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!
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