We had another day of filming my very important picture box programme this cat week and yet again, it didn’t go smoothly. Mr. Pig jinxed it all by not turning up for his duties as my sous-directeur. I knew he’d start his nonsense as soon as there was any whiff of picture box stardom, he’s not the type to handle it in a dignified manner like me, so he’s not… I was not in the mood for his amateur dramatiques because on top of my twinkly career I was extremely busy preparing for the Fool’s Day celebrations and arranging a party. His truand famille were still camped in my jardinere and I was beginning to feel as though my home was becoming a free for all, do as you likey gaff. Not only is Hugo digging holes all over my land but he’d also been helping said guinea pig family with some ‘general maintenance’ as they’re calling it, behind their caravans. I had no idea, dear readers what was going on and me and my baked beans were far too busy to care at the time…

Anyway, I digest. I stomped down to Mr. Pig’s caravan and found him fast asleep on his floral patterned couch, an eye mask situated on his visage and Jeremy Kyle playing on his picture box. Eileen was busy in the kitchenette baking cheese muffins at his request. He told me, dear readers that because he’d been up all night writing his new cookery book, he’d exhausted himself. Apparently the inspiration had gripped him in the wee small hours and the whole thing had made him bilious, so it had. Livid he was still working on his wretched book I ‘wrapped’ him in his eye mask and using my very well practiced cricket bowling throw, I managed to ‘putt’ him in the direction of my cottage, so I did… I was being his friend by saving him from having to walk seeing as he was feeling so poorly.

Having securely zipped Eileen up in the bag of her vacuum cleaner I polished off the cheese muffins – the stress had caused me to shake, dear readers and I needed some kind of nourriture, so I did. After kindly giving their caravan a quick vacuum I emptied the bag in the bin and left. It was lucky for them that Tyrone, Sharon and Chelsea were having a wee holiday with the rest of the family down the other end of my garden. Upon reaching my home I picked Mr. Pig up from my patio and ran him under my outside tap to revive him so that we could continue with our cookery demonstration as quickly as possible; the water is icy cold from there, so it is. I am not going to suffer a Cursed Claw from Carpet Bag Baggy Puss just because Mr. Pig can’t get his act together.

The recipe we experimented with this cat week was Saucisson en Brioche. I argued with Gracie over this recipe because a) I don’t like Brioche and b) I don’t think sausages should be insulted by it and c) I was craving a roast dinner. A chicken roast dinner actually but I’m not going down that road again, so I have been avoiding Marigold Head and poulet filled cul-de-sac. Gracie pressed her paw firmly on mine and on feeling one of her claws digging in I agreed with said recipe on the condition I could buy ready made Brioche, use Wall’s sausages and put my own twist on the whole recipe. Then I was told I had to follow the method of the recipe which states that the saucisson has to be poached. Well, dear readers I am not poaching, steaming or boiling said saucisson. Not ever. They have to be crispened and that is that, so it is. I did throw a wee tantrem over this and suffered a Cursed Claw which is still wedged firmly between my eyes. Had I my own caravan to stromp off to, I would have and I am thinking of getting one so I can propell myself into some fully formed tantrems. Instead, I had to make do with throwing myself onto the floor…

Eventually I transformed Saucisson en Brioche into Crispy Saucisson en Brioche Bread and Butter Pudding and it was delicious, dear readers. Take the Wall’s saucisson meat from it’s casing and crispen in a pan. While you wait slice the Brioche and toast it. Layer both tasty bouchees in a butter greased dish, pour Ambrosia custard over the top and bake in the oven. A clickety clack of a chicken’s beak and you have a main course which is so versatile you can turn it into a dessert by adding some chocolate curls to the top.

I prepared this for Fool’s Day on Sunday, along with many of my other culinary delights such as fish balls on sticks, orange and yellow cheese on sticks, chicken nuggets on sticks, meatballs on sticks, Jelly Babies on sticks, tripe on sticks and many other Michelin Man starred food. There I sat, my party hat on my tete drinking an Angry Mary, one of my favourite cocktails, Abba Gold Greatest Hits playing in the back ground and not a soul turned up, dear readers. Not even Miss Havisham. This happens to me every year and I don’t understand why, so I don’t… Once my Abba album had finished I became aware of laughter at the bottom of my garden. Then it all became clear what they’d been up to the past few cat weeks. On investigation I found all my party guests behind the guinea pig commune enjoying themselves around a brand new swimming pool Hugo had helped them to make. My piquer une colere was lost on my so called friends because they were all too busy laughing and singing to see or hear me throw myself to the ground. I had to go into the Mucky Duck, public house around the corner and throw one there, the only place I could find an audience. I have been barred, so I have…

Anyway, I must dash my dear readers because Chocolate Day is almost upon us and I haven’t quite finished stocking up. I prepare myself a Chocolate Egg Hunt each year, so I do…

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig found himself ‘entangled’ in the left over Wall’s saucisson skins whilst he was tidying up. The only way I could release him was to build up some velocity within the confines of my kitchen until it released it’s treacherous sticky grip on him. Unfortunately the force was so great that when he was eventually ‘set free’, he hit my favourite vase and smashed it into tiny pieces, so he did… In my rush to be a good friend and rescue him from my cold kitchen floor he ‘tripped’ on my baked beans and ‘concussed’ himself on my larder door, so he did…

Having agreed with Gracie that yes Mr. Pig wrapped in a cling film spice wrap, winched to my bathroom shower frame looked similar to a scene from the picture box programme about psychopaths called Waking the Dead. And yes, holes cut in the cling film for his eyes and mouth did look a bit sinister. And yes a straw protruding from his gob hole in order for him to breath was clearly stepping over the boundaries of my basket weaving sanity, so it was. I have to say, he was quite happy to be a part of my new enterprising intervention but Gracie said that seeing as the GPAA were looking for evidence of my ill doing I ought to put my plans on the back burner of my stove, so to speak. She came up with a wonderful plan to get me off the hook with the GPAA so I was happy to go along with anything rather than face prison and live on cheap food. Gracie said that if I was willing to build bridges with the little wee fella and publicly show I was doing so, all charges against me would be dropped. So, her idea is dear readers, for me to host a Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock style cookery programme with said guinea pig. A kind of Fanny and Johnnie duet. I am prepared to rekindle my friendship with him, after all, we used to get along…in our own way… At first he wouldn’t agree to the terms but Edith came up with some very revealing surveillance evidence showing Mr. Pig in some etre en mesure de compromettre with someone from the GPAA. So, Gracie blackmailed him and he agreed, more out of fear of Eileen than the awful publicity. I saw the pictures and trust me dear readers I feel like I’ve been visually abused. Never will I ever in my life ever be able to erase the horror of the images from my delicate and somewhat fragile esprit. So before paw shaking and signing of contracts was completed Mr. Pig suffered rules 72, 164 and 3 of the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code Book which involved my beloved Soda Stream, a duster, two tubes of toothpaste and a baking tray. Oh, and the threat of a blow torch. He’s lucky because my baked beans hovered over the Guinea Pig Death Book but I willed myself away from it with the thought of a freshly fried spam fritter. Not only that, I needed an assistant on my cookery programme, I must protect my very precious and talented baked beans, so I must.

Gracie is to inform us of what we are to cook each week and Carpet Bag Baggy Puss has offered to film it. Gracie feels I need some structure in my life, a kind of routine to stop me propelling myself through the window of the Scrambled Head Home where I would spend all day making interesting and insightful pictures with pasta shapes and lentils. She is of course correct dear readers and I am aware you are all suffering from my lack of culinary advice and expertise. But during the first day of filming, the idea of making crafts with other doily heads appealed to me. Never work with children or animals or anyone called She for that matter; that is the general rule of baked bean. Due to my habile adroit I found a way of managing my urges, so I did…

Our first recipe was Lapin au Saupiquet and for this you need a frozen rabbit. I have no idea why mon chere lecteurs, I am just following the recipe. Three Cadbury’s Curly Wurly’s, two cream horns and a Fry’s Turkish Delight bar later and we had ‘borrowed’ said rabbit from les enfants next door. I’ve not had much to do with rabbits but I was slightly concerned it would be similar to the escapade I had with the hare. Anyway, all was going well, I apologised to him for not offering him a cup of tea but under the circumstances it wasn’t really appropriate. He was very polite and said he’d just had a brew so there was no need. It was quite a cold day so I asked him to stand outside until he felt freezing and to knock on the door when he was ready. While he was busy getting cold I directed Mr. Pig as to what vegetables I needed cutting up, he is after all my assistant. Almost immediately he began wittering that the onion he was chopping was hurting his eyes. So, because I am his friend I lifted him up to the sink and with my new state of the art power spray hose tap I rinsed his eyes out for him. He coughed and spluttered a bit but agreed that his eyes did feel better even though the force of the water had given him slight whip lash. Then I asked him to cut up the lardons for the sauce and he said he couldn’t because he’s a vegetabletarian, apparently. I told him there was no room for faddy diets on our cookery programme and he’d have to get on with it. He refused and I wondered how I was going to get over my guinea pig anger urge to pop him into my coffee machine and watch him ‘percolate’ in the glass jug. I took a deep breath, picked him up by his arm and launched him into my larder and shut the door. There, I found a packet of Frazzles and locating the ingredients on the back of the packet I asked him to read it out loud. He said he couldn’t because his eye rinse had blurred his vision so I read it for him. Frazzles, dear readers are made from bacon, so they are. After having words and quassering the urge to put said Frazzles somewhere I am not allowed to mention, we continued with the show.

Aaron (the rabbit) eventually knocked on my door and said he felt rather chilly. I asked him if he was craving hot chocolate and cheese toasties to which he answered yes and that’s how I worked out he was ‘frozen’ enough. I invited him in and he amicably got into the red wine and herb ‘bath’ I had prepared for him. I couldn’t believe it dear readers after all the trouble I had with the impertinent hare a few cat months ago.

All was going swimmingly, although I was slightly worried about the amount of fur he had on his body. I was just asking him if he would mind having a wee ‘haircut’ when She walked in and began squawking at me like an evil pixie and that was the end of our French cookery experiment. How was I to know he was an award winning Angora rabbit and that the child he belonged to hadn’t realised we were planning to eat him. And on film too. I had made it perfectly clear to said child we wanted to ‘use’ him for filming a very important picture box programme and that he would have to demonstrate Lapin au Saupiquet as part of the activities.

So, She snatched the now bright pink Julian from his bath, wrapped him in one of MY best towels and returned him to his home. It was all ruined dear readers and all I was left with was no dinner and stupid Mr. Pig and his wittering gob. I told my film crew that Mr. Pig needed a wee bath and a comb in order for him to look his best for our next cookery demonstration and whisked him off for some ‘pampering’. I am such a good friend to him, so I am…

I must dash because I need to lay on my doormat while the sun is shining on it while I eat the cream horns and Fry’s Turkish Delight bar I ‘retrieved’ from the mensonge enfant. I am suffering from rabbit cravings and need to fill my grumbling ventre with something, so I do…

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Contrary to what you may think I didn’t ‘hurt’ Mr. Pig in the bathroom even though I used various kitchen utensils to wash and comb him. The onion vapours had ingrained his skin so he needed a good ‘scrub’ before his bedtime. He assures me the wire brush, pastry wheel and rolling pin didn’t hurt him…after half a cat hour he said he couldn’t feel a thing, so he did…

At the last cat hour Gracie managed to convince the GPAA I ought to be set free on the condition I don’t use my Catpass. The tambourine banging hippy with the frizzon hair said they would be collecting more evidence and would be in touch soon. Unfortunately, My party was well underway by the time I arrived back to my cottage and it was clear no one was expecting me. Mr. Pig was tap dancing on MY garden table and all MY guests were cheering, completely in awe of him. The theft of my lemon light only confirmed his saboutagement of me and I was LIVID dear readers, so I was. Even She and Mr. Christopher were there encouraging him with their clapping and singing. I limped across MY garden (I am wearing a GPAA electronic tag on my leg) grabbed said guinea pig and ‘flung’ him onto my barbeque slamming the lid shut behind me. I felt he needed to practice his tap dancing techniques in private. There was nothing to panic about dear readers, he had top quality burgers to protect his stupid feet but Gracie rushed to rescue him to save me from further persecution. I ignored her and clambered onto MY garden table so I could address MY now silent guests, live band and circus. I had gone beyond LIVIDNESS dear readers and my face was firmly pushed up against my visionary Twisted Head Home. And let me tell you, I could see my potential inmates building miniature Eiffel Towers out of Twiglets and Frazzles. I explained to my audience, in detail, what I had been through the last cat week during my term in the GPAA prison. They gasped when I told them I’d been made to eat processed foods such as ham sandwiches, yogurts and packets of cheap biscuits. As you well know, I do not eat processed foods, ever. I explained how I had been deprived of my picture box programmes, luxury cat bed and snackettes de morderes and how I am probably in danger of suffering from malnutrition or a terrible stomach disease such as Digitalis. I was so food deprived that by the end of the cat week I was able to get one leg, my tail and two sixteenths of my stomach through the bars of my prison cell. My guests were shame faced at what I had been through and became very subdued. Don’t get me wrong dear readers, I wanted my party to go ahead because Gracie had promised she’d get me out but no one knew that so why were they all celebrating in my absence? It should have been sombre and quiet with a funereal atmosphere until my exciting surprise entrance. But no, Mr. Pig saw the opportunity to step into my baked beans and catapulted himself into my place. I wanted to beat him from the top of my helter skelter and into my mental fairground using his very own flip flops. Having explained my feelings via mega phone, all my lovely guests, live band players and circus performers apologised and agreed to reinact my birthday party entrance to loud applause and gasps of disbelief. This cheered me briefly until the time came for me to open my gifts. I had specified a birthday present list but there were only a small amount who bought me what I wanted. Some of you, not mentioning any names, sent me items which, had you taken the time to read the small print you would have seen were forbidden. You know who you are if you gave me any food items in a tin which DIDN’T contain spam or caviar. DVD box sets containing Jessica Fletcher were a no no (I had a debacle with her over some unanswered correspondence where I questioned her policing skills) as were Glee and Mamma Mia. I love twinkliness of any kind but this is just sickly rif raf viewing disguised as twinkle. I also specifically requested NOT to receive any knitted items. Those of you who sent any of the above will be waiting in vain for a Christingle card this year.

Knitting brings me to my next catastrophe dear readers. Miss. Havisham (Enid), proudly and excitedly presented me with a very small but brightly patterned tank top. Apparently it had taken her months to make and it was to be worn for my party celebrations. When I refused I was ordered by She to at least try it on so as not to offend the cobwebbed lush. After a few cat minutes of ‘no I won’t’ and ‘yes you will’ I reluctantly agreed. Offend or please, I wouldn’t normally care but once I’d got it on I couldn’t actually get it off it was so tight. I could hear a few of my birthday guests sniggering at me so I limped my way upstairs and into my bathroom feeling and probably looking like a badly stuffed Christingle stocking. I needed to try and remove the offending garment in private because I knew it would be quite a struggle. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get it passed my arms and that’s when I began to panic. I was trapped yet again, dear readers but this time in a knitted prison. I staggered around the room, pulling and wriggling but it just made the situation worse because not only would it not come off but I couldn’t get it back down in order to pull it off the other way. Had my arms not been trapped to the side of my head as though I were about to attempt a gymnastic style movement I would have located my scissors and cut it off. Out of breath, I managed to sit myself down on the cat loo so I could contemplate my fate in the psychedelic strobing folds of the knitwear. Eventually Gracie came looking for me and helped me out of the scary top but it was too late and the delerium had set in, so it had. I was found some time later making macrame table mats out of the knitted threads whilst I talked to a cold spam fritter and an egg I’d drawn faces on. Gracie tucked me into my cat bed and that’s where I stayed for a few cat days, so I did… Apparently everyone enjoyed my birthday party but as far as I’m concerned it was a complete flop, so it was.

You may have noticed I haven’t shared any genius culinary secrets this cat week. Firstly, I’ve been in prison through no fault of my own. Secondly, I had a lutter se battre with a tank top. Thirdly, I am squeaking down the slide of my helter skelter and have been drawing strange pictures on my Etch- a- Sketch and talking to the cheese board in my fridge. Fourthly, I have too many picture box programmes to catch up on and fifthly I couldn’t be bothered. But don’t panic dear readers because whilst I was resting my baked beans and the tangled macrame maze of my head I was able to develop the idea of my new culinary kitchen aid. After the success of Mr. Pig’s barbeque stained hue an idea came to me during my terre a terre in prison. He would make a very nifty ‘seasoner’; a reusable marinade, so to speak. The final touches need ‘tweaking’ but I think it’s going to be a success. I shut him in my extractor fan for a few cat hours so he could ‘absorb’ the food smell vapours but this didn’t really work out. He wittered about being too hot and needing a wee wee and it began to spoil my picture box viewing of Emmerdale Farm. This just resulted in an urge to put him in the U-bend of my sink and alternate the hot and cold taps. This vision then progressed to Sellotaping him to the windscreen wipers of our village bus because it was raining quite hard. Then this transformed to shutting him in my bread maker with all the ingredients whilst I watched him ‘bake’ through the tiny window, so I decided to remove him from my extractor fan before the urges got the better of me…

Anyway, must dash because I need to begin writing my prison memoirs for my autobiographical blockbuster. I’m going to sell my story to ‘Alright!’ magazine. They’ll be a big campaign for my name to be cleared and Mr. Pig will be rubbished forever, so he will…

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig is currently enjoying a mace, chilli and cayenne pepper type ‘sauna’ in my bathroom. He’s wittering that the food wrap is too tight and the marinade is ‘burning’ his skin but at least he has somewhere to do an unnoticed wee wee. The GPAA can’t touch me because I’m ‘using’ Mr. Pig in the name of ‘enterprise’, so I am… By the time I’m finished my genius intervention will be similar to Mr. Jamie Oliver’s Flavour Shaker and everyone all over the world will have a Guinea Pig Marinade Wafty Seasoner as a nifty culinary kitchen aid, so they will…

This cat week my blog has been written from a…from a…I can’t bring myself to say it without shedding a cat tear, dear readers…from a…I can’t! I will just tell you the true and precise events running up to what has happened to me while I compose myself.

Wanting to flex my culinary baked beans I decided to challenge myself  by making a recipe called Boeuf en Caisse Quelle Surprise. But, during the preparation I realised it was too advanced for my dear readers so I have simplified it for you all. Not only that but it takes so long to make I became bored very quickly. I had to wear two pink ruffles, one around my estomac and the other around my genius tete because it caused me to sweat, what with all the snipping and cutting of the boeuf dear readers. Also, when I am being creative I do not wish to be disturbed and I had constant knockings at my door, so I did. Very irritating knockings which would push anyone over the edge, so they would…

I ignored the first few tappings from Hugo because I just couldn’t bear the thought of being audibly abused. Then Mr. Pig took it upon himself to walk in unannounced and Hugo followed; I can see I’m going to have to get an intercom like the ones people have in London. Grappling with the excavation of my boeuf, I was in no mood for a barbeque stained Mr. Pig. Environmental Health sent him back and have banned me from writing or contacting them in any way ever again. Apparently all 178 of my complaints have been fictitious ramblings, their words not mine, dear readers and they have issued me, yes me dear readers with a restraining order. They’ll be sorry when people begin choking on guinea pig hairs and claws or fainting because their chow mein is cold or they received the wrong order. But this was the least of my worries, so it was…

Having ‘jammed’ Hugo through my letter box (his goblet facing outside) I turned my irritations to Mr. Pig. Gracie was busy with my party planning for my birthday which is on the 17th March. Even though I have asked her to organise it all in order to relieve me of the stress I have still given her a list of errands I want her to achieve. So, whilst she was busy training the guinea pig commune to provide me with  a circus show, it left me free to deal with Mr. Pig. Because he had to be dealt with, dear readers otherwise he’ll never learn…

I had excavated my Boeuf en Caisse and decided not to take the recipe any further. Having tired myself making it hollow I had eaten the onions, olives and mushroom filling for sustenance. For those of you who don’t know what Beouf en Caisse is, it’s basically a large piece of meat hollowed out in the shape of a book, filled with yummy eats, tied with string and baked in the stove. I had got as far as the book stage…

I ‘tucked’ Mr. Pig into his new beouf book bed, tied it ‘snug’, hung him on a tent pole in front of a small gas fire, (She’s handy man, Mr. Christopher has some very useful equipment in his shed) and left him to ‘brown’. There were no witnesses and I’ve told him if he dares to mention it to the GPAA it’ll be my honorary word against his wittering. Gracie enjoyed the beouf kebab later that evening but discarded the Quelle Surprise. All he’d been good for was flavouring the beef with his barbeque wafting stained skin.

If you would like to make Boeuf en Caisse Quelle Surprise, I suggest you buy a ready made Meatloaf which is much easier to hollow out. Fill it with croutons and red wine, cover with the meatloaf lid and bake in the stove. Ta da, Boeuf en Caisse ne pas Quelle Surprise unless of course you often have barbeque stained guinea pigs at your disposal. This is a much tastier and an easier version to make. I am thinking of talking to my Literally an Agent about writing a book filled with simplified Out Cuisine because I seem to have a flare for these genius ideas.  I think the people from French would be very impressed with me, so they would. Not everyone has the baked beans as I do to create such complicated dishes. But none of this will be possible if I don’t get out…from where I am…through no fault of my own…

This is when disaster struck dear readers. The following cat morning, Mr. Pig, who I want to make clear was unscathed from his beef style sun tan bed, brought round a present for me for my birthday which is on the 17th of March. It was a box all wrapped in pretty paper and a large ribbon. He said I had to open it when I was on my own but before my birthday on the 17th of March. He told me it was a very special gift and that’s why I had to have it early. My curiousity caused me to open it as soon as he’d gone and to my onde de choc he had wrapped and parcelled up Chelsea, Sharon and Tyrone and left a note asking me to take care of them because he and Mrs. Eileen Pig needed a break and seeing as I am, after all their ‘Uncle’, I should take responsibility. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I did what I would do with any unwanted gift that arrived without a receipt, I put it in the poubelle boite and continued with my day. I had two episodes of Crossroads to watch on the picture box and my curried spam fritters (I’m still having cravings and Sid from India is closed until further notice) were getting cold. After this I went to my GPAA meeting, I wasn’t hurting anyone, I hadn’t ‘punted’, ‘duffed’ or ‘tapped’ Mr. Pig in any way for the terrible gift he’d sent me, althought I now wish I had. To my utter disbelief, dear readers I was arrested at the GPAA meeting by the Do Goody Yippety Hippety Yap Brigade. I, dear readers have written this from a…from a PRISON CELL! Not only that but I had to use cat loo paper to write on so that She could collect it during a prison visit in order for her to write it up on my flap top. They don’t even care it’s my birthday on the 17th of March. So MY party may go on without me, dear readers. Apparently I’m being charged with guinea pig cruelty under the guinea pig laws. And I have come to the conclusion this is a set up by Mr. Pig and his faux presents! He is jealous of me and the fact it’s MY birthday and everyone is throwing me a huge party.

Anyway, I don’t have to dash this cat week, dear readers because I am shut in a four walled wee wee smelling box but I will go because my baked beans are hurting from writing. Gracie has promised to get me out before my birthday party which is on the 17th of March, so it is.

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. If I wasn’t locked up Mr. Pig would be suffering code number 224 of the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code book which involves a makeshift pair of mini skis, a piece of rope, a toilet brush holder and an electricity cable. I can but dream from my cell, dear readers…

Elation and disaster hit me at the same time this cat week, dear readers and I definitely felt like I was on the low end of the see-saw, so I was. I discovered the most wonderful and easy nibblets to make for my birthday party, which by the way is on the 17th of March. Apparently it’s the easiest recipe in the whole world and I just simplified it further, in a flash. Even Ethel can make them and she’s tapped.

But, dear readers, on the very same day disaster struck when Gracie and I decided to order a takeaway from Sid in India only to discover he was closed for refurbishments purposes. Refurbishment dear readers. I even walked round there so I could see for myself that they were closed. Three weeks they are shut for! This equates to half a cat year, so it does. And let me tell you, when I crave chicken pakoras, garlic nans, poppydoms, biryani, bombay potatoes, onion baggies, vindaloo, chicken ticker and pilly rice, I just have to have it otherwise I become very cross, so I do.

When I arrived back to my cottage, my baked beans empty and cold, I found that Hugo the wretch mole had tapiniered all over my garden. Apparently he is so grateful for his trip to the cinema where the staff gave him some head phones so he could listen to the audio version, that he has decided to regale us with his presence for a few cat weeks. He clearly thinks his company is entertaining. What I want to know is, where is my birthday marquee going to go. Not only do I have a hippy guinea pig commune camped in my jardiniere but a noisy chicken cul-de-sac, a caravan filled with nigauds, a french squirrel who claims to be too busy to teach me anymore ‘language’ and now a yawn bore mole! It is MY BIRTHDAY AND I WANT A PROPER PARTY. And if I have to throw several coleres to get it, I WILL! The stress of all this caused a small amount of my fur to fall out and I was actually sick two days ago. I have had to ask Gracie to completely take over the birthday preparations because I will end up in the Nitwit Home playing the utterly pointless game, Jenga. I felt much better once I had relinquished all responsibility and calmed myself as best I could by watching my favourite film, Zanadoo. It gave me time to freeze my fromage ready for the experimentation of my culinary genius recipe.

Unfortunately, Chelsea one of Mr. Pig’s gobby enfants knocked on my door asking for her ball back. Her and the other nigauds had kicked it into my garden. It was the wrong time, dear readers. Not only had she interrupted my Zanadoo viewing time but I was still having curry cravings and nothing was going to satisfy me, not even a freshly fried spam fritter. I found said ball, Sellotaped her to said ball and drop kicked it from the top of my outhouse roof. On the satisfactory scale of one to ten, a level six was reached at the time of punting. Ten cat minutes later and Sharon, another of Mr. Pig’s spawn knocked on my door asking for Chelsea and the ball. I ‘popped’ her into a Tupperware pot and ‘placed’ her into the ‘draw of doom’, a place where we throw things we don’t really want but may need at a later date. I’d just managed to satisfy myself slightly by adding curry powder to my spam fritter batter and had sunk my teeth into the first freshly cooked one when there was another knock at the door which coincided with Olivier Newton John’s Zanadoo theme tune which is my favourite part. It was the evil Tyrone asking for Sharon, Chelsea and said ball. I ‘sent’ him to see Hugo in his taupiniere.

Anyway, I digest, let us get back to my marvellous invention of Cheese Ice Cream Milles – Feuilles a la Fondue de Fromage. Gracie and I made them exactly as the recipe states which is puff pastry spread with cream cheese, another layer of pastry and then they are baked in the oven. They reminded us of ice cream wafer sandwiches and that’s when the geniusness idea hit me, mon chere lecteurs. Freeze your Philadelphia or Dairylea and when you are ready to assemble just cut your cheese into thick wedges and place between your chosen crackers. Don’t use pastry it’s not the same. It’s much better with Cheddars or Tuc biscuits. I am definitely having these at my birthday party which is being held on my actual birthday which is the 17th of March.

I managed to watch the rest of Zanadoo in peace but my curry craving was still lingering and I began to shed a small cat tear. My stomach hurt from the cravings dear readers and it had overshadowed my Zanadoo viewing. I watched a couple of episodes of The Waltons and even this didn’t put them at bay. Gracie suggested we travel into town and get a takeaway from another place but I didn’t want her losing any party planning time trying to find one. I couldn’t possibly go because I was bent double with my curry craving cramps so I sent Mr. Pig on the bus. I gave him a clear list of what I wanted and warned him not to let me down. I’m sure if you give warnings to guinea pigs and they don’t adhere to them you can’t be held responsible for your actions. Anyway, I have learnt my lesson and won’t be asking him to do anything else for me ever again. He came back with food from Lucy’s in Chinese which is situated in the village. He’d spent the bus fair in the Mucky Duck, ordered from said Chinese having helped himself to three spring rolls and two bags of prawn dumplings and thought I wouldn’t notice. Don’t get me wrong dear readers, I love food from Chinese but I was craving CURRY AND THAT’S WHAT I WANTED, SO IT WAS. I can’t be held responsible for my actions and if anyone says otherwise I will say they were diminshed due to myself being hurled from my helter skelter and landing on the doorstep of the Nitwit Home. Luckily I was sane enough not to enter but my breath and imprints of my baked beans can be found on the windows where I stared through the glass at my potential inmates. Sanity quickly appeared and I ‘shoved’ Mr. Pig into the pot of barbeque sauce he had ordered for his dumplings, put him in a Jiffy bag and posted him with a covering letter of ‘look what I found in my takeaway’ and sent it to the Environmental Health Department for some scientific analysis. I am passed caring if Lucy from Chinese gets into trouble, I have told her time and again not to serve Mr. Pig if he enters her establishment because it’s usually when I have sent him for food from India.

I must dash dear readers because my Take a Break magazine has arrived through the post and I have to read it during elevenses whilst eating a Cadbury’s Curly Wurly, so I do…

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mrs. Eileen Pig came searching for her nigauds which enabled myself and the other fluffs to have quite a fun time playing a variation of outdoor parlour games. I couldn’t remember which taupiniere I’d ‘placed’ Tyrone in so this turned into a game not dissimilar to ‘which cup is the coin under’. Then we timed each other to enter the ‘draw of doom’ and dig out Sharon. The first one to find the cobaye won a bag of Frazzles. Then we played a ‘Where’s Wally’ type game where we all stood on the top of my outhouse roof and tried to spot said ball with said Chelsea attached. The first one to locate her and name the neighbour’s garden she’d landed in won a bag of Dolly Mixtures. We ended up making a night of it once we’d shut Mrs. Eileen Pig into my salad spinner to shush her screeching and wittering. We drank Spiced Rum and danced until the wee small hours. A guinea pig in a salad spinner makes a very good home -made percussion instrument, so it does…

My birthday is fast approaching dear readers and I didn’t want leap year over shadowing it so I’ve chosen to see it as an extra day for me to eat, sleep and be well rested for my big day on the 17th of March. Which is in fact my birthday, so it is. Gracie is my party planner and I have also asked Mr. Pig for his help because the GPAA have told me that in order to move forward with my recovery, I need to make him feel ‘involved’. I’ve been doing quite well – I’ve watched Hollyoaks on the picture box with him everyday this cat week, shared my Frazzles with him and even helped him wallpaper the lounge in his caravan. Chelsea, Sharon and the evil Tyrone (Mr. Pig’s progeniture) suffered rule number one hundred and thirteen of the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code book because A. I hate them, B. Tyrone tried to kill me, C. It’s by the by, D. I felt like it, E. Tyrone was deemed too young to face persecution so therefore he isn’t old enough to have any guinea pig rights, F. I’m not breaking any GPAA rules because Mr. Pig wasn’t the one I wallpapered to the wall, G. They were making fun of my curly tail, so I was quite justified in my actions.

You must understand dear readers that I’m not sensitive about my curly tail because it is a family trait and a marking of the Mcginge clan, so it is. Everyone who sees my curly tail suddenly realises who I am; it’s a bit like the Royal family and their blue blood. Anyway, I was under the impression you should respect your elders and anyone ginger.

Mr. Pig’s famille look quite fetching on his wall and reminded me of three porcelain ducks in flight, like the ones I’ve seen on Coronation Street. I did wonder if guinea pig embossed wallpaper might catch on? Mr. Pig didn’t rush to remove them. I think he likes the fact I found a way of silencing the petite mioches.

I have had quite a strange cat week dear readers. Whilst I was telling the guinea pig community, who by the way are still camped in my garden, that they are banned from playing country and western music at my birthday party, I felt a rumbling underneath my baked beans. I grabbed Gracie who was stood next to me and flung us both to the ground, I was sure we were about to suffer an earth shudder. After two more shudders and silence we both looked up to see a large mountain of dirt in the middle of my lawn. My feline instincts kicked in immediately and one click of my baked beans and I had Gracie digging away at said mountain. I went into my cottage for shelter and watched from my kitchen window. Two cheese wheels, four French Fancies and a large sausage roll later and Gracie reappeared at the top of the mound with a very strange creature we don’t see very often, a mole. Yes, a mole dear readers. A taupe from his taupiniere. I ran outside and asked him what he thought he was doing tunneling in my garden and the poor wee fella told me he was blind dear readers and had arrived there by accident. Because I am such a nice cat and have been fulfilling my GPAA terms I decided to be even more charitable and help him out. Gracie and I fetched him in doors and made him a hot chocolate. We also offered him some lunch which I realise now was a big mistake. He ate the entire contents of my larder dear readers and trip trapped until we fell asleep at the table. When we awoke he was still waffling and continued his chatter while I picked various food items from Gracie’s face (she’d fallen asleep on her dejeuner) and I desperately tried to think of a way to shut him up and get rid of him. Mr. Pig walked in just at the right moment. We introduced him to our verbally excited taupe and went for a stroll to resucitate ourselves. Hugo (that’s his name) was still there when we got back and Mr. Pig was in a very deep sleep in the chair. The contents of my kitchen had fast become bare and I had to do something dear readers. Being the nice considerate celebratory cat that I am, I didn’t just send him away. Gracie and I told him about a new film showing at the cinema and offered to pay for him to go, escorted, there and back. He happily agreed so we strapped him to the cur next door, put them both on the bus, paid the driver and told him where to drop them off.

Anyway, I digest. I need to tell you about my very exciting Out Cuisinery I created this cat week. I am having nibbles for my party celebrations on the 17th of March which is my birthday (in case you’d forgotten) and I decided to experiment with Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddocks Devilled Eggs without the egg. Marigold Head and his clan got bored with the Frazzles and they are now making more noise than ever and producing hundreds of oeufs. Having solved my sleep problem by moving to another room (She is a genius, so She is), I was faced with another… My unmentionables were blocked from eating too many egg based foods. I don’t want to talk about it but it involved some very bad trapped wind only curable by She feeding me lots of figs and shutting me in Ginger Nut Villa for a whole cat hour. Never again, dear readers, plus jamais.

I digest again. For your Devilled Eggs you will need some powdered fake egg which means this recipe is suitable for vegans and vegetabletarians. Mix the powdered fake egg with some butter, anchovies and tartar sauce. Roll into little balls and pop them onto cocktail sticks and c’est magique, Devilled Eggs. Remember to store them in the fridge because they get a bit wiffy when left in the cupboard.

I must dash dear readers, I am having a Scrabble tournament with Mr. Christopher, She’s handy man, and I need to revise my two letter word dictionary, have a nap and watch this weeks Bergerac on the picture box whilst eating some spam fritters. Then and only then will I be sufficiently warmed up for this challenging literary parlour game. It is not uncommon for Mr. Christopher and I to be referred to as intermellectuals.

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. We couldn’t rouse Mr. Pig from his papoter induced coma so Gracie and I came up with the genius idea of testing my birthday party lights out on him. We wired him up and gave him a few ‘zaps’ but to no avail. It was like a scene from the picture box programme, Casualty dear readers and I begged Gracie to keep going as I saw her glancing at my kitchen clock. I couldn’t let her give up on the little wee fella and I even shed a few cat tears as I watched his little body ‘flip’ around the table during each ‘reanimer’. It was in fact moi that saved his life. My dramatic sobbing caused me to avoir des gaz (I was still suffering from some ‘movement’ in said unmentionables) and it was as though I’d breathed life into my little ginger ami. With a gasp and a trump (him, not me) he was back to his ‘normal’ self, so he was…

Having become bored with my Fuzzy Felt games and rearranging the coloured stickers on my Rubik’s cube I decided I may be at risk of getting rickets and needed some fresh air. So, being brave I faced the guinea pig village that had formed in my garden and sent Gracie to see them with a letter from moi explaining I would return Eileen and drop all the charges against them.

The cosmetic company had hand delivered Mr. Pig back to his caravan having given him a makeover, and put a rather terse letter through my door. I won’t bore you with the details but I think they were being slightly dramatique to say the least – after all, he is just a guinea pig and considered a bouchee casse croute in his native country and an annoying rongeur across the rest of the world.

Anyway, thanks to me he now has fresh, soft pink skin, a fluffy, silky, layered bouffant barnet over the top and he is wafting fragrant smells wherever he goes. Not a thank you or murmur of appreciation have Gracie and I heard from his stupid gob and I am up to my baked beans with ungratefulness dear readers, and let me tell you, I am not going to put up with it.

To add to my fruits de mare I discovered that Mr. Pig’s family had no buillon with me at all and had purely come over for a wee holiday. I had barracked myself in my cottage for a whole cat week for no reason what so ever, dear readers. I had cabin crew fever as a result and four laps of the village didn’t even manage to cure it. Not only that, but I was still being audibly abused by the chickens and my mal-slumber condition was making me think very bad thoughts, so it was…and the urge was upon me again… The upshot of it all is, that due to Mr. Pig suffering a ‘whisking’ from the beaters in my cake mixer, a ‘fizzing’ in my beloved Soda Stream and the potential trauma of my hand held rotating cheese grater (intercepted by Gracie), all charges against him have been dropped because I broke rules seven, eighty two and almost ninety six of the Guinea Pig Anger Management Code book. I have been ordered to attend the GPAA meetings again and it is my last chance. If I break this condition I will most definitely be facing persecution, so I will…

Because of this unforeseen set of mishaps I realised the blame laid at the chickens door and therefore they had to go. An argument ensued between She and I because she is selfishly refusing to evict them. I explained I had gone off the idea of Oeuf Dollop because it’s just not selling and I had no more need for said poultry but She wouldn’t listen. Anyway, I have found a temporary solution, quite by accident dear readers and it has gifted me some blissfully deep cat naps. I was taking a turn around my garden whilst eating a packet of Frazzles. I paused, deep in thought at the gate of the chicken cul-de-sac and accidently dropped one of the tasty maize snackettes into their garden. Marigold head ran over to see what it was and pecked it with his beak. It became stuck, dear readers and he was unable to get it off rendering him speechless. It was as though a tiny ray of sunshine had crept into the darkly filled clouds of my insomnia. I threw the entire packet in and ran in doors to fetch some more until each and every poulet was silenced. I am enjoying it while it lasts because I seem to be surrounded by toe jewellery clad flip flop wearing do goodies who protest against everything I do.

The upside of my cat week, dear readers was that I have discovered a brand new chef called Mr. Graham Kerr also known as the Galloping Gourmet. He is marvellous, so he is and his culinary expertise is almost on a par with mine. So, this cat week I decided to try his recipe called Jenna’s Eggs and it is now one of my favourites. The man is a genius, so he is! I’m not sure he should be on first name terms with his chickens or giving them any lime light in regard to his gastronomic inventions because personalising them gives them aspirational ideas above their feathers. I will probably write and tell him so; he might be interested in my beak silencing invention.

For this recipe you will need a Eierkocher from a shop called Germany. We don’t have said shop in our village so I improvented and used some egg poaching cups I found in my cupboard. Put some cream, pepper, fish and herbs in the bottom of the cup, crack an egg on the top (making sure you put on your Marigold gloves and scrub it first) and add it to a pan of boiling water for a few cat minutes. And twinkly dee your ouef cuisine is cooked and can be eaten straight from the Eierkocher in front of the picture box.

I must dash because I have to attend my first GPAA meeting later today and I need to practice my remorseful sentences in front of the mirror. It shouldn’t be too difficult, due to our mass oeuf supply Carpet Bag and Miss. Havisham have just cooked some pitiful looking egg and cheese tarts they want us all to try. Hopefully my Frazzle trick will stop the feathery fools from laying so many eggs…I won’t be forced to eat too many sub standard, common, ordinary pub style snackettes dear readers; my stomach is now seasoned with elitist corr don bleugh and it won’t settle for anything less…

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Gracie and I eventually ‘dug’ Eileen from the depths of the sofa and I have to say, she’d let herself go a wee bit. Slightly squashed, covered in fluff, crisp crumbs and various unidentifiable morsels we decided to give her a bath before sending her home. She was a bit pongy dear readers and I had to ‘scrub’ her with She’s nail brush in order to remove the Jelly Tots stuck to her stomach and hind leg. When we’d finished she complained, dear readers, yes, complained that she was cold. While Gracie went to find her a clean towel she became quite abusive to me and I could see the fuzzy visionary urges coming into focus. Anyway, to cut a short story even shorter, it was all ruined when She walked in on me and another quarrel ensued. She snatched Eileen from my baked beans, closed the microwave door and took said mioche back to her caravan. I was only going to give her a quick ‘ding’ to dry her off, so I was…

As you all know it was Valentine’s day and I was aware of the celebrations but I chose not to mark the occasion. I’m not one to jump on the commercial cruise ship, as you know dear readers. And regardless of what She says, I was inundated with cards from various anons, so I was. I am, after all, a very popular celebratory cat which is what happens when you become a culinary ginger genius; Antony Worrall-Thompson enjoyed a short spell of fame before his hair turned white.

Anyway, we had much more pressing events to deal with because Mr. Pig’s trial date was fast approaching. Gracie and I sorted out our differences after the Marigold head debacle and I convinced her I had been suffering from a fanfare of delerium. Once she had admitted I was right and made her apologies I decided to lift my culinary ban and cook some of my spectacular Lutin en Chevals to offer round during the court proceedings. I used chocolate covered brasil nuts for this recipe; no one likes dates dear readers. Wrap them in small rashers of bacon, stab them with a cocktail stick and pop them in the oven until crispened and abrecadabre you have your Lutin en Chevals. For those of you who aren’t fluent in the language of France, this loosely translates into Pixies on Ponies, so it does.

The day of doom had arrived and after a couple of shots of Advocaat, a few cold hard slaps to stop him screaming and Mr. Pig was ready to trouver la mort. I pushed passed the crowds of gloaters that had filled Ginger Nut Villa and popped Mr. Pig in the stand using the handy grippery tongs because he was having trouble walking in his 1980s shiny black suit. During the time he was ‘wearing it in’ he gorged himself on Tuc biscuits, packets of chipsticks and Double Decker chocolate bars…I fear he has ‘worn it in’ so well that his skin has ‘knitted’ itself to the fabric. During the trial Mr. Pig’s nerves got the better of him and we had to open the windows before anyone keeled over from the fumes. I busied myself handing round trays of Lutin en Chevals which everyone thoroughly enjoyed. Worryingly, Mr. Pig ate quite a few, a delicacy he could ill afford due to the tightness of his pantaloons.

As Gracie presented all the exhibits silence fell across the court room and everyone stared, completely engrossed until we were jolted by a loud rumble in the distance. We all stared out of the windows and across my garden to the fields beyond. The rows of tiny shapes became bigger and the noise got louder until we all realised what was plummeting towards my jardiner; twelve caravans filled with Mr. Pig’s famille de trumps. Apparently they’d heard about his trial and travelled over to stop the proceedings and I suspect, dear readers to kidnap me and hold me hostage for vast amounts of cash.

A stampede ensued and everyone apart from Ethel who was still trying to catch up with her clerk notes, ran for the door having realised who they were and what they were going to do. My geniusness enabled me to think quickly on my baked beans and I grabbed Mr. Pig, and with my handy grippery tongs I managed to swipe Eileen as well (I left her evil produce behind). I hot footed it out of one of the open windows with Gracie right behind me, ran into my cottage and locked all the doors. Carpet Bag, Ethel and Miss. Havisham are residing in Ginger Nut Villa because I am refusing to open any doors until Gracie has negotiated a proper deal with the guinea pig gangs which are now camped outside.

Mr. Pig’s family are unaware of it yet but we don’t actually have him in our mitts. Gracie posted him in the middle of the night because his wittering was too much to bear. He was also becoming quite wiffy due to the fact he’d been wearing the same attire for almost a whole cat week. We’re actually doing him a favour because we’ve sent him to a voluntary cosmetic testing company. We saw an advert in the local paper which was asking for people to volunteer to test their moisturiser, lipsticks and eyeshadows. Taking it upon herself to poke her museau in, She says the company in question won’t allow him to take part because they don’t advocate animal testing. I told her to fermer her bouche and take her plaited hair, bead twiddling views up with the Guinea Pig Anger Managment Group because we had sent him with a covering letter explaining our motives to said company. We told them all about his tragic little life and asked if they would give him a makeover in return for him being, quite literally, a guinea pig for their products. He will benefit from a skin care regime and some ‘sprucing’ up and hopefully they’ll send him back in the pre-paid envelope we included when they’re finished with him. Anyway, if he isn’t in our presence we aren’t breaking any Guinea Pig Anger Management rules and once we’ve got rid of his family he can come back to face his punishment.

I must dash because I have Mr. Waitrose arriving with my weekly larder goodies and letting him in secretly is going to be quite a feat. We are surrounded by caravans, camp fires and guitar playing guinea pigs who appear to be practicing for Stars In Their Eyes auditions.

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. I’m sure you’ve all put your paws down the back of the sofa at one time or another and uncovered some coins, a surprise fruit pastel or even a half eaten Snickers bar (I can’t get through a whole one, the nuts bore me) and on the very rare occasion a Mrs. Pig. I’m sitting in the vicinity of where she is wedged quite tightly, as we speak. I have outlined some plans for a ‘sofa hot water bottle, cover included’ idea to add to my exceptionally genius enterprising inventions, so I have…

The chickens’ time in their cul-de-sac may be short lived, dear readers. I have been woken from my night time cat sleep on several occasions due to their faux dramatiques.

The first night I heard the squawking I tore off my eye mask and almost jumped out of my ginger coat, so I did. I thought at first, one of them was being murdered. I ran down my cottage stairs and straight out the cat door like a desperate fairy in search of a loo. I burst into their cul-de-sac with my handy grippery tongs (Mr. Pig attached) and prepared myself for the perculator. I ‘switched’ on my handy grippery tong guinea pig torch (Gracie has ‘tweaked’ Mr. Pig into the modern century) and shone it all around me but there was nothing to be seen.

Then, all of a sudden, the large chicken with the Marigold glove stuck to his head, pranced at me from nowhere squawking his idiotic head off, so he did. I had to act prompideux and tackled him into a head lock. This was clearly the wrong action to take because I then had chickens running at me from all directions and it turned into something out of a Mr. Alfred Hitchcock film. I was pecked to within an inch of my life and Mr. Pig was trampled.

Still having a firm hold of my handy grippery tongs, I managed to make a run for it. It wasn’t until I’d settled my nerves with a rum tinted cup of hot chocolate and two cheese pasties did I realise that Mr. Pig was no longer attached to the tool. For a few cat minutes I thought about rescuing him but visions of the time he stole my bumper bag of Sherbert Dib Dabs and lied about using my kitchen scissors to cut his toenails flooded my mind, so off to bed I went.

On top of all this ongoing chicken nonsense there has been much pret a prepare due to Mr. Pig’s impending trial next cat week. Ginger Nut Villa (my outhouse) is being transformed for the judgement par jury as we speak and Ethel has been given the very important task of being clerk to the magistrates. Gracie and Edith are busy studying hours of courtroom dramas such as Judge Judy, Diagnosis Murder and Cagney and Lacey which should make them fluent in the language of legalities.

What happened while all this was going on, dear readers wasn’t my fault, so it wasn’t… Due to a lack of sleep caused by Marigold head and the stress of the impending trial, I was thinking like a scrambled head in-patient and it caused me to make a grave decision… I took it upon myself to eat Marigold head… Robert Carrier is partly to blame, so he is because I was flicking through one of his cookery books and in doing so, it fell open on the page marked Poularde au Porto. The thought of a belly full of french cuisinery and a quiet, uninterrupted cat nap afterwards was too much of an allechante.

So, I sealed Mr. Pig’s mouth up with some surgical tape (I didn’t want him ruining my plans with his stupid wittering gob but I needed him in case I was attacked) and made my way outside to talk to Marigold head. I managed to convince him to come in doors for a Cognac aperitif followed by some port. It’s in the recipe and I was trying to throttle two guinea pigs with one rope, so I was. The alcohol would impair him and secondly, I would be some of the way forward with the preparations.

Realising this was in fact, a very good time saving idea, I decided to cook him some mushrooms in double cream, cornflour and black pepper. He scoffed the ingredients without any bother and preparations complete, all I had left to do was give him a shake and pop him in the stove.

I knew I shouldn’t have untaped Mr. Pig’s mouth and if I hadn’t listened to his wittering about what he was going to wear at his trial, all would have gone smoothly and no one would be any wiser of my actions. But no, Mr. Pig distracted me with his impending doom fashion parade and array of stupid 1980s shiny suits, causing Marigold head to stagger back to his cul-de-sac  unbeknown to me.

I now have a cul-de-sac full of chickens demanding french chord en bleugh and no way of getting rid of them. Disgusted at my behaviour, Gracie has set up an electric fence around the chicken estate and Edith is on 24 hour surveillance in case I try it again. Everyone is eyeing me like I am some sort of psychicpath. I only wanted to make Poularde au Porto, so I did and at least it would have been free range. And I would have shared it, so I would…

Anyway, they’ll all be sorry when they require niblets de francais at Mr. Pig’s trial next cat week and my baked beans go on strike.

I must dash, I have some very top secret Tomato Dollop on the go and I need to get it in the jars. I have given up on Mr. Mark and Mr. Spencer because they couldn’t be bothered to get back to me about Oeuf Dollop. They don’t deserve my geniusness and I have decided to approach Mr. Waitrose again. Tingling in my baked beans tells me he’s going to love Tomato Dollop so much that he’ll realise what a mistake he made with Oeuf Dollop.

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig ‘chose’ a black shiny 1980s suit for his impending doomsday trial and he’s ‘breaking’ it in for the big day. It was very tight but with the help of the handy grippery tongs, a tube of super glue, some Kirby grips and my body weight, I managed to ‘get’ him into it, so I did. I think he’ll be wearing it for quite some time to come, so he will…

There was a slight problem with the issueing of She’s eviction notice this cat week, due to the fact She showed me the door first. She had kitted out Ginger Nut Villa (my outhouse) with my home comforts, and told me it would be best if I lived there until we’d resolved our differences. If I didn’t like the ‘set up’ then that was where I was to live. Anyway so pardon.
Normally I would have stamped my baked beans and thrown a giant sized piquer une colere but as Gracie correctly pointed out, we were going to need She for our entrepreneurism, so we were. The amount of Oeuf Dollop we had to produce in order to supply the shops meant we would need some chickens in order for us to have our own eggs. I didn’t understand this sentence when Gracie first said it and I had no idea that chickens provide eggs. Then I found out that chickens actually ‘provide’ eggs, dear readers. When she told me they come from a chickens unmentionables I was horrified, so I was. I felt like I’d been flung into a circus freak show tent and I could even hear the wurlitzer playing me a tune, so I could. For cat years, cat years, dear readers I have been unknowingly handling eggs…I can’t talk about it anymore, it still makes me feel giddy. It took Gracie two cat hours to talk me round and convince me not give up eggs and jeopardize Oeuf Dollop. I will soldier on for the sake of my art de trumps.
So, I digest. She and I agreed to talk through our problems concerning the theft of the remaining slice of Victoria sponge, the last packet of Frazzles and who put the empty jar of Marmite back in the cupboard. She wouldn’t discuss ‘cat prison’ other than to say it was the best in the area. Her standards are set very low, so they are…
Anyway, I gave She my last fish paste cheese wheel as a peace offering and in the hope she’d agree to getting the chickens. She turned very pale and tears sprung to her eyes at the sight of my culinary gift. She gripped her throat and mumbled something about saving it for later and I knew then that I had won her over.
The upshot was, She agreed to us inviting some chickens to live in my cottage garden – She was looking forward to having a fresh supply of eggs every morning. We’ll see about that, I need them for my Oeuf Dollop.
The chickens arrived a few cat days ago and I’m really not sure about them. They’re very strange, suspectious creatures and I am beginning to wonder if they are spies. They don’t speak unless it’s amongst themselves and they are constantly watching me when I go into their houses. There hasn’t been many eggs since they’ve arrived and I’ve told them they have one cat week to produce on a grand scale or they’ll find out the versatility of garlic butter and bread crumbs, so they will. She says I’m frightening them and that’s why they won’t ‘lay’ for me. But I can’t be any more welcoming, so I can’t. I even gave them my last packet of fig rolls which I rudely found discarded down the bottom of my garden the next cat day.
Anyway, some of you have accused me of shirking my culinary responsibilities, because I haven’t demonstrated any cuisinery techniques lately. So, to keep you all happy I decided to make some Rum Tuillies, a french recipe from France. Having learnt all I can from Mr. Floyd and Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock, I needed to move on to more advanced Michelin Man starred food.
First you need to fetch some eggs from the chicken empire. I wear my Marigold gloves and use a small rake when entering the cul-de-sac. Once you have retrieved said eggs, wash them thoroughly – I use Dettol and anti-bacterial spray. Keep the Marigolds on, dear readers!
Separate the eggs and fluff up the whites with the sugar. Add melted butter, flour, rum and mix together. Spread the mixture onto a lightly greased piece of tracing paper and pop in the stove for a few minutes. Once out of the stove, you must wrap them around a lightly oiled rolling pin immediately. Hopefully you won’t have a greedy Mr. Pig entering your kitchen and swiping a strip of rum tuillie to stuff into his stupid gob. My reflex actions are often uncontrollable and I’m afraid he suffered a petite tape to the head, so he did.
I must partir a toute allure because I am experimenting with some savoury tuillies and need to get them out of the stove. Gracie and I are going to eat them off the tray while we watch Sherlock.

Your best fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig took it upon himself to take eggs from the chickens which was why I’d suspected them of not laying. I caught him in his caravan making twice baked cheese souffles, so I did. I told him they’d be thrice baked with a guinea pig garnish if he didn’t tell me what he was up to. He confessed he was writing his own cookery book and practicing his recipes. Betrayal, dear readers! And after I’d given him a cat weeks rest from his criminal punishment chores because his skin was so sore. He has been ‘re-attached’ to the handy grippery tongs and I’ve occupied him with ‘housekeeping’ the chickens’ cul-de-sac. I must keep him busy, dear readers – the souffles were far too good…