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!