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.

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.

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!

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?

Products That Have Come My Way # 20a

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.

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.

Products That Have Come My Way # 20

T is for Treacle. Demands a little courage and patience.
Take a diver's breath and neck it straight from the tin.

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.

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Products That Have Come My Way # 19

S is for Strawberry Jam.
An essential component of the clotted cream tea.

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.

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 ...