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.