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