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.
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