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Saturday, March 24, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
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 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.
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