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!
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