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!
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