return of the madness

10:30 am

Brekkie

In all of the suspiciosity and bamboozlosity that seems to be popping up so much around the Valley of the Damned, also known as Stalag Fourteen, I had nearly forgotten the Viking celebrations we must plan for the return of the happy (hahahahahahahaha) couple.

Oo-er. So if they get married, does that mean...alors, alors, get out of my head.

That is a sign of the General and Cosmic Horns and beyond. That is beyond the pale beyonds. It's...

It's the Pantstastic Horn.

Eurgh.

11:50

Clock Tower

Called a top secret meeting of the Ace Gang (minus one, of course, who is off in the Land of the Reindeer marrying blokes who don't speak the queen's English and so on. God knows what else she's doing. Actually, hopefully God does not know what she is doing. Even though he is impotent and so on.)

"Mes grand pallies, we must prepare for the viking celebrations." I said this with an air of urgency and importance and whatsit.

Jas, who was cross because we had dragged her away from her vole poo experimenting with Hunky, said, "You mean, we must figure out how to make utter prats of ourselves in the name of Viking cheer and so on, even though the Vikings were really a lot of sacking and looting old blokes who went around murdering and--"

"Jas, Jas, my little amigo, did you know that Vikings actually treated women better than the English did in those times and women would ask the Vikings to take them away as slaves because they'd be respected more?"

Hahahahahahahaha-di-haha and beyond. That shut her gob. Thank you, Herr Kamyer, for your brilliant teaching tactics.

Again, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah. And thrice ha.

Resuming my speech, I said, "First we must find vats for mead and so on and then a litter to carry the triumphant law-evading couple around town in all of their wedded glory..."

Crikey, apparently my subconcious was taking this with all seriosity. I was beginning to sound like Rosie.

After practicing the Viking bison disco inferno until we were nearly on the brink of starvation (ie, we had no chuddie and Mabs was beginning to complain about her heels- seven inches, I ask you, wouldn't it be easier to buy stilts and be done with it all?). we split up for the day.

next day

4:30 am

Bloody hell, what am I awake for at the crack of FOUR? Something's rotten in the state of...er, Peru.

No sign of the furry freak hoodlums, unless you count the assorted carcasses and...small brown objects scattered about the house as signs.

I have just looked out the window.

Do you know what is in the window?

You do not.

I'll tell you what was in the window. Sven's head, that's what. He was sitting in the tree. What in the name of God's shortie pajamas is SVEN doing here?? Where is the bride/bride-to-be?

I'll tell you where she is. She is on the ground like one of the semi-normal. But then again, sitting in your mate's yard at four in the morning does not strictly constitute normalcy.

I got down the the yard (trying desperately not to wake the olds, who would put a swift end to the couple's married lives if they found them out there. And I don't mean via divorce) when what to my wondering eyes should appear but...well, but a huge bloke on a tree and Rosie, who was waiting for me..

"What in the name of God's shortest miniskirt are you people DOING here?"