A Quite Extraordinary Rendition

I am too soft-hearted for my own good. I began the decline by relenting over my ban on Groida having sherbet fountains because they make him cough (although nothing could match the decibels created by the tizzy he got into when denied them) and now I find myself harbouring a fugitive from international justice.

Never mind Mr Wikid, holed up in the Abyssinian consulate, I've got an earwig the size of an articulated lorry on the lam in Cornwall. Yes, we managed to get Cheryl out of the Olympic Stadium before she could cause any more trouble at the closing ceremony.

After nearly blinding myself with tears of frustration (i.e. ripping out my nose hairs in sheer boredom) and not hearing a squeak from Big G or Bro Mordecai during our vigil, I finally spotted our prey disgracing herself over a BBC outside broadcast van. I have to admit she wasn't in particularly good shape, being caked in mud, leaves and bits of food and I hope she disrupted more than a few corporate junkets during her rampage. He he!

What was I to do? She looked so pathetic that I had to get her back to the tin mine with the rest of the Ambrose Posse. Am I turning into that sentimental old Dickens? Jamais, tosh!

I've got her helping out in both the Krazy Kurnow Tearooms and Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie. The rest of us are under enough pressure as it is,  Uncle Lucas having buggered off after receiving a "wish you were here" postcard from Auntie P. If you knew her, you'd realise that message wasn't loaded with sweet sentiment but an order, leaden with veiled threats.

I trust our wiggly transatlantic visitor enjoys her temporary stay, but equally hope the U.S. will soon require her back to answer charges of ghastly crimes and will intimidate our government into returning her, or we may be stuck with the loopy old behemoth for ages.

Gotcha! Well, almost...

Finally, Cheryl is within me sights. She's been here, there and everywhere like a Lennon & Macca song, but I'll grab the sly old cantilevered monster nonetheless. I'm mad with the chase now. She comes waltzing over here like a mentally unhinged wiggly Joan Collins. The bloody nerve of her!

She's not going to put one over on me. I've got me bro, Mordecai, disguised as a mortally wounded deer, secured to a lamp post in Blackheath, drenched in tomato ketchup and wailing as if in the throes of death. Groida is crouching in Stratford (I will apologise later).  I have a thick piece of timber to stun her with. And a big stone. I'll be buggered if Operation Ambrose fails. Oh dear!

Perhaps I should disguise myself as a monk. I could conceal an iron bar in a voluminous habit. I feel a bit queasy.  Or could I get away with subtle threats? A bribe? A fortnight in Portugal?

I am  hyperventilating and I've widdled on me feet!

Nothing is worth this misery. I'll destroy her tonight during the closing ceremony.

Pride & Shame

All hail golden Team GB! About bloody time. As a proud Cornishmantis, I suggest a special tip of the hat or a wiggle of the antennae to the lass with the oars from Penzance. Kernow bys vyken!


Not-distant-enough relation Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig managed to get herself into trouble on the plane over from the States. Arrested on touchdown, it didn't take her long to subdue half a regiment of paras and make her wild way to the Olympics.


She was last seen lurking amongst the trees in Greenwich Park, wearing a marquee-sized kilt (I am reliably informed it is the McInnes tartan), an equally voluminous T-shirt with the north and south Korean flags emblazoned across the nip areas and frightening the horses and assorted royalty. There goes my chance of a gong.


In the event that the authorities can't deal with her, I think I am going to be driving the harmonium up to the capital, possibly overnight and at short notice. Strewth!