Groida's Loco

Greetings, o public! I trust you had a splendid Xmas and there weren't too many punch-ups. We all certainly had a hoot here in the mine.

Well, Groida got his "train set". That wily old bugger Uncle lucas has constructed an entire, full-scale railway in the shafts on level 3. I jest not. Miles of track. Neon and UV everywhere. It's a cross between a subterranean Las Vegas and a fairground ghost ride. It would seem that the power-out in Cornwall recently was indeed due to him tinkering with the national grid as a dry run and he is now bleeding off power to feed this spectacular if surreal folly.

I cannot do justice to this insane piece of engineering in one post, so expect more on the subject. We each have our own themed railway carriage which I shall describe in detail at a later date. Needless to say, Big G has the engine, the "John Frum Special", named after the cargo cult and in recognition of his inexplicable popularity with the primitive peoples of the Southern Hemisphere.

It is fashioned from translucent fibre glass in the form of a giant, winged rat and illuminated from within by disco lighting and has a working, neon propeller for a nose. Groida is made up. In his engine driver's hat (rescued from the dressing up box) and sucking on a slab of Auntie Pamela's Xmas cake he is as happy as an arthropod in custard.

Round he goes. Round and round, waving and blowing his foghorn every time he passes. Bless! Mind you, if he is still trundling about in the wee small hours I shall pull the plugs. Or tie him to the tracks ...

It was Xmas Eve in the Tin Mine

We found the sellotape! It was in the gauntlet compartment of the harmonium. Uncle Lucas had been using it as temporary cable ties during his re-wiring of the weapons console - I mean keyboard.

I can't kick up a fuss as he did the job for nothing. Mind you, recently he has been driving it into the ground, literally, dragging what sounds like vast quantities of timber and metal down the mine at ungodly hours. I am perplexed and intrigued.

The roadkill from the freezer at Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie is now soft enough for skinning. Nine foxes, five pheasants and a black sack load of assorted, unidentifiable bits should see us through the next couple of days once bulked out with the usual festive trimmings.

Tonight we will be up top, huddled round a blazing caravan, frazzling an unexpected tide borne gift of preserved yams and telling traditional spooky tales of grotesque monsters. Me highly-strung Bro will probably make a puddle as usual, despite my assurances that it is all make-believe. Family!

Sods' Opera

I am wearing the silly hat, okay? I would have preferred a large jiffy bag as Auntie P has marshaled most of the crew for carol practice or "howls from Hades" as I describe the experience.

At least I am spared the dolorous bass drone of Uncle Lucas, who has sealed off all horizontal shafts at level 3 and won't come out. There is a lot of noise and sweary Welsh going on in there at all hours. Mark my words, he is up to something.

Even without the Chill from Rhyl casting a pall of morbid gloom over the festivities, Cheryl has brought her own bizarre Texan religious enthusiasm to the proceedings. Have you ever tried to keep a straight face during "In the Bleak Midwinter" whilst a gargantuan earwig walks on hot coals, holding aloft a score of bibles and an equal number of squirming adders? Send her back, I say.

Anyway, if Uncle Lucas doesn't cause a collapse in the mine, I hope to have a few words to say before the big day. If I am otherwise detained or entombed, I hope all me fans have a jolly time of it! Merry Xmas and a happy new year!

P.S. Do any of you with long memories remember if I mentioned where Mordecai put the Sellotape after we had wrapped the presents last year? Just wondered, that's all.

My Old Bruv's a Phantom

Last night I was visited by "The Ghost of Boxing Day, 10am - 4pm". I am not so daft that I can't recognise my own brother, let alone his ghastly aroma (capable of igniting a match at twenty paces). I shall knot the bugger's antennae into a monkey's fist if he insults my intelligence like that again.

Anyway, the cheeky swine, draped in a potato sack and issuing an eerie green light (I wondered where me Boy Scout signalling torch had gone) instructed me to atone for all past sins. This was to take the form of donating a haunch of venison, a brace of heron, at least one gannet and half a swan to create a "four beast roast" for the needy of the parish.

What loopy twaddle. Firstly, we already have several items of roadkill in the freezer at Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie, plus the remains of that thing with two heads that crashed last summer and is preserved in a barrel of Vick behind the Krazy Kernow Tearooms.

So, we are hardly deficient in exotic provender. If the insolent guttersnipe wants anything else, he can sing for it. Except his voice is about as melodious as a cast iron mangle hurtling down a lift shaft and if he breaks into song I shall swat him with a very large tin of blackberry pie filling.

The Advent of Armageddon - Stave 2

It's no good. I must be losing my touch. Try as I might, I cannot find fault with Groida's conduct as Santa during the anarchy of the festive float foul-up and make him a scapescorpion. He didn't mean to frighten the kiddies. His writhing contortions and gurning were the result of his efforts to contain a fierce attack of wind brought on by nerves and rather a lot of sprouts and chestnuts.

If anything, he should be lauded for preventing a serious health hazard. But for the Herculean restraint of his gut gases, the outcome - literally - could have been catastrophic and possibly lethal.

There you have it. I can be generous and friendly towards the great lumbering dolt. I hope he remembers this in a few weeks time and lets me play with his train set.

Anyway, the feud between Auntie Pamela and Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig seems to have been resolved. Both have agreed to work in harmony in the galley shaft, as befits the season of goodwill. Uncle Lucas also pointed out that Cheryl's visa has expired and the Home Office might take an interest. Sorted.

Did I tell you that there was a camera crew filming the riot? Hopefully we will turn up in a festive edition of "Brit Cops - Tinsel and Truncheons". Keep yer eyes peeled!

The Advent of Armageddon - Stave 1

You humans possess such a wealth of gems in your various languages. Fiasco. Debacle. Balls-up.

It was never on the cards that the Mega-Santa and his band of helpers were going to switch on the Xmas lights as the climax of our festive float parade (despite attempted bribery and threats). Equally, I am buggered if we will be held responsible for plunging most of Cornwall into darkness and causing the resultant chaos.

If we were planning to commit such an outrage, the entire Ambrose Posse would have been on the shoreline, wrecking and plundering cargo vessels of canned fruit, not kettled into an urban cul-de-sac and forced to defend ourselves in an unseemly brawl against a belligerent mob of riot polis.

Mordecai and Uncle Lucas were in full view at all times so the ridiculous allegation that they tampered with electricity substations doesn't deserve further comment. Okay, the punch-up between Cheryl and Auntie P was regrettable, but bound to happen sooner or later. They have been bickering about who is going to cook Xmas dinner for ages. I hope some sort of mediation can now be arranged, or it is going to be an interesting 25th down the mine.

I am not sure it would be fair to apportion blame to Groida either, but I'll put me thinking cap on and see if I can come up with something incriminating overnight ...