Tha Aznavour Quins are no more. Well, not on the soil of our sacred homeland, anyway. They were last observed frenziedly swimming in the general direction of Gaul, denuded of their bum hairs. It just goes to show that even a ruthless monster like Uncle Lucas can exercise leniency when he has a mind to. With a bit of luck the contemptible, swarthy gnomes will disseminate a clear message across the waves that offending the Ambrose posse will inevitably result in an eye-watering fate.
Talking of booty, we are now richer by five clarinets, several cases of pickled green chillies and a veritable Aladdin's caveload of novelty seaside rock. All except the pineapple flavour which is my favourite and as Director of Punitive Operations I got first bags at. Indeed, I suck on a stick as I compose this missive.
The intelligence report from Auntie Pamela isn't quite as rosy. She had to do a runner from the Dorchester Hotel after a midnight raid on the kitchens. To compound her perils, she hid in London's Chinatown the following day and went on a noshing spree throughout the restaurants. Apparently she has now enraged the Triads and at one point was chased down Gerrard Street by a sizeable platoon of cleaver-wielding gentlemen. I would have words with her about attracting so much attention but I don't relish being stung to death.
I have been trying to keep Groida busy (and quiet). He got bored with the crayons after creating a mural of a weeing tapir on one of the mine shaft walls so I gave him a book of fairy tales, asking him to adapt one for the pantomime. I have no intention of using it but I'll do anything to ensure he is occupied.
So far he has come up with three ideas; "The Egg & Spoon Master Race", "An Unholy Tortoise" and, most mystifying of all, "Wat Peploe Must Be Neutralised". It concerns a plague-carrying door-to-door brush salesman. Strewth.
Anyway, must be off now to tune up the harmonium. She's in fake lighthouse mode tonight. Bro and I are going to take full advantage of the clocks going back and make an early start enticing those container vessels onto the rocks.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
A Farce To Be Reckoned With
I have recently encountered criticism over my treatment of Groida and my misgivings regarding his fitness to participate in the team's daring and heroic exploits. Okay, I will try to refrain from labelling him a dud, dope or disaster-in-waiting, but allow me to explain the sound reasoning behind judging him a liability.
Last summer, my inspired and meticulously planned stunt to sabotage the Epsom Derby was rendered a fiasco by the tomfoolery of the vacuous arthropod in question. I was poised to unleash a devastating wasp attack from the cunningly disguised harmonium, only to find myself abandoned amid the throng while the gormless dullard wandered off "on his own initiative" to work a hopelessly mad version of a notorious but lucrative racetrack scam.
The simplescorpion had learned of the age-old "three thimbles and a pea" trick and decided to improvise and adapt, i.e. re-scale it for his clumsy great pincers. Thus, masquerading as "The Great Turdox", with the aid of a trio of chamber pots and a Maris Piper the size of a grenade, he proceeded to lose our entire emergency fund in under ten minutes. We were also unceremoniously ejected from the enclosure and indeed the course, leaving a thin trail of pathetically tired wasps in our wake. I rest my case.
Excuse me, I have just received a text from Uncle Lucas. He informs me that he has located the execrable Anznavour Quins and awaits my order to give them a bloody good towsing. Oh, that his numpty nephew was of the same calibre!
Last summer, my inspired and meticulously planned stunt to sabotage the Epsom Derby was rendered a fiasco by the tomfoolery of the vacuous arthropod in question. I was poised to unleash a devastating wasp attack from the cunningly disguised harmonium, only to find myself abandoned amid the throng while the gormless dullard wandered off "on his own initiative" to work a hopelessly mad version of a notorious but lucrative racetrack scam.
The simplescorpion had learned of the age-old "three thimbles and a pea" trick and decided to improvise and adapt, i.e. re-scale it for his clumsy great pincers. Thus, masquerading as "The Great Turdox", with the aid of a trio of chamber pots and a Maris Piper the size of a grenade, he proceeded to lose our entire emergency fund in under ten minutes. We were also unceremoniously ejected from the enclosure and indeed the course, leaving a thin trail of pathetically tired wasps in our wake. I rest my case.
Excuse me, I have just received a text from Uncle Lucas. He informs me that he has located the execrable Anznavour Quins and awaits my order to give them a bloody good towsing. Oh, that his numpty nephew was of the same calibre!
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Long Arm of the Mantis
There has been progress, of a sort. Thanks to a timely tweet, I have received intelligence reports that the Aznavour Quins are operating a kebab & novelty rock joint in Brighton. I have dispatched Uncle Lucas with some spending money, a canister of DDT and an old carpet.
Groida, the bane of my existence, is playing up. He has pennant envy and refuses to take part in any further activity until he has his own unique gimmick. I have suggested he nips into town tonight and misappropriates a revolving hazard warning light from road works and wears it on his sting. With a bit of luck he will get himself arrested.
Auntie Pamela is ensconced in the Dorchester Hotel on a recce, posing as Lisabet "Dixie" Autoschnot, light opera diva and slalom gold medallist. This is costing me a fortune! I must make sure we liberate the safe before sending the place sky high.
Anyway, Bro is on kitchen duties during her absence. He's just dishing up the bubble and squeak. An appropriate description of the soundtrack we will no doubt be providing overnight. . .
Groida, the bane of my existence, is playing up. He has pennant envy and refuses to take part in any further activity until he has his own unique gimmick. I have suggested he nips into town tonight and misappropriates a revolving hazard warning light from road works and wears it on his sting. With a bit of luck he will get himself arrested.
Auntie Pamela is ensconced in the Dorchester Hotel on a recce, posing as Lisabet "Dixie" Autoschnot, light opera diva and slalom gold medallist. This is costing me a fortune! I must make sure we liberate the safe before sending the place sky high.
Anyway, Bro is on kitchen duties during her absence. He's just dishing up the bubble and squeak. An appropriate description of the soundtrack we will no doubt be providing overnight. . .
Friday, October 14, 2011
Unfinished Business
As this year creeps inexorably towards its conclusion, the daunting prospect of clearing the backlog of incomplete missions is making my heart sink like a crateload of canned rhubarb jettisoned in the Solent.
The Xmas merchandising and panto aside, I still haven't even attempted to track down and exact sweet revenge on the vile Aznavour Quins or wreak a final act of destruction upon the Dorchester Hotel. Nor have I got round to driving along the coast at night in Y Nauci 14, pretending to be a lighthouse. It all seems too much for one mantis to accomplish.
I must get the team in a huddle (provided Groida can keep his claws to himself) and allocate specific tasks to the most ably suited. Bro, obviously, is my closest and most trusted ally and can be relied upon in any situation, except when it involves the supernatural, when he tends to get a bit windy. Mercifully, encounters with wraiths, the Nosferatu and walking hodmadods are not currently on our agenda.
Groida has a wealth of experience assisting me in my exploits and occasionally displays a talent for inspired lunacy and mayhem. Unfortunately these bouts are few and far between and as a rule he tends to be as much use as a Bakelite suppository. At least he will make up the numbers and generally contribute to any havoc if nothing else.
Uncle Lucas is quietly determined, resourceful and the maestro of poker-faced menace. He also has a temper forged in the fires of Rhyl, as evidenced when he is trying to give the harmonium an overhaul.
What would our merry crew do without Auntie Pamela? She cooks like an angel and sings like a Saturn 5 launching. She also maintains discipline among us. She is the female of her species, Welsh and capable of hurling any of us the length of a football pitch. Need I say more?
I may also put out a call for Groida's mad cousin Vernon to swell our ranks and if we can find Big G's errant automaton Mr Prendergast, that would be a boon (okay, I mean asking for trouble - as long as it is not heading in our direction).
The run up to D-Day must have felt like this. I, of course shall lead from the front in the harmonium, like a gallant tank commander. Auntie Pamela has knitted me some long stripey socks which, once tied to my antennae, will trail behind me in the slipstream like pennants. It's all very exciting, isn't it? Excuse me, I think I need the loo.
The Xmas merchandising and panto aside, I still haven't even attempted to track down and exact sweet revenge on the vile Aznavour Quins or wreak a final act of destruction upon the Dorchester Hotel. Nor have I got round to driving along the coast at night in Y Nauci 14, pretending to be a lighthouse. It all seems too much for one mantis to accomplish.
I must get the team in a huddle (provided Groida can keep his claws to himself) and allocate specific tasks to the most ably suited. Bro, obviously, is my closest and most trusted ally and can be relied upon in any situation, except when it involves the supernatural, when he tends to get a bit windy. Mercifully, encounters with wraiths, the Nosferatu and walking hodmadods are not currently on our agenda.
Groida has a wealth of experience assisting me in my exploits and occasionally displays a talent for inspired lunacy and mayhem. Unfortunately these bouts are few and far between and as a rule he tends to be as much use as a Bakelite suppository. At least he will make up the numbers and generally contribute to any havoc if nothing else.
Uncle Lucas is quietly determined, resourceful and the maestro of poker-faced menace. He also has a temper forged in the fires of Rhyl, as evidenced when he is trying to give the harmonium an overhaul.
What would our merry crew do without Auntie Pamela? She cooks like an angel and sings like a Saturn 5 launching. She also maintains discipline among us. She is the female of her species, Welsh and capable of hurling any of us the length of a football pitch. Need I say more?
I may also put out a call for Groida's mad cousin Vernon to swell our ranks and if we can find Big G's errant automaton Mr Prendergast, that would be a boon (okay, I mean asking for trouble - as long as it is not heading in our direction).
The run up to D-Day must have felt like this. I, of course shall lead from the front in the harmonium, like a gallant tank commander. Auntie Pamela has knitted me some long stripey socks which, once tied to my antennae, will trail behind me in the slipstream like pennants. It's all very exciting, isn't it? Excuse me, I think I need the loo.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Wrecked 'em!
Trials of the remote control harpoon have met with mixed results. In manoeuvring Y Nauci 14 off road and onto the harbour wall, we managed to run over and crush a row of bicycles but fortunately the noise didn't disturb the slumbering locals. Then Bro and I got into a bit of a scuffle over who would have first go, until Uncle Lucas restored order by threatening to shoot the pair of us with it.
Anyway, we managed to bag three warning buoys and a passing plywood door, so there is nothing wrong with the guidance system, but until we encounter a genuine shipwreck we cannot really prove the device's worth. Groida - who else? - suggested fitting a small warhead and putting a hole in a container vessel. I suspect the mentally enfeebled lout has been reading Daphne du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn".
I sarcastically enquired why we should stop at wrecking but perhaps go in for a bit of piracy and the dolt replied he was up for it, and even has a suitable hat. I considered clouting him but after Uncle Lucas's earlier display of Mega-Scorpion diplomacy - and the prospect of no supper from Auntie Pamela - I thought better of it. Instead I presented the dozy pillock with a bar of rum & raisin chocolate, along with firm instructions to sit and eat it quietly, without interference, comment or any signal of his presence.
The notion of launching missiles at defenceless merchant marine traffic is abhorrent to me. Far less suspicion is aroused by luring them aground or onto rocks. With that in mind, I am designing a model decoy lighthouse to fit atop the harmonium. Softly, softly catchee lychee (in syrup).
Anyway, we managed to bag three warning buoys and a passing plywood door, so there is nothing wrong with the guidance system, but until we encounter a genuine shipwreck we cannot really prove the device's worth. Groida - who else? - suggested fitting a small warhead and putting a hole in a container vessel. I suspect the mentally enfeebled lout has been reading Daphne du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn".
I sarcastically enquired why we should stop at wrecking but perhaps go in for a bit of piracy and the dolt replied he was up for it, and even has a suitable hat. I considered clouting him but after Uncle Lucas's earlier display of Mega-Scorpion diplomacy - and the prospect of no supper from Auntie Pamela - I thought better of it. Instead I presented the dozy pillock with a bar of rum & raisin chocolate, along with firm instructions to sit and eat it quietly, without interference, comment or any signal of his presence.
The notion of launching missiles at defenceless merchant marine traffic is abhorrent to me. Far less suspicion is aroused by luring them aground or onto rocks. With that in mind, I am designing a model decoy lighthouse to fit atop the harmonium. Softly, softly catchee lychee (in syrup).
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