Busy, busy, busy! That's my excuse, anyway. The planned review of 2011 will have
to wait a day or two yet. Groida has suggested my nerve has gone and I daren't
risk my sanity by looking back at the maelstrom of events which have made up the
year.
I am confident my followers recognise me as a mantis of fortitude, conscience and
humility, who would never shy away from reflecting on lessons that might be
learned from life's turbulent journey. It was when the spiteful bugger called me a
morally weak fantasist and indolent toerag that I got the red mist and lamped him
between the eyes with a tin of greengages in light syrup.
When he regained consciousness, I pointed out that he has been wasting his own
allotted span recently by fooling about constructing Cludgiebreath, a ventriloquist's
dummy made of driftwood and items stolen from charity shops. Hopefully when he has
given it a few licks of Humbrol, he will donate it to a real vent. His own grotesque
attempts to throw his voice sound like a combination of an exorcism and a lunatic in
the throes of drowning. He was more intelligible when recently babbling away in his
lingua faux, Ohara.
More to the point, I would have thought that tinkering with this absurd mannequin
warranted a lower priority to tracking down his previous monstrosity, Mr Prendergast, the renegade automaton who has been missing, presumed on the loose for close on a year since we attempted to commit him to the sod just outside Macclesfield. That's Groida for you. I think I will clump him again, on the stroke of midnight.
I must get on. Auntie P has asked me to think up the ten worst things it is possible
to do with a spatula and a gherkin. Not content with her reign of terror at the
Krazy Kurnow tea rooms, she now wants to acquire Hairy Jacob's Fish Bar and is determined to persuade him it is a good idea.
Happy new year! Oh, I can taste the chips, cod roe, saveloys, pies, curry sauce ... hehehe!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
An Apology
The Ambrosia Players wish to express sincere regret for the cancellation of their production "The Murder in the Red Barn" due to a mysterious explosion which destroyed the St Agnes scout hut in the early hours of Boxing Day.
As ticket holders should already be aware, their purchases are rendered null and void and all monies are forfeited to the administrative accounts of ACPM Insurance and Llareggub Refunds (Rhyl) under existing terms and conditions. Any grievances may be discussed with either Uncle Lucas or Auntie Pamela in the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms car park at any time after sunset.
Unsubstantiated rumours have suggested that the venue was decimated by a missile launched from a "bizarre-looking contraption". We can now reveal that independent data from the G M Scorpion Observatory confirms "unusual aerial activity in the vicinity at the time" and "it was the Venusian SAS what done it". Watch the skies!
As ticket holders should already be aware, their purchases are rendered null and void and all monies are forfeited to the administrative accounts of ACPM Insurance and Llareggub Refunds (Rhyl) under existing terms and conditions. Any grievances may be discussed with either Uncle Lucas or Auntie Pamela in the Krazy Kurnow tea rooms car park at any time after sunset.
Unsubstantiated rumours have suggested that the venue was decimated by a missile launched from a "bizarre-looking contraption". We can now reveal that independent data from the G M Scorpion Observatory confirms "unusual aerial activity in the vicinity at the time" and "it was the Venusian SAS what done it". Watch the skies!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
The Glorious 25th
That's the big day almost done and dusted. "El Cid" is brilliant, eh? What a wicked scam too. The bravest cadaver in all Christendom! I hope when I make my final, heroic journey in the harmonium I will be as cold as a Mivvi and held erect by a scaffolding pole stuck up the back of me jumper.
Anyway, the debris from the board games is being swept up and the losers are enslaved into washing up chores. I am nicking the wee purple Quality Street (okay, and the green foil triangles) while nobody is watching.
The festive nosebag has been ace. The pheasant satay, skewered on Plessey welding rods (I knew they'd come in handy one day) made an unseasonal change. For a while I was concerned we would be partaking of Her Majesty's old man with a Granny Smith stuck in his cakehole as a main course but my fears proved unfounded.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Uncle "bring out your dead" Lucas and Auntie Pamela we feasted on a remarkably tender baboon, rolled in breadcrumbs and stuffed with Dairylea and sandwich spread.
Physical altercations were relatively light and in the spirit of the day, nobody was actually cuffed, although a few fixed penalty notices were issued. I look forward to the spectacle of Bro and Groida with their Harpic and bog brushes!
Anyway, must sign off now. The nuts and Satsumas are being handed round soon and then we can all drift off into bouts of snoozing and an ensemble recital of squawking, babbling bots.
Anyway, the debris from the board games is being swept up and the losers are enslaved into washing up chores. I am nicking the wee purple Quality Street (okay, and the green foil triangles) while nobody is watching.
The festive nosebag has been ace. The pheasant satay, skewered on Plessey welding rods (I knew they'd come in handy one day) made an unseasonal change. For a while I was concerned we would be partaking of Her Majesty's old man with a Granny Smith stuck in his cakehole as a main course but my fears proved unfounded.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Uncle "bring out your dead" Lucas and Auntie Pamela we feasted on a remarkably tender baboon, rolled in breadcrumbs and stuffed with Dairylea and sandwich spread.
Physical altercations were relatively light and in the spirit of the day, nobody was actually cuffed, although a few fixed penalty notices were issued. I look forward to the spectacle of Bro and Groida with their Harpic and bog brushes!
Anyway, must sign off now. The nuts and Satsumas are being handed round soon and then we can all drift off into bouts of snoozing and an ensemble recital of squawking, babbling bots.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Enjoy ... or else!
Apparently the ACPM Team are going to have a happy Xmas, by order. Auntie Pamela has threatened us with all the horrors of hell if we act up over the festive season. She has even prepared a "naughty shaft" in the mine, fitted out with manacles and a CD of Bing Crosby set on repeat play. Just the one song, and you can guess which. It's that bit when he starts whistling that drives me mental.
Anyway, that puts paid to my cherished hope of throttling Groida across the Monopoly board. I thought outbreaks of long-suppressed feuding, along with gluttony, are what the day is all about, but it would seem I have been mistaken.
Auntie P becomes more autocratic by the day. Firstly, the Krazy Kurnow has become a place of unease under her iron claw. She stalks amongst the customers in her lace pinny, brandishing an extendable polis baton. No one dares challenge the amount of jam on their scone or her erratic issuing of change. Even on the first day of her regime, a foolish punter expressed admiration for her grand opening and consequently is not expected to leave hospital until February.
Then there is our Xmas Day scoff. She has banned turkey "in retaliation for outrages commited on the person of T E Lawrence". I should never have let her see the fillum.
Thankfully we already have some emergency pheasants gently decomposing in a sack, courtesy of road kill (in the loosest sense as it involved the harmomium's infra-red searchlights and Gatling guns). Furthermore, Uncle Lucas, in his capacity as contract executioner at Newquay Zoo, has learned on the grapevine that a poorly resident may shortly be up for grabs. I hope the wretched creature makes it through to 2012 as I won't look forward to tucking into the stringy carcass of an elderly hippo or llama with my sprouts, parsnips and bread sauce.
In the mean time I shall attempt to exercise tolerance and smile sweetly as I am forced to endure Auntie P's relentless carols while she prepares the Bread & Butter Stollen ("destined to last last a thousand years"). Try to imagine Bonnie Tyler belting out "O Come All Ye Faithful" after several pitchers of Armenian Tizer and you'll have a rough idea of conditions down the mine.
Anyway, that puts paid to my cherished hope of throttling Groida across the Monopoly board. I thought outbreaks of long-suppressed feuding, along with gluttony, are what the day is all about, but it would seem I have been mistaken.
Auntie P becomes more autocratic by the day. Firstly, the Krazy Kurnow has become a place of unease under her iron claw. She stalks amongst the customers in her lace pinny, brandishing an extendable polis baton. No one dares challenge the amount of jam on their scone or her erratic issuing of change. Even on the first day of her regime, a foolish punter expressed admiration for her grand opening and consequently is not expected to leave hospital until February.
Then there is our Xmas Day scoff. She has banned turkey "in retaliation for outrages commited on the person of T E Lawrence". I should never have let her see the fillum.
Thankfully we already have some emergency pheasants gently decomposing in a sack, courtesy of road kill (in the loosest sense as it involved the harmomium's infra-red searchlights and Gatling guns). Furthermore, Uncle Lucas, in his capacity as contract executioner at Newquay Zoo, has learned on the grapevine that a poorly resident may shortly be up for grabs. I hope the wretched creature makes it through to 2012 as I won't look forward to tucking into the stringy carcass of an elderly hippo or llama with my sprouts, parsnips and bread sauce.
In the mean time I shall attempt to exercise tolerance and smile sweetly as I am forced to endure Auntie P's relentless carols while she prepares the Bread & Butter Stollen ("destined to last last a thousand years"). Try to imagine Bonnie Tyler belting out "O Come All Ye Faithful" after several pitchers of Armenian Tizer and you'll have a rough idea of conditions down the mine.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Slaughter in a Scout Hut
Inspiration has once again come up trumps and my reputation is saved! Sod the panto idea. Last year's effort in Rhyl was a total disaster anyway, and you couldn't get me up another beanstalk for an entire articulated container vehicle loaded with stewed apple baby dessert.
We'll do a musical version of the old standard "The Murder in the Red Barn". It shouldn't take more than an evening to pen a few catchy ditties. We have the harmonium, Groida's violin, the brace of Aznavour memorial clarinets and Auntie P has even found a washboard in the cupboard under the sink.
Tickets available from Wednesday. Cash only, no refunds.
We'll do a musical version of the old standard "The Murder in the Red Barn". It shouldn't take more than an evening to pen a few catchy ditties. We have the harmonium, Groida's violin, the brace of Aznavour memorial clarinets and Auntie P has even found a washboard in the cupboard under the sink.
Tickets available from Wednesday. Cash only, no refunds.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Muse Address
Is it like this for every genius? Did Chaucer, Shakespeare, Goethe and that chap who thought up "In the Night Garden" lose sleep, weight and confidence in agonies of self-doubt and despair?
The Panto is due to commence on Boxing Day at the scout hut in St Agnes and we have no established star name leading the cast and, more to the point, nothing even resembling a coherent script.
What am I to do? Ask Mrs Krilencu from the Post Office to inflict her medley from "Niet, Niet, Nadia" on a barely enthusiastic (or indeed sentient) audience? I think not.
If inspiration hasn't come my way by dawn, the only workable and honourable solution will be for me to press the big red button on the harmonium and be projected into the firmament like a dodgy kebab.
It isn't exactly the Nelson-like deathbed scene I had envisaged as my heroic life drew to its close, but better to go like a firework than suffer the indignity of failure.
The Panto is due to commence on Boxing Day at the scout hut in St Agnes and we have no established star name leading the cast and, more to the point, nothing even resembling a coherent script.
What am I to do? Ask Mrs Krilencu from the Post Office to inflict her medley from "Niet, Niet, Nadia" on a barely enthusiastic (or indeed sentient) audience? I think not.
If inspiration hasn't come my way by dawn, the only workable and honourable solution will be for me to press the big red button on the harmonium and be projected into the firmament like a dodgy kebab.
It isn't exactly the Nelson-like deathbed scene I had envisaged as my heroic life drew to its close, but better to go like a firework than suffer the indignity of failure.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Products That Have Come My Way # 24
 |
| X is for Xmas Pud. What did you expect? You try finding Xerxes the Xenophobic Xylophonist on Google Images! |
Products That Have Come My Way # 23
 |
| W is for Watermelon. Actually I couldn't care less. I just want to finish this silly bloody alphabet before the year is out. |
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Ripping Calico In Park Lane
How many cream cakes do you think it would take to bankrupt a five-star hotel? Well, by the time the ACPM Team had left the Dorchester (intact, for which they may consider themselves fortunate), we had agreed terms for them to reopen the Krazy Kurnow tearooms in Cornwall solely as a drop-off for their daily protection dues of scrummy choux buns, eclairs, horns and turnovers. Auntie Pamela has agreed to be employed as manageress and enforcer. Quite a result! To hijack Mr Rushdie's famous advertising slogan, naughty, but nice.
After a temporary delay to our mission, thanks to Uncle Lucas being felled by lumbago, we finally got under way in the harmonium with Groida, primed with pease pudding, sprouts and sherbet fountains, tied to a commode on a quick-release trailer behind us in case of accidents en route. Had he not been our star performer, I would have jettisoned Bubble Bum without a further thought after his twentieth "are we there yet?" but my patience paid dividends and I merely crowned the sod with an iron ladle a few times during the journey to subdue him. "I spy with my black eye". He he he!
We stopped off to say hello to the wee ducks on the Sepentine and I was touched to discover they remembered me and have been following our merry band's exploits online. They even had Xmas cards ready for us! Thank goodness Mordecai thinks of such contingencies and had stuffed a box of Wilko cheapies plus a biro in the gauntlet compartment, so I was able to hide behind a large tree and write out a few while Bro distracted them with his Aleister Crowley impersonation.
Then we closed in on our target. As regular followers will know, I do not normally encourage Groida in his peculiar and revolting behaviour but on this occasion I gave him a firm slap on the thorax and sent him forth. I even shed a wee tear as I watched his ghastly form shuffle bravely into the cocktail lounge.
In less than a minute he had been ejected. His pitiful grasp on reality had led him to claim to be the bastard of Kathleen Ferrier and Ming the Merciless and thus had security of tenure in the penthouse zoo. Worse still, he wanted an ambulance called because his anus had "healed up".
Plan Two was initiated within moments. Disguised as paramedics, we dragged him back into the foyer, Auntie P blew down his throat and I inserted a Hoover extension tube up him, which thrashed about like an enraged cobra before letting loose a salvo of stinkers which sent punters diving for cover.
The outcome, if not the procedure was successful, but at the time it felt more like a full dress rehearsal for Dick Whittington Eats His Weight In Clay (the latest, desperate panto idea).
After a temporary delay to our mission, thanks to Uncle Lucas being felled by lumbago, we finally got under way in the harmonium with Groida, primed with pease pudding, sprouts and sherbet fountains, tied to a commode on a quick-release trailer behind us in case of accidents en route. Had he not been our star performer, I would have jettisoned Bubble Bum without a further thought after his twentieth "are we there yet?" but my patience paid dividends and I merely crowned the sod with an iron ladle a few times during the journey to subdue him. "I spy with my black eye". He he he!
We stopped off to say hello to the wee ducks on the Sepentine and I was touched to discover they remembered me and have been following our merry band's exploits online. They even had Xmas cards ready for us! Thank goodness Mordecai thinks of such contingencies and had stuffed a box of Wilko cheapies plus a biro in the gauntlet compartment, so I was able to hide behind a large tree and write out a few while Bro distracted them with his Aleister Crowley impersonation.
Then we closed in on our target. As regular followers will know, I do not normally encourage Groida in his peculiar and revolting behaviour but on this occasion I gave him a firm slap on the thorax and sent him forth. I even shed a wee tear as I watched his ghastly form shuffle bravely into the cocktail lounge.
In less than a minute he had been ejected. His pitiful grasp on reality had led him to claim to be the bastard of Kathleen Ferrier and Ming the Merciless and thus had security of tenure in the penthouse zoo. Worse still, he wanted an ambulance called because his anus had "healed up".
Plan Two was initiated within moments. Disguised as paramedics, we dragged him back into the foyer, Auntie P blew down his throat and I inserted a Hoover extension tube up him, which thrashed about like an enraged cobra before letting loose a salvo of stinkers which sent punters diving for cover.
The outcome, if not the procedure was successful, but at the time it felt more like a full dress rehearsal for Dick Whittington Eats His Weight In Clay (the latest, desperate panto idea).
Monday, December 5, 2011
The Wind Beneath My Tablecloth
Groida's guts really are the bowels of Hades. He let one fly earlier today and although it made no more noise than the single clap of a bairn's wee hands, within seconds I had hit the deck, temporarily robbed of my sight and desperately fighting for breath.
Less than two hours earlier, as we all sat agog, watching the brave Space Family Robinson on TV, little did we know that a weapon of mass disgust was about to make its debut from the marginally worst end of Big G. Auntie Pamela's winkle & parsnip rissoles (not one of her more appealing concoctions) certainly played a part in fuelling the awesome chemical reaction within her nephew's unwholesome plumbing, but I am equally convinced that the sod took an evil delight in letting loose something the world was not prepared for.
Amazing, isn't it? Just when I was despairing of a plan to duff up the Dorchester Mob, fate intervenes and presents me with a scorpion's sphincter! You couldn't make it up. I reckon if we gorge the clueless oaf with enough mince pies and Supermalt he could feasibly blow out the windows on all floors, or at least cause varying degrees of distress, nausea, suffocation or permanent brain damage amongst staff and guests to make the long haul to London in Y Nauci 14 worthwhile. Uncle Lucas is at work as I type, improvising some heavy duty breathing apparatus, and Auntie P is preparing the packed lunches.
Now it is all down to teamwork and encouraging the maximum effort from Groida to squeeze a stomach-churning skirl from his leather kazoo ...
Less than two hours earlier, as we all sat agog, watching the brave Space Family Robinson on TV, little did we know that a weapon of mass disgust was about to make its debut from the marginally worst end of Big G. Auntie Pamela's winkle & parsnip rissoles (not one of her more appealing concoctions) certainly played a part in fuelling the awesome chemical reaction within her nephew's unwholesome plumbing, but I am equally convinced that the sod took an evil delight in letting loose something the world was not prepared for.
Amazing, isn't it? Just when I was despairing of a plan to duff up the Dorchester Mob, fate intervenes and presents me with a scorpion's sphincter! You couldn't make it up. I reckon if we gorge the clueless oaf with enough mince pies and Supermalt he could feasibly blow out the windows on all floors, or at least cause varying degrees of distress, nausea, suffocation or permanent brain damage amongst staff and guests to make the long haul to London in Y Nauci 14 worthwhile. Uncle Lucas is at work as I type, improvising some heavy duty breathing apparatus, and Auntie P is preparing the packed lunches.
Now it is all down to teamwork and encouraging the maximum effort from Groida to squeeze a stomach-churning skirl from his leather kazoo ...
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