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!