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!
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