Thar She Blows

The one part of my philanthropic marine salvage work which I find an absolute fag is retrieving the pesky cargo bobbing about on the briny in the dark. It is like trying to operate one of those grabber things in the amusement arcade, blindfold and balanced on a bouncy castle. The locals aren't very happy about the requisitioning of their craft, either. What do they expect? I can't ask them, as most of them are either in bed by that time or locked in the pub, and I can't use the harmonium in hovercraft mode as it causes too much of a racket for covert operations. Forget that last remark.

So I am highly delighted that Uncle Lucas has built me a device to bring the goodies inshore without all that fuss and rancour. It is a wire-guided, rocket-propelled harpoon with a night vision CCTV console and hydraulic winch, all of which sits neatly on the top of Y Nauci 14.

I was hoping to give it a trial in the early hours of tomorrow, practising on a few lobster pots or buoys, but I may have to rein in my enthusiasm for a bit. Auntie Pamela is doing us mince, mash and dumplings tonight, and as she usually makes enough to feed the five thousand we all will probably be immobile for at least eighteen hours.

Product Recall

Some things are too easy for words while others are definitely not. Such is life. My Wee Ambrose dolly has had to return to the drawing board after his antennae proved to be more tricky than a tubful of buggers. Groida said they looked more like antlers and I considered shaking and spraying a can of Fanta over him, until I noticed Auntie Pamela was watching. At least he has ceased babbling in his ludicrous Ohara patois and his outbursts are now reasonably intelligible.

My guest visit to the Padstow Produce Fair, on the other hand, may go down in the annals as one of my classic victories. The trusty "Octomac", with its labyrinth of poacher's pockets was discovered, on inspection, to have been rendered holy (unusable) by nocturnal nibbling things. Luckily, my devious mind's ability to improvise a scam didn't fail me.

Firstly, I got Bro to lock the other judges in the toilets while I declared proceedings closed, deeming all entries unfit for human consumption. Right on cue, Big G and Uncle Lucas appeared, posing as council health & safety officials and confiscated everything in sight. We all made a swift escape with our laden wheelbarrows, no doubt looking like contestants in "It's a Knockout".  It certainly was that, in the first round, too!

We now have enough mouth-watering provisions for a siege, which may be a blessing if the polis come sniffing around. So it's marrow chutney with our fishcakes tonight!

Distracted Times

Groida is refusing to communicate in anything except Ohara, which I suspect he is making up as he goes along. For example, I can see nothing Celtic or indeed Oriental in him describing me as a "steel rake", which is clearly an insult as it is accompanied by him covering his nostrils and pulling an imaginary toilet chain.

The madness seems to be infectious. Bro has become enchanted with Big G's idea of developing a computer game based on our exploits. If I do relent and agree to developing such a foolhardy project, it will be conducted under my strict supervision. I detect the intent of mischief, even at this early stage and by you-know-who.

I have tried to divert interest by suggesting the arthrosod creates his own toy for Xmas. Groida's Brittle Biscuit Bakery Bagatelle would allow kiddies to make their own flour and water figures of him from a mould and then destroy them with ball bearings. I thought it was an inspired notion - if a little cruel - but Auntie Pamela has told me to leave him alone or I won't get any tea.

I wish her loopy nephew would reciprocate and allow me a bit of peace. I am still trying to iron out a few glitches with the Wee Ambrose dolly. The head has stayed attached for nearly 48 hours now, but the arms have fallen off. I shall persevere, but it isn't easy with that deranged buffoon jabbering away in the background like a parliament of exotic fowl. 

Pest Control

As I was making final adjustments to the prototype Ambrose action figure (i.e. trying to stop its head falling off), Groida sidled up to me and explained that he had discovered why Esperanto had never caught on as a universal language. I am sure he chooses his moments with great deliberation and malicious glee.

I had instructed him to design and build a new ground-to-air missile system for the harmonium in the mistaken belief that it would keep him from under all my feet for some considerable time. I should have known better.

Anyway, he reckons that a 21st century lingo shouldn't be "too Spanish" and intends to create one based mainly on Gaelic and Japanese, called Ohara. True, there could be a big publishing deal, but finding the books piled high in 99p shops in a year's time might be more than my normally robust spirit could endure.

I have tried to gently discourage him, with comments such as "naff off, you deluded cretin" but as yet to no avail. Every time he scuttles past he enquires "habla Ohara?" and on one occasion my nerve went and I hit him with Wee Ambrose, whose head shot off yet again. Perhaps I should fashion a Groida doll, stick pins in it and hope for the best.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, etc ...

Working our way through these tins of Chesswood creamed mushrooms, rendered misshapen and unsaleable by Groida's explosive cave-in, is proving to be a demoralising fag. On toast, sploshed on omelettes, in vol-au-vents, quiches, curries, you name it and we've tried it. Auntie Pamela has even attempted using it as a moisturiser. We are all close to breaking point.


That unhinged nincompoop Groida causes no end of trouble. He can't even resume his firework-making activities using the stuff as a propellant as it is inert ... until digested. Nights round here sound like a convention of banshees on Benzedrine, accompanied by the Dagenham Girl Pipers. 


Uncle Lucas reckons it would stick to the mine shaft walls if we used it as plaster. It would certainly present a novel rival to Polytex, with a built-in smell of fungal mould. Perhaps I can unload some of it at the Padstow Produce Fair when I go back to do the judging. Or at least I can utilise it as ballast in my Octomac, switch it for the jams and chutneys and leave looking the same shape and size as when I arrived.


Big G is moaning about having nothing to do. He has been nosing around me and Bro as we try to come up with some prototypes of our "Mantids of the Universe" action figures for the lucrative Xmas mallarkey. I told him to bugger off and design a Groida pyjama case but he scoffed at the idea, saying that a computer game would be more likely to find favour with today's savvy tots. He is not getting his claws on my laptop, lest he hack into some unsuspecting nation's ICBM early warning system and none of us sees the festive season. Finally, in desperation, I quipped that a "My Little Scorpion" potty would be a winner and he clubbed me with a log until I saw stars. Just like old times!


Anyway, we're all (okay, nearly all) grafting away down here in the mine, trying make a buck or two. Whatever happens, we won't starve. Mushroom smoothie, anyone? Excuse me while I open a tin of crushed pineapple to refresh me jaded palate...