Putting on a Show

Well, it would appear that the security services have rejected my offer of a lethal, peripatetic harmonium presence at The Games. Blinkered sods. However, I have an idea to advertise its fearsome glory to a watching world.

I reckon that if I can amplify Y Nauci 14's acoustics with some beefy electronic wizardry (cue Uncle Lucas) and a bank of serious PA horns, I will be able to subject London to "Fanfare for the Common Mantis". Edison, Huntley & Palmer, eat yer hearts out!

Mine is guaranteed to be a bravura interpretation, combining the elusive background irritation of ice cream van chimes with modern sonic warfare not heard since the Bell Hueys blasted out Wagner over Vietnam!

I might even earn some brownie points from a certain gargantuan earwig who is jetting in from the States even as I write ...

Wet Break - Month 3

I wish the Almighty and his hosts of winged assistants would cease tiddling over our isle. I now admit to belated gratitude for Uncle Lucas installing a three-ply titanium & lead "Armageddon" door at the entrance to the mine (admittedly for other reasons) or the pumps would have been going like the clappers for months now.

The cost to us has been barely tolerable as it is; supplying Groida with sackloads of pick & mix, comics, crayons and colouring books. If he were left moping and subject to his own bizarre thoughts, the consequences may well have proven horrendous by now, even by the Ambrose Posse's misunderstood value system.

I have vetoed (i.e.aborted under threat of a frenzied swatting with a pit prop) Big G's daft notion of a ouija seance to "breathe life" into his ventriloquist's dummy, thus creating a modern-day golem. I think he is still pining for his uncontrollable and wandering steam robot Mr Prendergast. The recent intrusion into our midst of the triad android agent Wu didn't help matters. I have since kicked the vile creature's babbling bonce into touch off a cliff and onto unforgiving rocks. I hope that is an end to the matter.

Auntie P has become so disillusioned with morale amongst the crew that she has taken to selling winkles in Penzance. Hard at work with our industrial Dyson, a hose, a funnel and several pairs of fine denier tights to "harvest" the wee creatures, she is a stranger to us at the ranch these days. I've even had to help with the housework!

Despite efforts to coax her home with warnings about EU fishing infringements, she has declared, we believe, "bugger the lot of them" (her exotic outburst may have been in Cornish, Welsh or possibly Dylan Thomas backwards - whatever the lingo it sounded final, impregnable to enterpretation and almost certainly immune to reason).

Even me beloved bro, Mordecai, is considering a stint in the French Foreign Legion, but I don't think they are keen on mantids, except fried in garlic butter for elevenses. What will Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig think of us when she turns up next week for the Olympics with her "everything is bigger in Texas" mentality? Not to mention a set of vicious pincers located at both mouth and bum!

I am getting me antennae down for an early night with a stick of tutti frutti rock, that feller Brahms's German Requiem on the Walkmantis, an H P Lovecraft paperback and a loaded Beretta MK 93 under the pillow!

Bloody Liberties!

Okay, what's all this nonsense about siting ground-to-air missile launchers on the roofs of residential tower blocks around London? You would think we were still fighting World War One.

Y Nauci 14, "The Harmonium of Doom" is  mobile, bristling with things that can swat an aerial threat like a gnat off a basking buttock and is well and truly up to the challenge our nation currently faces. It also plays a good tune to keep up morale and can lay waste to an entire hostile neighbourhood of native malcontents if we get another season of rioting. The airburst mortars would be deployed before anyone could draw breath to whistle "Dardanella". What are the authorities waiting for? Sign the contract, folks and Uncle Ambrose will see you right.

If you relish the spectacle of murderous Riffs and rabid Berbers laid low and vanquished from our sacred shores, I'm yer mantis. Poised at the deadly keyboard I can bugger up 21st century terrorism and civil unrest whilst banging out a comprehensive medley of Steven Foster weepies. London 2012? Bring it on! (I have my own sheet music and public performance licence).