I have had no choice but to issue She with an eviction notice, dear readers. Never in my life have I ever experienced anything like it in my life ever, so I haven’t. ‘Cat hotel’ is a term that has to be used loosely, if at all. It was actually cat prison. Not only did I have to share a cell with Carpet Bag Baggy Puss but I was given a cardboard box with some second paw bedding to sleep on because Carpet Bag sprawled her large posterite on the only one available. I know it hadn’t been washed recently because I found hairs from another fluff on it. I also found a suspectious hair on the edge of the cat loo.

There was no room service, mini bar or hot chocolate making facilities and to top it off, no picture box. I was also locked in my cell with only the company of Carpet Bag to stimulate me. I likened it to spending time with Elaine Page, Barbara Cartland and Jermaine Greer. Matters deteriorated when breakfast, mid morning snackette, lunch, mid afternoon snackette, dinner, tea, mid evening snackette and supper were all served in a plastic bowl on the floor. On the floor, dear readers! No towels, no luxurious bed and no snackette de morderes!

On my arrival back to MY cottage I found myself to be in an enraged mood. Having not slept for four cat days I was hallucinating from my fatigue so I decided to take to my bed for a cat nap with a large Bloody Mary and some cucumber wedges for the dark circles under my eyes. I was in blissful slumber within cat seconds, so I was.

I had left Mr. Pig with a list of chores to complete around MY cottage while I rested but I obviously can’t trust him to do anything. When I awoke he’d munched the cucumber wedges from my eyes and golloped my Bloody Mary. I know this because he had tomato stains around his stupid gob. It launched me from the very top of my helter skelter, I bypassed the coconut matting and landed on the top of the big dipper, a tumultuous wind flurrying through my ginger fur. Before I tell you the next bit I want to point out that while Mr. Pig is classed as a criminal he doesn’t have any guinea pig rights…none whatsoever actually. I superglued him to the handy grippery tongs, (lucky for him I couldn’t locate my staple gun) went up onto my outhouse roof and ‘flung’ him like an Olympic hammer thrower. It was very satisfactory and he sounded like a firework as he flew through the air and landed in a wood about a cat mile away. Using Ethel’s bifoculars I could see him hanging from the branch and he makes quite a nice tree decoration, so he does.

Urge quelled I went back into MY cottage to compose She’s eviction notice and write a letter of complaint to the ‘cat prison’. I had to expell all this stress from myself to get me in the right frame of mind for mine and Gracie’s trip to Dragons’ Den the following day.

This little excursion, dear readers was a disaster from start to finish and I am blaming She for its ruination. I was still tired and not looking my best due to my traumas dramatiques that cat week, my nerves were like shredded cabbage.

I was put on a bad paw when we arrived because no one knew who I was, they are obviously extremely ignorant of knowledge in the celebratory cat world at the BBC. Anyway, I managed to rise above it and we presented our Oeuf Dollop to what can only be referred to as a panel of Dragons’ Fools. They told us it was too similar to Mayonnaise?! And did we seriously think that a green condiment would be attractive in a supermarket?! Firstly, Oeuf Dollop is nothing so common as a condiment and isn’t remotely like Mayonnaise. I’m afraid my cabbaged nerves caused me to etre en colere, dear readers. I spooned some Oeuf Dollop out of one of the jars and ‘flicked’ it at them. I then asked them how they thought green suited them now? We ‘left’ without a penny but we aren’t going to give up on Oeuf Dollop because we believe in our invention and know that someone will see its rich potential. We have decided to approach Mr. Marks and Mr. Spencer with it. They know quality products when they see them and their stores are filled with unusual cuisinery morsels. We are working on a new dollop invention with tomatoes but I’m not at liberty to tell you the secrets of our culinary magic. Once we have created enough recipes, Gracie and I are going to compose our own celebratory cookery book with a view to having our own programme like Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock and Mr. Johnnie.

I must dash because I have some cheese wheels in the stove and I must eat them whilst watching Hustle otherwise they won’t taste as good. I have been luxurising myself and doing exactly what I want when I want since I experienced my very own episode of Les Miserables.

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. I released Mr. Pig from the tree because the neighbours began to complain of the noise he was making when the squirrels ‘got at him’. I needed to use him to clean out my drains and sparkle up my bathroom. He makes a surprisingly good cat loo brush, probably due to his burnt and crusty hair. Anyway, I felt bad for the little wee fella because he said his skin was still very sore from the burns debacle. So, when he’d finished his chores I popped him in a polythene sandwich bag and loaded it with lots of soothing creams I found in She’s bathroom. I added some tea tree oil, witch hazel,TCP and a tiny amount of Ajax, sealed the top and gave him a lovely massage. I’ve seen Nigella follow a similar procedure with a piece of meat. I hung him up in my larder in case he was tempted to try and escape (the treatment won’t work unless you’re properly marinated in it) and after six cat hours I set him free. He eventually agreed that ‘burning’ the top layer of his scabby skin off had indeed exposed his fresh new pink skin which needed to be aired, so it did…

It has been a tumultuous cat week for me, dear readers. I have been propelled from joy to despair several times and have felt like the bate in an unreleasing catapult, so I have.

Gracie and I received a letter from Mr. Waitrose’s team telling us we had copied a recipe by someone called Mr. Hellmann? The crutch of his lettre par la poste is that we could be arrested for plagueism and sent to prison! I know nothing of this Mr. Hellmann and was outraged that it had been suggested Oeuf Dollop is not my own creation. In a court of legalities, I would suggest that it is he, who has copied me.

I was squeaking down my helter skelter on my baked beans, desperately trying not to plummet to the bottom when Gracie discovered a claws in the plagueism law. By changing our recipe slightly and stamping a ‘no copying’ sign on it, we could sell as many jars as we liked. She is a life saving genius, so she is. Our Oeuf Dollop is now a beautiful shade of green!

Unfortunately I am not at liberty to disclose the secret ingredient.

More exciting news came when we applied to go on the picture box programme called Dragon’s Den with a view to promoting our wares. We have been accepted, dear readers! The doors of sparkly, twinkly stardom await my gorgeous self!

I finally reached the top of my helter skelter without too much squeaking after Gracie and Edith solved my Crimes de Cassis and I was finally released from the cat door. The scenes of crime exhibit was removed using a crochet hook and two raspberry lip balm sticks. I need to preserve my dignity and would rather not discuss the matter further, but it is off and that is all you need to know. It brought back horrormares of the time I tried on the very tight sweater my poor old Dot had knitted me, so it did. When I attempted to remove the wretched garment it became stuck over my head. I staggered around her sitting room desperately trying to pull it off. I had to sit down several times in order to catch my breath, while I listened to my old Dot unable to control herself for hysterical laughter. It has scarred me forever and I now have to suffer occasional claustrophobic episodes. She knitted me several wee sweaters after that, telling me she’d made them bigger in an attempt to get me to repeat the whole embarrassing performance. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.

To my astonishment, the culprat of the terrible crimes was in fact, Tyrone, the evil spawn of Mr. Pig. I know I should have been enthralled by this news but I was devasterated, dear readers. Not only had he tried to kill me but he’d also sent me a victicious email claiming to be the great and talented chef, Mr. Novelli senior. After the devasteration came the anger that I had a wee guinea pig killer living a chickens throw away from my cottage. I had to be restrained as I attempted to run across to his caravan. I had burning visions of putting him in my very sharp 1970s hard boiled egg cutter. I saw myself breaking my favourite kitchen appliance as I slammed the wire strands down on his tiny fuzzy fluffed covered body.

I clung to the sides of my helter skelter with all four feet, desperate not to slide down and burn my unmentionables on the coconut matting at the bottom. Travelling back up became easier when Gracie and Edith informed me that Mr. Pig would have to accept the punishment on his behalf, due to the fact that Tyrone is classed as a juvenile and can’t stand trial. I think this is only fair and just, seeing as the furry Wotsit is, after all, of his making.

Mr. Pig is now facing charges for attempted murder, trespass and impersonation. While he awaits his trial he has been ordered to complete some community service under my instruction. He has been kitted out with a high visibility jacket and a nifty little tool called a hand grippery tong for picking up litter with. It’s so he doesn’t cause himself an injury bending down and picking up rubbish. I was against him having it to begin with but it has turned out to be very useful, so it has.

For instance, I was struggling to remove a hot crumpet from my toaster until I had the genius idea of using the hand grippery tongs. I gave Mr. Pig a fork, picked him up using said tongs and ‘wafted’ him over the appliance where he was able to pick out said crumpet. I was saved from an electric shock (the handles of the hand grippery tongs are made of rubber) thus saving me from burning my precious baked beans. I like the tool so much I’ve Sellotaped Mr. Pig to it and I now have a very nifty window cleaner, cobweb collector and cat loo emptier. But, sadly, like any cleaning utensil they quickly become grubby and need a bleach bath every now and again. I was quite surprised at what it did to Mr. Pig’s fur - blonde suits him in a strange kind of way and once his red raw skin calms down, I think he’ll look quite fetching. He likes it at the moment but I’ve told him once the roots grow through he may be in danger of looking too ‘cheap’ especially when he wears his tracksuit and flipflops.

I was happy at the top of my helter skelter, dear readers until She announced she was sending me and the other fluffs to a ‘cat hotel’ for a few days. Down my helter skelter I squeaked on my bottom and with a coconut matting burn on my unmentionables I staggered into the merry-go-round. Apparently, we can’t be trusted in MY cottage without She and Mr. Christopher, her handy man.

Well, let me tell you, dear readers, I have told her that I will have to check my very busy diary because I can’t just drop everything. I am a very much demanded celebratory cat star, so I am.

Anyway, after a whole cat hour of ‘yes you are’, ‘no I’m not’ I decided to relent as long as the concierge at the cat hotel provides me with said luxury items on my six page said list.

Must dash, Gracie and I must perfect Oeuf Dollop and write a business plan (whatever that is) ready for our appearance on Dragon’s Den.

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. A word of warning, it’s not a good idea to use the handy grippery tongs for spray painting outside. I decided to do some household maintenance in order to keep Mr. Pig busy with his community service. I wanted the casing on the gas vent to match my window frames and front door. Unfortunately, he ‘hovered’ too long inside the vent after he’d spray painted it and the consequences were quite startling. Had a fireman been present, I’m sure he would have described it as ‘backdraft’. It was that hot, I felt the heat in the handle of the gripper and had to let go of it immediately to save my baked beans from burning. The consequences for Mr. Pig were quite shocking but I managed to ‘put him out’ by ‘stepping’ on him, thus saving his life yet again. His blonde moment was sadly, short lived…

A twist of fate has propelled me to flex my culinary baked beans. I have had an email from the great and very dear chef, Mr. Novelli senior requesting my presence on his new french cookery programme. I am so excited, dear readers! My confidence has been knocked after all the debacles spectaculaires that have happened to me the last few cat weeks and was beginning to worry my talents had desserted me. This is just what I need to ignite my gastronome creativite.

I have naturally appointed Gracie as Sue chef and asked Edith’s help in polishing my french vocabulaire. You’ve probably noticed, I am fluent in the language but I feel I’m a little rusty and need some pointers.

Having told She about my exciting email she quickly pointed out that it must be of a spurious nature and someone was clearly having a new year jocular at my expense. I am choosing to ignore her acid comments, dear readers and haven’t spoken to her for three cat days, so I haven’t. I know the email is genuine because he used first name terms, indicating he knows who I am.

Of course, there are many personages who are jealous of my achievements and I have had to endure a cat week filled with tumultuous saboutagerie resulting in a crime de cassis investigation at my cottage, but more of that in a minui. One good thing to come out of it all is that Sue chef Gracie and I, whilst practising the art of making french sauces, have invented something we are calling Oeuf Dollop. It came about quite by accident and we think we have made a monumental breakthrough in the culinary world on a scale not dissimilar to Stephen Hawkings galactical quantum physics discovery. We were making Hollandaise but realised we were lacking most of the ingredients so we sent Ethel out to the shops and while we waited for her to get back, we whisked what we had improvised together: eggs, oil and salt. It turned into a beautiful, creamy white dollopy sauce, dear readers! We have purchased some sterilised jars, filled them with our genius creation and sent them to Mr. Waitrose. I have decided to forgive him for his previous oversight as I read he’d been extremely busy restacking his shelves after the Christingle rush.

After we had despatched our invention, things took a very sinister turn and I was frightened out of my cat wits, dear readers. Crimes de cassis were committed against me, leaving Gracie with no choice but to set up an incident room in my outhouse. It is currently referred to as Ginger Nut Villa Crimes Department. We have our suspections about who the culprat is but we aren’t at liberty to release the information to the public until further notice.

The first crime occurred when I went into my kitchen to use my pannini maker which was suspectiously already out on the worktop. I thought nothing of this little recontrare because I thought She had used it and couldn’t be bothered to put it away, which is typical of She.

I plugged it in to heat up and as I was cooking, it began to crackle and spark. I inspected the lead and it had been ‘gnawed’, dear readers. My cheesy bacon toastie and I could have been electrofied to a charred crisp, so we could. I had a nightmare that night and saw myself laid on my kitchen floor with a blackened sandwich stuck to my paw, only identifiable by my teeth and the remnants of my baked beans.

The next day the second crime de cassis occurred. I was baking batches of cream cheese and ketchup stuffed patisserie pastry puffs and my pan hanging rack suddenly dropped from the ceiling and crashed to the floor. Had Gracie not seen the frayed rope unravelling from the pulley and launched herself at me sending me flying across the kitchen, I would have been crushed to my death, so I would. I had a nightmare during my cat sleep that I was laid on my kitchen floor under my wooden rack, covered in pans with utensils protruding from my ginger fur, only identifiable by one remaining baked bean pad and a broken tooth.

Then there was a third incident which was when Gracie decided it was time to take matters more seriously and set up an incident room. I am still wearing incident three because Gracie thinks it’ll help with her investigations if I carry the crime scene around with me. She says she might be able to gauge personages guilty/innocent reactions when they see me wearing it. Not only that, she’s unsure how to remove it, it’s quite tight.

I was making my way through the cat door, quite normally when it seemed to collapse around my middle and when I reached the other side I was still wearing it. It is obviously a clear case of saboutagement to stop me continuing with my sparkly television career.

It has been cruelly suggested by She that I had simply eaten too much during the festivities and having put too much weight on, have broken the cat door myself. This is completely untrue and my muteness towards She has continued for a further four cat days to date.

As you can imagine, sleeping with a cat door around your middle is quite tricky but Gracie has managed to create me a hammock/winch type bed for me to sleep in until it can be removed. I have tried to cut down on my food with the idea I might be able to ‘slip’ out of it but the lack of snackettes is making me shake, so it is. I need my pastry, dear readers and the cat door is just getting tighter. I think it’s because the weather is colder and causing my fur to grow a thicker winter gingembre pelage manteau. I fear I may end up looking like one of those diablo juggling toys when it eventually comes off.

I must go because Gracie and Edith are about to interview the cur from next door and Ethel wants to watch the proceedings with me. Due to the cat door I have to walk on tippy toes and it  takes me a lot longer to get anywhere, so it does…

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. In case you’re wondering, Mr. Pig has been arrested and is being held in a makeshift cell under my stairs. We’ve cut a square hole in the top of the door and fitted it with an iron grate so he can feel the authenticity of prison life to prepare him in case he’s found guilty. He’s Gracie’s prime suspect and she says she can’t let him go until she’s eliminated the entire village. Unfortunately he tried to escape the other night and got himself wedged in the window grate. Enid, being slightly fandangoed on sherry, mistook him for a rat and spent most of the night trying to ‘pick’ him from his prison cell window…

Mr. Pig ended up in hospital last cat week, so he did… It had absolutely nothing to do with me or the other fluffs, so it didn’t. He left my cottage fairly inebriated on Kirsch Christmas night and did himself an injury due to his bad choice of footwear. He has now become an embarrassing statistic of irresponsible drunken shoe choosers. He was wearing his favourite flip flop slippers, which he said was my fault because I wrenched him away from his caravan plumbing system to ‘play’ Operation. I verbally berated him but let the matter go because I thought he might have been a little stressed at having been ‘examined’ in hospital. Anyway, the upshot was that he lost control of one of his flip flops and rolled over on his ankle. He hasn’t broken it or even cracked it but he has a sprain which he says is very painful. Yawn, yawn.

During this cat week I was shocked and hurt, dear readers to receive a very terse letter from him:

Dear Mr. Wilfred Ginge,

You have constantly pressurised the boundaries of our unexpected and potentially solid friendship. This has resulted in the demise of my mental health and on many occasions I have been flung from the gravitational orbit of my senses. As a consequence of these traumatic catapultations and due to the inertia of the various tiers of your behaviour, I have felt my life slip into an apathetic torpor. Should you continue in this vain for the up and coming new year I will have no choice but to take legal action against you. Good day to you, sir. Blippety blip, blah blah…

I replied with:

Dear Mr. Pig, enduring three cat hours of yippety guinea pig unprovoked rant when I was kind enough to visit you in hospital and then receiving your spurious letter the following day has resulted in my having a monumental migraine. This has had a knock on effect to my sparkling celebratory cookery career and it has been hindered because of my head disability. You, dear sir are the one who has pushed matters to the electric fence boundaries of our friendship. I understand your frustrations but you only have yourself to blame for your humiliating self flagellation and stupidity. If you wish to take part in the New Year Party Celebrations at my cottage and for me to cease legal action against you for the ‘head injury’ you have inflicted then you will supply me with all the luxury food items on the list I have enclosed with this letter and we will start afresh. As a true and caring friend I would advise you not to wear anything with a viscose/polyester mix because I intend to flambe a large supply of aquatic arthropods collectively known as Crustacea. Good day to you also. Your bestest fluff. Wilfred.

I then added a footnote stating that should he not agree to the terms and conditions above then I would very much like to see the return of my Simon Says handheld computer consol, Lionel Ritchies Greatest Hits CD, Cappuccino milk frother and Anne of Green Gables DVD box set.

After he received this letter he limped to my cottage on his crutches looking for all the world like Tiny Tim and shock of all horrors he threatened me with a battery powered hand held whisk. I was scared, dear readers, so I was. Gracie had gone out to fetch ingredients for our New Years Eve Party Celebrations so I had no way of ‘dealing’ with him. I attempted an escape by making a run for it to my cat bed, casually telling him I needed to rest my sorely head and watch Eastenders on the picture box. I was hoping he’d take the hint but he horrified me further by following me. Fruits de mares flowed from his stupid gob as he subjected me to an omnibus edition of his rants.

Eventually I saw an opportunity in my dark portal of doom. I threw one of my spam fritters out of my open bedroom window causing his greedy pig instinct to kick in and out he flew. I had great satisfaction, dear readers in hearing the thuds and clatter of him and his crutches as he hit the small terrace roof below, then the window ledge, the garden table, the garden chairs and finally the patio. I slammed the window shut and ate the spam fritter I hadn’t actually thrown out. Sometimes he behaves in the manner of a stupid cur, so he does…

Anyway, I soon recovered from my guinea pig head injury and Mr. Pig came grovelling back having been thrown out by Eileen. Apparently she doesn’t deal with the sick too well and told him to come back to the caravan when he was fully recovered.

We called a truce and I hugged the little wee fella as he shed some guinea pig tears at the wreckage of his dramatic life. Me and the other fluffs were determined to make sure he entered the new year with a celebratory bang. He throroughly enjoyed the celebrations and didn’t even mind when we put him inside the donkey pinata and told him he could fill his furry flip flops with as many sweets and chocolates as he liked. I didn’t have much care for the chocolates in the pinata because they were from the Quality Street tin which as you know, dear readers is a far inferior confectionaire compared to the superior box of Roses I was saving for myself.

I must dash, because I have a turkey chowder on the go and I want to eat it whilst watching Miss Marple on the picture box. To be honest I’ve had too much sauce and I’m feeling slightly green from all the celebrations…

Happy New Year, dear, dear readers!

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Unfortunately the thrashing of the donkey pinata became so frantic and being blindfolded we hadn’t noticed it had burst until Ethel heard a guinea pig scream above the laughing and frolicks. Mr. Pig had eaten too many Fruit Salads and Black Jacks and trying desperately to hang on to the donkey pinata by his teeth he’d accidentally ‘stuck’ himself to the string we’d used to hang it with. He was twirling round like one of those spinnery dancery type circus performers and then Enid pointed out that he looked like a disco ball because he was wearing a silver sequined waistcoat. So, we left him up there for the rest of the new year celebrations while we danced and twirled in the twinkly lights projected by his cheap fashion wear…

I made the mistake of asking Mr. Pig and Ethel to do my Christingle food shop. Ethel, as you know wears bifoculars because she can’t see and Mr. Pig is just stupid, so he is. I was limited in my nominations because Edith, the French squirrel was busy making her vegetabletarian Christingle dinner because I refuse to cater for anyone who’s going to be awkward. Carpet Bag said she had too much present wrapping to do and Enid has been banned from the Norfolk bus service due to drunk and disorderly behaviour. Gracie was my kitchen assistant Sue chef so she couldn’t go. So as you can see, I had no choice but to rely on the two imbeciles of the household but they promised they would get everything on my list, so they did. I even sent them to Waitrose where they couldn’t possibly go wrong.

They came back having substituted most of the ingredients for what they guessed as ‘similar’ and told me Waitrose shelves were more or less empty. Or, as Mr. Pig liked to put it, it was like a barren desert of endless nothingness, so it was. The truth was, they’d both been lured by the cafe situated in the doorway of the store and being full up on pastries, they couldn’t be bothered to take my Christingle shopping list seriously. I saw the Croissant crumbs on his stupid guinea pig gob, so I know that’s what happened.

Thank goodness I’d asked all my guests to bring dessert, starters and main course accompaniments otherwise I’d have been in quite an embarrassing muddle, so I would have.

To save me breaking any GPAA rules I popped Mr. Pig in the plate warming tray of my hostess trolley and punished him by making him miss The Little House On The Prairie Christingle Special. It’s his favourite show and he’d been wittering on about it all Christingle Eve.

I forgave Ethel because I noticed her bifoculars were covered in bus fume dirt which had impaired her vision further. I brought her some fake eye glasses from the joke shop for Christingle and she says she can see much better. Anyway, I needed her to lay the table for me and clean my cottage, so punishment of any kind wasn’t an option. She told me it was all Mr. Pig’s fault anyway.

For our Christingle spectaculare I was making Mr. Jamie Olivier’s Turkey Wellington because I felt I needed to propel myself away from the dated cuisine of Mrs. Fanny Crackhaddock. The ingredients I should have had were some poof pastry, turkey breasts, cranberry sauce and a mushroom galoise which to anyone unbelievably stupid to the world of cuisine, is a mushroom stuffing. What I actually had was a Bernard Matthews Turkey Roll, a large garlic naan bread, a pot of strawberry jam, some mushrooms and no galoise. I had to improvise, so I did.

I spread the turkey with jam and stuck some sliced mushrooms on top, sliced open the garlic naan, popped the prepared meat inside and closed it shut with a cocktail stick. Exhausted from my culinary activities I sat down for a few cat hours and watched On The Buses, munched some hot sausage pasties and drank hot chocolate, so I did. Sufficiently rested and content that all was prepared for the big day, me and Sue Chef Gracie sat down to a very nice picture box supper and had an early night ready for the festivities.

It wasn’t until the following morning when Eileen knocked on the door asking for Mr. Pig did I remember I’d left him in my hostess trolley overnight. He was slightly parched, ‘leathered’ and thirsty but still alive, a bit like an overdone chicken breast. Eileen dragged him back to their caravan leaving me to direct Sue Chef Gracie in the making of my fried bread, egg and bacon sandwiches.

At two o’ clock we all sat down to the beautiful deluxe dinner I had worked my baked beans off preparing. Crackers were pulled, glasses raised and all was going well until a Maggy Thatcher/President Sarcastic debate started between Carpet Bag and Edith. Then Mr. Pig’s evil trump-ets began throwing my table decorations at one another, giving me no option but to ‘set’ Sue Chef Gracie onto them. She popped each one into the empty cracker tubes and Sellotaped them to their chairs, sticking to Mr.Pig and Eileens’ previous wishes that they were all to sit at the Christingle table with all the other guests. Eileen tried to interrupt Sue Chef Gracie’s ‘proceedings’ so she ‘bowled’ her down the garden, locking the cat door behind her. We hadn’t really wanted her there anyway, not after last weeks debacle.

The celebrations slipped further when the England/France debate began to resemble something from the Houses of Parliament. On top of that I had to endure Enid snoring and waking herself every few cat minutes with a wiffy trump and Ethel complaining she felt sick because she’d eaten too many pigs in blankets.

I decided to lift the atmosphere by presenting my Mrs. Delia Smith homemade Christingle pudding. Unfortunately Mr. Pig had jumped on the table to make one of his after dinner speeches which are more like ‘talks of doom’. In full animated swing he hadn’t noticed I’d doused the cake in brandy and lit it. He reached out his greedy little paw to scoop a piece to eat out of his baked beans. The flames caught the cuff of his shiny polyester/viscose Christingle sweater which had been made more flammable by the Old Spice aftershave he’d splashed over himself, and he went up like last years Mr. Guy Fawkes bonfire. Enid had woken up, hearing the dramatics and thought she was helping by throwing her glass of sherry at him. This only made matters worse dear readers. We tried to pat him down with Christingle napkins but they just caught fire too. Then I had a geniusness idea and saved the little wee fellas life, so I did. I scooped him up with my fireside coal skuttle, threw him into the kitchen sink and ran the cold tap over him. He filled my kitchen with bellows of smoke as he began to stop burning and I was pleased I’d been his hero, so I was. Sue Chef Gracie fetched another sweater from his caravan and after we’d dressed him and got his swollen feet into his favourite flip flop slippers, he was almost as good as new…

Just as we’d all settled back down at the table with a bottle of Spiced Rum and my Christingle cheese board, Eileen burst through the letterbox of my front door. She jumped onto my banquet table, dressed from head to toe in the diamonte studded velour tracksuit Mr. Pig had brought her for Christingle and said she had an announcement to make. I was on the edge of my baked beans, dear readers as she moved dangerously close to my Christingle candles and I couldn’t resist the urge to move one of them towards her. I was quite disappointed when she walked to the end of the table to address Mr. Pig directly.

Then, shock of all shocks she told him she wanted a divorce unless he’d be willing to appear on a very famous chat show for a lie detector test to prove he hasn’t been having a pommes de frites with Brenda, the bra on a stick waving guinea pig from the GPAA. The whole debacle escalated into histrionic dramatiques and the satan mini sporn began to run riot. I clicked my baked beans and Sue Chef Gracie ‘deftly’ popped them all into an empty Christingle wrapping paper tube and her and Ethel went outside for a quick game of French Cricket which resulted in Mr. Pig and his famille being ‘deposited safely’ back to their caravan.

The celebrations got underway and we shimmied and twirled until the early cat hours of the following day which was spent in front of the picture box eating leftovers and Christingle chocolates.

A wonderful time was had by all! Merry Christingle, dear readers!

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig and Eileen had quite a bouche tout in their caravan Christingle night so we asked Edith to plug in her surveillance equipment so we could see what was going on. We were quite impressed by Mr. Pig’s debating skills but he lost miserably when Eileen pushed him into their caravan portaloo and flushed it. We rescued him from the plumbing outside, for which he was very grateful but said he hadn’t minded her flushing him because it had soothed his very sore shiny red skin. We were touched he thought we’d rescued him when in fact we just needed to wire him up for our homemade game of Operation. He made an excellent patient, so he did…

I have been disqualified from the GPAA Great British Bake Off, so I have. And it wasn’t my fault, so it wasn’t. I left, dear readers, my spectacularly marvellous, magnificent gastronomic Christingle Chocolate Roulade Yule Log masterpiece on a twinkly silver tray covered with a large Tupperware lid to keep it safe. I came downstairs on the morning of the competition to find the lid on the floor and my Art de Trump sabotaged. All the icing and decorations had been eaten and it had been stripped down to its bare cake, so it had. My worktop was covered in tiny chocolate bird like imprints. I traced them all the way to the cat door and followed the trail to Mr. Pig’s caravan. I burst open the door and found all three of them, including the one with ‘the face’, sat between Mr. Pig and Eileen watching their mobile home picture box.
I pointed my baked beans at the evil culprats and began screaming at them about my chef d’oeuvre. Mr. Pig stood up and told me he didn’t want any trouble.

I could feel an urge, dear readers, like never before and I could see chapters 6, 13 and 17 of the guinea pig anger management books flash through my heated mind, making me shake with rage even more. Eileen had been busy stuffing a sausage bap into her stupid gob and made matters worse by throwing it at me. It hit me straight in my visage and that’s when the red mist drifted across my eyeline.

I began to step towards them which caused them to move backwards. Forwards I went, backwards they shuffled. This continued for quite a few cat moments as Mr. Pig began chuntering hysterically.

Just as I was about to grab them all with the intention of squeezing them into the cutlery basket of my dishwasher and putting through an intense wash, Gracie appeared from the sunroof having been winched down by Edith. They’d been doing some surveillance and had heard the entire epreuve de force.

Gracie scooped them up into a sack, including the one with ‘the face’ and ‘busied’ herself getting them out of my sight. She passed me my Etch a Sketch on her way out and told me it would help with my anger urges. I had to have a whole cat hour on it before I could get the Guinea Pig Anger Management Death book out of my mind. And let me tell you, dear readers, if a Twisted Melon Head Doctor had seen the pictures I produced on my Etch a Sketch they would have put me in a wrap-around-cardigan immediately, so they would.

Sufficiently calm after three hot chocolates, four spam fritters, a bag of Frazzles and six cheesy fish paste pastry twirls, I turned my prevenances to rescuing my naked yule log. I decided the best thing to do was to pop to the village shop and buy a new cake and decorate it as before. When I arrived home with a shiny new Mr. Kipling Chocolate Yule Log I found Carpet Bag staring at the ruins of my very sad boulangerie cake, clipboard in paw. I tried to calmly ask her what she was doing. She smugly stepped aside and pointed to the disqualification flag she’d put into the wreckage and announced that due to the GPAA closing the village hall until further notice she was judging the competition via cottage to cottage visits and I was first on the list. She also added that no icing and no decoration meant immediate disqualification. I’m afraid I ran for her, dear readers and, grapple as I might, I couldn’t get the clipboard off her. I regretted it immediately because Carpet Bag being three times my size, at least, got the better of the situation within a few cat moments and sat on me. While I was pinned to the kitchen floor, unable to breath, she smacked me several times around the face and I now have two Cursed Claws to remove. I felt like I’d been catapulted from the top of my helter skelter, thrown around the merry-go-round several times and pinged on and off the sea-saw of my now fragile mind.

I was about to turn to my Spiced Rum having slipped into the depressions when Gracie appeared and replaced the bottle with my game of Mastermind and ordered me to play on this until my Christingle spirits were lifted.

I did have a few games on it but the shock of what had happened to my beautiful creation and the evil mini pigs kept playing on my mind so I went in search for Tyrone, the one with ‘the face’. I knew he’d been the head culprat in the operation and my urge to make him pay went beyond the GPAA rules. Gracie was busy in the garden having a Swing Ball tournament with Ethel ‘using’ Mr. Pig so I knew I’d get away with it. I tiptoed around the back of the caravan and peered through the window and saw him sitting with his sisters watching Coach Trip on the picture box, Eileen was nowhere to be seen. The excitement of that anger urge was indescribable, dear readers and I’m ashamed to admit I had the Guinea Pig Death Book in mind. I reached through the window and swiped him from the others without them even noticing and ran back to my cottage with my paw stifling his stupid squealings.

I have a gadget in my kitchen which I use to make coldslaw and other choppy salad side dishes. It’s electric…and the hole where the vegetables go is just big enough for a guinea pig of his size…I wanted to see him shredded up to his stupid bird like feet, which I had already decided I was going to mount as trophies on my cottage wall. I’m not proud of these thoughts or what I planned to do, dear readers but I had slipped off my guinea pig wagon and couldn’t see the bark for the logs.

Just as I’d plugged it in and switched it on and was about to dangle Tyrone over the top, Gracie appeared. She’d heard the noise of the machine, and knowing I refuse to make salads over the Christingle period, quickly worked out there was something afoot. She switched the appliance off, peeled Tyrone from my baked beans and handed me my Mr. Potato Head game. All the red mist and anger urges disappeared in a flash, I hadn’t played Mr. Potato Head in cat years and it is my favourite game, so it is!

Gracie and Ethel cheered me greatly and we wiled away the cat hours playing the game in front of a roaring fire whilst watching the re-runs of The Waltons and eating the Christingle Chocolates. Mr. Pig makes an excellent Mr. Potato Head because he is in fact the size and shape of Mr. Potato Head himself.

I must dash, I have guests arriving for cocktails and niblets de bouche and I need to spruce myself. Merry Christingle to you all, dear readers and we will speak again, as usual next cat week.

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred Esq.

Piss. S. I have agreed with the other fluffs that I ought to go to the proper scheduled GPAA meetings starting next year because they’re worried I’m going to face the legal action. I don’t think I have a problem because I know I was pushed through the kaleidoscope of my limits and had but a minor setback, so I did.  I have secretly told myself that as long as I don’t use any household utensils on the mini pigs, Mr. Pig or Eileen over the Christingle period then it doesn’t count, so it doesn’t…I have been studying the GPAA anger management code books and drop kicking, ‘sliding’, ‘shoving’, pinching, ‘pinging’ and ‘twanging’ are not listed as rule breakers, so they’re not…

I have been very stressed this cat week, dear readers. The GPAA Great British Bake Off Finale is upon me due to the protesters having been ‘dealt’ with. I don’t know anything about it and neither does Gracie…so she doesn’t…

I decided to make my very own Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log but I was hindered with mini dramas every which way I turned. Mr. Pig had slipped into the depressions or as he likes to say it, he was flung into the galactical whirlpool of his melancholy. He was missing Eileen and in my opinion was listening to far too much Barbara Streisand on his stereo.

Being very busy with my Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log I became bored quite quickly with his bouche musees which he insisted on sharing with me whilst he sat on one of my kitchen stools swinging his stupid furry winter flipflop slipper clad feet, as I tried desperately to concentrate. Apparently, Eileen’s habits of putting her elbows on the table, talking with her mouth full and using the wrong cutlery are all quite endearing to him now. So, I told him to take her back and make a go of it because I really needed to get my Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log cake base into the stove.

With a little chunter and a trump he jumped from the stool and ran back to his caravan leaving me in peace. Then low and behold I heard the ding a ling of the little bell which I had given She to use because she’s been very sick on her sick bed, so she has. She has ‘passed’, dear readers, some kidney beans. Never in my life will I understand what she was doing, the only thing I can think of was she was overindulging in the Christingle food fair I have in my cottage and mistook the kidney beans for chocolate covered peanuts. Anyway, she has suffered for her mistake and I promised my cottage handy man, Mr. Christopher I will be nurse maid and look after her while he is out foraging and shopping or whatever he does when he leaves my cottage every morning.

I have mopped her brow and patted her hand with my paw, so I have, even throughout my stressful cat week. I have also kept her company by watching DVD box sets and re-runs of Kingdom because I don’t think she should be left on her own for too long.

Anyway, I digest. I ran upstairs with a cup of tea and minced pie for her and raced back down to check on my Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log. All was going well until later on that day Mr. Pig came back in just as I was at the crucial moment of pasting my Roulade cake base with Marshmellow spread and cocktail cherries. He said Eileen had arrived at his caravan and gone into labour just as his heating had packed up and could he move into my cottage with her. I explained to him I was busy with my gastronomic magnifique finale and there was no room at the inn. I told him he’d have to use Ginger Nut Villa, (my outhouse) and improvise with his own furniture because I’d been using it as a yoga studio.

I thought he was making quite a dramatic queeny fuss considering she was only going to have some babies and he had known about it for quite some time. I’ve seen Gremlins, dear readers and I watched the pregnant Gizmo giving birth and it was over in a flash. Aside that, I didn’t really want cloned duplicees of Mr. Pig in my cottage, so I didn’t.

Another ding a ling from upstairs and after I’d seen to She’s demands of cinnamon tea and marmite on toast I raced back into my kitchen to continue with my Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log. Then there was a knock at the door and I began to feel as though I may be flung from the merry-go-round of my fractious mind at any moment.

I answered the door to three guinea pigs in sequin studded ponchos. They announced themselves as Gordon, Frank and Murray and said they’d followed the Christingle lights and were here to see the baby mini pigs at Ginger Nut Villa. I shuffled them through eager to get rid of them so I could ice my Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log; Nutella is a right mare to deal with if you don’t keep it warm, so it is.

Halfway through decorating my beautiful gastronomic masterpiece a shrill shrieking from outside caused me to drop an entire pot of silver balls. I ran outside and into Ginger Nut Villa where the screeching was coming from. At first all I could see were several bright coloured lava lamps which blinded my sight for a few moments. Then I focused and my eyes were drawn to the middle  of the room where there was a bench seat which Mr. Pig had obviously wrenched from his caravan and used as a makeshift bed. Positioned on it, with her legs in the air was Eileen and horror of all horrors, her unmentionables were on show and peering at me was a tiny face! I was traumatised, dear readers, so I was. A face staring back at me! A face, dear readers! A small face with EYES! A guinea pig face! I still haven’t got over it and it is haunting my sleep even now, so it is. I ran back to my cottage locking the doors behind me, threw whatever I could find at my Chocolate Christingle Roulade Yule Log and went upstairs to keep She company and watch Eastenders on the picture box.

I must dash because She has promised we can watch the entire DVD boxed set of Cold Feet and I have some anchovy paste cheesy wheels in the stove which I know will make She feel better. She and I have bonded since she ‘passed’ the kidney beans, so we have…

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred Esq.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig kept knocking on my door, eager to show me Sharon, Chelsea and Tyrone, the mini pigs that Eileen had pinged out but I was in such shock I couldn’t bear to let him in. He kept pressing their faces up my window which gave me the frights even further and I could feel the velocity of my merry-go-round picking up speed. I tried mouthing to him through the window, sign language and even large banners with a message telling him to go away but in the end I had no choice but to get Gracie to ‘deal’ with the problem… Guinea pigs make very fetching decorations ‘sewn’ into the top of an outdoor Christingle tree and they all ‘sing’ in time with the flashing fairy lights…Gracie is a genius, so she is…

When Edith announced she knew of an impertinence why Mr. Pig and Eileen couldn’t be married, silence fell across the church. The only noise to be heard was the squeak of Barry, Eileen’s father smoothing down his comb over and Vera, her mother cracking her knuckles. There was going to be trouble and I just hoped Edith had her facts right. Then it dawned on me that if she spilled the impertinence no one would see my Art du Trump centre piece three cheese wedding cake. So I left Mr. Pig’s side where, statue like, his little paw was poised in front of Eileen who was hovering precariously with the tiny ring, leaning from one sparkly wedged flip flop to the other, and I ran as fast as I could down the aisle. I grabbed Edith and we went outside for a little chat. A few cat minutes later and I’d managed to convince her not to reveal what she had found out during her surveillance. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying but she’d obviously discovered Eileen was already married. You have to understand, dear readers that my Patisserie Magnifique was hanging in the balance along with my party preparations and whatever Edith had to say could wait until after the wedding when Mr. Pig would have the option of anullment.

I told her it would be rude not to let all the guests enjoy the party and Mr. Pig had been so stressed I was worried what would happen to his fragile little mind if he wasn’t allowed to hear his favourite band Bewitched and eat at least one mini vegetable spring roll. She said she trusted my judgement and we went back in the church and apologised for the mistaken disruption. No sooner had the words left my mouth and the bingo playing toenail flicker had shoved the ring on Mr. Pig’s baked bean and the tambourine twanging vicar, Brenda announced them Mrs. Pig and Mr. Pig. I snapped a quick couple of photos and we went back to my cottage for the reception.

Unfortunately I hadn’t anticipated the Flatley Twirly Pigs arriving to perform for the wedding guests. They’re Irish dancers and the group consists of eight of Mr. Pig’s nieces, little brats, so they are. They were in the full get up, wearing huge pink tutus, plaited shoes and stupid curly wigs. It was like having eight Bonnie Langfords in my kitchen all at once and they completely took the lemon light away from my Turret du Fromage.

So I grabbed my mega phone and jumped onto the reception table ready to deliver my speech. I nodded to Gracie and she deftly ended the Flatley Twirly Pigs performance with the clever use of my garden leaf vacuum. She spun the machine around, aimed it out of the front door, switched it on reverse and pinged them all out onto the lawn. That’s when I noticed the first layer of snow and I was reminded Christingle was on it’s way and I hadn’t even decorated my cottage. This, dear readers, justified my need to get rid of all the guests and surprise Mr. Pig with his anullment option.

I told Bewitched to shut up because they were gossiping loudly in the corner and managed to get everyone’s attention. I announced to them all via mega phone that Eileen was a bigamist and the marriage was to be anulled. Silence fell throughout my cottage until Edith piped up and informed me I had misunderstood what she had said. Eileen wasn’t a bigamist at all, her surveillance had revealed that Eileen didn’t think Mr. Pig was the father of the mini pigs she was carrying. This left me in quite a spot, dear readers because anullment was now not an option, not in the guinea pig community anyway. Guinea pig chuntering began to vibrate through the room so I made a run for it grabbing a king prawn ring and some Bernard Matthews mini turkey kievs on the way and hid in my outhouse for a cat hour. Luckily Gracie threatened them all with the garden leaf vacuum and they all left. Apparently she had to dangle Eileen’s Granny Doris over the gaping cavern of my heated hostess trolley before Barry and Vera agreed to leave quietly but all in all she dealt with the situation very well.

Me and the other fluffs quickly cleared away and after filling my cottage with Febreze to eliminate the guinea pig odours we busied ourselves decorating it for Christingle. We were having a lovely time when I suddenly noticed Mr. Pig was missing. I searched everywhere for him and had almost given up until I heard him singing ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham and located him on top of the roof. He was slightly cross with me for allowing the wedding to go ahead but once I explained the impertinence misunderstanding he forgave me. He said I had still, in a way saved him from the gravitational quantum of his depressions because he was now able to divorce Eileen and at least he could get back to normal in his caravan as Edith had promised to keep up her surveillance just in case he was in any danger from Vera and Barry.

He rattled on in this vain for quite some time as we sat on the snow covered roof, and when I felt he’d over orbited his own planet I decided it was time to go back to my party. I swear on my beloved Soda Stream that I didn’t intentionally push him off the roof, so I didn’t. I was merely trying to pick a rogue piece of fluff from his tuxedo and due to the icy slipperyness of the snow he launched himself from the roof like Eddie the Eagle… I spent a good few cat minutes looking for him from the roof top but I think he’d landed and sunk quite deeply into the thick snow carpet that had quickly covered my lawn. I was getting an ice cream headache and my baked beans were beginning to freeze to the roof tiles so I went in doors.

I must dash because I have the editor and photographer of OK! magazine arriving shortly to interview Mr. Pig. I’ve sold his tragic story to them and I need to make sure he looks sufficiently miserable and distressed standing next to my wedding cake spectaculare. It’s a bit wiffy now but I wanted to make sure it appears in the photos just in case Mr. Robert Carrierbag sees it and decides to head hunt me for his television programme. I’ve sprayed it with Elnette and it looks all shiny and new again, so it does…

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. We were all slightly bored this cat week because the GPAA Great British Bake Off has been postponed until further notice due to the morris dancing guinea pigs protesting for their rights outside the community hall. Luckily the Flatley Twirly Pigs are on tour at the moment and asked me if they could park their caravan on my land, so they did. This brought us great amusement because they’ve been practicing their routines in my garden. Live skittles from the rooftop is great fun, so it is. Gracie managed a ‘strike’ by using a large hop and jump ball filled with water…

Mr. Pig spent most of the time running up to his Doom Day trying to persuade me and the other fluffs to take him on a Stag night. I told him we had all agreed it would be too much temptation for me with my GPAA problem and that he ought to be doing that with his guinea pig friends. But he said all they wanted to do was take him for a drink and it would in no way help push him toward the centriole situated in the nucleus of his whirlpool existence. I didn’t really understand what he was saying so I chose to ignore his amateur dramatics because I was ever so slightly stressed with the Doom Day arrangements. I was busy reinventing the Croque en Bouche Gobby Wedding cake because he’d decided he didn’t like it at the last minute. He wants a savoury one, so he does. The entire guinea pig community are relying on my culinare geniusness to make the wedding cake of all wedding cakes, or else. But all I could hear while I was trying to concentrate on my masterpiece was Edith warbling from her treehouse, practicing the Doom Day tunes she’d been asked to sing. I also had a very drunk Enid trip trapping stories from 1842 in my earhole whilst Ethel ran up and down the stairs fashioning various fascinators because she couldn’t decide what to wear for the big day. Carpet Bag was frantically hanging decorations everywhere and my cottage was a buzz of activity as we all tried to get ready for the hosting of the future Mr. and Mrs. Pig’s Doom Day Reception.

I was trying to dampen down my handlebar moustache which was getting a frizzon due to the stress of it all when Mr. Pig burst into my kitchen with a wheelbarrow full of my Guinea Pig Anger Management Code books including the death manual. I paused briefly from filling my profiteroles with cheese and chive Primula and listened to his minor performance. He said he wanted to thank me for being such a good friend and as a gift to me I could take him out on a jolly with the other fluffs and we could do whatever we liked to him. He stood on top of the books for added drama and linked his tiny baked beans together as he pleaded with me not to offend him by turning down his thoughtful gift. I nodded to Gracie and she ‘wheeled’ him down to the bottom of the garden to empty him and said books onto the embers of my recently lit bonfire.

He was beginning to get on my norks. He’s never wanted to have any fun before and it’s just typical of him to suggest it when I am restrained by the shackles of the guinea pig society.

Needing a break from my geniusness I wiped my paws on my pinny and decided it was time for a mangeue du snackette. After I had watched the entire box set of Upstairs Downstairs I was sufficiently refreshed as I made my way back to the kitchen to finish my Art du Trump. I stacked the profiteroles into an extremely high tower and very quickly made some gravy to pour over the top. In order to make it set I added a few tablespoons of icing sugar. It worked a treat, dear readers and once I’d added a trio of grated cheeses and popped it onto my hostess trolley it looked amazing.

While I was wheeling my magnifique du creare carefully into my outhouse I heard some very depressing music coming from Mr. Pig’s caravan. I ran over there and flung open the door to find a very drunk and depressed Mr. Pig. He was listening to Thin Lizzy’s, Whiskey in the Jar, drinking my cooking Sherry and looking through his old Jackie annuals. This was not a good sign, dear readers. I know when Mr. Pig has slipped through the corrosive hole in his ozone layer because he always digs out his annuals, he was devasterated when Jackie magazine when out of print. He flung himself at me begging me to help him get out of his impending Doom Day. I’m afraid I slapped him several times dear readers purely to bring him out of his shock filled, self absorbed miasma. I am a qualified First Aider so it was alright for me to go ahead with the procedure.

Once he’d calmed down and washed his snotty nose I allowed him to talk to me. I made us both a fried egg and bacon sandwich while he prattled on about how he was clinging to the delicate membranes of his sanity. After I’d finished my sandwich I decided enough was enough. I asked him if he realised the work that had gone into the preparations and if he knew how hard it had been to persuade his favourite band, Bewitched to come over from Ireland to play at his post ceremony disco party. Was he aware of the effort it had taken to order all the party food that was being delivered from the Iceland super store and all the cat hours I’d spent making his stupid cheese gob cake all to please him and the double dipping nose picker.

I told him he was a selfish little pig, marched him across the garden, into my cottage and up the stairs where his Doom Day suit was hanging in my cupboard, and made him put it on. I hooked him onto the hanger from which the outfit came and zipped him into the suit protector and left him there overnight. It was for his own good, dear readers.

I managed to get him to the church the following morning and up to the altar on time. He even began to say his vows with Eileen and it was all going so well until the do goody come by ya vicar asked if there was any lawful impertinence why they shouldn’t be married and we all heard Edith shout from the back of the church, I do!

I will have to tell you what happened next week because I have to finish writing my new blockbuster entitled, How to plan a la carte culinare tea lighted lit suppers on a flip flop budget. My Literally an Agent says the bidding war has already begun…

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. The GPAA Great British Bake Off was postponed this week due to a load of bead swinging happy clappy guinea pigs who decided to protest against our competition by holding a jumble sale in the community hall. I sent Gracie down there armed with Mr. Pig, a spatula and my smoothie blender. She wasn’t really going to hurt him but needed the props for the shock factor in order to get them to clear the hall. I was surprised they let her get as far as plugging it in but it sufficiently shocked Mr. Pig out of his miseries, for a short time anyway…

I tried extremely hard this cat week to cheer Mr. Pig, I have never seen him so depressed, so I haven’t. He doesn’t want to marry Eileen but fears her family too much to back out. Her father and brothers keep pacing around his caravan at night  waving blow torches through his windows because he keeps postponing the doom date.

I have a very bad cat head cold due to my lack of fur for my Movember moustache fund raising campaign but I am determined to complete the difficult task. I would not out of choice have a moustache because I have noticed that when I’m eating, and due to there only being a small area of fur, my food morsels are dropping to the floor with only a tiny amount being rescued. When I have a full face of fur I don’t drop or waste a thing and enjoy many a good cat hour finishing off my collected snacket morderes, so I do.

Anyway, because I am such a good cat friend I decided to leave my sick bed, sacrifice my picture box viewing for the night and take the poor wee chap out. He requested we go to the cinema because they were showing a rerun of Footloose which is his favourite film. He also loves Fame but that makes him hyperactive so I wasn’t taking him to see that. Now don’t get me wrong dear readers, I like the cinema but would enjoy the experience much more if I could have the place to myself with maybe a couple of other fluffs of my choice. There is too much laughing, coughing and whispering for my liking. I need absolute silence when I am watching and reviewing a film. But Mr. Pig said that the cinema was the only thing that would lift him from his malaise and if I didn’t take him he may slip through the small vortex of his merry-go-round little existence and lose his tiny mind. I am ignoring his emotional blackmailing demands for the time being because of his circumstances but I won’t forget them dear readers.

The whole thing started badly when I made the mistake of pouring him a spiced rum and cola to have before we left. I was busy with my GPAA Great British Bake Off entry and I thought it would keep him quiet while I cooked but it had the opposite effect of pulling him from his mud bath of gloom and he wouldn’t shut his stupid gob. I had to listen while he told me all about Eileen’s dreadful habits, things dear readers a cat shouldn’t have to hear about a guinea pig.

During his monotonous drone I managed to produce my innovative Northern Triumphs designed for anyone with a head cold. Because I wasn’t very well I didn’t feel like cooking and couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for this weeks bake off which Carpet Bag had decided would be fairy cakes. Then I came up with a genius idea! All you need is some Aunty Bessie’s Yorkshire puddings, the pre cooked ones. Take them from the freezer and pop them in the oven. Remove and once cooled fill them with Nutella or jam and pipe swirly icing on the top and decorate with hundreds and millions. Unfortunately I sneezed over them several times so I decided it would be better if I didn’t go to the GPAA Great British Bake Off community centre this week for fear of spreading my germs so I asked Gracie to take them for me.

Eventually Mr. Pig and I left for the cinema and he trip trapped all the way there and I could feel some angry urges coming on. We sat down in the cinema and I hoped the large cartons of toffee popcorn and nachos I bought would shut him up. But no, he took it upon himself to lean closer to me and whisper with his nachos fragrant breath. I began wondering where he’d land if I bounced him off the cinema screen and could I aim to get him in row four or even five. I needed something to distract me because I knew I couldn’t break any GPAA rules and Mr. Pig was going through a life changing crisis.

Then I noticed that the woman sat in front of me had a bouffant hair do and she reminded me of a ‘Girl’s World’, a favourite toy I hadn’t played with for years dear readers. Due to the fact her bouffant was blocking my view of the film I decided to decorate her hair with toffee popcorn. This distraction quickly dispelled my urges and I even managed to block out Mr. Pig’s incessant whispering. Having used all my toffee popcorn and some of Mr. Pig’s nachos I decided it was time to stop because bouffant woman began to fidget in her seat and I feared I’d get caught. It reminded me of a game of Buckaroo and I sat very still for a few cat minutes trying to hold in my pensive laughter. Then Mr. Pig ruined it all as he began that chirpy chirruping noise he makes when he’s nervous, and the spell was broken. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to put him in the film projecting machine which I knew would burn him to a crisp so I slammed him shut in his cinema seat and left.

I didn’t feel guilty because I had saved him from a much worse fate and managed not to break any GPAA rules. When I got home Gracie had ‘provided’ a large feast of foods in celebration of my bake off win. Apparently I got top marks because Carpet Bag loved the clever way I’d combined sweet and salty in the icing. I have no idea what she’s talking about but I don’t care, I won.

Your bestest fluff,

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mrs. Bouffant ‘Girl’s World’ woman turned up on my doorstep with Mr. Pig. She was very cross about her hair and said I was extremely cruel for leaving Mr. Pig in the cinema. I told her her bouffant debacle wasn’t my fault and that Mr. Pig was going through a major crisis in his life and had obviously suffered a temporary psychotic episode and taken it out on her hair. I told her a little white lie that I had left the cinema to fetch his medication and had closed him in his seat to keep him safe until my return. I also said I was very grateful that she’d brought the little wee fella back safely, apologised for her hair and shut the door on her very quickly.

Gracie ‘made’ Mr. Pig walk the garden fence blindfolded in a walk the plank type way as punishment for telling lies. Unfortunately his balance isn’t very good and he landed in next doors garden where he was mauled by the gummy cur…