Firstly I wish to apologise unreservedly to any punters at the Krazy Kernow tearooms who witnessed the disgraceful outburst of ire by Auntie Pamela at the weekend. We have no idea how she managed to obtain a taser but it has been confiscated. She claims she was intending to "do the Mormons" with it, and thus clearly thinks I was born yesterday. Even her glassy-eyed cavalier of a nephew was somewhat taken aback.
What with all the recent mallarkey, we have not been able to spread our mischievous tentacles as widely and to as large an audience as desired. I am bitterly disappointed that the Ambrose Posse couldn't put the wind up kilts at the Edinburgh Tattoo this year. Uncle Lucas has a wicked cartoon of a Lovecraftian abomination inscribed at the base of his sting, but that really isn't the same, is it? He also does an hysterical impersonation of Finlay Currie in "Ben-Hur". I seem to have wandered from the point somewhat.
As for all that supernatural carry-on last week, I knew it was all a conspiracy, of course; Mordecai in cahoots with that wretched knave Groida, fabricating all manner of marvels. The licorice "ectoplasm" under the lavvy door was quite ingenious but after being up to my knees in dolly mixture, jelly babies and Olde English Spangles the jape was starting to wear a little thin.
When I found the harmonium buried under a gargantuan pyramid of Ferraro Rocher, I decided enough was enough and confronted Bro. He proceeded to conjure up a vast yule log, with which I belted him in the thorax (after licking the caster sugar dusting, naturally) and told him to stop showing off.
Now perhaps we can get on with some real work, like excavating beneath the sea bed for our palace of fun. Mr Prendergast is fuelled up and ready to start tunnelling. Let's hope he doesn't go haywire, eh? That would be really awful ...
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