Me Review of the Ambrosian Year

I am hopping mad, which is both strenuous and difficult to co-ordinate with six legs. Having perused the 2013 journal I find it makes for lamentable reading.

In January, Uncle Lucas was still basking in his triumph of stealth engineering, our ghost ... er,  I mean themed mineshaft railway, but nothing came of the promised TV documentary or indeed our own efforts to finance a fillum.

February saw me encountering artistic tribulations when I received threats after announcing plans to re-write "The Lost Chord". Let me make it clear that I will never bow to intimidation, I've just had a bit of songwriter's block, that's all.

Auntie Pamela was grim company after being rejected for Eurovision, but a least April saw the departure back to Texas of Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig. who had outstayed her welcome since descending on us for the 2012 Olympics.

Then, of course, Groida twocked the harmonium in order to retrieve his renegade automaton, Mr Prendergast. Sadly he succeeded and we all wasted most of the summer and autumn preparing it to dig the foundations of the undersea Palladium site. Then Mr P's brain exploded, it did a runner (okay, a tunneller) and is still on the loose.

Am I being overly dramatic? I realise a lot of people have had a rough year but it seems as if Team Ambrose is under a dark, Olympian cloud. Come the young hours of the new year, we will be gathering for a team huddle in Shaft 7 (all weapons to be surrendered and left outside). Hopefully, after a bit of brainstorming and an inspirational pep talk from yours truly, the posse can face the future with keen eyes, brave hearts and thoughts of renewed naughtiness.

Blydhen Nowydh Da!

Speechless

I can't win. If I take a break from my journalistic endeavours I am described as lazy. Yet when I dream up a wizard jape I am similarly shot down in flames.

It was originally my intention to deliver a festive address to the mighty League of Ambrosians (and the world at large) in the style of a certain Royal personage who tends to have something to say for herself at about this time of day, as her subjects are picking their teeth and blowing off.

However, Auntie P has warned me in no uncertain terms that if I disrespect or parody HM's own efforts, I will not see a morsel of Xmas dinner nor be allowed to watch Doctor Who this evening. I know when I am beaten.

But do not despair, I have another notion in the toe of me festive stocking. Watch out in the coming days for yer Uncle Ambrose's review of the year. If it's good enough for Blue Peter ...

Anyway, must get ready for our feast. Luckily the giant anaconda at Newquay zoo croaked last week and it is just gamey enough now for the table. We are having all the usual trimmings; crispy fried bladderwrack, devilled winkles and of course the ubiquitous Brussel sprouts.

A merry Xmas to all of you from me good self and the rest of Team Ambrose!

Ask Ambrose

Are you a seeker after truth? "Ask Ambrose" is a new service being offered to the ignorant and confused.

There are several sites available where the unwary may be lured into disinformation, ruin or intellectual slavery. I recently uncovered such a disgraceful enterprise, "groida.com", where the feeble-minded are led astray by an equally foolish knave who ought to know better and will be getting a right pasting with a piece of wood once the lights go out for the night.

Let me give you an example of the fraudulent nonsense expounded by this grubby set-up:

According to a test enquiry, Admiral Lord Nelson was really called Neslon and was a secret envoy from the planet Saturn. Three blue beans make five because of gravitational anomalies and dinosaurs were made of chocolate.

Stick with the knowledgeable insight and deep understanding of yer Uncle Ambrose. You know it makes sense. At reasonable rates.

The Second Sighting

I shall reproduce in its entirety the pathetic, scrawled note I discovered stuffed into one of my favourite socks:

"Dear Mishter Ambrose. I seen the thing your after it made a big hole in a place called the midlands but excaped to germany in a sudmarine. Please send me lots of crates of fruit salad in light syrup, loganberry pie filling, sago pudding, banana custard, babies chocolate desert, mackrel fillets in curry sauce, garlic spam and prunes in natural juice (for a needy friend in scotland). And how about those boxes of sweetys you keep hidden away in shaft numbah 4. Give to groida for safe keeping."

Why does he do it? To annoy me or is he really so deranged that he honestly believes he can pull off a scam like this? I suppose it is the mark of a fool that he considers all others his intellectual inferiors.

One thing is for certain, I am not going to let this insolent bane of my life (I have always considered his eyes too close together for him to be trusted) subvert the efforts of the rest of the posse as we strive to resolve a crisis.

If this isn't bad enough, someone has been fiddling with the harmonium's keyboard. The arming sequences for the two doomsday weapons (the Boiling Pedal and Gramercy Bomb) are known only to me, but I have found chopstick splinters, suggesting the inquisitive and unauthorised tinkering of some reckless bugger.

This is serious stuff. I warn you, if I get even a twitch of somebody out there sniggering I will descend upon you in a jet black strop.

Will no one rid me of this troublesome mega-scorpion? Perhaps a bounty (okay, contract) is the answer. Sod Mr Prendergast for the moment, let's deal with Big G first. Plenty of canned comestibles still available for the right candidate!

The Inexorable Rampage of Mr Prendergast

Great title, eh? Yep, it's up and on the move again. Surfaced from beneath the pedestrian precinct of a shopping centre in Farnborough and as I write, threatens to lay waste to an example of urban blight that should have been razed to the ground years ago.

I am not getting involved; laissez faire I believe is the expression. Rather like watching a disaster unfold on the TV news. Or picking at a scab. Besides which, our task force is hors de combat (more impressive sounding eurobabble). Groida has fallen over and hurt himself. Diddums. Isn't it suspiciously fortunate that the Emperor of Inadequacy should graze all his knees just as heroic effort is required? Oh dear, the tube of Germolene has mysteriously disappeared.

I wouldn't recommend him for a job polishing the urinals at the Florence Nabbles Oompah Academy (and didn't; my vitriolic reference was a masterpiece of sarcasm and character assassination). The rest of our merry band are laid up with wobbly tummies after sampling Auntie P's first batch of Xmas puds. Not my good self, of course. Once poisoned, twice shy.

My only regret is not running a book on where our iron numpty would next emerge from the Earth's crust. Lack of corporate sponsorship was another failure of forward thinking, but I can't be held responsible for all policy decisions when I have such a dysfunctional crew to deal with.

Yet it may not be too late. If the unruly automaton digs in again, I urge you to be vigilant. Should it explode like a mad mole from the sod at a location near you, get in touch and you may be eligible for a prize. I am sure you would relish a large consignment of canned fruit, near to or just past its sell-by date. Registration pledges in Krugerrands or luncheon vouchers, please.

"Where in the World is Mr Prendergast?" may be a copyright infringement but it is snappy and to the point. Keep 'em peeled!
　
　
　
　
　

Humble Crumble

It takes a big mantis to admit being wrong and because I weigh in at 25ft I know I am not going to get out of what proved to be a clowns' fondue evening with me dignity unscathed. Incidentally I have not been crying, just subject to a touch of conjunctivitis and rhythmic convulsions. Plus melancholia.

As you have probably deduced by now, we've lost Mr Prendergast again. The silence so far must have spoken volumes. Not so much a case of "the elephant in the room" as "that ginormous mechanical menace on the loose".

Please note the culpable "we"; this has been a collective fiasco. Okay, I'll put up all the bits I can wiggle in admitting I got the voltage wrong, but considering the great lump's lethargy I could hardly have anticipated such a rapid transformation into a metallic Dervish. Am I right or what?  And the rest of Team Ambrose showed no desire to leap on the bugger, thus stopping it in its tracks. That's dedication for you.

Perhaps if we had been armed the outcome would have been different, but (a) I wouldn't trust Groida with a pea-shooter after his infamous twocking of the harmonium, (b) the last time Mordecai held a weapon - a catapult he got as a freebie with Hot Mantis magazine - he managed to wound himself in the hampton and (c) Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela are pyschopaths.

Anyway, I don't give a can of specially selected Victoria plums in light syrup for the whereabouts of Mr Prendergast. The scrapyard sod will surface sooner or later. With a stroke of luck he'll emerge from a Paris sewer and put the wind up all those snail and frog eating rotters.

Must get a bend on. Auntie P is frazzling up a concoction of minced roadkill before shoving it in the oven with a bombay potato and Rice Krispie topping. That'll put hairs on me thorax!

King Dud

In case you were wondering, dear reader, Mr Prendergast has not done much tunnelling over the last few days. Indeed, its actions have been restricted to a feeble Zulu stomp on the spot and as we do not desire it to descend vertically to the Earth's core, that really is no good to mantis or beast.

I am so ashamed. Team Ambrose has let down the waiting world (well, not me personally, of course). This is what happens when one believes all the pseudo-technical piffle expounded by a scrofulous, babbling charlatan like Groida. He probably gleans all his loopy notions from those dreadful comics I am constantly struggling to confiscate for his own good.

Enough is enough. If Mr P is to march at all, it shall do so under my command. I have diverted the electrical current from the mine's railway system and will shortly be giving its so-called brain a several thousand volt nudge.

Admittedly, its mental faculties seem to be dwindling, but I have managed to elicit responses from simple stimuli. It can identify basic shapes, like fuzzy felt and it got quite excited over Cuisenaire rods.

So, I am preparing to throw the switch, not so much in hope as in fuming desperation. If you want a job done properly...

Inside the Bonces of Two Dangerous Creatures

Groida is off his cake, and I don't mean he has lost his appetite at tea time. I harboured doubts from the outset about him shoving a primitive computer into the swede of his mammoth tunnelling device, Mr Prendergast. What a foolish thing to initiate; the mad leading the mad.

As Executive Officer of Team Ambrose, I accept limited responsibility. In other words it is really all Groida's fault and he will pay dearly if things pan out as I fear. Final monitoring has been conducted prior to unleashing the iron monster on its first trial against solid rock.

Initial tests do not bode well. I subjected Mr Prendergast to psychological profiling, the results of which concern me greatly.

Q: "How do you get to Rhyl?"
A: "Duck tape across the shoulders, but you may develop a rash, Your Grace."
Q: "Who wrote Beethoven's Fifth Symphony?"
A: "Porridge, with plenty of Carnation and golden syrup please."

Stone the crows (or leap about, going "shoo" if the RSPCA are watching)!

The baleful leviathan is fired up in readiness and is currently struggling to release itself from a cocoon of anchor chains. I am almost hoarse from bellowing "it is very important that you calm down now" in what is proving to be a futile attempt to engage with its rudimentary intelligence.

Zero Hour approaches and you could cut the atmosphere with one of those nice cake slices with engraved handles you occasionally see in charity shops. Uncle Lucas is strangely quiet, staring fixedly into space. Groida is whistling a medley from "South Pacific" as he makes adjustment to the controls. Mordecai is hiding in the toilet.

Auntie Pamela has made us a hamper of Marmite sarnies, "cold cuts" (I didn't enquire) and some greasy fried things which smell like fish to sustain us as we keep vigil over the awesome lump's uncertain progress. I have augmented these with a secret supply of coconut ice, Love Hearts and Fry's Five Centre bars in order to keep up me energy levels, but don't tell the other greedy sods.

Well, sphincters clenched, here we go. If Big G dares to utter "it's alive" or "I am become the destroyer of worlds" I'll ram a bog roll down his windpipe!

Groida's Atomic Brain

I am swearing off eating fruit pastilles in bed. It isn't so much an issue of wind as my increasingly phantasmagorical dreams which I fear will eventually lead to me tiddling the mattress.

Last night, in the Realm of Zizz, I found myself abandoned at the St Austell Netto's checkouts, screaming for service as the staff locked up and turned off the lights. In the rapid movement of an eye, the floor parted to reveal an underwater city, from which Y Nauci 14, in amphibious mode, emerged ... with that dolt Groida at the keyboard playing "Ambrose, Ambrose" to the "Stingray" theme tune.

At least the sod had the decency to explode, something I wish he would mimic in the cold light of day. This side of the veil of dreams I am condemned to the company of grotesques and nincompoops. Groida is fitting an "atomic brain" to his automaton Mr Prendergast. Pull the other five! I bet he's pinched one of those electrical experiment kits from a toy shop and has supercharged it.

Uncle Lucas calls his nephew a "reckless nutter", which coming from him is high praise indeed, but I am reserving judgement (i.e. waiting for the inevitable fiasco). If the Master of Ineptitude brings mayhem and shame upon us (and possibly the ceiling as well) I shall tie him up in bungee cords and use him as a draught excluder! Watch this space ...

Yesterday's Mantis?

It has not escaped my attention that the previously loyal League of Ambrosians has been less than keen of late to express their appreciation of my efforts in word and misdeed. In short, you bunch of indolent herberts have buggered off in droves.

Have my wise pronouncements and audacious exploits become so mundane that you have all tired of them? Have I become "Ambrose One-Note", demoted in status to a minor league rotter?

I would remind you that it was I who led the raid on the Dorchester Hotel, when Groida blew off so magnificently in the dining room. I was responsible for getting the gig at the Royal College of Nursing's banjo marathon and played accompaniment on Y Nauci 14 for three whole days. And who was it saw off the ghastly Aznavour Quins back across the Channel?

I was going to try to get my memoirs in the shops for Xmas but now I'm wondering whether to bother, or just sod off to Hades on the harmonium. You'd better use me or else lose me, folks!

Yer loving but wounded Uncle Ambrose.

Most Daunted

Firstly I wish to apologise unreservedly to any punters at the Krazy Kernow tearooms who witnessed the disgraceful outburst of ire by Auntie Pamela at the weekend. We have no idea how she managed to obtain a taser but it has been confiscated. She claims she was intending to "do the Mormons" with it, and thus clearly thinks I was born yesterday. Even her glassy-eyed cavalier of a nephew was somewhat taken aback.

What with all the recent mallarkey, we have not been able to spread our mischievous tentacles as widely and to as large an audience as desired. I am bitterly disappointed that the Ambrose Posse couldn't put the wind up kilts at the Edinburgh Tattoo this year. Uncle Lucas has a wicked cartoon of a Lovecraftian abomination inscribed at the base of his sting, but that really isn't the same, is it? He also does an hysterical impersonation of Finlay Currie in "Ben-Hur". I seem to have wandered from the point somewhat.

As for all that supernatural carry-on last week, I knew it was all a conspiracy, of course; Mordecai in cahoots with that wretched knave Groida, fabricating all manner of marvels. The licorice "ectoplasm" under the lavvy door was quite ingenious but after being up to my knees in dolly mixture, jelly babies and Olde English Spangles the jape was starting to wear a little thin.

When I found the harmonium buried under a gargantuan pyramid of Ferraro Rocher, I decided enough was enough and confronted Bro. He proceeded to conjure up a vast yule log, with which I belted him in the thorax (after licking the caster sugar dusting, naturally) and told him to stop showing off.

Now perhaps we can get on with some real work, like excavating beneath the sea bed for our palace of fun. Mr Prendergast is fuelled up and ready to start tunnelling. Let's hope he doesn't go haywire, eh? That would be really awful ... 

Mystic Mordecai

Marvellous, isn't it? After a fortnight subjecting myself to the indignity of wearing a tzigane headscarf and earrings in order to relieve tourists of their readies, me bro has decided to muscle in on the scam.

It just isn't right. The windiest bugger in Team Ambrose when it comes to anything supernatural now claims he was visited in a dream by a bunch of incandescent wraiths called the "Secret Chefs", who have granted him a "psychic gift voucher" (valid until August Bank Holiday Monday, ha!), which permits him a dozen goes at spooky stunts as long as they involve foodstuffs.

What a carton of tosh! He's just jealous of my alter ego "Gypsy Ambrose Li" and wants to destabilise the whole setup. Okay, I'll challenge him to test his new powers by, say, replenishing my stock of fruit cocktail chews and pear drops with a wave of his hanky, or turning Groida into an arthropod version of Bertie Bassett. Mark my words, I'll have the cheeky sod wailing "I didn't mean it" before sundown.

Talking of the holiday weekend to come, readers may wish to take advantage of a special offer at the Krazy Kernow Tearooms. Punters will be able to ask for a second pot of tea and an extra plate of scones at half price (clotted cream and jam negotiable). Auntie Pamela may choose to ignore you or use bad language, but she has been given clear instructions not to strike out with her extendable baton.

Bloody hell, Mordecai has begun to levitate and his wings aren't whirring. He can cut that out for a start! Sorry, o public, but I am required to attend to a delicate situation once again. I'll try to bring him down with a thick rope.

Walrus Given Christian Burial in Hackney

The best headline in 48 hours or what? Anyway, now I've got your attention, listen to what yer Uncle Ambrose has to rant about today.

Holes. Everyone has at least a few and many of us will make lots of them in all sorts of things during our span on this good earth. So, what the bloody hell is wrong with me puncturing the hull of a a cargo ship with a few missiles?

The authorities are spoilsports. It isn't even as if that bane of modern society, health and safety, is an issue. The coastguard would pick up any survivors, that's what they are paid to do. There wouldn't be any financial consequences either. The Man from Del Monte wouldn't be out of pocket, his goods are insured.

This all smacks to me of prejudice. Mantids are victims of the glass ceiling syndrome (or cardboard mezzanine as Bro wittily calls it). We have a right to free speech and a bit of leisure just like any other strikingly tall insect and how we choose to express ourselves is our business. I am flipping cross. In fact, I am going out now in the harmonium to terrorise the shoppers in Padstow. I may be some time. Well, until Auntie P starts getting the tea ready, anyway.

Not a Scorcher

What is all this heatwave fuss about? It's as cool as a politician's handshake down here in the lower reaches of the tin mine ... er, I mean Kastell Ambrose. These conditions and lashings of Auntie P's refreshing (and mildly hallucinogenic) seaweed sorbet have allowed us to get on with our wizard schemes.

Uncle Lucas has eschewed the notion of adapting Y Nauci 14 for tunnelling under the sea in favour of securing JCB grabs to Mr Prendergast's arms. If you thought Groida was ham-clawed you should see the monstrous appendages on his hulking automaton.

Apparently it is feasible to run a loop off Groida's Xmas railway to service the Subsea Alhambra project. Excavation is scheduled to begin after the holiday season (working hols for Team Ambrose, of course). We are honour bound to demonstrate that tourists and their wealth are soon parted.

The Krazy Kernow Tearooms and Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie always rake in the dosh, especially by serving up disguised roadkill, short-changing and demanding tips with menaces. Plus we have a new fortune-telling scam, "Mystic Mordecai". Hehehe! No, he wouldn't do it. The poor sap would have nightmares. Looks like yours truly will have to raid the dressing-up box and play the part.

So much to do! I have also received intelligence that a bloody enormous Del Monte container vessel is due to pass us off The Lizard within the next week. Time for a bit of a practice on the harmonium, methinks.

The Wanderer Returns

So, Groida is sorry. That's all right then. Hang out the bunting. All he has to do is sign a "declaration of naughtiness" in the presence of Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela and yours truly can fade into the distance and bludgeon the pits and dents out of me outraged and misappropriated vehicle.

Perhaps I should embark on a misguided escapade of my own and see if I am welcomed back into the fold with a fatted calf or a large bag of Wilko pick 'n' mix. I would like to think that I would be more responsible than to tow back with me the rusting hulk of Mr Prendergast for reanimation. That way lies folly and I will remind you of my ominous prediction without an iota of glee when the chaos begins.

It is now too late to visit misery and panic on the grassy courts of SW19 but perhaps a bit of nefarious activity could be arranged at the Hampton Court flower show. After all, the sods rejected me tree sculpture, constructed entirely of short-dated cans of fruit cocktail and pie filling, claiming I wasn't "entering into the spirit of the event". 

I never intended selling off the stock to the punters. The organisers are snobs and rotten buggers to boot. The harmonium's turbines are strong enough to endure bird strike, so perhaps I could spray the contents of our septic tank over the proceedings whilst playing the theme to "The Archers". Wicked!

Calling All Ambrosians!

Well, the "Groida Jive" session was a dead loss. The bugger is still missing and so is me beloved Y Nauci 14.

We are now into the second week of Wimbledon and at this rate it looks as if the only action Team Ambrose is going to see in the immediate future is creating a nuisance when the Mayor opens the new public lavs.

In the mean time we must redouble our efforts to bring the insolent sweep to book. Auntie P favours obtaining information on his whereabouts from beyond the veil with a seance. Mordecai has firmly pooh-poohed this idea by hysterically wee-weeing himself.

The fool gets into a tizzy over anything vaguely supernatural. He doesn't even realise that "Most Haunted" is improvised comedy. While the rest of us are rolling around on the floor, shrieking with mirth as Valerie Simpleton and Larry Grayson on steroids try to communicate with moths and dust particles in Year One English, bro whimpers from behind the sofa.

However we effect Big G's capture, I will have him waxing the harmonium for months. I shall insist he use only the finest Scott Joplin piano rags, which I will stop out of his wages.

And now for the promised pizza recipe. I have donned me Zena Skinner Memorial pinny, so let's get started. Firstly, you will need some ingredients. Go to your local food bank, preferably wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and carrying a chair leg in a plastic carrier bag.

Hang on, do my lugholes deceive me? Those menacing, growling engines ...  approaching ... the explosions as the drogue chutes are deployed ... it's got to be ... excuse me, dear reader, I have to check this out!

Ambrose, Mordecai and ... Gone!

Anybody here seen me ole fiend Groida? Can you tell me where the sod is? He cheesed off a lot of people ...etc. Okay, I don't want to be sued by the publishers. I had enough threats to my person after suggesting new lyrics for "The Lost Chord".

If you are not familiar with the maudlin dirge "Abraham, Martin and John" (who they?), I suggest you look it up on the interwotsit. I intend to introduce a version with semaphore and get it performed across the nation in order to find the errant megascorpion. A sort of  21st century "Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree", if you like . Look it up, then!

I had intended asking Auntie P if she would divert from Rhyl on her way home and have a sniff around the Black Country in search of her nephew but (a) he is a pathological fibber and could very well be cooling his heels in Perthshire for all we know and (b) Uncle Lucas is as miserable as sin and pining for her. So I'll stick to me seriously clever plan.

On Wednesday, 26th of June at precisely midday, all Ambrosians and other interested parties across the world will do the "Groida Jive". The actions go as follows:

1)  "Has anybody here" - Open arms with palms to the sky (a sort of Gentile "oy vay", unless you are Jewish, of course).
2)  "Seen" - Bring a hand up to your brow as if shading your eyes to spy the horizon. Be careful not to karate chop the bridge of your nose. It will hurt.
3)  "My" - Arms crossed, open hands slapped against chest. Take care with this one, ladies.
4)  "Old" - Wobble a fist at your side as if feebly supporting yourself on a walking stick.
5)  "Friend" - Shake hands with yourself. Takes a bit of thought and practice. Not as easy as it first seems.
6)  "Groida" - Bring an arm up behind you and hook it over your head. Be sure to make the hand look as much like a sting as possible otherwise people will think you are signing "teapot".

That one line should suffice if repeated for, let's say, a quarter of an hour. Any longer and I might be inundated with compensation claims, so go a bit careful.  With a bit of luck we should have the renegade jackanapes and me purloined harmonium back in the tin mine by the weekend.

That concludes the Ambrosics class for today. Next time I'll have me chef's pinny on and will be showing you how to make a yummy "Sloppy Groida" pizza.

Groida, What ARE You Doing?!

I awoke in the wee small hours from what I assumed was a nightmare, involving Groida twocking the harmonium. Then reality kicked in. There is no mistaking those brutal rumbles and banshee wails as the turbines heave into life. My worst fears were confirmed when I found a note pinned to my candlewick bedspread. I only managed to stop crying about half an hour ago.

That crazed hobbledehoy has taken off in pursuit of his steam-powered "servitor golem", Mr Prendergast after receiving a text from one of his foolish contacts in the Midlands. If that wasn't bad enough, he has swiped my entire supply of Haribo, blaming me in the process for not having any barley sugar to quell his "travel tummy". That is a masterpiece of chutzpah, coming from Titanium Guts, who will probably stop off at every service station between Padstow and Walsall for a full English and anything wrapped in cellophane.

He wouldn't have dared pull a stunt like this if Auntie Pamela had been around as a controlling influence and to give him a nasty tweak. She is tarrying awhile round her sister's gaff (Annie is recuperating after an op for an ingrowing sting).

If that capricious guttersnipe prangs Y Nauci 14 during his mad mission, I will have him doing double shifts in the tearooms and the Chinese chippie for the rest of his natural. I had hopes of buggering up Royal Ascot some time this week but it looks as if Lieutenant Zero has put the mockers on that little scheme.

Then there is the matter of replacement confectionery. I don't like flying (the old wings aren't what they were) but it looks as if my only option is to hozz on down to Poundland to replenish me stock of sweeties. There is always the temptation to overspend in such enticing emporia, but normally I just crash through the shop window, startle the poo out of onlookers and make off with what I can.

Come home soon, Groida old lad. I still have a notion to make a brief, unwelcome but ultimately memorable appearance during Wimbledon fortnight and I need the motor.

Ennui Old Iron

Whatever happened to the great British summer, eh? I recall seemingly endless sun when I was wee, not the procession of dreary days we have to put up with now.

Don't mind me, I'm just fed up. I can't even practice on the harmonium as two of the Gatling guns are jammed. Normally I'd ask Uncle Lucas for a helping claw but he isn't speaking to me at present, just because I called him a sour-tempered old 'pod, which he is.

Auntie P is away, visiting her sister Annie in Rhyl. At least they've got a decent bloody pier over there. Groida is still rabbiting on about forming a concert party for the season and has been monitoring reported sightings of Mr Prendergast, his renegade automaton. If he drags that uncontrollable behemoth back here I'll dynamite the pair of them.

He reckons that if he can tame the thing, all he needs to do is swindle a few dowagers out of their fur coats, sew them together as a costume for it and hey presto, a novelty act. "Philip Blomsputum and His Amazing Dancing Yeti". With me passing the hat round, no doubt.

As for the dearth of suitable piers in Cornwall, bro Mordecai suggests extending one of the deeper mine shafts under Kastell Ambrose into a tunnel beneath the sea, where we could construct a "sub-aqua palace of varieties". I suppose I will have to bury the hatchet with Uncle Lucas if we are going to convert Y Nauci 14 into an excavator. Watch this space ..

The Up To No Good Companions

A number of me devoted followers have expressed their dismay at my failure to disrupt the Epsom Derby last Saturday. Allow me to explain that it was a decision taken after much soul-searching and in no way due to any dereliction of duty on my part.

I felt that as it was the centenary of the act of fatal self-sacrifice by Suffragette Emily Davison, I should withdraw from my annual act of mischief as a mark of respect. Also, "Wasps 'R' Us" have gone out of business. It would seem that such a noble beast, along with the hornet and the gnat, are no longer valued in a society of topsy-turvy values.

Groida has just pointed out that the Cornish bee may well turn out to be the saviour of our endangered planet. I wish he wouldn't waste his money on comics that stuff his confused bonce with such rubbish. I had to incinerate one such rag, entitled "New Scientist" only the other day, for his own good. Okay, also as an act of revenge for his persistent pilfering of me Werthers Originals, but that's neither here nor there.

He's had his unsavoury visage in a book by J. B. Priestly as well. I've warned him before about people with initials. We had all this malarkey with H. G. Wells last year. Now the feeble-minded pillock wants us to form a concert party and perform in an end-of-the-pier show.

A fat lot of good that would be in Cornwall. Looe, St Mawes, Newlyn, St Austell; they all just poke out into the sea a bit and that's that. I'm buggered if I'm going to shell out to build a theatre at the end of one of them, even if it could be used to launch Y Nauci 14 on covert nocturnal wrecking missions ...

Excuse me, I'm just going to get some lunch. I have an idea fermenting in me swede and I need some nourishment.

Told You So!

Well, that's the annual Eurovision humiliation over and done with. Auntie P is going about with a self-satisfied smirk on her fizzog. She is going to be impossible for the rest of the week, at the very least.

Just when I was beginning to think that the various Doctor Who's, like the polis, are getting ever younger, the BBC recruit the oldest actor yet in the grizzled form of John Hurt. Even Norman Hartnell wasn't that ancient when he hung up his Tardis to concentrate on the dressmaking.

So Uncle Lucas is in a mood now because he wasn't offered the role. I suggested he contact the Beeb and enquire if he could portray some ghastly monster which crawls out from under a rock. The cantankerous swine tried to pull my head off. There was no need for that.

Anyway, I must dash as Groida is making lunch. He doesn't actually know it yet, but I am sure I can persuade him with a cast iron ladle ...

Salad with Everything

Ye gods! A glimmer of sunshine and Auntie P is serving up the grub in shades and three pairs of Bermuda shorts. We've not been spared the ghastly garnish for a week now, irrespective of the dish concerned. Fish fingers, macaroni cheese even her latest unholy concoction, "liver goujons" (essentially the bits left after her ill-tempered removal of the gristly tubes) all festooned in greenery.

Mordecai quipped that if we were subjected to Szechuan faggots & Laverbread  it would be accompanied by half a tomato and a dollop of Aldi mayonnaise. I told him not to give her ideas. Anyway, as it appears we are rapidly reverting to winter, we will no doubt soon be feasting on turkey fritters and ancient mince pies.

Madam's swearing is catching up with Uncle Lucas's legendary Cambrian cursing. I reckon she is miffed at being passed over for the Eurovision gig in favour of Bonnie Tyler. Perhaps the rest of us should show solidarity by gatecrashing the event - literally - in Y Nauci 14, all weapons blazing.

Groida has given up the semaphore but is now speaking in rhyming couplets. Bloody show-off. I believe pulling off a major stunt will get us all working together again as a team, so I'll put on me thinking cap (i.e. lucky antennae socks) and dream up some escapade ...

Back to you soon, if I don't overdose on Rennies. Keep the faith!

Grumpy Old Mantis

Why do people think I'm a monster?  Strictly speaking, that should be a rhetorical question but I tried it out on the butcher this morning with bewildering results.  I reckon he's developed Mad Horse Syndrome. Weeping with mirth, he was, rolling around in the sawdust, holding his sides and rambling on about irony and calling me a dumb Yankee. He's clearly not all there if he fails to recognise a fellow Cornish accent.  He could have been pulling my legs, of course. Just to be on the safe side, from now on I'll buy me dripping and jars of chutney with the nice bits of gingham round the lid from Big Sainsbury's.  That'll teach the scrofulous, wall-eyed tyke.

Speaking of our American cousins, we finally got the skids under Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig, who has been deported back to the States. In some style, I may add; swathed in anchor chains in the hold of a specially converted super-tanker.  It was beginning to look as if we would have to dob her in to Immigration but she put herself back on the radar after peeling the roof off the St Austell branch of Wilkinson with the ease of removing the lid from a yoghourt pot.

I shall bring you up to date with all the goss from the tin mine after I've had a pot noodle and a snooze. Actually, I'll probably be back to you at the weekend. No point in exhausting myself.

Groida sends his regards, I think, but I can't be absolutely certain since he'd taken to communicating in a grotesque, improvised semaphore, utilising sand castle flags, telephone directories, sherbet fountains, Plessey welding rods and a grubby old face flannel. Now do you understand my reluctance to keep you lot informed?

"Or Sign In Via Facebook"

I have been a tad mischievous by infiltrating one of them "guru" twig-snuggling sects via Farcebook, using the identity of my literary agent. I reckon they are up to no good. At least I have temporarily deflected any retaliation.

Okay, there is nothing wrong with growing a beard (Auntie Pamela has developed a few wispy filaments on her lower mandible "due to her age"), however, when this bunch of weird sods instantly confirmed back to me all six of my shoe sizes I became mightily suspicious and on the defensive. Yep, the musical death machine is loaded and ready.

Trouble is, how do you target such celery-suckers in Wiltshire when they cover the landscape like sherbet after Groida has sneezed?  Even ramming Stonehenge on the flat would be a challenge for the harmonium and the booster rockets wouldn't get her up Glastonbury Tor. The best I could hope for would be doing minor punitive damage with the mortars and English Heritage might not be too pleased.

So, it is all down to the counter-terrorism sneakiness of Team Ambrose. I hope you appreciate all we are doing for you as you sit in front of your TV's, complacently sucking on your Findus chicken & bacon pancakes. Be careful out there, that filling is hot!

An Easter Miracle

Well, it would seem that it is possible to get through to my FB fans again. Unfortunately I've forgotten what I was going to say. I shall be in touch when I remember, or create some new outrage to report back.

By the way, Farcebook, stop that new ding-dong I am being plagued with every time I get an alert, or I'll be round with the harmonium, Gatling guns heavy with ammo. Yer Uncle A. xxx

Green Ops

Top marks for the new "Foyle's War". I am going to get a hat like his, although I'll have to make holes in it for my antennae.

I am thinking about setting the story for our forthcoming fillum in post-war Cornwall, including elements of Foyle, Wycliffe and Jonathan Creak. Yours truly would play a famous and heroic escapologist brought out of retirement to fight the forces of naughtiness and retrieve much-needed canned produce lost at sea during WW2 in my wonder-vehicle, for the good of our nation (with a 50% bounty, of course).

Cheryl The Frighteningly Large Earwig could be my fiesty assistant in a ginger wig and affecting a Scottish accent and Groida would be perfect filling the role of my arch-enemy, if he doesn't get a fit of the sulks.

Inspiration, or what?

Artistic Differences

If you want something done properly, do it yourself. Or at least delegate the task to a creature with more than two legs and half a brain.

The so-called creative folk who were supposed to be making a cinematic magnus opossum about "The Big A Gang - An Investigation" have turned out to be a bunch of subversive buggers. Even a simpleton like Groida twigged what was going on. You extrude the widdle from proud and very large insects at an astronomical cost.

We did over the Dorchester Hotel a few years back after a dispute regarding the bill, gave a spanking to that unwholesome nest of cheeky Aznavours shortly afterwards and broadcast to the world about it. You would have thought that would have been warning enough, but evidently not. Vengeance is on the cards and this time we shall ensure that all from Inuit to Eskimo are made aware of the wrath emanating from the furiously beating breast of Padstow.

The scheming rotters who attempted to con our eager crew into appearing in the fake fillum have been exposed as very naughty. They were after the Posse's most secret moments, their intentions to portray us as a gang of fraudulent, intimidating racketeers and wreckers of merchant maritime vessels.

I have the utmost faith in the just laws of this country, but failing that, I'll drag us out of the mire with bribes, threats or microscopic technicalities. Pull up the ladder Ambrose, the Green Feller's team are all right!

This hopelessly conceived project will be reborn as "Ambrose - The Movie" with the rousing legend "You Will Believe A Mantis Can Play The Harmonium". I can and you will. A few more container ships lost on the Lizard and the clapperboards with be going like crickets in summer!

Happy Ambrose Day!

Yes folks, today is declared the very firstest ever Ambrose Day. Festivities are already under way with the playful throwing of Vim and Eno liver salts (it was all we could come up with in the absence of powder paint). Groida is blowing Haribo sweeties out of a length of drain pipe and has managed to score a direct hit between Mordecai's peepers.

Auntie Pamela is boiling up a vast cauldron of curried liver and dumplings so there will be an exotic aroma and strange, squeaky melodies on the wind probably until past dawn.

This is a direct response to you humans and your insulting "Insect Days" when you let loose your unruly offspring in shopping centres across the land. If you want to see what really goes on when we let our antennae down, pop over to the tin mine for a real knees-up (all half a dozen of 'em in most cases). Bring a bottle of Tizer and some Findus pancakes for the fire ...

Green Light

Well, things are all set for the fillum. Auntie P's and Uncle Lucas's animosity towards the production team has evaporated, especially since they have been promised the opportunity to perform a dance number. I am not quite sure if the world is ready for two lumbering mega-scorpions attempting to emulate the graceful moves of Fred and Ginger but I suspect the results will be a high-scorer on YouTube for years.

Mordecai is displaying uncharacteristic shyness over the project, but I am confident he will give of his best once the cameras are rolling. If he wees himself, however, I may have to consider emigrating. I may also have to rein in Cheryl if she becomes overenthustastic and threatens to show us up. I will ensure Y Nauci 14 is loaded with some tranquiliser harpoons to be on the safe side

I'll work out what to do about Groida later. I've enough vexations to bring on a migraine as it is. He seems quite happy in his own little world and is best left there (as long as he is kept away from high voltages and explosives).

Unbeknownst to the producers, I have taken it upon myself to write the music for the fillum. When did you last hear a harmonium on a soundtrack? That should shift a few CD's and downloads. Ker-ching. Hehehe! I am working on the title song, loosely based on "The Lost Chord" by that celebrated pair Gilbert O'Sullivan and Jimmy Durante. I haven't decided whether to perform it myself or ask Auntie P, who sounds like a cross between Bonnie Tyler and a jet engine.

Keep tuned for more exciting news ...

A Star Is Green

It truly is an ill wind that blows no good, and I am not for once referring to Groida's toxic rectal emissions.

You may recall the unfortunate disturbances which broke out around our Xmas float in Padstow last year and I mentioned that it caught the attention of a TV crew. Well, it looks as if the Ambrose Posse is going to be the subject of a documentary fillum!

Negotiations are still in progress but some researchers have been over for a recce and were blown away by our new underground railway. Unfortunately they made the mistake of calling it a "ghost train" and now all three mega-scorpions refuse to communicate with them in anything but an outrageous and politically incorrect pidgin English. Anyway, as regular readers will be aware, there is a lot more to us than a "Duppy Choo-Choo".

The only downside is that after nearly convincing Cheryl to give herself up and be deported back to Texas, she now wants to hang on to bask in our fame (and no doubt spend the rest of her days over here like those other haggard Hoosiers; Michael Brandon, David Soul and Suzi Quatro).

Knowing me as you do, I guarantee tough terms and a bloody great wedge of royalties. Merchandising should bring in a few bob as well. It may even be worth my while dusting down the plans for an Ambrose dolly. Hopefully this one won't self-decapitate. Exciting times, eh?

No Spare Time, No Spare Limbs

Look, I'll write on Monday, Okay? Give me a break. I'm trying to stop Auntie Pamela from strangling Uncle Lucas, Mordecai has pranged the harmonium and Groida's croup is back. It is more than one mantis can cope with, never mind trying to maintain a journalistic career. Monday deadline. Honest insect!

Nanook of the South West

You humans are such a bunch of contemptible pantywaists. A few flakes of snow fall and you stock up your fallout shelters with Hovis and horse burgers as if the End of Days was nigh.

Me bro Mordecai was up at dawn for his daily constitutional and without a moment's hesitation threw himself head first into a deep carpet of snow. Admittedly, he didn't regain consciousness for some time after we dragged him back into the mine and burned a copy of Exchange & Mart under his nose, but at least  he had proved he wasn't going to change his routine due to a bit of weather.

Oh, yes. Happy new year. Apologies for disappointing my public with radio silence over the last  few weeks, but Cheryl sat on my laptop and Uncle Lucas has been a bit bolshie about wearing his DIY hat since his exhaustive spanner-thumping of the harmonium before Xmas.

Anyway, I'm up and running again so despair not, my people. I have some very exciting developments to relate to you shortly. Keep tuned in.

Groida is still getting mileage - literally - out of his train. He'll wear out the rails at this rate. The rest of us already have ear worm from him singing "Casey Jones, steaming and a-rolling'" etc at all hours of the day and night. I must have broken an entire hall of mirrors in a previous incarnation.