Groida's Loco

Greetings, o public! I trust you had a splendid Xmas and there weren't too many punch-ups. We all certainly had a hoot here in the mine.

Well, Groida got his "train set". That wily old bugger Uncle lucas has constructed an entire, full-scale railway in the shafts on level 3. I jest not. Miles of track. Neon and UV everywhere. It's a cross between a subterranean Las Vegas and a fairground ghost ride. It would seem that the power-out in Cornwall recently was indeed due to him tinkering with the national grid as a dry run and he is now bleeding off power to feed this spectacular if surreal folly.

I cannot do justice to this insane piece of engineering in one post, so expect more on the subject. We each have our own themed railway carriage which I shall describe in detail at a later date. Needless to say, Big G has the engine, the "John Frum Special", named after the cargo cult and in recognition of his inexplicable popularity with the primitive peoples of the Southern Hemisphere.

It is fashioned from translucent fibre glass in the form of a giant, winged rat and illuminated from within by disco lighting and has a working, neon propeller for a nose. Groida is made up. In his engine driver's hat (rescued from the dressing up box) and sucking on a slab of Auntie Pamela's Xmas cake he is as happy as an arthropod in custard.

Round he goes. Round and round, waving and blowing his foghorn every time he passes. Bless! Mind you, if he is still trundling about in the wee small hours I shall pull the plugs. Or tie him to the tracks ...

It was Xmas Eve in the Tin Mine

We found the sellotape! It was in the gauntlet compartment of the harmonium. Uncle Lucas had been using it as temporary cable ties during his re-wiring of the weapons console - I mean keyboard.

I can't kick up a fuss as he did the job for nothing. Mind you, recently he has been driving it into the ground, literally, dragging what sounds like vast quantities of timber and metal down the mine at ungodly hours. I am perplexed and intrigued.

The roadkill from the freezer at Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie is now soft enough for skinning. Nine foxes, five pheasants and a black sack load of assorted, unidentifiable bits should see us through the next couple of days once bulked out with the usual festive trimmings.

Tonight we will be up top, huddled round a blazing caravan, frazzling an unexpected tide borne gift of preserved yams and telling traditional spooky tales of grotesque monsters. Me highly-strung Bro will probably make a puddle as usual, despite my assurances that it is all make-believe. Family!

Sods' Opera

I am wearing the silly hat, okay? I would have preferred a large jiffy bag as Auntie P has marshaled most of the crew for carol practice or "howls from Hades" as I describe the experience.

At least I am spared the dolorous bass drone of Uncle Lucas, who has sealed off all horizontal shafts at level 3 and won't come out. There is a lot of noise and sweary Welsh going on in there at all hours. Mark my words, he is up to something.

Even without the Chill from Rhyl casting a pall of morbid gloom over the festivities, Cheryl has brought her own bizarre Texan religious enthusiasm to the proceedings. Have you ever tried to keep a straight face during "In the Bleak Midwinter" whilst a gargantuan earwig walks on hot coals, holding aloft a score of bibles and an equal number of squirming adders? Send her back, I say.

Anyway, if Uncle Lucas doesn't cause a collapse in the mine, I hope to have a few words to say before the big day. If I am otherwise detained or entombed, I hope all me fans have a jolly time of it! Merry Xmas and a happy new year!

P.S. Do any of you with long memories remember if I mentioned where Mordecai put the Sellotape after we had wrapped the presents last year? Just wondered, that's all.

My Old Bruv's a Phantom

Last night I was visited by "The Ghost of Boxing Day, 10am - 4pm". I am not so daft that I can't recognise my own brother, let alone his ghastly aroma (capable of igniting a match at twenty paces). I shall knot the bugger's antennae into a monkey's fist if he insults my intelligence like that again.

Anyway, the cheeky swine, draped in a potato sack and issuing an eerie green light (I wondered where me Boy Scout signalling torch had gone) instructed me to atone for all past sins. This was to take the form of donating a haunch of venison, a brace of heron, at least one gannet and half a swan to create a "four beast roast" for the needy of the parish.

What loopy twaddle. Firstly, we already have several items of roadkill in the freezer at Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie, plus the remains of that thing with two heads that crashed last summer and is preserved in a barrel of Vick behind the Krazy Kernow Tearooms.

So, we are hardly deficient in exotic provender. If the insolent guttersnipe wants anything else, he can sing for it. Except his voice is about as melodious as a cast iron mangle hurtling down a lift shaft and if he breaks into song I shall swat him with a very large tin of blackberry pie filling.

The Advent of Armageddon - Stave 2

It's no good. I must be losing my touch. Try as I might, I cannot find fault with Groida's conduct as Santa during the anarchy of the festive float foul-up and make him a scapescorpion. He didn't mean to frighten the kiddies. His writhing contortions and gurning were the result of his efforts to contain a fierce attack of wind brought on by nerves and rather a lot of sprouts and chestnuts.

If anything, he should be lauded for preventing a serious health hazard. But for the Herculean restraint of his gut gases, the outcome - literally - could have been catastrophic and possibly lethal.

There you have it. I can be generous and friendly towards the great lumbering dolt. I hope he remembers this in a few weeks time and lets me play with his train set.

Anyway, the feud between Auntie Pamela and Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig seems to have been resolved. Both have agreed to work in harmony in the galley shaft, as befits the season of goodwill. Uncle Lucas also pointed out that Cheryl's visa has expired and the Home Office might take an interest. Sorted.

Did I tell you that there was a camera crew filming the riot? Hopefully we will turn up in a festive edition of "Brit Cops - Tinsel and Truncheons". Keep yer eyes peeled!

The Advent of Armageddon - Stave 1

You humans possess such a wealth of gems in your various languages. Fiasco. Debacle. Balls-up.

It was never on the cards that the Mega-Santa and his band of helpers were going to switch on the Xmas lights as the climax of our festive float parade (despite attempted bribery and threats). Equally, I am buggered if we will be held responsible for plunging most of Cornwall into darkness and causing the resultant chaos.

If we were planning to commit such an outrage, the entire Ambrose Posse would have been on the shoreline, wrecking and plundering cargo vessels of canned fruit, not kettled into an urban cul-de-sac and forced to defend ourselves in an unseemly brawl against a belligerent mob of riot polis.

Mordecai and Uncle Lucas were in full view at all times so the ridiculous allegation that they tampered with electricity substations doesn't deserve further comment. Okay, the punch-up between Cheryl and Auntie P was regrettable, but bound to happen sooner or later. They have been bickering about who is going to cook Xmas dinner for ages. I hope some sort of mediation can now be arranged, or it is going to be an interesting 25th down the mine.

I am not sure it would be fair to apportion blame to Groida either, but I'll put me thinking cap on and see if I can come up with something incriminating overnight ...

Santa Claws

Huzzah! Y Nauci 14 is ready for action again. It was worth the ticking off I got from Uncle Lucas who warned me that if I break it again he will not lift a claw to help. He went on to lecture me about people in the Third World who will never own a harmonium and that I had a responsibility to look after mine. Frankly, I think he is going a bit odd.

Cheryl will still feature in the Xmas pageant with her rubber antlers and festooned in tinsel, giving the wee ones rides. I have made it clear to her that any of her Texan bucking bronco antics will not be tolerated. Groida looks quite the part as Santa. As I may have mentioned, I am glad it is his turn this year as the cotton wool beard makes me claustrophobic (and the antennae poking out of the holes in the hood are a dead giveaway).

I suggested he wear the beard on his sting, making him look like an exotic cross-breed (a "scoodle", hehehe!) but he wasn't overly keen on the idea. In fact he called me a rotter and nipped me in my front left shin. The humourless lout.

Anyway, we're all prepping for the coming festivities, including the introduction of deep-fried Brussels sprout nuggets on the menu at Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie. That should have the punters queueing round the block!

Nothing To Do With Me!

I wish to make it clear that I am in no way connected to the Ambrosia factory in neighbouring Devon, or played any part in the unfortunate mishap which occurred there yesterday. Anyone whose vivid imagination or prejudice against my good self leads them to fuel such rumours is a sod and will incur my wrath at a later date, once the harmonium is up and running again.

As a matter of fact I was bobbing about just off The Lizard, in a borrowed RNLI vessel, trying to rescue several crates of canned guava chunks from a watery grave. Being denied Y Nauci 14's amphibious capabilities is a pain in the nether regions. Uncle Lucas reckons it could be another couple of weeks before the old girl is ready for the fray (unlike Auntie P, who has been laying down the law again).

I don't know how we are going to pull Santa's charity float through the town. Perhaps I could persuade Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig to do the honours, wearing a pair of fake antlers. It's worth asking, anyway.

There is a Crater in Ostend

Look, it was a technical malfunction okay? If I had intended launching a missile at Belgium I'd have programmed it to take out Brussels.

I've had a right week of it, one way and another. Groida wants a train set for Xmas and cites Frank Sinatra and Rod Stewart as respectable enthusiasts in order to justify his own feeble manic obsession.

All I said was I'd paint swastikas on the rolling stock and blow the lot up as heroic leader of the Ambrosian Maquis; it was a bit of fun! I had barely stopped cackling when Auntie Pamela had me pinned against a wall, poking me in the larynx with a toilet brush. There is a culture of bullying around here which will have to be addressed.

Then there are the ongoing problems with Y Nauci 14. Practising my festive medley, I had barely launched into "Mary's Boy Child" when I was enveloped in a sheet of flame and given an involuntary tour of Padstow before coming to an abrupt halt when the half-track fell off. I nearly buckled me schnozz on the keyboard!

I suppose I will have to go crawling to Uncle Lucas for assistance, which will inevitably mean tools being thrown about and lots of swearing in Welsh. Marvellous. Have a good weekend, those of you who still follow me.

Heart of Pumice

Do you remember that absurd plot device in "Dallas" when Bobby emerged from the shower, having dreamt the entire previous series? What an insult to the intelligence of you humans.

Anyway, Cheryl wasn't up the spout after all and Groida didn't have his knackers whipped of in Vectis. I'm glad to get that out of the way. We are all a happy crew here in the tin mine, like the Waltons but with more limbs.

If any of you cynics out there think I am devoid of a conscience, let me tell you about the charitable "Ambrose C P Mantis Food Bank" scheme. If you are able to donate any cans of fruit, the Almighty will smile upon you. No corned beef, pilchards or that nauseating Polish garbage which masquerades as ham, thank you.

Auntie Pamela has started her first batch of Xmas puds. She spent the best part of Sunday morning trying to winkle jammed pound coins out of trolleys at Padstow Morrisons but to no avail. If you able to help out with festive moolah, the old gal will be made up. Actually £50 notes would be better as they don't affect the overall flavour. Or pledge your house at unclelucasinapinny.con.

I must get the harmonium seen to. This morning I was limbering up with a brisk arrangement of "Edelweiss" when the display panel lit up like a 747, followed by an embarrassing "unauthorised launch". The missile was last seen heading in the direction of Belgium.

Carpet Slippers (all three pairs)

Sorry, O public, but I'm off to bed in the voluminous, almost aristocratic tartan dressing gown and with a steaming mug of Waitrose Broccoli & Stilton Cup-a-Soup.

I know you've had short shrift from me of late but I am trying my best. Blogspot have destroyed all the Ambrosia from 2010. Buggers. Did Alastair Cook have this problem with the BBC? I think not. Blatent discrimination.

As we head into October, it seems that "What I Did On Me Holidays" has become an irrevelance and may have to be consigned to an omnibus paperback, as an extra. I am sure your purses and wallets are already twitching in anticipation. Publishers may wish to think quietly about exclusive rights and possible financial inducements.

Rumours of forthcoming nuptuals between me and Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig are without foundation. However, there is no such thing as bad publicity, so I am tearfully proud to inform the waiting world press that Groida is the real father and he will be travelling to the Isle of Wight shortly to take Holy Orders and be subjected to a punitive Medieval castration at Quarr Abbey.

Now give me a break for a few weeks, eh? I've got deals to do and money to launder.

A Quite Extraordinary Rendition

I am too soft-hearted for my own good. I began the decline by relenting over my ban on Groida having sherbet fountains because they make him cough (although nothing could match the decibels created by the tizzy he got into when denied them) and now I find myself harbouring a fugitive from international justice.

Never mind Mr Wikid, holed up in the Abyssinian consulate, I've got an earwig the size of an articulated lorry on the lam in Cornwall. Yes, we managed to get Cheryl out of the Olympic Stadium before she could cause any more trouble at the closing ceremony.

After nearly blinding myself with tears of frustration (i.e. ripping out my nose hairs in sheer boredom) and not hearing a squeak from Big G or Bro Mordecai during our vigil, I finally spotted our prey disgracing herself over a BBC outside broadcast van. I have to admit she wasn't in particularly good shape, being caked in mud, leaves and bits of food and I hope she disrupted more than a few corporate junkets during her rampage. He he!

What was I to do? She looked so pathetic that I had to get her back to the tin mine with the rest of the Ambrose Posse. Am I turning into that sentimental old Dickens? Jamais, tosh!

I've got her helping out in both the Krazy Kurnow Tearooms and Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie. The rest of us are under enough pressure as it is,  Uncle Lucas having buggered off after receiving a "wish you were here" postcard from Auntie P. If you knew her, you'd realise that message wasn't loaded with sweet sentiment but an order, leaden with veiled threats.

I trust our wiggly transatlantic visitor enjoys her temporary stay, but equally hope the U.S. will soon require her back to answer charges of ghastly crimes and will intimidate our government into returning her, or we may be stuck with the loopy old behemoth for ages.

Gotcha! Well, almost...

Finally, Cheryl is within me sights. She's been here, there and everywhere like a Lennon & Macca song, but I'll grab the sly old cantilevered monster nonetheless. I'm mad with the chase now. She comes waltzing over here like a mentally unhinged wiggly Joan Collins. The bloody nerve of her!

She's not going to put one over on me. I've got me bro, Mordecai, disguised as a mortally wounded deer, secured to a lamp post in Blackheath, drenched in tomato ketchup and wailing as if in the throes of death. Groida is crouching in Stratford (I will apologise later).  I have a thick piece of timber to stun her with. And a big stone. I'll be buggered if Operation Ambrose fails. Oh dear!

Perhaps I should disguise myself as a monk. I could conceal an iron bar in a voluminous habit. I feel a bit queasy.  Or could I get away with subtle threats? A bribe? A fortnight in Portugal?

I am  hyperventilating and I've widdled on me feet!

Nothing is worth this misery. I'll destroy her tonight during the closing ceremony.

Pride & Shame

All hail golden Team GB! About bloody time. As a proud Cornishmantis, I suggest a special tip of the hat or a wiggle of the antennae to the lass with the oars from Penzance. Kernow bys vyken!


Not-distant-enough relation Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig managed to get herself into trouble on the plane over from the States. Arrested on touchdown, it didn't take her long to subdue half a regiment of paras and make her wild way to the Olympics.


She was last seen lurking amongst the trees in Greenwich Park, wearing a marquee-sized kilt (I am reliably informed it is the McInnes tartan), an equally voluminous T-shirt with the north and south Korean flags emblazoned across the nip areas and frightening the horses and assorted royalty. There goes my chance of a gong.


In the event that the authorities can't deal with her, I think I am going to be driving the harmonium up to the capital, possibly overnight and at short notice. Strewth!

Putting on a Show

Well, it would appear that the security services have rejected my offer of a lethal, peripatetic harmonium presence at The Games. Blinkered sods. However, I have an idea to advertise its fearsome glory to a watching world.

I reckon that if I can amplify Y Nauci 14's acoustics with some beefy electronic wizardry (cue Uncle Lucas) and a bank of serious PA horns, I will be able to subject London to "Fanfare for the Common Mantis". Edison, Huntley & Palmer, eat yer hearts out!

Mine is guaranteed to be a bravura interpretation, combining the elusive background irritation of ice cream van chimes with modern sonic warfare not heard since the Bell Hueys blasted out Wagner over Vietnam!

I might even earn some brownie points from a certain gargantuan earwig who is jetting in from the States even as I write ...

Wet Break - Month 3

I wish the Almighty and his hosts of winged assistants would cease tiddling over our isle. I now admit to belated gratitude for Uncle Lucas installing a three-ply titanium & lead "Armageddon" door at the entrance to the mine (admittedly for other reasons) or the pumps would have been going like the clappers for months now.

The cost to us has been barely tolerable as it is; supplying Groida with sackloads of pick & mix, comics, crayons and colouring books. If he were left moping and subject to his own bizarre thoughts, the consequences may well have proven horrendous by now, even by the Ambrose Posse's misunderstood value system.

I have vetoed (i.e.aborted under threat of a frenzied swatting with a pit prop) Big G's daft notion of a ouija seance to "breathe life" into his ventriloquist's dummy, thus creating a modern-day golem. I think he is still pining for his uncontrollable and wandering steam robot Mr Prendergast. The recent intrusion into our midst of the triad android agent Wu didn't help matters. I have since kicked the vile creature's babbling bonce into touch off a cliff and onto unforgiving rocks. I hope that is an end to the matter.

Auntie P has become so disillusioned with morale amongst the crew that she has taken to selling winkles in Penzance. Hard at work with our industrial Dyson, a hose, a funnel and several pairs of fine denier tights to "harvest" the wee creatures, she is a stranger to us at the ranch these days. I've even had to help with the housework!

Despite efforts to coax her home with warnings about EU fishing infringements, she has declared, we believe, "bugger the lot of them" (her exotic outburst may have been in Cornish, Welsh or possibly Dylan Thomas backwards - whatever the lingo it sounded final, impregnable to enterpretation and almost certainly immune to reason).

Even me beloved bro, Mordecai, is considering a stint in the French Foreign Legion, but I don't think they are keen on mantids, except fried in garlic butter for elevenses. What will Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig think of us when she turns up next week for the Olympics with her "everything is bigger in Texas" mentality? Not to mention a set of vicious pincers located at both mouth and bum!

I am getting me antennae down for an early night with a stick of tutti frutti rock, that feller Brahms's German Requiem on the Walkmantis, an H P Lovecraft paperback and a loaded Beretta MK 93 under the pillow!

Bloody Liberties!

Okay, what's all this nonsense about siting ground-to-air missile launchers on the roofs of residential tower blocks around London? You would think we were still fighting World War One.

Y Nauci 14, "The Harmonium of Doom" is  mobile, bristling with things that can swat an aerial threat like a gnat off a basking buttock and is well and truly up to the challenge our nation currently faces. It also plays a good tune to keep up morale and can lay waste to an entire hostile neighbourhood of native malcontents if we get another season of rioting. The airburst mortars would be deployed before anyone could draw breath to whistle "Dardanella". What are the authorities waiting for? Sign the contract, folks and Uncle Ambrose will see you right.

If you relish the spectacle of murderous Riffs and rabid Berbers laid low and vanquished from our sacred shores, I'm yer mantis. Poised at the deadly keyboard I can bugger up 21st century terrorism and civil unrest whilst banging out a comprehensive medley of Steven Foster weepies. London 2012? Bring it on! (I have my own sheet music and public performance licence).

Caveat Emptor!

So much for "non-stick" pans. Groida and I were doing a bit of pilfering in the Padstow branch of Wilkinson when he cheeked me, so I fetched him one with a skillet and it bounced off his head, ricocheted off a cashier and embedded itself in the ceiling. I think Trading Standards should be informed.

Lucy and Her Soft R's

Have you been watching "Harlots, Housewives and Heroines" on the telly? Uncle Lucas thought it was going to be an everyday tale of sex and drugs and was bitterly disappointed, but consolation came in the cute form of presenter Dr Lucy Worsley.

I saw no evidence of a stethoscope during the series, but perhaps the "doctor" is just an affectation, in the same way that Professor Janet Radcliffe Richards doesn't operate a Punch and Judy show. Be that as it may, her lively explanation of the role of women during the Restoration was utterly compelling, especially with her engaging speech impediment. Groida wondered if she was a ventriloquist's dummy and her father Arthur was working her.

I have learned many new words thanks to her including "nipple", "buggery" and "clitoris". Auntie P tut-tutted at phrases like "urinary instrument and "wee standing up" and is considering an act of violence on the BBC's Director General. Mordecai laughed until he fainted at the mention of "wind cannons".

I hope a DVD will be forthcoming It would make a very acceptable Xmas stocking filler (ahem!) especially if I could persuade Lucy herself to sign it. And give me a quick examination.

Talking Head

You couldn't make it up! I was rummaging around in the galley shaft just after midnight, with a view to polishing off a few of Auntie Pamela's liver & swede pasties (don't knock the idea until you've tried one) when I heard a disembodied voice. Literally.

Have you ever seen "Alien"? You know when that short arse science officer gets his napper knocked off with a fire extinguisher but it still keeps yammering on? Well, it transpires that the late, unlamented Mr Wu was a bloody android. Auntie P kept his bonce as a trophy, festooning a mop. I have to confess it is quite amusing, in a grotesque way, but it didn't half put the wind up me at that time of the morning.

Unfortunately the circuitry appears to have been damaged. It cannot engage  in conversation but simply utters "turned out nice again" in a grating Lancashire accent. You would get more stimulating repartee from an adenoidal parrot. It seems to hold a strange fascination for Groida, who tries to feed it sweets and asks if it knows the whereabouts of his own errant automaton, Mr Prendergast.

Anyway, as long as it keeps him amused and from under my feet I suppose I should be grateful. We are getting the mine ready for the Jubilee celebrations, having graciously decided to leave Queenie and the Epsom Derby alone for this year (actually we just couldn't be bothered).

We kick things off tonight with a double bill of those two classic British fillums, "Peeping Tom" and "Camp on Blood Island". Auntie P has promised us something special in the way of nosh. I just hope it isn't her Escargots Jalfrezi. The last time we had them I was up all night and the snails were coming out of my backside like tracer rounds.

Anyway, people, I hope you all have a lovely holiday weekend. It's just a pity that every manufacturer has wrapped their product in a flag, but that's capitalism for you. Even Groida's croup linctus bottle has the Union Jack on it!

Almost Pointless

That's us finished, then. Bloody Eurovision!  The Ambrose Team's hearts would be in their collective boots, if we wore such things (that would be a bulk buy for a posse of arthropods).

What a waste of a whopping dud cheque to have a big screen TV installed in Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie for Saturday night's yearly international mallarkey, all for naught. True, it brought in truckloads of gullible punters (they aren't particularly bright round here due to inbreeding) and we did clear the short-dated scampi and lychees, but as the hours passed and the annual depression took hold, several wheels fell off our figurative charabanc of hope and rolled down a steep hill. Then we had the raised voices, blasphemy, fisticuffs and finally the regrettable deployment of CS gas.

Let me make it clear that everyone pulled their weight in our enterprise. Groida was rendered almost lame after his heroic fortnight of trying to insert flyers for our big night through letterboxes with his clumsy claws, but he was still put to work in the evenings as combined wok monkey and bouncer. Mordecai intimidated local business magnates by widdling in their swimming pools and Uncle Lucas torched most of the catering competition or persuaded the proprietors to visit a great-aunt's funeral in the Antipodes. We were well set up for a lucrative weekend.

Surprisingly, even Big G's cousin, Mad "Nogger" Vernon did sterling service with his threatening phone calls across the wastes of northern Europe, but sadly with little effect on the eventual voting. It is a pity he couldn't put the frighteners on the Scannies, Slavs, Meds, Mongols etc and get Engleberk the crown jewels but it just goes to prove that you can't reason with the daft. To be fair, I doubt if several rockets up the Urals would have made a difference, but he will no doubt show his mettle when deployed to Sweden for retaliatory mischief at an undisclosed date.

Anyway, to get back to the appalling fracas which broke out in our nosherie, Groida, a fan of "Thunderbirds" (who has yet to be told that International Rescue, like Santa, doesn't exist) called Englebird a "barrel-chested Kyrano" and suggested dropping a fuel bomb on Tracey Island. Uncle Lucas agreed that we should feel ashamed at recruiting a "grotesque, geriatric mercenary" but nevertheless gave his impudent nephew a hefty swat for voicing an opinion. Then Mordecai weighed in with "trusting our luck to a non-resident hired coolie". Thank you so much, Bro, you sodding diplomat!  Mr Wu was cashing up at the time and within earshot. If that incredibly insensitive remark had got back to Chinatown, we would have been cat meat (usually number 17 on the menu, with an obligatory starter) within a matter of days. However, the Ancient Ones smiled on us and Auntie P dropped a colander of Brussels beansprouts, distracting our diminutive business partner, allowing her to snip his head off and shove the  carcass down a drainage shaft.

Once we were out of panic mode, the situation was reviewed and most of our deceased colleague was retrieved with a modified coat hanger and given a decent, hygenic and culturally appropriate send-off, courtesy of Y Nauci 14's flame throwers. We even bought some joss sticks from a charity shop and I belted out my own harmonium arrangement of "The Lark Ascending" with convincing gusto. The clinker was dispatched to the ancestors in a faux lead planter, liberated from Padstow B&Q, adorned with a label marked "Took Dead" and quietly concealed in road works under cover of darkness. “Took dead”, hehehe! It even sounds like an Oriental mantra if you keep repeating it out loud and hyperventilate until you go all dizzy.

Finer feelings put aside for a moment, I reckon we are still in for a serious hiding from the Soho Triads. Those inscrutable buggers won't be fobbed off with any old excuse. Groida suggests the Clangers as scapegoats. Vacant-nappered pillock. Even Mary, Mungo & Midge can't drag us out of this particular mire. History has proven that no-one can fight a war on two fronts. We are finalising details for the ruination of Her Majesty's day at the races at the Epsom Derby next Saturday and we can do without the too-near East nipping at our southerly regions when we have serious work in hand.

Toil, responsibilities, consequences of folly .... phew, what a summer so far!

Soft Recoil

It is a fine spring morning. The sun has risen over the cliffs and warms the awesome Cornish landscape. The noble spirit of this great and ancient place and people has once again awoken to embrace and nourish another day, invigorating the populace to its toil in a timeless existence. 

I have just done Groida with a rubber mallet and he is resting like a crashed Heinkel, breathing heavily, but still functioning. Dozy bugger. He didn't hear me creeping up behind him. I was warned by Auntie P to give him a punitive smack and no more, or I could expect dire consequences.

Truth to tell, Big G hasn't been pulling his weight. I believe "problem passenger" is the latest term to describe the dilemma. He is writing his memoirs. Please don't laugh. It even breaks my pumice heart.

A whop isn't enough. What can I do, short of turning all of Y Nauci 14's weaponry on him? I have experience of his diseased notions; a series of information pamphlets, including the titles: "Staring At People", "The Myth Of Insanity", "Build Your Own Beached Whale Carcass" (in 52 parts), " Odour Devices In Shopping Malls" and "Muttering As A Career". But his memoirs? A real eye-closer. I have to protect the public.

In the mean time, Uncle Lucas is giving the harmonium a serious overhaul (have you seen "Future Weapons" on TV?) and Auntie Pamela is hopefully wooing the mysterious Mr Wu into a new conflict with the Icelanders. Cod, debt and a volcano! Let's towse the weird-looking sods!

Once Upon A Time in Andalucia (and Utah)

Uncle Lucas insists I post this after his themed vacation with Auntie Pamela at Spaghetti Western locations in Spain. He thinks he is Henry Fonda. Auntie P thinks she is Claudia Cardinale (or possibly Charles Bronson, hehehe!). They both need treatment. I shall run over his harmonica in Y Nauci 14 as a precaution. That still leaves Groida and his cousin Vernon but I can only deal with so many lunatics at a time. It all makes work for a working mantis to do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vn23e9GnhI&feature=colike

Straw Donkeys

I am not an unreasonable mantis. No sniggering at the back, thank you. However, I feel aggrieved at the inconsiderate behaviour of Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela who, after a month playing spaghetti westerns in Spain, decided to bugger off on a further extension to their hols, leaving yours truly holding the booby.

I refer, of course, to their swivel-eyed lunatic nephew Groida who would be a handful for the Great God Kali or my distant cousin Hubert The Massive Bivalve Creature Who Lurks In The Mariana Trench Wiggling His Thirty Tentacles.

Even my normally devoted bro Mordecai elected to spend the last few weeks in a clammy Millets tent, balanced precariously on the edge of Land's End, rather than endure further babblings, insolence, puerile pranks and smelly parps courtesy of the big, mad thing with a sting.

Anyway, revenge may be at hand. I scrupulously kept a list of all the sod's misdemeanours and presented it to Auntie P (who is the most ill-tempered arthropod of my acquaintance) when the pair returned this morning. I expect justice, complete with dreadful sound effects which will echo into the night as a dire warning that my patience and mental stability have their limits.

I cannot be bought off with tawdry tourist souvenirs. A raffia ass in a sombrero that lights up and warms a toilet roll is a feeble trinket and insult to my intelligece if it is intended to restore my peace of mind. I ask you. It's like 1972 all over again! The blank-firing replica Civil War Navy Colt may come in handy if things get unruly in the tea rooms but but at the moment I feel more like clubbing Groida on the bonce with it. His pressie is a leather wine bag and I bet he uses it as a wee pistol. I have even started to instinctively duck and flinch at the prospect.

Expect further reports.

I Don't Like Februaries

Twenty bloody nine days of it this year. Gawd. Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela are taking their annual hols in Spain at various spaghetti western locations, where they harmlessly expend their murderous compulsions re-enacting scenes of screen slaughter. Auntie P is wicked on the Jew's harp and Uncle Lucas retaliates with a mean harmonica. He has even bought some baby blue contact lenses this year, to get the authentic "Henry Fonda stare".

This is their "Killing Time". A bit like Spock going hormonal, if you remember that particular episode of "Star Trek". You can Wiki its title if you like, I can't be asked. I suppose I should give them credit for purging their lethal urges in a safe and socially responsible manner, but that leaves me in charge of their hopeless clown of a nephew.

Mordecai, I am comfortable with. He is me bro; a laid back, low maintenance companion. Groida hasn't got enough eyes for me to poke in order to diffuse my pent-up irritation at his foolish ways. Why couldn't he have been carted off with his kin for the month? They could have played out the triangular gunfight from "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly". He even qualifies in two categories!

I have had my Saturday evening ruined by his inconsiderate and oafish behaviour. I was trying to listen to the live broadcast of "The Barber of Seville" from the New York Met on Radio 3, only to be subjected to his slow, rhythmical and deliberately malicious slurping on a stick of peppermint rock. The biggest he could find in the stores, of course; as formidable as a Silverback's winkle. Plus I've got the resultant squeaking wind to serenade me throughout the night. Beam me up, Figaro!

A Snake in the Mine

Anyone would be mistaken in thinking I am a monster, the way that ingrate of a mega-scorpion puts me down.

Whilst engaged in dusting duties (no lack of humility or commitment to service there, eh?) I found Groida's diary. After nearly ruining my eyesight deciphering his infantile hieroglyphics I found this recent piece of calumny:

"Ambrose thinks he is the best bits of Confucius, Dr Syn and Rommel. He is more like a cross nanny if one of us lets off during tea. You should see his eyes bulge. But I have seen him excavate his nose when he thinks nobody is watching. He will want to be Pope next. One of those Borgias who ate bogeys. Arf.

I never did find my Chewits, but I know who had them. I am not the idiot round here. Why does he do it? I reckon he is a feeble, gobby showoff and a rotter. If I find one wrapper anywhere near his nasty pit I am going to put his antennae in heated curlers. Then let him try to play the big shot!"

I am wounded, of course, but big enough to take it. The scuttling vat of wee. So how will he explain the discovery of his sweeties tomorrow morning? Admittedly, they are the Aldi equivalent but that just goes to prove it wasn't me. I would cover my tracks properly.

I must have a few quiet words with Mr Wu, Auntie P's new partner in the grey economy. Perhaps he can arrange to have the lying, lumbering sod shanghaied. Velly solly, Gloida.

The Year of the Mantis?

Supposedly this is the Chinese Year of the Dragon. After today's shenanigans, the coming twelve months may also prove rosy for a certain bunch of Mantids and Scorpions. Amongst the inscrutable community of Soho, anyway.

Things didn't augur well at dawn, as the posse bundled into the charabanc of Y Nauci 14 and its tethered trailers to set off for a day of Oriental celebrations in The Smoke. There was initial panic when Groida couldn't find his multipack of Chewits for the journey but I was able to pacify him with some sticks of my less favoured flavours of Aznavour rock. It was the least I could do (naturally) as I have been helping myself to his sweet cigarettes for ages and I think he has begun to suspect.

Having loosed off a variety of armaments at fellow motorists en route, we made good time and arrived to witness the colourful and noisy Dragon procession through the narrow, crowded streets of Chinatown.

The tourists were enthralled as the shopkeepers offered cabbages for the representation of the noble, mythical creature to shred in its jaws and bring luck to the premises. We had at least fifty wallets and purses in a sack within the first half hour!

Then Mordecai needed a poo. Typical. We kicked him out just off Leicester Square but the bogs have been shut during redevelopment and he was forced to do his business outside the Empire cinema. Luckily there wasn't a red carpet premiere in progress at the time, but when he caught up with us he had still managed to bring a sizeable mob of disgusted onlookers and constabulary with him.

Uncle Lucas is definitely getting the hang of the harmonium's keyboard. Before you could whistle the "Minute Waltz" he had launched several missiles, mortars and anti-personnel mines and rattled off a dozen belts of ammo through the Gatling guns, all to the applause of the throng for our impromptu doomsday firework display.

Okay, we did a bit of damage, but nobody was killed. The Chinese are hard sods and we have earned their respect (and bagloads of buns stuffed with pork, curry, ham & egg to sustain us on our long trek back to Cornwall).

Furthermore, our display of firepower and bad temper has cemented Auntie P's business relationship with the mysterious Cantonese entrepreneur Mr Wu (who always carries a "Uzikelele" and claims to hail from Formby). The financial gain generated may be incalculable, especially if we can entrap a bent accountant.

On a sour note, I wasn't mistaken for a Dragon, lauded or showered with gifts. Such is life. However, Groida was persuaded to juggle with cabbages "to encourage the spirits of good fortune". Needless to say, the fumbling fool dropped the lot and had to eat one. Crackerjack! 

Guns and Wallies

What on Earth is wrong with that loopy juggernaut of a scorpion? Groida has developed a fixation with the picture of Mrs Elswood of pickle jar fame. I have tried to explain that she probably doesn't exist and even if she does, her image has remained suspiciously unchanged over the years. After such a passage of time she could very well resemble Golda Meir by now.

He is having none of it. He is even plotting to do away with Mr Elswood, get a beard and homburg out of the dressing up box and woo her with an impersonation of Topol which any amateur dramatic society with one sane member would reject.

If I have to listen to any more of his mutterings ("are you up for me setting your wig askew tonight, Hepzibah?") I shall bat him with heavy gauge cable. Perhaps I should just plug him into the mains in an attempt to realign the electro-magnetic patterns of his wonky brain.

Otherwise, things are chugging along nicely. Both the tea rooms and fish bar are bringing in the readies, even after we have helped ourselves to a sizeable proportion of the stock. It is ironic that at a time when many people are struggling with diets, we are all stuffing cream teas and fish suppers down our necks. Still, we need to keep our strength up for coming events.

I wish we could dissuade Auntie Pamela from descending on Soho for Chinese New Year. It is going to be ugly, I know it. Uncle Lucas is fitting his bootleg version of the Javelin missile system to Y Nauci 14 in preparation. He reckons the thermobaric warheads can vapourise the interior of a restaurant while leaving the listed building standing. Sentimental old bugger, and this from someone whose interpretation of the "fire and forget" concept is to blast anything in sight and then deny any involvement.

If that wasn't enough, Auntie P is thinking about sitting on the council. Literally, if I am not mistaken. Groida pulled this stunt early last year in Epsom and Ewell, until he resigned following the rejection of his plans for a rocket launching facility next to Big Sainsburys.

More anon. I need a lie down ...

Flying Tonight

After a period of post-festivities ennui, things are coming up to speed again. I have threatened to set fire to Groida's dummy, Cludgiebreath, if the buffoon doesn't cease and desist from his pathetic vocal strangulations.

Alternatively, I suppose we could raise some cash by charging the locals admission to laugh at him, as in the good old days of Bedlam. Sod, I just chortled at the notion and the gobstopper I was sucking shot out of my mouth and rolled under the sofa. I'll retrieve it later with a coat hanger and rinse it under a tap. Waste not, want not.

Auntie Pamela has persuaded Hairy Jacob to take an extended holiday in Nova Scotia and is now manageress of the fish bar. Her plan is to expand the menu to include Chinese cuisine, which would at least help shift the cargo of tinned pineapple in shaft 3.

However, I have reservations about her employing "ethnically accurate" staff, especially as she intends recruiting in London's Chinatown. You may recall the hoo-ha with the Triads there last year, when she guzzled her way through several restaurants without paying.

Hopefully all mega-scorpions look alike to them, but I still think she is skating on thin ice with her proposed return visit during their New Year celebrations later this month. I reckon it would be safer to bring down some of the Glasgow Mafia. At least we would have the novel experience of their legendary deep-fried panettone.

But there is no arguing with Auntie P (unless you are up for a vicious towsing). Whichever mob she eventually hitches up with, Janet Radcliffe Richards help them, and probably us too.

I hear guttural cries in the distance. Groida is at it again. No one should make noises like that unless in excruciating pain. Shortly the dolt will learn that.

Hoot of the Day

As we ate our tea, watching "The New Karate Kid" on TV, the amiable ninja Pat Morita issued the howler "playing mantis always dlop to one knee before stliking". What a pire of clap! If I indulged in such esoteric contortions prior to the kill, I wouldn't be able to accurately align the missile's guidance system.

I blame Hollywood. It give people funny ideas. Mordecai was certainly acting strangely whenever Hilary Swank appeared on screen. He could barely keep the tray on his lap.