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? ...
No comments:
Post a Comment