By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp. Special appearance of Tracey Edges by kind permission of Grimsby Borough Council.
What in the world? A woman steps away for a few quiet days with her
family at their country estates and returns to… Words fail, frankly.
Is Spot drinking tea or smoking it? Enough nonsense! I shall put an
end to this promptly and send the boy out for professional help.
As for you, dear readers, there is no help to be offered. You are
subject to this disaster at your own foolish whim and whatever you are
smoking, let us pray it is potent stuff and can insulate your nerves
from the ride ahead. Poor things.
I would wish you all a happy new year but I’m so muddled, I don’t know
what year it is anymore. So there you have it.
Yours in grim spirits,
I barely know where to begin. I was out of Town briefly to visit my
dear niece and nephew-in-law for the holidays and meant to fill this
letter with familial tales and delightful commentary on country
living. However, I am met with your letter recounting vandalism, the
destruction of tea and what boils down to treason (albeit in
retrospect from where you are floating, but still! So disrespectful to
the Crown even in jest!)
Here is my current theory. The tea you handled was laced with some
sort of smuggled opiate and has affected your senses. (Unless the
pickles were gone over and it’s food poisoning.)
In either case, flying and invisibility are sure signs that you are
not in your right mind. And even if you had such powers, I know you
to be a fine young gentleman who would not squander them in playing a
Peeping Tom outside some burlesque hall! What silliness! I myself
have never crossed the threshold of such an establishment and am
mortified to think that women are wearing curtain pulls—as if they
were dancing divans or lamp works! (How in God’s name is that
appealing to men I ask you? I am breathless to think of all the
drapery I’ve never looked at twice and wondering if every man in my
company was eyeing them differently and drooling over every decorated
No, there is no need to travel to any year for such a quest. Women
NEVER will abandon their good senses and wear anything less than four
sturdy layers. Of that, I am convinced beyond argument.
Now, let us address your dilemma. If Giggles has sent the mad Welsh
off to the wilds of Greenland, then that is good. Although you must
at some time, please send a note of apology to their ambassador in
London for inflicting those ruffians on his ice-encrusted nation. It
is too horrible not to make some small gesture of amends.
And you must do your best to land somewhere tranquil, calm and
civilized where your reason can return to you, your coin is accepted
currency and where, providence willing, the effects of the tea and
pickles can wear off.
Dearest all-knowing Auntie,
You are wrong. I hate to draw attention to any foible (what a great word) that you may have, but recently, thanks to Dickie’s traveling machine, I spent a rather eye-opening day on a beach in Brazil. It’s a country far away from civilized, dear old England but nevertheless; appealing. The women there did not wear four layers of clothing, Auntie, in fact they wore very little clothing. They stuck out all over the place!……AND, they wiggled as they walked. Spot almost went boss-eyed. The addition of tassels would, without doubt, have been more judicious.
Here again Giggles came up trumps. She was a most calming influence, pointing out that my stark, white colouring was not conducive to such sun, and my redness was causing alarm amongst the bronzed indigenous girls of Ipanema.
That was why she threw a bucket of water over me! I calmed down almost immediately. I was a little embarrassed, little being the operative word, but I shall not go into details in case someone not as intimate with Spot’s problems as yourself, Auntie, reads this letter.
Whilst we were there Giggles, but I should refer to her by her proper name, as she was working in her official capacity as chief radio operative for the whole of England, Tracey, received a message that is of great concern to the British Government. Apparently, Greenland has declared war on Wales, sending two fishing trawlers and a tug boat to attack! There is a ferry on standby as well! I would imagine that will be the …second phase.
I could only wonder at what Brenda, and her gang of miscreants got up to, over there. Oh what fun Spot was having with them! Ha Ha!
However, after reading your message, I did feel a pang of guilt. I would imagine that living in a land called ‘Green,’ when we all know its ‘White,’ does lend itself to being short-tempered and bellicose. Aren’t you pleased Spot studied his dictionary, Auntie? Bellicose and foible’s in one letter. I’m telling you that one day I will become a writer of great repute, maybe being mentioned in dispatches! Perhaps as good as that Renee Bernard and Vonda Norwood. One can but dream.
Where was I? Ah, yes, the apology. Well, I asked Tracey to send an apologetic note of regret to the Ministry of Tourism. However, as you can see in the intercepted telephone conversation between Brenda and that despicable Myrtle, the Minister of Tourism did not think to tell the Minister for War, and no one told the Welsh!
Classified Information. Recorded by National Security of America. Top Secret.
Myrtle dear, I said, I’m still in Greenland. I’m on a tugboat just about to leave. I’m using a cellphone that one of the Virgins at Heathrow, dropped. Yes, I can hear you real well. No… Mack never got on the plane. Well, you know how those uniform wearing Englishmen feel about me… they’ll do anything to keep my voluptuousness captured and bound. At the airport, they nearly had me in their custody, but Mack was a quick thinker! He sacrificed himself by attempting to fondle the Virgins in the Heathrow airport. And let me tell you, Virgins can be vicious! Mack’s skinny body vanished in the middle of a large group of angry Virgins, who kicked him, and punched him, and pulled his hair! While the Bobby’s had their hands full trying to rescue poor Mack, I applied motor oil over every wobbly part of my massive-succulent-self, and then I slipped through the Virgin’s plane’s door, just before it took off.
Your father’s showering? How’d he make it out of that pit? What do you mean by that? No, your phone sucks, Myrtle. You should get one of these that the Virgins carry, because I said, I am happy to hear your father made it out of that pit. Okay, yes, that is good news about Phyllis The Younger. I’m sure she’ll be much happier living in Siberia.
What do you mean war? So what, if I caused everyone in Greenland, to panic! No. It’s not my fault, Myrtle… Those people lied to me. Greenland isn’t even green! It’s white, and nothing’s there, but ice! I don’t know… it’s like they want people to believe it’s a tropical paradise or something. Well, it’s NOT! I wasn’t about to go traipsing across that ice-rink they call a province, so yes, I did tell the authorities that English Spot and Tracey Edges were wanted in Wales, for the crime of kidnapping, Richard Branson.
When the plane landed in Greenland, I got off and saw men in uniforms coming at me fast… Of course, they heard the wonderful rumours about me… Those English fighter pilots bragged about our special night to everyone! I tried to run, because I had no time for fun, my feet slipped on the ice, my body rolled until I crashed into this tugboat. I applied my handy motor oil and then squeezed down into, I guess this is the hull, and let me tell you, it’s nice down here… I feel like I’m laying on a water-bed.
I used the Virgin’s phone to ring-up every authority station on that land of ice. I told them I was responsible for the national security of Wales. I told them Tracey and Spot were terrorists carrying white bags that-which read,“In this bag is a large knife, a gun and a bomb.” What do you mean, WHY? Come on… Myrtle, I had no idea it was such a popular Christmas gag gift! Not my fault most of the tourists visiting Ilulissat were carrying such bags!
Stop laughing Myrtle, and tell me what you meant when you said, ‘war?’ Greenland is sending its naval might to retaliate against, Wales? What’s your plan? … You sneaked Phyllis The Pigeon out of custody of the N.S.A and she’s now the General of Pigeon-Poo Warfare? Are you drunk? … Well, yeah, I’m sure a week’s diet of fresh leaks would cause 2000 pigeons to poo quite a lot on whatever they fly over! Phyllis The Pigeon-Poo General, has released her army of 2000, to drop their loads? But, Myrtle, I’m on THAT tugboat! Myrtle? … Myrtle? … MYRTLE???
It would seem the Brenda has her Richard and Dick in a twist, as well as her draws.
Let’s ignore the mad women for a moment, and get back to the important stuff. What I know you, Sherry and the staff at home really want to know about; my love life. My flag could be unfurled very soon!
I have the pleasure to inform you that Tracey is a mean cook of scrambled eggs, whipping them up whilst wearing cowboy boots and as I’m a lover of eggs, I propose to marry Giggles. She’s not aware of this momentous development, but she soon will be, Auntie, believe me!
Bye for now, Auntie. Love is in the air.
Will Auntie approve of the forthcoming marriage? Will Tracey whip the eggs into submission? Will 2000 poo carrying pigeons start a North Atlantic War?
Can the world survive another Spot adventure?
Find out the answers to these conundrums next week in Female First. The UKâs most popular online celebrity gossip and lifestyle magazine.