I shall reproduce in its entirety the pathetic, scrawled note I discovered stuffed into one of my favourite socks:
"Dear Mishter Ambrose. I seen the thing your after it made a big hole in a place called the midlands but excaped to germany in a sudmarine. Please send me lots of crates of fruit salad in light syrup, loganberry pie filling, sago pudding, banana custard, babies chocolate desert, mackrel fillets in curry sauce, garlic spam and prunes in natural juice (for a needy friend in scotland). And how about those boxes of sweetys you keep hidden away in shaft numbah 4. Give to groida for safe keeping."
Why does he do it? To annoy me or is he really so deranged that he honestly believes he can pull off a scam like this? I suppose it is the mark of a fool that he considers all others his intellectual inferiors.
One thing is for certain, I am not going to let this insolent bane of my life (I have always considered his eyes too close together for him to be trusted) subvert the efforts of the rest of the posse as we strive to resolve a crisis.
If this isn't bad enough, someone has been fiddling with the harmonium's keyboard. The arming sequences for the two doomsday weapons (the Boiling Pedal and Gramercy Bomb) are known only to me, but I have found chopstick splinters, suggesting the inquisitive and unauthorised tinkering of some reckless bugger.
This is serious stuff. I warn you, if I get even a twitch of somebody out there sniggering I will descend upon you in a jet black strop.
Will no one rid me of this troublesome mega-scorpion? Perhaps a bounty (okay, contract) is the answer. Sod Mr Prendergast for the moment, let's deal with Big G first. Plenty of canned comestibles still available for the right candidate!
Great title, eh? Yep, it's up and on the move again. Surfaced from beneath the pedestrian precinct of a shopping centre in Farnborough and as I write, threatens to lay waste to an example of urban blight that should have been razed to the ground years ago.
I am not getting involved; laissez faire I believe is the expression. Rather like watching a disaster unfold on the TV news. Or picking at a scab. Besides which, our task force is hors de combat (more impressive sounding eurobabble). Groida has fallen over and hurt himself. Diddums. Isn't it suspiciously fortunate that the Emperor of Inadequacy should graze all his knees just as heroic effort is required? Oh dear, the tube of Germolene has mysteriously disappeared.
I wouldn't recommend him for a job polishing the urinals at the Florence Nabbles Oompah Academy (and didn't; my vitriolic reference was a masterpiece of sarcasm and character assassination). The rest of our merry band are laid up with wobbly tummies after sampling Auntie P's first batch of Xmas puds. Not my good self, of course. Once poisoned, twice shy.
My only regret is not running a book on where our iron numpty would next emerge from the Earth's crust. Lack of corporate sponsorship was another failure of forward thinking, but I can't be held responsible for all policy decisions when I have such a dysfunctional crew to deal with.
Yet it may not be too late. If the unruly automaton digs in again, I urge you to be vigilant. Should it explode like a mad mole from the sod at a location near you, get in touch and you may be eligible for a prize. I am sure you would relish a large consignment of canned fruit, near to or just past its sell-by date. Registration pledges in Krugerrands or luncheon vouchers, please.
"Where in the World is Mr Prendergast?" may be a copyright infringement but it is snappy and to the point. Keep 'em peeled!
