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!
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