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.