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).
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