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 ...
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