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.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, June 14, 2013
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 ..
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 ..
Saturday, June 8, 2013
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.
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.
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