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!
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