower, defiantly growing through a crack in a large expanse of concrete. I was only moving the palettes of tinned gooseberries in order to give it access to direct sunlight and allow it to reach its full glory on this fine morning. Sainsbury's are trying to get back at me for the accidental destruction of their delivery van on Tuesday. To suggest I was stealing the gooseberries is an absurdity. I can't eat the things. They make my bot fizzle.
27 May
Sod! I should have twigged when I saw the word "marathon". Must buy a dictionary one of these days. Tonight's gig starts at 7 o'clock sharp but goes on until the last virtuoso Florence Nightingale drops. That could mean me wheezing out my harmonium accompaniment right through the weekend. If some of these seasoned strummers keep going on Kendal mint cake and oxygen I could very well collapse in a heap before they do.
Groida is coming along to keep me company, but I've hidden his violin. He is also the appointed nosh wallah. Working on the assumption that the official supply of grub will run out, he is bringing a hamper of essentials (black pudding, Pringles, sherbet fountains) and a primus stove with mess tins. If it comes to it he can always nip down to South End Green for some sausages and eggs.
I am not taking any chances with the traffic. We set off at noon and start loosing off the Stinger missiles as soon as we get a sniff of Bank Holiday weekend motorists. Does anyone remember the old Space Invaders game?
Apparently we will be starting proceedings with a limber-up. I suppose there will be a klaxton or whistle or somesuch, but I'll ask nicely if I can give a 21-round fusillade on the riot shotguns. Then off we go; A roomful of nursing's finest, bone-hard fingers a mere blur, in an ensemble performance of "Rivers of Babylon". Segovia and Oddjob, eat your hearts out!
P.S. Groida has a touch of croup, so I'll make him wear his scarf. As if I didn't have
enough to worry about. Will keep you posted. I may be some time ...
28 May
So far, so good. Several stretcher cases. Exhaustion and friction injuries. Some of the poor mites' hands look as if they've opened letter bombs. As predicted, the two of us had demolished the buffet by midnight. One of the organisers said Groida and I were like a pair of locusts. I had to point out that neither of us were, but had any been invited, they would have made a great rhythm section.
Big G has got the primus going and is frying up some sausages, bacon, mushrooms, eggs etc at the rear of the stage. Some killjoy started quoting health & safety rules at us, but it really isn't that much of a hazard. There's smoke, I'll grant you, but there always is with lard and the ventilation isn't brilliant in here. I can make out the keyboard well enough to play. The black notes anyway.
I can't believe we've only been going for just over 12 hours. The tunes are beginning to fuse together in me head like some sort of brainwashing carousel music. Ever seen "The Ipcress File"? "My name is Ambrose the Colossal Praying Mantis. My name is Ambrose ..." Must find a bent nail somewhere.
Ah well, Groida is about to serve up brekkers. The scrotum-featured imbecile forgot to pack the tinned tomatoes. Do I have to do everything myself? We've got about 20 mins to get our scoff down while the relief accompanists, a strange bunch of Albanians with clarinets, toot away. Then back to the grindstone. "Beautiful Dreamer" followed by "Lip Up Fatty". It could only happen in NW3. Don't forget to write.
29 May
Our competitors were dropping like flies overnight, leaving just a determined pocket of hardcore enthusiasts. However, they all seem to be running on empty now, so with a bit of luck we could be finished by tea time. Talking of which, Groida came up with a nice snack for us yesterday. Faced with a bewildering choice at the mini-mart, he did a supermarket sweep of two items and invented the biltong & hot cross bun sarnie. The Earl must be rotating in his grave, but strangely enough the combination works. The only drawback is I let one fly last night and it smelled like a burning tyre.
Anyway, we've now got an additional relief accompanist in the form of a matron from Bangkok with a gargantuan oriental tuba. It isn't the most dignified instrument to play (or to listen to) but it puts out one hell of a noise. Sounds like the last gasps of an elephant tired of life. Can't hear the banjos for the racket. Sadly it hasn't discouraged any of this remaining bunch of strumming stalwarts to head for home. Groida confided in me that his Uncle Lucas used to play "air euphonium" to records of the Black Dyke Mills Band when he was younger. Unfortunately one day he got over-excited, crouched down in readiness for the low C in the Volga Boat Song and ruptured himself.
That group of Albanian clarinetists, on closer inspection, appear to be quintuplets and bear an unsettling resemblance to Charles Aznavour. I suspect they are secret Armenians. I'd even wager a tin of pineapple rings in natural juice that they are all mini-cab drivers from Tufnell Park and only busk to supplement their incomes. Groida seems to be an object of curious fascination for them. I hope they don't revere and venerate his ilk, as some cultures do. We had all that trouble with the Aborigines last year when he tried to foment civil unrest. "Ancestral god and purveyor of ancient wisdom". More fool them.
Anyway, these swarthy dwarf woodwind players of uncertain nationality seem genuinely concerned about Big G's croup and have been offering him swigs from the bottle they've been passing amongst themselves. He says it tastes like the Tizer they serve at the Dorchester, so I can't see how that is going to do him any good, except possibly as an emetic. I hope he doesn't get too pally with this shower. I smell trouble and I'm not sure who is going to come off worst.
Oops! I'm back on again. Next up are Come Into the Garden Maude and My Ding-a-Ling. Will keep you posted on events. If this lot hasn't hit the deck by 10 tonight, I may have to start pressing a few wrong keys. Duck, you suckers!
But there was worse to come before Saturday evening was over ...
Janet Radcliffe Richards! Groida has got hold of a violin! Those bloody Aznavour quins have been plying him with Armenian Tizer all day and now he has taken to the stage and is doing his Pincers Zuckerman routine, even more off-tune than usual and punctuated by hiccups, croup and bottom quacks. He only stops every now and again while he tries to remember what tune he is supposed to be playing (and latterly what instrument). I think I'll shoot one of the clarinet players (a) to create a diversion, (b) to make me feel better and (c) as a prelude to murdering all five. Actually I want to press the harmonium's auto-destruct button, I'm so embarrassed!
30 May
If anyone is in any doubt, let me make it clear that I have never deliberately or knowingly killed anyone. Okay, I may boast a bit occasionally but sometimes a fearsome reputation is worth a thousand threats.
Today, Groida and most of North-West London are lucky to be alive. If I had not exercised restraint with the breathtaking weaponry at my disposal last night, a lot of people would need sweeping up with a dustpan and brush.
Shall we start with that cretinous buffoon I have the misfortune to waste my precious time on? Frankly, I'd skin him alive were it not for his impregnable carapace.
It isn't so much that I spent the early hours of this morning traversing Hampstead Heath in Y Nauci 14 looking for him, all twenty searchlights blazing. It isn't that he caused me to disturb a nocturnal alfresco masonic gathering (several respectable-looking gentlemen bolted from the undergrowth, hastily adjusting their trousers). Nor do I fail to recognise his ability to multi-task; running, roaring and widdling simultaneously. Clever Lad. Give him a Caramac. It isn't even because after his consumption of vast quantities of Armenian Tizer and his resultant delirium, he seems none the worst for wear.
No. What sends my antennae up like chopsticks is after nearly three days of labouring over an increasingly emphysemic harmonium without a nod of appreciation, the Royal College of Nursing takes the unfathomable decision to present him with a "special achievement award" for his crazed assault on a defenceless violin and the resultant damage to the hearing and psyches of all present. It is beyond my comprehension.
After chaining him to the back of the harmonium and dragging him home, I put him to work making us some pilchard quiche and butterscotch Angel Delight for tea. He can mutter "but what have I done wrong?" as many times as he likes. It will be many days to come before I give him a friendly poke in the eye and we resume our playful hostilities.
As for those stunted Aznavour quins, they slipped away from my grasp. But I'll have the sods. As Janet Radcliffe Richards is my witness. My arm is long, my vengeance is total and the harmonium is being tuned up. I wonder if they work at the Dorchester?
The pace didn't ease up as Derby Day approached ...
26 May
I Saw a Tiny Flower
During my early morning perambulations I encountered a wondrous sight. A tiny, purple flower, defiantly growing through a crack in a large expanse of concrete. I was only moving the palettes of tinned gooseberries in order to give it access to direct sunlight and allow it to reach its full glory on this fine morning. Sainsbury's are trying to get back at me for the accidental destruction of their delivery van on Tuesday. To suggest I was stealing the gooseberries is an absurdity. I can't eat the things. They make my bot fizzle.
27 May
The Royal College of Nursing Banjo Marathon
Sod! I should have twigged when I saw the word "marathon". Must buy a dictionary one of these days. Tonight's gig starts at 7 o'clock sharp but goes on until the last virtuoso Florence Nightingale drops. That could mean me wheezing out my harmonium accompaniment right through the weekend. If some of these seasoned strummers keep going on Kendal mint cake and oxygen I could very well collapse in a heap before they do.
Groida is coming along to keep me company, but I've hidden his violin. He is also the appointed nosh wallah. Working on the assumption that the official supply of grub will run out, he is bringing a hamper of essentials (black pudding, Pringles, sherbet fountains) and a primus stove with mess tins. If it comes to it he can always nip down to South End Green for some sausages and eggs.
I am not taking any chances with the traffic. We set off at noon and start loosing off the Stinger missiles as soon as we get a sniff of Bank Holiday weekend motorists. Does anyone remember the old Space Invaders game?
Apparently we will be starting proceedings with a limber-up. I suppose there will be a klaxton or whistle or somesuch, but I'll ask nicely if I can give a 21-round fusillade on the riot shotguns. Then off we go; A roomful of nursing's finest, bone-hard fingers a mere blur, in an ensemble performance of "Rivers of Babylon". Segovia and Oddjob, eat your hearts out!
P.S. Groida has a touch of croup, so I'll make him wear his scarf. As if I didn't have
enough to worry about. Will keep you posted. I may be some time ...
28 May
They Shoot Nurses, Don't They?: RCN Banjo Marathon Report - Day 2
So far, so good. Several stretcher cases. Exhaustion and friction injuries. Some of the poor mites' hands look as if they've opened letter bombs. As predicted, the two of us had demolished the buffet by midnight. One of the organisers said Groida and I were like a pair of locusts. I had to point out that neither of us were, but had any been invited, they would have made a great rhythm section.
Big G has got the primus going and is frying up some sausages, bacon, mushrooms, eggs etc at the rear of the stage. Some killjoy started quoting health & safety rules at us, but it really isn't that much of a hazard. There's smoke, I'll grant you, but there always is with lard and the ventilation isn't brilliant in here. I can make out the keyboard well enough to play. The black notes anyway.
I can't believe we've only been going for just over 12 hours. The tunes are beginning to fuse together in me head like some sort of brainwashing carousel music. Ever seen "The Ipcress File"? "My name is Ambrose the Colossal Praying Mantis. My name is Ambrose ..." Must find a bent nail somewhere.
Ah well, Groida is about to serve up brekkers. The scrotum-featured imbecile forgot to pack the tinned tomatoes. Do I have to do everything myself? We've got about 20 mins to get our scoff down while the relief accompanists, a strange bunch of Albanians with clarinets, toot away. Then back to the grindstone. "Beautiful Dreamer" followed by "Lip Up Fatty". It could only happen in NW3. Don't forget to write.
29 May
The RCN Banjo Marathon Report - Day 3
Our competitors were dropping like flies overnight, leaving just a determined pocket of hardcore enthusiasts. However, they all seem to be running on empty now, so with a bit of luck we could be finished by tea time. Talking of which, Groida came up with a nice snack for us yesterday. Faced with a bewildering choice at the mini-mart, he did a supermarket sweep of two items and invented the biltong & hot cross bun sarnie. The Earl must be rotating in his grave, but strangely enough the combination works. The only drawback is I let one fly last night and it smelled like a burning tyre.
Anyway, we've now got an additional relief accompanist in the form of a matron from Bangkok with a gargantuan oriental tuba. It isn't the most dignified instrument to play (or to listen to) but it puts out one hell of a noise. Sounds like the last gasps of an elephant tired of life. Can't hear the banjos for the racket. Sadly it hasn't discouraged any of this remaining bunch of strumming stalwarts to head for home. Groida confided in me that his Uncle Lucas used to play "air euphonium" to records of the Black Dyke Mills Band when he was younger. Unfortunately one day he got over-excited, crouched down in readiness for the low C in the Volga Boat Song and ruptured himself.
That group of Albanian clarinetists, on closer inspection, appear to be quintuplets and bear an unsettling resemblance to Charles Aznavour. I suspect they are secret Armenians. I'd even wager a tin of pineapple rings in natural juice that they are all mini-cab drivers from Tufnell Park and only busk to supplement their incomes. Groida seems to be an object of curious fascination for them. I hope they don't revere and venerate his ilk, as some cultures do. We had all that trouble with the Aborigines last year when he tried to foment civil unrest. "Ancestral god and purveyor of ancient wisdom". More fool them.
Anyway, these swarthy dwarf woodwind players of uncertain nationality seem genuinely concerned about Big G's croup and have been offering him swigs from the bottle they've been passing amongst themselves. He says it tastes like the Tizer they serve at the Dorchester, so I can't see how that is going to do him any good, except possibly as an emetic. I hope he doesn't get too pally with this shower. I smell trouble and I'm not sure who is going to come off worst.
Oops! I'm back on again. Next up are Come Into the Garden Maude and My Ding-a-Ling. Will keep you posted on events. If this lot hasn't hit the deck by 10 tonight, I may have to start pressing a few wrong keys. Duck, you suckers!
But there was worse to come before Saturday evening was over ...
The RCN Banjo Marathon - Breaking News
Janet Radcliffe Richards! Groida has got hold of a violin! Those bloody Aznavour quins have been plying him with Armenian Tizer all day and now he has taken to the stage and is doing his Pincers Zuckerman routine, even more off-tune than usual and punctuated by hiccups, croup and bottom quacks. He only stops every now and again while he tries to remember what tune he is supposed to be playing (and latterly what instrument). I think I'll shoot one of the clarinet players (a) to create a diversion, (b) to make me feel better and (c) as a prelude to murdering all five. Actually I want to press the harmonium's auto-destruct button, I'm so embarrassed!
30 May
The RCN Banjo Marathon - Post Mortem
If anyone is in any doubt, let me make it clear that I have never deliberately or knowingly killed anyone. Okay, I may boast a bit occasionally but sometimes a fearsome reputation is worth a thousand threats.
Today, Groida and most of North-West London are lucky to be alive. If I had not exercised restraint with the breathtaking weaponry at my disposal last night, a lot of people would need sweeping up with a dustpan and brush.
Shall we start with that cretinous buffoon I have the misfortune to waste my precious time on? Frankly, I'd skin him alive were it not for his impregnable carapace.
It isn't so much that I spent the early hours of this morning traversing Hampstead Heath in Y Nauci 14 looking for him, all twenty searchlights blazing. It isn't that he caused me to disturb a nocturnal alfresco masonic gathering (several respectable-looking gentlemen bolted from the undergrowth, hastily adjusting their trousers). Nor do I fail to recognise his ability to multi-task; running, roaring and widdling simultaneously. Clever Lad. Give him a Caramac. It isn't even because after his consumption of vast quantities of Armenian Tizer and his resultant delirium, he seems none the worst for wear.
No. What sends my antennae up like chopsticks is after nearly three days of labouring over an increasingly emphysemic harmonium without a nod of appreciation, the Royal College of Nursing takes the unfathomable decision to present him with a "special achievement award" for his crazed assault on a defenceless violin and the resultant damage to the hearing and psyches of all present. It is beyond my comprehension.
After chaining him to the back of the harmonium and dragging him home, I put him to work making us some pilchard quiche and butterscotch Angel Delight for tea. He can mutter "but what have I done wrong?" as many times as he likes. It will be many days to come before I give him a friendly poke in the eye and we resume our playful hostilities.
As for those stunted Aznavour quins, they slipped away from my grasp. But I'll have the sods. As Janet Radcliffe Richards is my witness. My arm is long, my vengeance is total and the harmonium is being tuned up. I wonder if they work at the Dorchester?
The pace didn't ease up as Derby Day approached ...
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The Ambrose Files #4
The saga continues ...
22 May
What, me stressed?
Work is piling up. I have the Royal College of Nursing banjo marathon next week, then there's the Epsom Derby to disrupt on June 4th. It looks as if I'm going to have to put the obliteration of the Dorchester on the back burner for a while. I can wait!
The old memory isn't what it was. There are devices installed on this harmonium which even I had forgotten about. This morning I was engrossed in a spirited rendition of "Born With A Smile On My Face" when the contraption let loose a rapid salvo of 12mm steel ballbearings which reduced the Welsh dresser to match wood. Lucky thing that Groida hocked the plates last week!
Had a brilliant bit of scoff with Big G, thanks to a food parcel from his Auntie Pamela, and just for once neither of us ended up wearing the meal. I didn't know you could still get Kunzle cakes! Afterwards we watched Songs of Praise and blew off in time to the hymns (and sometimes frighteningly in tune, too).
Unfortunately we had a slight disagreement over a game of Cluedo. I won. I know I won. It was me. On the staircase with the piece of lead pipe. Groida has the lump on his nut to prove it. Now he isn't talking to me, but hopefully his speech will return as the swelling subsides.
23 May
Groida and I are speaking again. Well, I'm speaking and he's muttering in that unique patois of his. Something between the ramblings of a hobo and a Cyberman reciting the black mass. He believes good relations have now been fully restored after catching me one round the head with a fire extinguisher at breakfast. In his wonky value system, that means we are even. Personally, I reckon a Chinese burn or a dead leg would have been reparation enough so I consider him back in my debt and richly deserving of a smack. After tea I am testing the harmonium's auxilliary jet engines (fitted specially for the Hampstead run), so I'll see if I can set fire to his sting with the exhausts.
Really excited that Wasps 'r' Us are due to deliver any day now. Each squadron comes in its own easy-to-handle wire mesh cage so the vicious wee tykes can be released with precision (and in formation, if you are the artistic type). More of this on the morrow. In the mean time I have a foolish arthropod to singe.
24 May
Put the new jet-supercharged harmonium through its paces on the A3 this morning. While I was practising rapid blast acceleration and evasion manouvres in the Tolworth underpass, the wretched vehicle accidentally incinerated a Sainsburys delivery van and then blew its own backside off. The AA and RAC didn't want to know but luckily SPECTRE has a comprehensive call-out service. Within an hour I was back on the road, doing wheelies on the hard shoulder and taking pot shots at Tolworth Tower with the heat-recognition cannon. I was even presented with a complimentary set of false number plates, fictitious log book, a Swiss passport and a death pill in case of capture. Now that's what I call service!
I have fitted the plates and the musical doomsday wagon is ready to hit Hampstead as "Y Nauci 14". Apparently it's code for a wittily obscene insult. That Blofeld is a wag!Incidentally, I spared Groida from the flames yesterday as he said he still had a headache. He's making us mashed banana and grated chocolate sarnies for tea so I suppose he has his uses.
25 May
Huzzah! The consignment of Derby Day wasps has arrived. I've bought the water pistol and kazoo to antagonise them, so I just need a Trojan thingy to gain entrance to the enclosure and do the business. I plan to disguise the harmonium as a bread van, I shall wear my trusty Morris Dancer's costume and Groida is keen to reprise his jaw-dropping performance as an Hasidic Jew, last witnessed in the cruelly condemned "Ambrose and the Beanstalk".
When Big G's mad cousin Vernon was last sectioned, the only way the men in white coats could get near him was to lure the deranged bugger from the convent with a papier mache mermaid on a carnival float. By comparison I think our ruse has the merit of subtlety. We simply drive up, calling out "Hot Hovis" (or something similar) and during the clamour, the enraged wasps are dispersed into the crowd via a concealed nozzle in the Mr Bunn roof effigy. If questions are raised, we claim to be an undercover psychiatric task force dousing nervous horses in chloroform. Find a loophole in that.
In case I am wounded or my shoelaces come undone, I have instructed Groida in how to effect a quick getaway without leaving half the vehicle behind. They won't know what hit 'em!
Brace yourself for the next instalment ...
22 May
What, me stressed?
Work is piling up. I have the Royal College of Nursing banjo marathon next week, then there's the Epsom Derby to disrupt on June 4th. It looks as if I'm going to have to put the obliteration of the Dorchester on the back burner for a while. I can wait!
The old memory isn't what it was. There are devices installed on this harmonium which even I had forgotten about. This morning I was engrossed in a spirited rendition of "Born With A Smile On My Face" when the contraption let loose a rapid salvo of 12mm steel ballbearings which reduced the Welsh dresser to match wood. Lucky thing that Groida hocked the plates last week!
Cakes and Violence: Tea with Groida - Round 3
Had a brilliant bit of scoff with Big G, thanks to a food parcel from his Auntie Pamela, and just for once neither of us ended up wearing the meal. I didn't know you could still get Kunzle cakes! Afterwards we watched Songs of Praise and blew off in time to the hymns (and sometimes frighteningly in tune, too).
Unfortunately we had a slight disagreement over a game of Cluedo. I won. I know I won. It was me. On the staircase with the piece of lead pipe. Groida has the lump on his nut to prove it. Now he isn't talking to me, but hopefully his speech will return as the swelling subsides.
23 May
Groida Has Started Smoking!
Groida and I are speaking again. Well, I'm speaking and he's muttering in that unique patois of his. Something between the ramblings of a hobo and a Cyberman reciting the black mass. He believes good relations have now been fully restored after catching me one round the head with a fire extinguisher at breakfast. In his wonky value system, that means we are even. Personally, I reckon a Chinese burn or a dead leg would have been reparation enough so I consider him back in my debt and richly deserving of a smack. After tea I am testing the harmonium's auxilliary jet engines (fitted specially for the Hampstead run), so I'll see if I can set fire to his sting with the exhausts.
Really excited that Wasps 'r' Us are due to deliver any day now. Each squadron comes in its own easy-to-handle wire mesh cage so the vicious wee tykes can be released with precision (and in formation, if you are the artistic type). More of this on the morrow. In the mean time I have a foolish arthropod to singe.
24 May
The State of Play
Put the new jet-supercharged harmonium through its paces on the A3 this morning. While I was practising rapid blast acceleration and evasion manouvres in the Tolworth underpass, the wretched vehicle accidentally incinerated a Sainsburys delivery van and then blew its own backside off. The AA and RAC didn't want to know but luckily SPECTRE has a comprehensive call-out service. Within an hour I was back on the road, doing wheelies on the hard shoulder and taking pot shots at Tolworth Tower with the heat-recognition cannon. I was even presented with a complimentary set of false number plates, fictitious log book, a Swiss passport and a death pill in case of capture. Now that's what I call service!
I have fitted the plates and the musical doomsday wagon is ready to hit Hampstead as "Y Nauci 14". Apparently it's code for a wittily obscene insult. That Blofeld is a wag!Incidentally, I spared Groida from the flames yesterday as he said he still had a headache. He's making us mashed banana and grated chocolate sarnies for tea so I suppose he has his uses.
25 May
A Work of Genius
Huzzah! The consignment of Derby Day wasps has arrived. I've bought the water pistol and kazoo to antagonise them, so I just need a Trojan thingy to gain entrance to the enclosure and do the business. I plan to disguise the harmonium as a bread van, I shall wear my trusty Morris Dancer's costume and Groida is keen to reprise his jaw-dropping performance as an Hasidic Jew, last witnessed in the cruelly condemned "Ambrose and the Beanstalk".
When Big G's mad cousin Vernon was last sectioned, the only way the men in white coats could get near him was to lure the deranged bugger from the convent with a papier mache mermaid on a carnival float. By comparison I think our ruse has the merit of subtlety. We simply drive up, calling out "Hot Hovis" (or something similar) and during the clamour, the enraged wasps are dispersed into the crowd via a concealed nozzle in the Mr Bunn roof effigy. If questions are raised, we claim to be an undercover psychiatric task force dousing nervous horses in chloroform. Find a loophole in that.
In case I am wounded or my shoelaces come undone, I have instructed Groida in how to effect a quick getaway without leaving half the vehicle behind. They won't know what hit 'em!
Brace yourself for the next instalment ...
The Ambrose Files #3
Here we go again ...
17 May
On the Town
Headed up to The Smoke for some nosh with Groida at the Dorchester. What a dump! We asked for Crispy Cod Fries, Findus Cheese Pancakes, Alphabetti Spaghetti, Smash, Wagon Wheels and a pitcher of Tizer and the waiter looked at us as if we were freaks. In fact we were only let in after Big G threatened to sting the doorman to death (a wicked bluff as he only fires blanks these days - he's had the snip and keeps his loose change in his poison sac).
So we ended up with these stupid sarnies, so miniscule you could have plugged your enlarged pores with them. Even the fish paste was black and lumpy. The Tizer tasted as if someone had already drunk it and Groida swore it was laced with creosote and kept sliding off his chair.
In one of his lucid moments he dropped the bombshell that he is taking up the violin again and asked if he could accompany me at the RCN bash. With my usual ready wit I explained that I would rather be accompanied to the gallows than endure his pitiful scrapings. Luckily we had agreed to sign a non-aggression pact for the afternoon so no blows were exchanged but we were both ready for a bundle if the opportunity arose. Then the bill arrived. Now I can take a joke, but ...
A section has been omitted following legal advice
...spectacular noise as the floorboards crashed through the windows. Pausing only to check that the manager was still breathing, we legged it outside, jumped into the harmonium and sped off, putting some extra distance between us and the mob by going into hovercraft mode across the Serpentine. There was definitely something wrong with the Tizer as Groida slept through the entire journey home and we both piddled on the seats. Rip-off London! I shall return and exact my revenge, and it won't be with a sock full of pound coins...
18 May
I was hosing the wee off the harmonium's seats following yesterday's farce at the Dorchester when I heard some funny noises coming from the torpedo tubes. I was just about to shove a besom down them when out popped a family of ducks. We must have scooped them up during our dash across the Serpentine. Mother nature is full of surprises.
Have created a temporary pond for the ducks until I can get them back to Hyde Park. Hot-wired a JCB from the building site down the road and dug a big hole in a neighbour's lawn (they are away on their hols and I can make good before they get back). I was worried about filling it but when I returned from getting a bag of chips it was full. Must have hit a water main. It's like something out of a biblical epic! Bloody amazing.
I've had a great idea. Kids aren't getting enough exercise, right? How about I fit some ice cream chimes to the harmonium and drive round the streets without stopping? Alternatively I could stop but drive away as soon as they appear. Groida laughed at first, but then he called me a name. A bad one. THE bad one.
19 May
I've returned the displaced ducks to the Serpentine. They insisted on giving me a little something in appreciation of my looking after them, and presented me with some pond weed, a pair of broken sunglasses and a half-eaten Aero. I blubbed all the way home. I also crashed into several vehicles and flattened two phone boxes. Groida thought he could cheer me up by attempting to strangle me, but my heart wasn't in it. I am trying to console myself by looking forward to the consignment of wasps arriving. I will have my work cut out tormenting them into a frenzy in preparation for Derby Day. Mind you, if Yehudi Megascorpion keeps abusing that violin we will all be of murderous intent before very long.
20 May
Cheered up a bit. Groida says we can always visit the ducks on the Serpentine when we return to London to annihilate the Dorchester.
21 May
17 May
On the Town
So we ended up with these stupid sarnies, so miniscule you could have plugged your enlarged pores with them. Even the fish paste was black and lumpy. The Tizer tasted as if someone had already drunk it and Groida swore it was laced with creosote and kept sliding off his chair.
In one of his lucid moments he dropped the bombshell that he is taking up the violin again and asked if he could accompany me at the RCN bash. With my usual ready wit I explained that I would rather be accompanied to the gallows than endure his pitiful scrapings. Luckily we had agreed to sign a non-aggression pact for the afternoon so no blows were exchanged but we were both ready for a bundle if the opportunity arose. Then the bill arrived. Now I can take a joke, but ...
A section has been omitted following legal advice
...spectacular noise as the floorboards crashed through the windows. Pausing only to check that the manager was still breathing, we legged it outside, jumped into the harmonium and sped off, putting some extra distance between us and the mob by going into hovercraft mode across the Serpentine. There was definitely something wrong with the Tizer as Groida slept through the entire journey home and we both piddled on the seats. Rip-off London! I shall return and exact my revenge, and it won't be with a sock full of pound coins...
18 May
I was hosing the wee off the harmonium's seats following yesterday's farce at the Dorchester when I heard some funny noises coming from the torpedo tubes. I was just about to shove a besom down them when out popped a family of ducks. We must have scooped them up during our dash across the Serpentine. Mother nature is full of surprises.
Moses the Mantis
Have created a temporary pond for the ducks until I can get them back to Hyde Park. Hot-wired a JCB from the building site down the road and dug a big hole in a neighbour's lawn (they are away on their hols and I can make good before they get back). I was worried about filling it but when I returned from getting a bag of chips it was full. Must have hit a water main. It's like something out of a biblical epic! Bloody amazing.
I've had a great idea. Kids aren't getting enough exercise, right? How about I fit some ice cream chimes to the harmonium and drive round the streets without stopping? Alternatively I could stop but drive away as soon as they appear. Groida laughed at first, but then he called me a name. A bad one. THE bad one.
19 May
A Pond Farewell
I've returned the displaced ducks to the Serpentine. They insisted on giving me a little something in appreciation of my looking after them, and presented me with some pond weed, a pair of broken sunglasses and a half-eaten Aero. I blubbed all the way home. I also crashed into several vehicles and flattened two phone boxes. Groida thought he could cheer me up by attempting to strangle me, but my heart wasn't in it. I am trying to console myself by looking forward to the consignment of wasps arriving. I will have my work cut out tormenting them into a frenzy in preparation for Derby Day. Mind you, if Yehudi Megascorpion keeps abusing that violin we will all be of murderous intent before very long.
20 May
Cheered up a bit. Groida says we can always visit the ducks on the Serpentine when we return to London to annihilate the Dorchester.
21 May
This bloody harmonium is in no condition to make it under its own steam to the Royal Free for the RCN's Banjo Marathon. That swine of a gradient up Haverstock & Rosslyn Hills will do for it before we're barely past Chalk Farm tube. I am not a coward but I refuse to expire like Joan of Arc, atop a mobile firework display surrounded by an audience of irate and abusive motorists. "La Mante Religieuse et Incendiaire de Belsize". No thank you. I'll arrange to be lowered into the hospital grounds by Chinook. At least it should amuse the patients.
To be continued ...
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Ambrose Files #2
More tosh from the vaults ...
15 May
Ah, Sunday morning and families together at play on the Downs! Tested the harmonium's Bofors gun & Redeye and brought down four kites, a radio controlled helicopter and a model spitfire.
At this point a follower interjected. The word "bastard" was used ...
Just misunderstood. Humans are so touchy. You lot would soon come crying to me for help if the Martians landed though, wouldn't you! Good news is I've been asked to play harmonium accompaniment at the Royal College of Nursing's banjo marathon, and as I can hardly turn up bristling with weaponry I'll have to dismantle some of the armaments, at least temporarily. P.S. May do some rocket-propelled grenade trials on Hampstead Heath before too long.
Sorry for lateness of hour but just got let out of the cells. This time the row started over the use of the name "Melton Mowbray" on pork pie labels. Groida tried to suffocate me with two gherkins but I managed to stun him with a scotch egg to the temple. Suddenly the cuffs were on us and we had to declare a draw. I'll do him properly next time, though but.
16 May
I've been practising on the harmonium for the Royal College of Nursing's marathon banjo gig and have arranged a medley of old favourites, including Claire de Lune, Mammy, Inchworm and Venus in Furs. Some tunes, however, are really tricky buggers to play and best avoided. We maestros call them "accidents waiting to happen", a bit like blowing your nose when you are full of wind and wee. I had a crack at Nessun Dorma but the crib notes I'd scribbled in biro on the keys rubbed off. Where's the dignity in that, eh?
Having the Search & Destroy functions wired into the harmonium's main console is asking for trouble too. I was bashing away at Mammy this morning, pulled out the wrong stop, activated the flame thrower and set fire to the neighbours' washing.
Luckily there will be plenty of professional assistance to call upon on the night if anything goes seriously wrong. Nevertheless, I am going to ask for Liszt's Totentanz and There's No One Quite Like Grandma to be scrubbed from the programme for fear of launching the aerial mines and CS gas.
15 May
Ah, Sunday morning and families together at play on the Downs! Tested the harmonium's Bofors gun & Redeye and brought down four kites, a radio controlled helicopter and a model spitfire.
At this point a follower interjected. The word "bastard" was used ...
Just misunderstood. Humans are so touchy. You lot would soon come crying to me for help if the Martians landed though, wouldn't you! Good news is I've been asked to play harmonium accompaniment at the Royal College of Nursing's banjo marathon, and as I can hardly turn up bristling with weaponry I'll have to dismantle some of the armaments, at least temporarily. P.S. May do some rocket-propelled grenade trials on Hampstead Heath before too long.
Sunday tea with Groida (aka Round 2)
Sorry for lateness of hour but just got let out of the cells. This time the row started over the use of the name "Melton Mowbray" on pork pie labels. Groida tried to suffocate me with two gherkins but I managed to stun him with a scotch egg to the temple. Suddenly the cuffs were on us and we had to declare a draw. I'll do him properly next time, though but.
16 May
I've been practising on the harmonium for the Royal College of Nursing's marathon banjo gig and have arranged a medley of old favourites, including Claire de Lune, Mammy, Inchworm and Venus in Furs. Some tunes, however, are really tricky buggers to play and best avoided. We maestros call them "accidents waiting to happen", a bit like blowing your nose when you are full of wind and wee. I had a crack at Nessun Dorma but the crib notes I'd scribbled in biro on the keys rubbed off. Where's the dignity in that, eh?
Having the Search & Destroy functions wired into the harmonium's main console is asking for trouble too. I was bashing away at Mammy this morning, pulled out the wrong stop, activated the flame thrower and set fire to the neighbours' washing.
Luckily there will be plenty of professional assistance to call upon on the night if anything goes seriously wrong. Nevertheless, I am going to ask for Liszt's Totentanz and There's No One Quite Like Grandma to be scrubbed from the programme for fear of launching the aerial mines and CS gas.
The Ambrose Files #1
The first in a series of dusty exhumations from my Facebook page for the benefit of newbies reckless enough to want some backstory ...
...and there is more. A lot more to come!
Vengeance is Mine
What is wrong with people these days? I was sampling some kumquats and a cantaloupe from the greengrocer's display and he hit me with a broom. When I tried to poke his eyes out a passing vicar grabbed hold of one of my legs and called me an abomination in the sight of God. Very Christian, I must say. Sunday will be a Dies Irae after I've climbed the church spire and done my business all over the congregation. Plague Number Eleven, courtesy of the Main Mantis!
10 May
Took the harmonium out for an early morning spin on the Downs. Handles the terrain well, but two of the Gatling guns are out of sync. Resisted the temptation to test fire the ejector seat as I haven't checked the chute for moth holes. Just placed my order with Wasps 'r' Us for Derby Day
12 May
Let me make it clear that I do not like peach slices, in syrup or juice. They are slithery and smell of feet. Why on earth, then, should I attempt to steal several dozen crates of them, as is being claimed? I was only looking for a mouse that had gone into the warehouse and I was worried it would get run over by a fork lift truck. Tea with my best fiend Groida the Mega-Scorpion turned into a fantastic bundle. It started with an argument over the nutritional value of cucumber sandwiches and ended with me knocking him out cold with a fence post. Can't wait for the re-match!
13 May
The Harcerki Koniczynki are on my trail!
The Polish Girl Guides, working on behalf of their government, have been asking questions about my whereabouts and that of a consignment of bottled plums in brandy. I hope I have thrown them off my scent.
Groida's attempts to make fuel for my harmonium out of blackberry & apple pie filling resulted in him blowing the roof off his garden shed laboratory. Pages from an alchemical treatise and incriminating tin labels were strewn all over the place like confetti. When it comes to solving the energy crisis, he is a prize knob.
14 May
Groida has finally been rescued from a tree nearly a mile away, in which he became entangled after yesterday's explosion. Apparently he survived on a packet of Chewits he had with him and kept his spirits up by verbally abusing passers-by.
13 May
The Harcerki Koniczynki are on my trail!
The Polish Girl Guides, working on behalf of their government, have been asking questions about my whereabouts and that of a consignment of bottled plums in brandy. I hope I have thrown them off my scent.
Groida's attempts to make fuel for my harmonium out of blackberry & apple pie filling resulted in him blowing the roof off his garden shed laboratory. Pages from an alchemical treatise and incriminating tin labels were strewn all over the place like confetti. When it comes to solving the energy crisis, he is a prize knob.
14 May
Groida has finally been rescued from a tree nearly a mile away, in which he became entangled after yesterday's explosion. Apparently he survived on a packet of Chewits he had with him and kept his spirits up by verbally abusing passers-by.
...and there is more. A lot more to come!
A Night Out
I was chased down a street by locals last night simply because I had a tinkle on someone's flower bed. Okay, it was in a 2nd storey window box but I thought the family were watching Eastenders and everbody gets caught short sometimes. Grazed my antennae on telephone lines as well during the pursuit and it didn't half smart.
Janet Radcliffe Richards
Janet Radcliffe Richards. She is not a giant insect, I'll grant you, but nonetheless admired by the wee cabal of strikingly proportioned mantids and arthropoda in my social circle. Okay, just me really. Mordecai & Groida wouldn't know a philosopher if
one brought up a kebab all over them.
I first got the hots for this tzigane of academe when she presented Open University programmes back in the 1980's. I have written to her via Oxford University but she must be very busy as I've had no reply. Should have included an SAE I suppose. Or perhaps she's on a world lecture tour. I bet my harmonium would impress her.
one brought up a kebab all over them.
Groida the Mega-Scorpion
Brother Mordecai
Sunday, June 5, 2011
My First Words
Hello folks! Welcome to my amazing blog. A huge wave of my antennae to those of you foolish enough to have followed me from elsewhere and warm greetings to any newcomers keen to hear all about my latest antics. Just a quick legal note. Not suitable for children, adults, those of a nervous disposition or the easily offended. No refunds. I think that just about covers everything. Back with some of my astounding insights and profound wisdom later on. I think the steak & kidney pud is boiling dry ...
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