Inside the Bonces of Two Dangerous Creatures

Groida is off his cake, and I don't mean he has lost his appetite at tea time. I harboured doubts from the outset about him shoving a primitive computer into the swede of his mammoth tunnelling device, Mr Prendergast. What a foolish thing to initiate; the mad leading the mad.

As Executive Officer of Team Ambrose, I accept limited responsibility. In other words it is really all Groida's fault and he will pay dearly if things pan out as I fear. Final monitoring has been conducted prior to unleashing the iron monster on its first trial against solid rock.

Initial tests do not bode well. I subjected Mr Prendergast to psychological profiling, the results of which concern me greatly.

Q: "How do you get to Rhyl?"
A: "Duck tape across the shoulders, but you may develop a rash, Your Grace."
Q: "Who wrote Beethoven's Fifth Symphony?"
A: "Porridge, with plenty of Carnation and golden syrup please."

Stone the crows (or leap about, going "shoo" if the RSPCA are watching)!

The baleful leviathan is fired up in readiness and is currently struggling to release itself from a cocoon of anchor chains. I am almost hoarse from bellowing "it is very important that you calm down now" in what is proving to be a futile attempt to engage with its rudimentary intelligence.

Zero Hour approaches and you could cut the atmosphere with one of those nice cake slices with engraved handles you occasionally see in charity shops. Uncle Lucas is strangely quiet, staring fixedly into space. Groida is whistling a medley from "South Pacific" as he makes adjustment to the controls. Mordecai is hiding in the toilet.

Auntie Pamela has made us a hamper of Marmite sarnies, "cold cuts" (I didn't enquire) and some greasy fried things which smell like fish to sustain us as we keep vigil over the awesome lump's uncertain progress. I have augmented these with a secret supply of coconut ice, Love Hearts and Fry's Five Centre bars in order to keep up me energy levels, but don't tell the other greedy sods.

Well, sphincters clenched, here we go. If Big G dares to utter "it's alive" or "I am become the destroyer of worlds" I'll ram a bog roll down his windpipe!

Groida's Atomic Brain

I am swearing off eating fruit pastilles in bed. It isn't so much an issue of wind as my increasingly phantasmagorical dreams which I fear will eventually lead to me tiddling the mattress.

Last night, in the Realm of Zizz, I found myself abandoned at the St Austell Netto's checkouts, screaming for service as the staff locked up and turned off the lights. In the rapid movement of an eye, the floor parted to reveal an underwater city, from which Y Nauci 14, in amphibious mode, emerged ... with that dolt Groida at the keyboard playing "Ambrose, Ambrose" to the "Stingray" theme tune.

At least the sod had the decency to explode, something I wish he would mimic in the cold light of day. This side of the veil of dreams I am condemned to the company of grotesques and nincompoops. Groida is fitting an "atomic brain" to his automaton Mr Prendergast. Pull the other five! I bet he's pinched one of those electrical experiment kits from a toy shop and has supercharged it.

Uncle Lucas calls his nephew a "reckless nutter", which coming from him is high praise indeed, but I am reserving judgement (i.e. waiting for the inevitable fiasco). If the Master of Ineptitude brings mayhem and shame upon us (and possibly the ceiling as well) I shall tie him up in bungee cords and use him as a draught excluder! Watch this space ...

Yesterday's Mantis?

It has not escaped my attention that the previously loyal League of Ambrosians has been less than keen of late to express their appreciation of my efforts in word and misdeed. In short, you bunch of indolent herberts have buggered off in droves.

Have my wise pronouncements and audacious exploits become so mundane that you have all tired of them? Have I become "Ambrose One-Note", demoted in status to a minor league rotter?

I would remind you that it was I who led the raid on the Dorchester Hotel, when Groida blew off so magnificently in the dining room. I was responsible for getting the gig at the Royal College of Nursing's banjo marathon and played accompaniment on Y Nauci 14 for three whole days. And who was it saw off the ghastly Aznavour Quins back across the Channel?

I was going to try to get my memoirs in the shops for Xmas but now I'm wondering whether to bother, or just sod off to Hades on the harmonium. You'd better use me or else lose me, folks!

Yer loving but wounded Uncle Ambrose.