It is with great pleasure
that I today announce that
Felchem hall is the winner
of a prestigious award. I
myself have known about this
for several weeks but have
been sworn to secrecy whilst
the final decision was being
made. I am proud to Say that
the Felchem Hall Petting Zoo
was chosen as the best
outdoor children's visitor
attraction 2013 by the Best
in Britain Awards. The
judges were impressed with
the range of animals at the
zoo and the fact that we
have a gorilla, albeit a
stuffed one. Winning this
award has made me very
happy, especially as the
kudos of winning a title
such as this will get the
punters flocking to the
house to hopefully spend
vast sums of money.
I suppose at this point I
should clarify a few things.
Firstly when I say I won
this award what I suppose I
should have really said is
that I bought the right to
use the title. My good
friend and old school chum
Bunty Forbes-Grainger
happens to be one of the
board members at the Best in
Britain Awards Foundation.
He asked me if I would be
interested in 'winning' a
major award for Felchem
Hall. Of course I jumped at
the chance, although Bunty
informed me that his fee to
orchestrate this would be
£2900
This is where I come to my
second point. You may
remember that in my last
update I informed you all of
the fact that Bunty and I,
managed with your help to
raise £3000 for the
Mad
Minge March charity.
Thanks to some
creative accounting I
managed to 'win'
the award and
still donate some money to
good causes, so nobody has
lost out.
I hope that if you kindly
made a donation to Mad Minge
March, you will be pleased
that your hard earned cash
has been well spent.
October 2013
No Turkish Delight
Welcome back to another
of my blog updates. Sorry it
has been a while but I've been
away on holiday you see. I
thought I'd take the plunge,
so to speak and book one of
those package holidays for
myself. As the old house has
been raking the money in due
to my past efforts opening up
the place to the public, I
thought a well-deserved break
would do me the world of good.
I thought long and hard as to
where I could go for my
well-earned holiday; my first
thought was Spain, but there
are too many British chavs
there for my liking. After
doing some basic research
looking at brochures, I came
to the decision that Turkey
would be my best choice.
So, two days later, bags
packed I set off to the
airport. This is where it all
started to go wrong, my
transport to the airport was
scheduled to pick me at 8am
sharp, I should have realised
the driver would be late. When
the dishevelled little old
runt finally arrived, he came
up with some feeble excuse
about being held up in
traffic. Not only was he late,
but the 'executive limo' he
turned up in was a clapped-out
twenty-three-year-old Skoda
with bald tyres. Great, I
thought, this is a fantastic
start to my holiday as we
headed to the airport with
white smoke billowing out the
back of the taxi. If only I'd
realised at the time; that
this was just the start of
many disasters to come, I
would have demanded the
terrible driver did a U-turn
and drive me home there and
then.
My driver, 85 year old Percy
Wilkins. This old git
shouldn't be on the road.
Unbelievably, I actually made
it to the airport on time.
After a harrowing four-hour
drive at speeds reaching a
mindboggling 80mph at some
points, the driver unloaded my
trunk and cases from the
rusting 'executive limo',
stood in front of me with his
hand stretched out and said,
"tip please gov". Of course, I
was having none of this and
told him to, well, shall we
say, go away and procreate
with himself.
As I haven't travelled abroad
for many years, my
disappointment of the check-in
and security process at the
airport was, shall we say, not
the greatest experience of my
life. For a start, I didn't
appreciate having to stand in
a queue filled with noisy
chavs all shouting at the top
of their voices in excited
anticipation of their shitty
little holidays. When I
finally got to the front of
the check-in desk, another
problem surfaced. It turns you
are no longer allowed to take
firearms onto a flight. All I
wanted to do was take my
shotgun away with me as a good
friend of mine; Bunty
Forbes-Grainger informed me
that Turkey has some excellent
sporting shoots. I was really
looking forward to blasting a
few animals, but sadly the gun
was confiscated, but not
without one hell of an
argument from me I hasten to
add. The girl behind the desk
was in tears by the time I'd
had my say, plus the long line
of arrogant passengers stood
behind me were not in the
least bit patient either. I
certainly didn't appreciate
being called a 'posh twat'
Five hours after my arrival at
the airport we were in the sky
heading for the sun. Now, I
don't know if you've flown
abroad lately but I was
shocked how people are crammed
into aircraft these days, plus
their behaviour was appalling
too. The lady (and I say lady
in its loosest sense) sat
beside me thought it was a
good idea to change her
illegitimate baby's nappy
right there on her seat beside
me. The awful smell of the
child's liquid effluent left
me feeling somewhat bilious to
say the least. If that were
not enough to put a negative
on the whole flight
experience, the entire
aircraft seemed to be full of
screaming brats and their even
louder, drunk parents. The
last time I flew abroad,
albeit a long time ago I was
treated to a five-course meal.
Sadly, not this time though,
all I was offered on this
flight was an extortionately
priced, stale cheese sandwich
and a packet of charred animal
flesh I presume was meant to
be pork scratchings.
Four and a half hours later we
made our somewhat bumpy
landing in Turkey. From
reading what's in the papers
these days I wouldn't be
surprised if the pilot was
drunk. Anyhow, I made it there
in one piece. After a somewhat
fraught process of collecting
my luggage we were cleared by
customs and on our way to the
hotel, another three-hour
journey by road in a knackered
old minibus with no air
conditioning that looked as if
it had just come back from a
war zone.
On arriving at the alleged
five-star hotel, (that I
cannot name for legal reasons)
I tried to check-in to my
room. I should have realised
that this part of the holiday
wouldn't go smoothly. The
arrogant women on reception
had no record of my booking,
she said; in some sort of
broken English that luckily,
they had one room left in the
hotel but I'd have to pay
extra. Brilliant, I thought to
myself, this holiday is going
really smoothly. After an
argument that lasted in the
region of half an hour the
hotel manager grudgingly found
me a room in his ambitiously
awarded five-star hotel. When
I eventually found my room in
the rather grubby
establishment I was shocked to
discover the state of the
place. The bed sheets were
covered with human hairs and
stains that looked
suspiciously like urine or
semen, but probably both. The
bathroom was another story;
there was a disgusting smell
of raw sewage in the place,
the floor was swarming with
ants and the bath had shit
stains in it. To make matters
worse when I explored my
'deluxe' room further, I found
a used condom and several dead
cockroaches in the mini-bar
fridge.
Just look at the state of my
bed. Are those urine or
semen stains?
The next day after eating
something the hotel staff
ambitiously described as
breakfast, I went back to
reception to complain about
the state of my room. I spoke
to the hotel manager who
assured me that there were no
rats in his hotel. Rats, I
thought to myself, I didn't
even mention seeing a rat.
Mind you, he probably had a
point, looking at the state of
the place; no self-respecting
rat would be seen dead in his
establishment.
my 'luxury' bathroom -
disgusting.
Later that morning I thought
I'd investigate the hotel
facilities. The hotel brochure
describes the place as having
a 'luxury pool and bar area'.
I changed into my safari suit
and headed down to
investigate. I can confirm
that yes, the hotel does
indeed have a pool and bar
area, but luxury is not a word
I'd use to describe it,
especially after I looked into
the murky waters of the pool
and saw a used condom floating
on the surface; no doubt a
waste product of a scumbag's
late-night encounter. The pool
area was crammed full of noisy
tattooed chavs most of whom
were drunk and this was just
after ten in the morning. I
had some really rude looks and
comments from people as I
walked around the pool area in
my safari suit looking for a
vacant sun lounger, some
people can be so unpleasant.
Now don't get me wrong, I
appreciate a well-rounded
breast like any heterosexual
man, but some of the sights
around the pool were hideous.
I felt bad enough from
enduring breakfast, but seeing
women who were severely
overweight and clearly in
their seventies squeezed into
tiny bikinis was just too much
for my delicate stomach to
bear.
My bath - complete with shit
stains.
After enduring the sights and
sounds of the pool area for a
few hours, I decided enough
was enough and retired to my
room. Later that evening I
changed into my dinner suit
and headed down to the
restaurant for my evening
meal. I must admit I was in a
state of shock when I entered
the restaurant as I was
brought up to always dress for
dinner. Now I realise that a
grubby hotel restaurant full
of greedy chavs probably
wouldn't be dressed for
dinner, but at least they
could have made some sort of
effort. Most of these people
were still dressed in swimwear
for goodness sake. To make
matters even worse, some of
these cretins were openly
laughing at me just because I
could be bothered to make the
effort to dress in the
appropriate manner.
After sitting at my table for
about twenty minutes, drinking
a glass of something the hotel
ludicrously described as wine,
waiting for the waiter to
arrive and take my order, it
suddenly dawned on me that
this was a buffet style
restaurant. Now I don't know
if you've ever experienced
dinning like this before but I
couldn't help but notice that
the chefs are always hanging
around the food areas fishing
for compliments about their
dubious looking dishes from
easily impressed guests, whose
idea of fine dining is eating
chicken nuggets with a knife
and fork.
I walked along the rows of
terrible looking food to try
and find something edible. I
thought I'd give the starter a
miss as it looked like some
sort of revolting white gloop
masquerading as soup. When one
of the smug looking chefs
informed me, that this was a
delicacy in his country and I
should try it. I polity told
him that in my country we
don't eat something that looks
as though it's been ejaculated
by a horse. So, starter
avoided, I thought I'd see
what other gastronomic
delights awaited me. Now, what
to try as a main course I
thought to myself. The first
dish in the long row of
unappetising looking offerings
looked like some sort
invertebrate languishing in
its own juices. I can only
assume it was some sort of
boiled octopus on a bed of
noodles or some such nonsense.
My next, and as it turns out
only other choice of main meal
looked like some sort of
animal's limb in what I can
only assume was meant to be
gravy. I beckoned the chef
over to ask him what exactly
what this rather dubious
looking offering was made
from. "Meat" he said with a
proud look on his face. "Yes,
I'm perfectly aware that this
is supposedly meat, but what
sort of meat is it" I asked.
"Animal meat" he said. By this
time, I really couldn't be
bothered to find out exactly
what it was, so took the
dreadful looking meal back to
my table. As you can imagine,
I didn't eat much of it.
Seeing people walking around
that restaurant with plates
piled high with food I'm not
surprised that so many people
are obese these days. Their
table manners are non-existent
too; I've never seen so many
chicken nuggets, crammed into
so many fat faces, so quickly.
Some sort of octopus soup.
Absolutely disgusting.
This was the
best meal on offer for
dinner, and lunch as it
happens. Some sort of
unidentifiable meat dish.
The next morning, I awoke
early with terrible stomach
pains. I rushed to the
bathroom and had a bout of
explosive diarrhoea of a
magnitude like nothing I've
ever experienced before.
Whatever was in that meal I
had the night before
definitely didn't agree with
me. I thought about
complaining to the hotel
manager about the inevitable
state of the rat-infested
kitchen, but this would of
course fallen on deaf ears.
In what seemed like the
longest week of my life, my
disastrous holiday finally
came to an end. It wasn't all
bad news though, as I did
manage to have my way with a
couple of fillies and the
hotel chambermaid. Please
don't let reading this put you
off going to Turkey for your
holiday, as I'm sure there are
some great hotels to be found
there. I just happened to make
a rather ghastly choice.
Cheery pop for now
March
2014
Is that
wedding bells I hear?
Welcome to my latest blog
update. Things have been
going relatively well at
Felchem Hall lately. I’ve
finally got over the
disappointment of my
bloody dismal holiday and
my petting zoo and other
on-site attractions have
been raking in lots of
money in for me.
Regular readers may have
noticed that, although I
am probably one of the
most eligible bachelors in
the country, I have never
married. Yes, I’ve had my
fair share of fillies in
the past, that’s for sure.
I must have bedded
literally thousands of
lucky ladies over the
years, but I have
never bitten the bullet,
so to speak and tied the
knot. Things could be set
to change though as I have
met a beautiful,
veracious, and not to
mention very wealthy woman
- Lady Henrietta Sydenham
- de Nork. I suppose at my
time of life I should
really settle down and get
married as I’m not getting
any younger, plus I have
many debts and Henrietta
is bloody loaded.
Lady Henrietta
Sydenham - de Nork
I’ll be the first to admit
that she’s no oil painting
or spring chicken for that
matter, she is 89 after all,
well, they do say that
love is blind. We met at
the recent annual Felchem
Hall Ball. I suppose that
I should really say that
our eyes met across a
crowded dance floor, but
I’m afraid I’d be lying.
No, my good chum Bunty
Forbes–Grainger tipped me
off that she had recently
been widowed; apparently
her late husband was
killed in a horrifying
skiing accident. What on
earth a 98 year old man
was doing skiing down the
side of a steep mountain
in Switzerland is
anybody’s guess, but there
you go. Due to his rather
grizzly demise (I hear he
was decapitated after
hitting a tree) Lady
Henrietta was looking for
a new wealthy husband.
I
made my advances, gave her
the old Snuffington-Smith
charm, had a romantic
dance with her and
proposed to her there and
then. To my amazement she
accepted my proposal
immediately; the old magic
is still there I thought
to myself. The next
morning it suddenly dawned
on me that the daft old
bitch must have assumed
that as I was hosting the
ball at Felchem Hall, that
I must be very rich and
therefore a perfect match
for her. Unfortunately
looks can be deceptive,
I’m up to my bloody
eyeballs in debt, as
turning the house and
gardens into a tourist
attraction didn’t come
cheap. I wasn’t planning
to marry her for her good
looks and youthful joie de
vivre that’s for sure. No,
I’m not ashamed to admit
that this wedding was not
made in heaven, but was
purely a money making
exercise. I’m hoping that
the decrepit old dear will
pop her clogs very soon,
if not, I’ll have to do
something about, if you
know what I mean?
April
2014
At last I tie the knot
I am delighted to announce
that Lady Sydenham - de
Nork has taken my hand in
matrimony. We were married
last week in low-key
ceremony at Felchem Hall
and my best man was of
course my old chum and
confidant Bunty
Forbes-Grainger. With the
main formalities done and
dusted and vast quantities
of champagne and canapés
consumed the eventful day
came to an end. It was at
this point in the
proceedings that Bunty
reminded me of my other
marital responsibilities.
He tried to tell me in a
rather inebriated whisper
that instead came out of
his intoxicated mouth as a
pissed toff shouting at
the top of his voice in
front of other guests and
dignitaries that the
marriage had to be
consummated that very
evening. Dam it! I thought
to myself I’d completely
forgotten that I’d have to
actually have sex with the
old dear. Oh well, I
thought, a woman of her
age wouldn’t be the least
bit interested in anything
like that at her age and
instead would just like to
settle down for an early
night tucked up in bed
with a cup of coco and a
Barbara Cartland novel.
How wrong could I be? I’ve
never known anything like
it, the daft old coffin
dodger practically raped
me. I had no idea that a
woman of her age could
have such a strong sex
drive. Now, I don’t know
if you’ve ever tried to
prise open and eat a
week old tuna sandwich
you’ve found in the
back of your
refrigerator, but
that’s the closest
thing I can think of
to describe having
oral sex with her. I
don’t want to dwell
too much on our sex
life, as it makes me
feel rather bilious to
say the least, but
suffice to say, the
next morning I found
something in my
moustache that looked
suspiciously like
dandruff mixed with
earwax.
The
'happy' couple. Our
wedding day
I’ve been very busy since
my wedding day trying to
come up with a cunning
plan to bump my darling
wife off and inherit her
vast fortune. Poison? a
nasty fall down the
stairs?, or maybe a
Skiing holiday. The first
thing I need to do, is
persuade her to change her
will, I’ll have to turn on
the charm for that one
that’s for sure. I’ll let
you know how I get on in
my next update.
June 2015
A rather nasty 'accident'
Regular readers of my blog
will notice that in my last
update I became a married man
for the first time. Lady
Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork
became my wife in a low-key
ceremony held at Felchem Hall
last April. It soon became
very apparent that she had
made the assumption that as I
live in a vast house,
surrounded by acres of grounds
containing a petting zoo,
health spa and gift shop that
I would be extremely wealthy
and would therefore be a good
catch. This could not be
further from the truth
however, as I have mentioned
on this blog on numerous
occasions that running an
estate of this size does not
come cheap.
Unfortunately, soon after we
were married things started to
go downhill very rapidly. I
made the bold assumption that
she would be extremely
wealthy, and as it turns out
she also had the same idea
about me. Our relationship was
doomed from the start; I’d
rather not dwell too much on
her insatiable sexual demands,
but suffice to say, just
thinking about keeping her
satisfied in the bedroom
department makes me feel
rather bilious to say the
least. Her Sexual appetite was
voracious, seeing her dressed
in lingerie was an unbearable
sight. On one occasion she
staggered into the bedroom
with a glass of champagne in
one hand and a whip in the
other. Her vain attempt to
look seductive backfired
disastrously, as the ghastly
sight of a pissed, half naked
ninety year old woman with
varicose veins sticking out
from her stockings that looked
like an octopus stuck in a
fishing net, didn’t exactly
get me in the mood for a night
of sexual pleasure I can tell
you.
Our excruciating sex life
aside, my main concern
regarding our doomed marriage
was the fact that she was
spending my money like it was
going out of bloody fashion.
I’ve never known a woman buy
so many designer clothes,
shoes, handbags and other
hideously expensive
accessories. I foolishly
assumed that she was using her
own money to buy all this
overpriced rubbish, but no, it
was my hard earned cash she
was spending. As I am writing
this blog entry, my latest
credit card statement is
sitting on my desk next to me.
It brings tears to my eyes
just looking at it I can tell
you. I don’t want to tell you
the exact sum, but let’s just
to say it runs into tens of
thousands of pounds. I’d had
my reservations from the start
that she was after my money,
but the final straw came when
I found her in the library of
Felchem Hall rifling through
my documents with the deeds of
the house in her withered
little hands. I was absolutely
enraged to see her sitting
there with a devious look on
her shrivelled old face. I’m
not ashamed to say that; yes,
I did strike her about the
face. I’ve always said to
myself that I would never hit
a lady, but in her case, I
think I made a rather well
justified exception.
When she finally regained
consciousness, I pulled her up
from the floor and shoved her
into a chair. I gently
persuaded her (at gunpoint) to
change her will, making me
sole beneficiary. As you can
imagine she wasn’t really in a
fit state to argue the point
as she was obviously suffering
from severe concussion,
anyhow, she signed without any
objections. Later that
evening, after I’d had the
chance to cool down and regain
my composure, I came up with a
rather cunning plan for her
demise.
You may remember that in a
previous blog entry, I
described how the Wankmangles;
the appalling family of
builders I appointed to
construct my health spa, made
a right bloody hash-up of the
whole project. Of the hundreds
of blunders they made, they
somehow managed to fit a lock
on the sauna door back to
front. A mistake that to this
day has not been rectified.
This gave me a great idea of
how I could get rid of my
scheming wife forever.
A day after my brainwave I
invited my darling wife to
join me in the spa for a
romantic sexual rendezvous. Of
course, the mad old
insatiable bitch jumped
at the chance. I’m sure the
sight of her arrival at the
health spa, wearing a rather
revealing, lurid pink bikini
covered in rhinestones,
probably put a few of the
regulars off their lunches,
but this couldn’t be helped as
I needed my cunning plan to
work. I handed her a bottle of
chilled champagne, told her to
undress and get into the
sauna. As soon as she was
inside I poured a bucket of
water over the red-hot coals
and slammed the wooden door
shut. I then turned the
outside temperature controller
up to the maximum setting of
eleven. Thankfully this was
something the wankmangles had
managed to fit correctly. I
must admit that the sight of a
naked ninety year old woman
hammering on the door of a
sauna, screaming at the top of
her voice, desperately trying
to get out was a pitiful
sight. For what seemed an age
she writhed around in agony,
slowly boiling to death. After
approximately thirty five
minutes the devious old cow
was dead.
My wife enters
the sauna for the final time
A
couple of minutes later it
suddenly dawned on me that I
would have to now get rid of
the body. Thinking quickly I
telephoned my old school chum
and confidant Bunty
Forbes-Grainger. I explained
to him my rather sticky
situation and luckily he came
up with a rather splendid
solution to my predicament. He
told me, that for a fee of
£1000 he could clear up the
whole mess and save me a
bloody fortune on an
extortionate funeral to boot.
Later that evening, under the
cover of darkness, Bunty
turned up with a couple of
dubious-looking characters who
proceeded to drag the boiled
corpse out of the still
steaming sauna and strap it
onto the roof of a Land Rover.
I must admit that the sight of
my late wife’s dishevelled,
reddened and blistered body
was a pitiful sight. The heat
build-up in the sauna must
have been enormous as the
steam had even melted her wig
and welded itself onto her
hideous craggy old face. Bunty
beckoned me to get into the
vehicle and we made our way
the short distance to the
estate petting zoo. I
curiously asked Bunty why he
had taken us and our rather
unconventional cargo to the
animal enclosure. At this
point I realised why his
shrewd plan had been so
clever. As his two henchmen
untied the still warm corpse
from the roof of the Land
Rover, Bunty explained that
the only sure way to get rid
of all the evidence would be
to feed my dear wife to the
petting zoo pigs. Yet again,
my old friend was there to
save my bacon so to speak. The
two thugs lifted the cadaver
up and rather unceremoniously
tipped it into the pigsty. The
ravenousness porkers tucked in
immediately, the sight of half
a dozen greedy pigs gnawing
into my wife’s hideous body
was not a pretty sight, I must
admit. I could look on no
longer as the sound of a pig’s
powerful jaws crunching
through her skull was starting
to make me feel rather bilious
to say the least.
The Felchem
Hall Petting Zoo pigs tuck
into the remains of my dear
lady wife
A
few days later, her absence
had started to be noticed by
many friends and staff; I had
to make-up some rather awkward
excuses to explain her
whereabouts I can tell you.
Inevitably, in the end the
police were called and of
course it was up to me to
explain her rather sudden
disappearance. Luckily I
managed to be exonerated from
any blame as the chief
constable and the coroner
investigating the whole messy
business happen to be good
friends of mine.
A few weeks after this whole
nasty affair blew over I was
summoned by my late wife’s
solicitor to hear the reading
of her will. What a bloody
waste of time that was. It
turns out the scheming bitch
was not as wealthy as I
thought. She only left me a
few hundred pounds and her
collection of ostentatious
fake jewellery.
Many people have asked me what
I’ve learned from this rather
nasty ordeal, well that’s easy
– None of those animal rights
do-gooders can accuse me of
feeding my pigs with a
non-organic diet, plus, my
darling wife got to see her
90th birthday.
Now this whole messy
business is over I’m in the
process of looking for a new
wife. If you would like to
be considered for this
prestigious position, please
send your application,
stating your net worth and a
recent photograph of
yourself in a stamped
addressed envelope to:
Major Henry
Snuffington-Smith
Potential Spouse Material
Felchem Hall
Little Shyting
BA8 7EP
July 2015
The circus comes to town.
Welcome
to my blog update for July.
Regular followers of my blog
will know that in my last
update I explained all about
my disastrous first marriage
to Lady Henrietta Sydenham -
de Nork. I won’t go into
anymore detail about that
calamity, but as you may know
I did finish my update by
saying that I’m in the process
of finding a new lucky lady to
take my hand in matrimony. I
would like to take this
opportunity to thank all of
the many applicants who sent
me their submissions. Many of
the pictures and descriptions
I received ranged from the
downright strange to the
totally bizarre. Shown below
are a few of the weirdest mug
shots I received through the
post. As you may have already
guessed by these peculiar
photographs I’ve been sent,
I’m still looking for that
special woman.
Here's just a
small selection of hideous
candidates who thought
themselves worthy of being
my wife
Due to my late wife’s
extravagant spending habits
money is yet again in short
supply here at Felchem Hall.
The debts are again mounting
up, so I’ve had to come up
with ideas to get the money
rolling in once more. I
telephoned my old chum Bunty
Forbes-Grainger to see if he
had any good ideas for an
event I could hold at the Hall
to raise some desperately
needed cash. As it turned out,
he said he had contacts in the
entertainment industry and
knew of a travelling circus
that would be in the local
area over the summer.
Brilliant I thought to myself;
the circus - The smell of the
greasepaint and candyfloss,
the smiles on children’s faces
as they are enthralled by
clowns, performing animals and
acrobats in the big top. I
told Bunty to get this sorted
for me immediately. He
explained that for a fee of
£1000 he could get it
organised for me and get the
necessary contracts signed
etc. So, later that week the
circus arrived at Felchem
Hall.
It quickly dawned on me that
my romantic notion of the
circus was an ill-conceived
one. I’ve never seen anything
like it; the circus has
definitely changed a lot since
I was a child that’s for sure.
What a strange, dishevelled
bunch of misfits that tuned up
that day, I’ve never witnessed
anything like it to be honest.
At first I thought the estate
had been invaded by hordes of
gypsies, as the convoy of
scruffy caravans and trailers
full of foul-smelling animals
that piled into the grounds,
towed by vans emitting thick
black smoke was a down
heartening sight. It wasn’t
just the unhealthy looking
animals crammed into cages on
the back of rusting old
trailers that stank. The human
element of the whole ensemble
weren’t exactly sweet-smelling
I can tell you.
The circus rolls into the
grounds of Felchem Hall
As yet another wreck of a
truck raced onto the estate
and tore up the manicured
lawns. The driver of the badly
maintained looking vehicle
climbed out from behind the
steering wheel, slammed the
rusty door shut, wiped his
sweaty brow with an oily rag
and sauntered over to
introduce himself whilst
swigging a can of beer. As I
shook his filthy hand he told
me his name was Chodbin
Rankcock, owner of the circus
and ringmaster. The first
thing that struck me, apart
from the awful smell, was his
rather unusual name. I
enquired as to how his name
came about. “It’s an old gypsy
name guv, the Rankcocks have
been in the circus business
for hundreds of years” I might
have bloody guessed! -
Gypsies!. “Well yes, that
explains a lot” I told him
with a rather sarcastic look
on my face. What on earth have
I got myself into here I
thought as Mr Rankcock
proceeded to relieve himself
in a nearby bush.
Chodbin Rankcock,
owner of the circus and
ringmaster
A few hours after their
unforgettable arrival, the
circus troupe started to get
everything setup. The big top
was erected and the hordes of
noisy stinking animals were
decanted from their cramped
cages on the trucks to a
cramped enclosure on the
circus field. The whole event
very nearly came to an abrupt
halt though as an irate farmer
from an adjacent farm had seen
this lot of undesirable
oddballs turn up and proceeded
to fire shots at the caravans
with his shotgun, as he
thought the area had been
invaded by gypsies. As it
turned out, he wasn’t too far
off the mark. I had a lot of
explaining to do to I can tell
you, as the situation very
nearly spiralled out of
control. It seems the circus
people were also well armed
and only too eager to shoot
back. The farmer, Cyril Kringe
and his son Jethro are
not the sort of inbred morons
you mess with. The skirmish
lasted for about half an hour
before the police turned up
and put an end to proceedings.
How nobody was killed or badly
injured in the resulting
shootout I’ll never know.
Luckily the only damage done
was a few of the caravan
windows were shot out in the
gunfight. Well, I’m guessing
that’s what happened as the
bloody things were in such a
state to start off with, it
was difficult to tell.
I was being interviewed about
the circus by a local radio
station at the time and they
managed to pick up the sounds
of the gun battle. You can
hear an extract from their
recording below.
Irate farmer
Cyril Kringe wasn't too
pleased to see the arrival
of the circus
The Rankcock Circus Big Top.
The next day the circus was
fully completed and ready for
the first performance that
evening. I must admit I was
extremely pleased at the
turnout for the first show.
The
posters
that were
pinned
up all over the adjacent
villages, advertising the
circus
had certainly done
the trick. It was a very
satisfying spectacle to see
the sell-out crowd taking
their seats. Great, I thought
to myself, if I can get an
audience like this in every
night for the next week, my
money worries will be well and
truly over. I took my seat in
the packed big top tent and
waited eagerly for the show to
start.
The ghastly bunch of circus
individuals make themselves
at home
A few minutes later, the
spotlights shone down on the
circus ring and a voice boomed
out from the ringmaster -
Chodbin Rankcock “Welcome
ladies and gentleman, boys and
girls to the most unusual
circus show on earth” moments
later a large curtain swung to
one side at the back of the
ring and the entire circus
troupe complete with all their
animals paraded around the
edge of the ring. Clowns,
jugglers, tigers, elephants,
lions, scantily clad ladies on
horseback, acrobats,
fire-eating dwarfs and
strangely even a topless belly
dancer carrying a python
snake. I’ve never seen
anything like it in my life
and judging by the shocked
expressions on many of the
audience members' faces,
neither had they. As deafening
music pumped out from the huge
PA system and the procession
continued to parade round the
ring, the ringmaster continued
to give his introductions as
the combination of the stench
of the animals, heat and thick
black smoke from the
fire-eaters almost brought
tears to my eyes. By this
point I was starting to feel
rather nervous, as the amount
of people that were apparently
leaving in disgust was growing
by the minute. It seems that
these days, endangered animals
and topless belly dancers are
not a welcome sight in a
family show.
Thankfully, an hour and a half
later, the rather
unconventional circus show
came to an end. For legal
reasons I can’t really
describe what I saw in the
show, but what I can say is
that I’ve never been so
shocked or disgusted in my
life, and I was a major in the
army for many years too. If
you really want to know more
about the show a link to the
circus website is
here.
I had to placate an awful lot
of people that night as many
of the audience members'
either complained to me
directly or demanded refunds
from the ticket office. I got
into a rather heated exchange
with one child’s father who
blamed me directly for the
content of the show. I tried
explaining to him that it had
nothing to do with me and I
was only allowing the circus
on my land. Luckily it was
rather dark in that tent so
nobody witnessed me giving him
a swift kick in the balls. I
must admit that I’ve never
seen so many children leave an
event in tears. It was
certainly not what I expected
from a family show, that’s for
sure. As it turned out, this
was just the beginning of my
troubles regarding this
ill-fated event.
As the week went on the ticket
sales dwindled to such an
extent that by only the third
and as it turns out, last day,
only a handful of people had
bought tickets for the show.
For the last performance
things really started to go
wrong in a very big way.
Apparently halfway through the
proceedings a lion or a tiger
escaped from the enclosure at
the back of the big top, ran
into the ring, then jumped
into the audience seating area
and savaged a child to death.
I’m glad I wasn’t there to
witness the attack, as
apparently it was a rather
grisly sight. Of course the
parents of the child were
deeply shocked by his death
and held me directly
responsible for his demise. I
was left out of pocket as I
had to pay for the bloody
funeral. The flowers I sent
didn’t go down well with the
grieving parents either. I was
only trying to send my
condolences and thought they
would be a nice touch.
The funeral flowers I sent
to the grieving parents.
If this incident were not
horrific enough, to add insult
to injury an old lady was
brutally raped by one of the
circus dwarfs. It seems as
though she got disoriented by
the big cat attack and at the
end of the show, lost her way
and wandered off backstage
thinking it was the exit. The
poor old dear only wanted a
day out from her care home,
but ended up being viciously
sodomised and needing hospital
treatment for a severely
engorged anus. Staff at her
care home say the lady is so
traumatised that she’s still
not able to speak or sit down.
I had a phone call from a
furious manager demanding
answers. I told her it wasn’t
my fault, as there is no way
on earth that I could be held
responsible for the actions of
a demented midget.
Here's a
picture of the prime rape
suspect. Just look at the
evil little devil.
Thankfully the bunch of
ghastly circus individuals
have left the grounds of
Felchem Hall, and good
riddance to them too. They
didn’t leave peacefully
however; I had one hell of a
job getting rid of the
unwashed bunch of hooligans I
can tell you. For days after
the last circus performance, I
was kept awake at night by
their drunken parties and wild
ways. Many of the animals from
my petting zoo mysteriously
went missing, no doubt eaten
by their mangy circus animals.
There were piles of rubbish,
shit and used condoms
everywhere; the grounds were
in one hell of a state and the
clean-up bill alone ran into
thousands of pounds. I’ve also
had to put the local’s fears
to rest, as since the circus
has upped and left there have
been numerous big cat
sightings in the surrounding
villages. I’m guessing that
when that tiger or lion or
whatever it was attacked and
killed that poor child that
those idiots released it into
the wild to get rid of the
evidence so to speak. I’ve
instructed my staff to lay
traps for it and hopefully,
when it is caught it will make
a rather splendid addition to
the petting zoo.
Just look at the bloody
state those dirty bastards
left the grounds of Felchem
Hall in.
I managed to get my own back
on that awful Chodbin fellow
though. I’m pretty sure he
won’t be able to carry on the
Rankcock name after he left my
estate with a severely
engorged and inflamed pair of
distended testicles and a
black eye.
Cheery pop for now
September
2015
All
in a good cause.
Welcome
to my blog update for
September. Regular readers of
my blog will know that in my
last update I explained all
about my disastrous money
making scheme to host a circus
in the grounds of Felchem
Hall. That whole fiasco not
only left me thousands of
pounds out of pocket, but also
badly damaged my reputation.
So, ever the entrepreneur I
had to very quickly think of a
new money spinner to get
the cash rolling in once more.
As ever, my old school chum
Bunty Forbes-Grainger was
there to save the day. After
speaking to Bunty on the
telephone for what seemed like
hours, he came up with a
rather brilliant plan for me
to make a lot of cash in a
rather simply devilish way. He
explained that for a fee of
£1000 he could arrange for a
rather dubious sounding
software company to host an
online charity for me on my
website. I’m
very pleased to say that my
new venture is called: The
Snuffington-Smith Gorilla
Charity Foundation.
So
far, the number of people that
have signed up to the charity
has been very impressive. In
the short time it’s been
online, I’ve had nearly a
thousand subscribers and the
numbers are growing daily.
There are obviously more
gullible animal lovers out
there than I thought.
Here’s how the scheme works.
Firstly subscribers are asked
to make a modest donation of
only £3 per month to help the
endangered gorillas of Africa.
Bunty came up with the
brilliant plan to use gorillas
as the featured animal, as we
have our very own one here at
Felchem Hall, our star
attraction at the petting zoo.
What the naive new subscriber
doesn’t realise is that their
seemingly small donation of £3
is actually charged on their
credit card per day and not as
advertised per month. They are
also tied to an 18 month
contract that they can’t
legally get out of and an
interest rate of 29.89% is
charged on top of that too.
The poor old hairy beasts do
get some funding though as one
penny from every £3 raised
goes to an African wildlife
sanctuary. The remaining £2.99
is siphoned off to an offshore
company my accountant setup
for me called SSHF
(Snuffington-Smith Holiday
Fund) There is also an initial
charge of £18.49 to cover the
cost of credit card charges
and the fluffy toy gorilla,
the rubbish that is supplied
as a welcome ‘gift’. The toy
gorilla they receive is a
complete load of old tat that
I import from china, and the
personalised gorilla adoption
certificate and fact sheet is,
to be honest an embarrassment.
I bought them from a printers
that was going bust and I’m
not surprised looking at the
badly printed sheet full of
spelling mistakes and glaring
errors. Since when has a
gorilla been a monkey that
lives in Asia?
The
quite frankly appalling
Gorilla Factsheet.
Hopefully
this will turn out to be a
lovely little money spinner
for me as I’ve calculated that
each donor will be left about
£2000 out of pocket. I’ll let
you know the total raised for
‘charity’ in my next update.
January 2016
No wonder in this land.
Hello
to you all. I do hope you had
a wonderful Christmas and New
Year (not chavs or gypsies).
First things first, I’d like
to say a big thank you for the
hundreds of emails I received
congratulating me for getting
rid of my awful wife. It seems
as though the vast majority of
my loyal devotees agree that
her rather undignified
‘disappearance’ was in
everyone’s best interest.
Sadly, my attempts to find
another wife have so far been
met with disappointment, but,
ever the optimist I’m still
looking for that special
someone. Of course, it goes
without saying; the lucky lady
will have to be bloody loaded
to be eligible to take my hand
in matrimony.
You may remember that in my
last update I explained how
with the help of my old school
chum, Bunty Forbes-Grainger
and a dodgy software company I
setup my very own wildlife
‘charity’ - The
Snuffington-Smith
Gorilla Charity
Foundation. Things
were going swimmingly at
first, with literately
thousands of pounds rolling in
every week. I really did think
that Bunty’s seemingly great
idea would put an end to my
unrelenting money worries.
Unfortunately for me, the
money coming in came to an
abrupt halt as several of the
unwitting charity donators had
started to realise that their
credit card statements were
alarmingly high. And so, yet
another of my money making
schemes came to a sticky end
as I was investigated by the
charity commission; prosecuted
for gross misconduct and fined
a huge sum. Luckily, a
custodial sentence was not
handed down to me as the head
of the investigatory body
happens to be a good friend of
mine.
One day in early October I sat
in my study with yet another
mountain of bills at my side.
I held my head in my hands and
pondered how on earth I could
dream-up yet another money
making scheme to get me out of
financial trouble. Then it hit
me - Christmas. Yes, brilliant
I thought to myself, with
seasonal celebrations just
around the corner; why not
turn the whole estate into a
Christmas winter wonderland
event for the whole of
December. I hurriedly
telephoned my old pal, Bunty
Forbes-Grainger to explain my
great idea and get his
thoughts on how to get the
ball rolling so to speak.
Bunty explained that for a fee
of £1000 he could arrange the
event for me and book all the
necessary staff and
attractions, and get a
website
and
posters made
to publicise the event too. I
suppose I should have begun
this blog entry with good news
regarding my winter wonderland
event, but sadly this is not
the case.
My publicity image - Beneath
this cool and suave exterior
beats the heart of a
troubled man.
Things
started out splendidly with
the old place looking
fantastic in its albeit
artificial winter appearance.
Bunty had done a splendid job
of organising the event as the
whole of the estate was filled
with marquees, a reindeer
enclosure, Christmas market, a
model polar bear, elf
mannequins, an ice rink,
miniature train, Christmas
trees, fairy lights and many
other seasonal items.
On the evening of 30th
November, the eve before the
great event was due to start,
Bunty and I strolled through
the estate, cigars in hand
sipping gently steaming mulled
wine. I was feeling rather
pleased with myself as I
walked through the grounds of
Felchem Hall inspecting the
scene that lay before me,
knowing that if this event was
successful my money troubles
would be well and truly over.
As we both became merry on
mulled wine, Bunty told me
that he’d come up with a yet
another idea for how this
event could make me even more
money. He explained that he
had contacts in the gambling
trade and for a fee of £1000
could hastily get raffle
tickets and scratch cards
printed to sell at the event.
And so, the next morning the
gates of my great house opened
to welcome the first paying
guests to The Felchem Hall
Winter Wonderland event.
Rather worryingly things went
steeply downhill from the
start of the event. Quite
frankly I don’t really know
where to begin explaining the
huge list of disasters, but
I’ll give it a go as my
therapist tells me that
writing about my traumatic
experiences can be very
therapeutic. Utter balderdash
if you ask me, but there you
go. There was supposed to be
real snow covering the site
for the whole of the
month-long event, but as it
transpired the snow only
lasted in total about two
hours before it melted, as the
extremely mild weather put
paid to that. I thought things
would be fine though as I
arranged for a lorry load of
fake polystyrene snow to be
spread over the site. This too
however had disastrous
consequences as a gust of wind
blew most of the ‘snow’ over a
boundary hedge and onto the
windscreen of an oncoming
tractor. Unfortunately the
vehicle lost control and
careered into a ditch killing
the driver. Luckily none of
the public witnessed the
tragic accident, so I quickly
arranged for a couple of my
assistants to dig a makeshift
grave and bury the body in the
ditch. They also cut up the
tractor for scrap to hide any
evidence. It’s a good job
nobody saw these goings-on or
I could have been in a lot
more trouble I can tell you.
The
reindeer enclosure. Note the
lack of reindeer
When
Bunty made the initial
arrangements for the
wonderland event there were
supposed to be six real,
Christmas bedecked reindeer in
an enclosure for children to
look at. Unfortunately only
five of the mangy looking
beasts turned up without any
festive decorations. Four of
these immediately got spooked
by an elf and ran off into
nearby woods and were promptly
shot dead my farmer neighbour
Cyril Kringe. It turns out
that the mad farmer sold the
reindeer meat to a group of
dubious looking individuals
who were running a stall at
the event selling hotdogs and
burgers. The deceitful
bastards, who looked
suspiciously like gypsies, had
turned this meat into sausages
and were selling them to the
unsuspecting public. To add
insult to injury, the last
surviving reindeer bit a
child’s father in the balls.
Its seems as though the idiot
had become inebriated out of
his tiny mind on the
complimentary mulled wine,
climbed into the animal’s pen
and tried to sexually abuse
it. I’m not surprised the fool
got smashed on the wine
though, as the lethal
concoction is made by my
neighbour on his farm. Cyril
Kringe makes the
mulled
‘wine’,
or rocket fuel as it is known
locally from cider apples and
God knows what else. The
resulting
brew
is
about 85% proof and is so
strong he runs his tractor on
the stuff.
The
awful Winter Wonderland
Santa. Would you let your
child sit on his knee?
Farmer
Cyril Kringe prepares
another batch of his
infamous mulled wine.
All
of the above disasters
happened on day one of my
ill-fated event, by day two
things had gone from bad to
worse. It seems as though the
mulled wine was very popular
with not only the visiting
parents (and some scummy
looking children) but also
with the on-site Christmas
performers. Father Christmas
got so drunk on the stuff that
he punched a child in the face
who had complained that his
present had been padded out
with sawdust to make it look
bigger. His replacement was
even worse; he too became
intoxicated on mulled wine and
exposed himself to one of the
mothers who had to be treated
for shock in hospital. Most of
the elves were running around
the site drunk and scaring
children, one was caught,
trousers round ankles having
sex with another behind
Santa’s grotto. The ones that
managed to remain sober were
too busy selling raffle
tickets and scratchcards to
reach sales targets rather
than help people navigate the
site, much to the annoyance of
many of the parents.
Some
newspaper publicity I
could have well done
without.
On
the third and as it turns out,
final day of the event, things
really took a turn for the
worse. I was starting to feel
rather worried by the previous
days incidents as the number
of visitors to the winter
extravaganza had dwindled
considerably. Obviously word
had got out that the event was
not exactly what it was
cracked up to be. To be quite
frank, the last day of the
event was a complete and utter
disaster. The gates had only
been open for about an hour
before one of the parents got
so drunk on mulled wine he was
found face down and
unconscious with his trousers
around his ankles next to an
elf mannequin that had
obviously been violated as its
trousers had been ripped off
and its backside was covered
in what looked like seminal
fluid. Just as a group of
first aiders were about to
treat the mannequin molester
they were called away to help
at not one but three far more
harrowing incidents.
The
aftermath of the miniature
train accident
It
seems as though one of the
onsite contractors had
electrocuted himself trying to
steal electricity from the
cables of an overhead
electricity pylon to run the
lights on his Christmas stall.
Apparently his screams could
be heard on the other side of
the site. Other workers rushed
to the scene, as they thought
the smell of the burning
corpse was the result of
caterers cooking roast pork.
From what I was told, the
sight of his smoking charred
remains, welded to the side of
a metal framed snowman was not
a pretty sight. The other
incident involved a worker who
fell into a snow machine and
got shredded. The rescue
services told me the resulting
mess resembled melted
raspberry ripple ice cream. By
this time in proceedings I was
starting to panic as the
amount of children leaving the
event in tears with their
angry looking parents was
growing by the minute. Just
when I thought things couldn’t
get any worse I heard a loud
bang and metallic scraping
sound coming from the location
of the miniature Santa train
ride. As I rushed to the scene
I started to feel rather
bilious as I realised the
train had somehow derailed and
careered into a child, slicing
off his leg. Of course the
child’s parents blamed me
directly for this rather
unfortunate accident and are
now threatening to sue. I did
try sending them flowers by
some way of an apology but
this just seemed to anger them
even more.
The flowers I
sent to the parents of the
boy that tragically lost a
leg
So,
sadly my Winter Wonderland
event was closed by health and
safety officials after just
three days. What had been
ambitiously promoted as “A
spectacular and exciting
Christmas experience for the
whole family." had ended with
the deaths of three people and
a child losing a leg. I
begrudgingly had to give
refunds to hundreds following
a barrage of complaints on
social media. I’ve also had to
pay various fines, so am now
left about sixty thousand
pounds out of pocket. On the
plus side, it turns out there
were no winners on the
scratchcards or raffle
tickets, so at least that’s
one thing I didn’t have to
pay-out for.
May
2016
Felchem
Hall becomes a wedding
venue.
Hello to you all (not chavs or
gypsies). I do hope your 2016
has been a prosperous one so
far and you all had far better
Christmases than the
calamitous one I had. As you
many have gathered if you read
my last blog entry, 2015 did
not end well for me as I was
left approximately sixty
thousand pounds out of pocket
and left with my already badly
tarnished reputation in
tatters, due to the
catastrophe that was my Winter
Wonderland event.
I very quickly had to come up
with a new money making scheme
to get me back in my bank
manager’s good books, as my
monthly statements were
looking bleak to say the
least. One morning in early
March I received a phone call
from my old chum Bunty
Forbes-Grainger, he explained
that he’d been having some
thoughts about my latest
financial woes and had come up
with a money making idea. He
explained that for a fee of
£1000 he could arrange for a
film company to record and
distribute a DVD production
documenting the history and
day-to-day events at my
ancestral home of Felchem
Hall. Great, I thought to
myself, a DVD would be a great
seller in the gift shop and
would really go down well with
my adoring public. A few days
later the production company
arrived at Felchem hall and
within the day the film was in
the can. Bunty told me to
leave the design and printing
of the DVD’s cover to him as
he had contacts in that field.
Like an idiot, I mistakenly
went along with his advice, as
when the six thousand finished
discs turned up at the gift
shop, ready to be put on the
shelves, I immediately noticed
a glaring error on the back
cover.
Join international playboy
and raconteur Major Henry
Snuffington-Smith as he
takes you on a guided tour
of his magnificent country
house - Felchem Hall, one
of grandest stately homes
in the country. In this
beautifully produced film
you will learn many
fascinating facts about
this ‘treasure house of
England’. Narrated by his
old school friend and
confidante Bunty
Forbes-Grainger, this
delightful DVD provides a
unique glimpse of
day-to-day life behind the
scenes and meets the team
responsible for handling
the 10,000 visitors who
visit the house, tearoom,
health spa, gift shop and
petting zoo each year. It
also captures some of the
magical moments of a year
in the life of Henry
Snuffington-Smith and his
beautiful wife Lady
Henrietta Sydenham - de
Nork., for whom Felchem
Hall is not only a
business, it's a home.
The cover of my newly
produced DVD complete with
glaring error regarding my
marital status.
Yes,
you’ve guessed it; the
incompetent idiots had printed
the covers with totally out of
date information regarding my
marital status. Where they got
such inaccurate info from is
anyone’s guess, but by this
time I had already splashed
out an additional £1000 for
Bunty to get the bloody covers
printed, so it was too late to
do anything about it, so, the
offending articles had to go
on sale as they were. There
was one silver lining to this
rather dark cloud however. As
I angrily threw a DVD across
the gift shop in disgust,
narrowing missing the head of
a member of staff I suddenly
came up with a rather
brilliant idea – Weddings. I’d
been so preoccupied with my
own disastrous marriage to
Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de
Nork and finding my next
consort that I’d completely
ignored the fact that I could
be making money from other
people’s nuptials here at
Felchem Hall.
I quickly telephoned Bunty to
get his invaluable business
advice regarding how on earth
I could get the grand house
licensed as a wedding venue,
as I knew getting something
like this sorted out would not
be easy or cheap for that
matter either. Bunty explained
that for a fee of £1000 he
could make all the necessary
arrangements and fast-track
all the paperwork and legal
side of things as he had a
contact in the local council
that deals with these
complicated matters.
Amazingly, only a matter of
days later, my shiny new
wedding venue licence landed
on my
doormat.
Shortly after my wedding venue
seal of approval was granted I
received my first booking for
a wedding on the 7th of May. I
had to get things organised
rather hurriedly as I didn’t
expect to get my first
reservation quite so quickly.
As I hadn’t had much
experience in this sort of
thing, I became rather
flustered as to what to do
next. I had to think back to
my own disastrous wedding day
to come up with ideas as to
what would be needed for an
event of this kind. First
things first I thought to
myself, a marquee to hold the
ceremony and festivities in.
After all, I didn’t want
hundreds of undesirables in
the house, much better to keep
the great unwashed in the
garden, well away from
valuable antiques and
furniture etc.
After making numerous
telephone calls to marquee
hire companies, I rather
foolishly chose the one with
the cheapest quote. The next
day a badly maintained looking
truck came skidding to a halt,
leaving ugly tyre tracks on
the once immaculate lawn of
Felchem Hall. As the scruffy
looking driver stumbled out of
the cab and sauntered towards
me, holding a can of beer in
one hand and a cigarette in
the other, I was shocked to
realise that his was a face I
recognised. “Got a tent for
you guv, where do ya want it
put up?” I might have bloody
guessed – Chodbin Rankcock,
circus owner and all-round
rogue. My God, I thought to
myself, this complete
scoundrel has got a bloody
nerve turning up here. I asked
him if his circus business had
gone bust, especially after
the disastrous goings-on when
I foolishly agreed to host his
unspeakable show on my land
last year. “The circus trade
aint no good no more as I
blame the fucking animal
rights people for loss of
trade and that. That’s why
I’ve diversified into the
marquee hire business guv”
What struck me most about this
cretin’s reply was not the bad
language or the double
negatives, but the use of the
word ‘diversified’. It seems
as though gypsies have a much
higher level of education than
I was led to believe. A few
hours later the rather rickety
looking marquee that looked
suspiciously like and old
circus big top that had been
painted white was erected and
Mr Rankcock was on his way
back to whatever stone he’d
crawled from under, leaving a
trail of black smoke behind
him.
The bloody awful wedding
marquee.
So,
marquee erected, the next item
on my wedding to-do list was
to get the food and drink
organised. After telephoning
various outside catering
companies, it quickly dawned
on me that to get a few
sandwiches, sausage rolls and
pork pies and a bar organised
by one of these firms would be
hideously expensive and I
didn’t want this huge
expenditure eating into my
profit margins. So, ever the
entrepreneur I came up with a
much more cost-effective
solution. You may remember
that in my Christmas blog
entry I mentioned that my
farmer neighbour, Cyril Kringe
makes his own
alcoholic
brew from
cider apples that he rather
ambitiously calls mulled wine.
After contacting the daft old
yokel he explained that he
could sort me out with enough
of his mulled wine and a hog
roast to keep the hundred or
so wedding guests entertained
for a fraction of the cost of
a professional catering firm.
A few days later the finishing
touches had been made to the
wedding marquee ready for the
big day. I sent a member of
staff to a local filling
station to buy a few bunches
of cheap flowers to brighten
the inside of the tent up a
bit, as it was looking rather
drab with just some tables and
chairs and not much else in
it, well, apart from a rather
large and gaudy mural of a
clown sat astride an elephant.
The disco had been arranged
for the evening entertainment
too. I gave a lad from the
village a few pounds to do
this, so that also saved me a
small fortune.
And so, the big day arrived.
At twelve o’clock precisely I
proudly stood on the front
lawn of Felchem hall wearing
my best morning suit, pocket
watch in hand eagerly awaiting
the arrival of the wedding
party. Half past twelve came
and went, by this time I was
starting to feel rather
nervous and was wondering if
anyone would show up at all.
At preciously seventeen
minutes past one the bride and
groom finally turned up in
what can only be described as
the most hideous form of
transport I have ever had the
displeasure to witness; a
bright pink Cinderella style
coach pulled by four white
horses with matching feather
plumes on their heads.
The hideous gypsy wedding
coach
After the initial shock of
observing probably the most
tasteless thing I’d ever seen,
the full horror of the day’s
events suddenly dawned on me -
Gypsies! Oh my good God I
thought to myself, I’d
completely forgotten to check
the credentials of the couple
who’d booked their wedding
here in the first place.
Before I had time to regain my
composure a large convoy of
garish stretch limos,
festooned with pink ribbons
and vans towing even more
garish looking caravans
started to roll into the
grounds of the estate. As the
revoltingly dressed wedding
guests started to noisily
disembark from their vulgar
vehicles and make their way
into the marquee with their
screaming children, my heart
sank as I thought to myself; I
just hope and pray this day
goes without incident. I must
admit that if an innocent
bystander had witnessed the
marquee filled with these
poorly dressed, half-cut
individuals stinking of cheap
perfume and alcohol, they
would have probably thought
they’d stumbled across some
sort of prostitute convention.
The happy couple
I
must say that I felt slightly
more relieved when the actual
wedding ceremony went without
incident, although I found it
difficult to refrain from
laughing out loud when I saw
the bride’s mother. I can only
describe her as looking like
the corpse of a transsexual
jimmy Savile lookalike. After
the ceremony the guests were
treated to the usual wedding
speeches and yet again I had
to bite my lip to stop myself
from laughing out loud as the
groom, best man and
questionable father of the
bride tried in vain to string
a sentence together. I think
there were probably more
eloquent speeches made at a
Neanderthal’s wedding.
The Mother of the Bride
Some of the orange wedding
guests
Speeches over and after the
cutting of the huge
ostentatious glittery princess
style pink wedding cake,
complete with flashing lights
was done and dusted the
evening entertainment started
as Cyril Kringe turned up with
eighty gallons of mulled wine
and a hog roast on the back of
his tractor. With the party in
full swing, things started to
get rather rowdy as the
incredibly high alcohol
content of the mulled wine and
the deafening music started to
take effect on the wedding
guests. Not surprisingly early
on in the proceedings a fight
broke out between two young
gypsy women who were pulling
each other’s hair and
screaming about which one of
them had the best caravan or
something like that. It was
difficult to tell as they were
both so drunk. Predictably
that was not the only fight
that broke out that night as
the men soon started to get
stuck in too. I thought I
could see the ceiling of the
marquee starting to bend
alarmingly whilst I was in
there paying Cyril Kringe for
his services.
I quickly made my way outside
and was alarmed to see two of
the gypsy men, stripped to the
waist, drunkenly fighting on
the roof of the marquee. As
one of the morons swung a
punch, the other one ducked,
lost his balance and fell
straight through the glass
roof of the Cinderella coach
that was parked underneath,
killing him instantly. As you
can imagine, the resulting
mess was not a pretty sight
and of course I didn’t want
the police involved, so a few
of the guests wheeled the
remains of the coach, complete
with corpse into a nearby
field where they hastily
poured a few gallons of petrol
over it and set it alight to
hide any evidence. I can
honestly say, that’s about the
first and only time I was
pleased to have gypsies on my
land.
The hideous gypsy wedding
coach goes up in smoke.
Two of the
female wedding guests get
involved in a heated
exchange on the steps of
Felchem Hall
That
was not the only disaster to
occur that night though as it
seems the hog roast didn’t go
down too well with the guests.
Many of them had bouts of
projectile vomiting, no doubt
caused by the Cyril’s cretin
of a son’s rudimentary cooking
skills. Apparently, Cyril and
his inbred son
Jethro
had to make a quick exit from
proceedings as one of the
guests allegedly found a pig’s
foreskin in their food.
It seems as though the fight
atop the marquee had weakened
the already unstable
structure, as when the
evening’s festivities were
about to come to an end, the
bloody thing collapsed,
trapping a number of people
inside. Luckily most of them
were so inebriated that they
hardly noticed what had just
happened and crawled out from
the remains of the tent and
staggered back to their
caravans. The only casualty
from the collapse was an
unconscious eighty year old
lady, that I witnessed being
dragged out by her ankles and
dumped rather unceremoniously
behind a rubbish skip.
The next morning I awoke early
to inspect the inevitable
damage that the previous
night’s festivities had
caused. As I viewed with
dismay the mountain of rubbish
strewn all over the place and
the still smouldering
Cinderella coach in the nearby
field, I noticed a female
figure running towards me. The
hysterical woman turned out to
be the bride, still dressed in
her outrageous wedding dress.
“I aint not seen him all
night” she said with tears
running down her ridiculous
orange face. Apparently the
marriage had not been
consummated the previous night
as the groom had disappeared
without trace and could not be
found anywhere. Just as I was
reluctantly about to make a
few phone calls to try and put
a search party together, one
of my staff members called my
phone to say that he’d just
been to feed the pigs in the
nearby petting zoo and was
shocked to find the wayward
groom lying comatose in the
pig sty; trousers round
ankles, covered in shit with
an empty bottle of champagne
near his side. The bride
failed to see the funny side
when I said that the pig
probably had a better night
than she did.
Just some some of the mess
left behind by the wedding
guests
As
you can probably imagine
getting rid of the hordes of
gypsies from my land and
clearing up their mess was not
an easy task as a week later
the bastards were still here.
Cyril Kringe came to the
rescue though as he
volunteered to fire a few
rounds from his shotgun
through the windows of their
caravans. Luckily this had the
desired effect and the bunch
of unwanted visitors made a
swift exit. On a lighter note,
I can’t wait to see the look
on Chodbin Rankcock’s face
when he comes to collect the
remains of his marquee. Since
hosting the disastrous wedding
I've had my staff erect signs
all around the perimeter of
Felchem Hall, so Hopefully
this will deter any unwanted
visitors from trespassing on
my land.
Will I be hosting anymore
weddings here at Felchem Hall?
I hear you ask. Well, not
without first checking the
credentials of the prospective
couples that’s for sure!
A link to my wedding web page
can be found here
Felchem
Hall over 60's caravanning
weekend.
September
2016
Good
day to you all and welcome to
my blog update for September.
I suppose I should really
start this journal entry by
updating you all on my lavish
plans to open the old place up
as a grand wedding venue. As
you may have read in my last
blog entry, the first, and as
it happens, only wedding I’ve
held here at Felchem Hall
didn’t exactly go without
incident. Yet again I’m in
what can only be described as
dire straits financially as
the whole matrimonial venue
thing has so far been an
unmitigated disaster.
Hopefully this is soon set to
change though as my good chum
Bunty Forbes-Grainger has yet
again come up with a cunning
plan to get the dosh rolling
in for me. Bunty contacted me
several weeks ago after
reading an article in the
local newspaper about the
hordes of unwashed gypsies
that invaded the place with
their, shall we say strange
ideas of what a wedding should
be all about and the carnage
that ensued. Bunty explained
that for a fee of £1000 he
could arrange for a web design
company to make a rather
splendid
website
for me to promote weddings
here a
Felchem
Hall and also
offer his services as a
wedding coordinator. Of course
I jumped at the chance, and a
few short weeks later my shiny
new wedding site was built. As
yet I’ve had no bookings from
the site or any other source
for that matter, but I’m
confident someone will book
their wedding here soon. So,
as far as I’m concerned it’s
been £1000 well spent.
Bunty’s other cunning plan was
an idea that he came up with
to use the grounds of the
great hall for an over sixties
caravan camping weekend. As
you can probably guess if
you’ve read my other blog
entries that the word
‘caravan’ immediately sent
cold shivers of fear down my
spine as the thought of more
gypsies turning up here would
be the last thing I wanted.
Bunty immediately put my mind
at ease though as he clarified
that this event had absolutely
nothing to do with these
disagreeable scoundrels. Bunty
explained that for a fee of
£1000 he could arrange the
whole event for me and sort
out all the necessary
paperwork etc.
The over 60's
caravan club setup camp in
my once immaculate grounds.
So,
two weeks later a hundred or
so pensioners started to
arrive with their caravans
ready for a weekend of, well,
whatever pensioners usually do
at these events. I rather
foolishly assumed the weekend
would consist of country walks
in the grounds of Felchem
hall, whist drives, croquet,
picnics and other innocent
activities. How wrong could I
be? To say that I was stunned
to see what these old codgers
got up to was an
understatement.
Just look at this
monstrosity. It took a huge
truck and several men just
to get it onto the site.
Regular readers will know that
I’m not the sort of person
whom is easily shocked, but to
witness what this lot of
sleazy senior citizens got up
to, was to put it mildly,
totally sordid and disgusting.
When the last of the caravans
arrived and churned up the
once immaculate lawn of the
hall, the party took no time
getting into full swing. I’d
previously made the grave
error of allowing my farmer
neighbour Cyril Kringe to turn
up on my land to sell his now
infamous
Mulled
‘wine’ and
his inbred son’s pies.
The ensemble of pensioners
immediately tucked into the
vile looking pies and drank as
much of the mulled wine as
they could and pour down their
shrivelled necks. I have no
idea what old man Kringe puts
in his dubious looking brew,
but it didn’t take long before
a large percentage of the
group were completely smashed
out of their tiny little
minds. This is when sadly,
things really started to get
out of control.
The poster advertising the
ill-fated event.
As night fell, the numbers of
party goers was now
approaching the two hundred
mark. I was starting to feel
rather anxious that yet more
of these drunken ruffians were
turning up in their caravans,
churning up the fields and
getting stuck in the mud. One
of the caravans was so big
that it needed a truck to pull
it onto the site. As deafening
music pumped out of a huge
stack of speakers the
revellers drunkenly danced
around a huge fire as the air
was filled with the
intoxicating aroma of
something that smelled
suspiciously like marijuana.
As the night went on I noticed
that a line of cars had been
parked in a tight group with
headlights blazing and
flashing. As I cautiously
approached the cluster of cars
to take a closer look, I
noticed that nearly every car
contained at least one woman
and about three men or women
writhing around on top of each
other in a drunken orgy. If
the sight of these inebriated
copulating OAP’s were not
enough, each and every vehicle
had and audience of raucous
men surrounding it, trousers
round ankles, furiously
cheering and masturbating. I
could look on no longer as the
sight of thirty or so drunken
perverts was starting to make
me feel rather bilious to say
the least.
One of the
depraved party goers
pictured in her caravan.
As
I made my way back to the main
festivities, hopefully without
being seen, I looked on in
horror as I noticed that one
of the of the pissed
pensioners had disconnected a
huge propane gas bottle from
the front of a caravan and
hurled it onto the bonfire to
the cheers of the crowd. It
was at this point that I
really started to panic as I
realised that if I called the
emergency services to
hopefully quell the flames and
put a halt to the evening’s
festivities I would be in a
whole lot of trouble with the
local authorities and the
revellers for that matter too.
So, rather regrettably I had
no choice but to take cover
and wait for the inevitable to
happen. Several agonising
minutes later, the sides of
the gas bottle bulged
alarmingly as it made a loud
hissing noise. Seconds later
the gas canister exploded in
an ear-splitting blast and
shot off across the site like
a bloody missile . As I got
back onto my feet in a state
of dazed confusion with the
sound of the explosion still
ringing in my ears, I noticed
that the make-shift missile
had left a huge Scorch mark
all along the blackened grass
leading to my gift shop,
approximately fifty or so
yards away. I took a closer
look and saw the rather
gruesome sight of the headless
body of an old woman lying
down in the projectile's path.
If this hideous sight were not
enough, it soon became
apparent that the poor old
dear’s head had flown through
the window of my gift shop,
ending up on a bookshelf.
The next morning, a scene of
devastation lay out before me.
The grounds were strewn with
empty
beer and
cider bottles, half eaten
Kringe’s pies, used condoms
and gallons of effluent that
had been decanted from the
caravans. Luckily my house was
left intact as my staff had
been ordered to board up the
windows of Felchem hall the
previous night. It seem as
though the whole ‘head’
incident had the desired
effect though, as the amorous
pensioners and their caravans
were nowhere to be seen, well,
there was one left, but my
staff were soon instructed to
set fire to it to destroy any
evidence of the previous
night’s festivities, plus they
also had the rather unenviable
task of clearing up the mess
in the gift shop.
My staff destroy any
evidence of the previous
night's activities.
So
yet again, my latest money
making scheme has been a
complete and utter disaster as
the clean-up bill alone will
run into thousands of pounds.
Will I be hosting another
caravanning weekend? I hear
you ask, not bloody likely
that’s for sure!
I have since
had this sign erected at the
entrance of Felchem Hall to
deter any other
undesirables.
My Gorilla charity
lives
again.
April 2017
Good
day to you all and welcome to
my latest blog update. You may
remember that in a previous
blog entry I described how I
was very cruelly prosecuted
and fined a huge sum by the
charities commission for a
‘charity’ I setup last year to
help gorillas. This and other
disastrous money making
schemes, such as the ruinous
over 60’s caravanning weekend,
have left me literally
hundreds of thousands of
pounds out of pocket, so I’ve
had to do something rather
desperate to help my
situation.
I recently had a telephone
call from my good friend Bunty
Forbes-Grainger who came up
with an idea to re-launch my
charity with slightly
different wording in the terms
and conditions to keep the
charity commission lawyers at
bay. Bunty informed me that
for a fee of £1000 he could
arrange for the same rather
dodgy software company as I’d
hired before to construct an
official looking contribution
website for me. So, last week
with some trepidation my new
gorilla charity website was
launched.
I’m
sitting here in my study,
typing this entry whilst
gently sipping a glass of
champagne and I’m happy to
report that In the short time
the site has been online, the
‘donations’ have been rolling
in thick and fast. My
predictions have once again
been proven right as to how
gullible the general public
are. I do hope that this
latest venture ends my money
worries once and for all, as
the head of the investigatory
body, who investigate things
like this happens to be a good
friend of mine. Who knows, if
this turns out to be a lovely
little money spinner for me I
may even soon find myself a
wealthy woman to take my hand
in matrimony. I’ll let you
know the good news of how much
money I’ve managed to raise in
my next update. My ‘charity’
website can be found here
The
Snuffington-Smith 2017
Christmas Charity appeal
November
2017
Welcome to my special
Christmas blog update. You may
remember that in my previous
blog entry I described how I
was forced to re-launch my
gorilla
charity foundation
due to crippling financial
problems here a Felchem Hall.
I can reveal that the
‘charity’ is still in
operation, but sadly donations
to the cause have all but
dried-up. It seems as though
the generosity of the general
public towards the plight of
the gorilla has diminished
somewhat.
As regular readers of my blog
will know, my money problems
are very much an ongoing
concern here at the estate.
I’ve been sitting here in my
study for the last few weeks
desperately trying to come up
with yet another money making
scheme, to once again get the
cash rolling in. Then, a few
days ago, out of the blue, I
had a telephone call from my
old friend and confidant Bunty
Forbes-Grainger.
Bunty had heard about my
ongoing financial woes and
explained that he’d devised a
cunning plan to get me out of
my economic black hole. For a
fee of £1000 Bunty believed
that he could setup something
similar to my gorilla charity
site; a Christmas charity
website for disadvantaged
children. Brilliant, I thought
to myself, the gullible public
will really fall for this one
hook line and sinker, as the
combination of Christmas and
poor little children would
surely pull at their
heartstrings.
The main premise of the
website features a Christmas
totaliser, where I rather
ambitiously hope to raise
£250,000 to take poor little
disadvantaged kiddies to a
theme park in Florida for two
weeks next summer. This
couldn’t be further from the
truth however as I can
guarantee that the little
brats won’t be seeing a penny
of my ill-gotten gains, let
alone step foot on American
soil. As well as making cash
donations, the public can also
purchase scratchcards and
raffle tickets to hopefully
swell the coffers even more.
The site features a flashy
looking totaliser to
graphically display the money
raised so far. Hopefully this
will have the psychological
effect of making people feel
guilty and pledge even more
money. Every contributor who
signs-up to pledge cash is
bombarded with daily emails
asking them to donate even
more money and to also buy
scratchcards and raffle
tickets to further benefit the
cause. As you can probably
guess, none of these cards and
tickets has any winning value.
To add insult to injury, the
credulous donators’ details
are then sold-on to highly
dubious marketing companies to
bring in even more money.
So, my new
Christmas
charity donation webpage is
now live. I hope I reach the
total amount planned as in the
couple of days it has been
live, donations have already
started rolling in. I’ll let
you know the grand total
raised in my next update in
the new year.
My Lottery goes
live
September 2018
Welcome
to my Summer of 2018 update.
You may remember that in my
previous blog entry I
described how I was forced to
relaunch my gorilla charity
foundation and launch a
Christmas charity appeal due
to crippling financial
problems here a Felchem Hall.
As regular readers of my blog
will know, my money problems
are very much an ongoing
concern here at the estate. As
you can probably guess, these
two fund raising websites have
been less than successful, but
at least I haven’t yet had the
charities and commission
lawyers come knocking at my
door. I’ve been sitting here
in my study for the last few
weeks desperately trying to
come up with yet another
money-making scheme, to once
again get the cash rolling in.
Then, a few days ago, out of
the blue, I had a telephone
call from my old friend and
confidant Bunty
Forbes-Grainger.
My shiny new
lottery website
Bunty and I had recently been
discussing my ongoing
financial woes over dinner one
night. After he’d drunk a
whole bottle of my rather
expensive cognac, he explained
that he’d devised a cunning
plan to get me out of yet
another economic black hole.
For a fee of £1000 Bunty
believed that he could setup
something like my Christmas
and gorilla charity websites.
He came up with the idea of a
lottery. Brilliant,
I thought to myself, the
gullible public will really
fall for this one hook line
and sinker, as the thought of
winning one million pounds
would really get the greedy
bastards reaching for their
wallets.
Every
week one lucky winner is
‘guaranteed’ to walk away with
one million pounds, a life-
changing sum of money. This of
course is total nonsense as
the chances of anyone winning
anything, let alone a million
pounds is zero. Payments made
by the senseless players are
charged an interest fee of
1430% and all their payments
are based on a 12 Month
contract and cannot be
cancelled under any
circumstances. To add insult
to injury, the credulous
donators’ details are then
sold-on to highly dubious
marketing companies to bring
in even more money.
So, my new Mega Lottery
webpage is now live. I hope I
reach the total amount planned
to keep the place running, as
in the couple of days it has
been live, entries have
already started rolling in.
I’ll let you know the grand
total raised in my next update
in the new year.
Snuffington-Smith
Christmas 2018 update
Welcome
to my Christmas of 2018
update. You may remember that
in my previous blog entry I
described how, with the help
of my old chum Bunty
Forbes-Grainger, I setup my
very own lottery website. My Mega
Lottery
has proven to be
surprisingly successful, it
makes a change for one of my
schemes to go right for a
change. As you may have
guessed, not a single penny in
winnings has been paid out to
punters since the lotto site
went live some months ago. The
gullible public have really
fallen for this one hook, line
and sinker. The thought of
winning one million pounds has
really got the greedy ignorant
bastards reaching for their
wallets. I am not ashamed to
admit that the site has
generated several hundred
thousand pounds for me and has
been a great help to finally
start paying off some of my
many debts.
Although the lottery site has
been successful it still
hasn’t gone far enough in
monetary terms to make me feel
assuredly solvent. So, it is
with great trepidation that I
have taken the bold step of
yet again hosting a
Winter
Wonderland
event here at Felchem Hall
this Christmas season.
Hopefully the event will
launch on the first of
December and continue well
into January 2019. I have also
re-launched my
Christmas
charity website
for disadvantaged children for
this festive season. For a fee
of £1000 Bunty Forbes-Grainger
and his highly dubious
contacts once again set this
up for me. I can once again
guarantee that those deprived
little brats won’t be seeing a
penny of my ill-gotten gains.
The cover of my soon to be
published memoirs.
I’ve
also been busy recently
writing my memoirs. As a man
of high standing in the local
community and one of Britain’s
most eligible bachelors, I
thought it was about time my
life story was put into print
for the world to appreciate.
I’ve yet to find a publisher
who is willing to pay me a
huge advance and publish my
book, so I may have to resort
to self-publishing the thing
instead. Some of the replies I
received from publishers have
been downright rude to be
honest. I certainly didn’t
appreciate being described as
a self-absorbed egotistical
twat. Due to time restraints,
it will take many more months
for me to finish my book.
I will of course, keep you, my
loyal readers updated as to
how all my schemes pan-out in
the coming months. All it
remains for me to say is a
very happy Christmas for 2018
(not gypsies, chavs or anyone
with the surname Wankmangle)
and here’s to a £prosperous£
2019.
December 2020
update - Books and monkeys
As you may have gathered from
the date of this post, it has
been two long years since I
updated you on my life here at
Felchem Hall. Well, what a
year 2020 has been, and not
just the obvious Covid-19
nonsense. My money worries are
as ever my main concern, as
Felchem Hall, and all its
attractions had to close
briefly during the first
lockdown. However, I am
delighted to announce that yet
again, my Winter Wonderland
event is taking place here for
the Christmas season. Let us
just hope that things go more
smoothly with the event than
in previous years..
In other news, I am delighted
to announce that during
lockdown I had the chance to
finish my highly anticipated
autobiography. You can
download an electronic copy of
it on Amazon
here
for the bargain price of
only seventy-seven pence. A
great Christmas stocking
filler for the book lover in
your life.
It’s
certainly been tough going for
everyone this year as the
dreaded corona virus has
struck with deadly intent.
However, the whole year has
been especially difficult for
me as the bloody virus has
almost bankrupted me due to
the almost non-existent
revenue that’s being brought
into the house and grounds. At
least many of the on-site
attractions are up and running
now, albeit with social
distancing measures in
place.
I have been wondering for
several months what to do with
a piece of waste ground next
to the petting zoo. By sheer
chance, my good friend Bunty
Forbes-Grainger telephoned me
one afternoon to offer some of
his financial wisdom. Bunty
explained that a contact of
his, had a fluffy toy factory
that was going out of business
and would I be interested in
buying the remaining stock of
300 toy monkeys for £1000. At
first, I flatly refused
Bunty’s offer, but then he
came up with a simply
brilliant plan for their use.
one of my newly
acquired imposter toy
monkeys.
He said why didn’t I build a
monkey jungle on the piece of
waste ground next to the
petting zoo. Yes, yes, I told
him, that’s all very well and
good, but where on earth am I
going to get the bloody
monkeys to fill the place. He
then explained that this is
where the stuffed monkeys come
into the cunning plan. He said
all I had to do was buy a
couple of real monkeys from
the local pet shop and nail
all the toy monkeys around the
jungle, high in the treetops,
well out of the way of any
nosey guests and play some
monkeys sound effects over
some speakers. Brilliant I
thought to myself, once again
my good friend’s advice was
there to save the day. So,
work is well under way
building the new monkey
jungle, and for only £1000
Bunty is also
arranging a website for the
new venture. I am hoping to
have this new attraction open
by the spring of 2021. Fingers
crossed and I’ll keep you
informed its progress in my
next update.
All
it remains for me to say is a
very happy Christmas for 2020
(not gypsies, chavs or anyone
with the surname Wankmangle)
and here’s to a £prosperous£
2021
