KingRollo

They’re all related in that neck of the woods. There’s a rumour that Chorlton’s dad is also his uncle... would take more than being a ‘happiness dragon’ for that mud to unstick. Apparently webbed feet are commonplace in those parts, so Wizard tells me.

Due to Brexit, and a certain scrawny habitant of this very corner, there is a generalised shortage of drainpipe trousers. King Frank conned me into a little gamble on the dressage... Cook laundered them especially for Frank, though I don’t understand the copious amounts of bleach that are now missing from the pantry. Hope she’s not making incendiary devices...

It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. I lost my trousers in a bet with King Frank. Now Wizard keeps laughing at my legs and Queen Gwen called me a ‘knock kneed knave’.

He’s not in France. Closest he’s ever got to becoming an expat was lunch in 2014 at Cafe Rouge. His ‘French’ is lamentable, his claims of conquest with French women are laughable and his obsession with geese is utterly cretinous. Other than that...

Oh there’s a few here who could give me a run for my money on that score, Wolfie. Tell me, what are you qualified to comment on? The site minnows? Mrs Roops? Telling anyone who disagrees with you to delete their account? Must be fun!

I think Sister Julienne has a certain ‘je ne said quoi’...

As what? A hack artist? A predatory pervert? Or just an unfunny weirdo? Either way, no. That said, Wizard found an EBay listing for that portrait of the queen (the real one). Seller was someone calling themselves ‘Phil the Greek’. I ordered him to log out of PayPal and stop ‘watching’ but you never know... If I take a stroll round the castle and find it hanging in some secret chamber, I’ll snap his wand.

I’ve met Scoob a few times in the artists studio... behind the scenes he’s a real queen... would give Jessica Rabbit a run for her money...

Oh Camilla... I’d never pimp her out, the ravishing goddess...

Sorry, Bill. Too much mead...

Are you feeling lonely? I know a lovely lady, admittedly plump of thigh, but an excellent cook who would be appropriately subservient and doesn’t mind misogynists... I’d be happy to arrange an introduction for a modest fee (the castle vaults are a little depleted...)

His are, he’s a pound shop monarch.

The cartoonist was short of ink. Trousers are tailor made, silly.

Queen Gwen had a poster of him on the north wall in her boudoir. Poor girl was heartbroken when he started snapping his fingers to the left.

Frolicksome and Bollicksome, thank you my dear chap. How’s life?

He’s an aspidistra; the mighty Rangdo of Arg. If you’d care to learn more, an educational DVD is available: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/aw/d/B06XFHTCVB/ref=cm_cr_srp_mb_bdcrb_top?ie=UTF8

Mercy buckets. Too maz monkeh aussey!

Google Translate lessons. £30 per hour. Castle Rollo, ask for Wizard. Much cheaper, identical education and no waiting in Brexit queues or quarantine!

That explains a lot, GG.

Do you really think a pair of squat-dwelling vagabonds can afford sufficient bandwidth for this, GG? I bet it takes them half a day to load up the CC page just to write their nonsense; I imagine they have to limit themselves to good old fashioned voyeurism and pimping each other out for thrills / supplementary income ...

Why did the pony have to gargle? Because it was a little hoarse! (Or some predictable Punkape comment...) Your Arg funny-plant contest needs a new judge. Which idiot pronounced that joke the winner?

That sounds like a joke from one of Wizard's Christmas Crackers. Have you been on the sherry, GG?

Add that to the fact that in the current situation, musicians (and other performers) are not getting much, if any help at the moment, and for whatever stupid reason, it's considered ok for people to be rammed together in pubs, aeroplanes, and shortly schools, but not theatres...

I have just entered some parallel universe where not only does your post make sense, but I find myself agreeing! I need a lie down...

Mr Ben and I are not friends, Major. It all stems from last year's hunting season. I wanted to organise a wolf-hunt because they're easy to catch, being such stupid creatures (they take the bait every time and fall into traps that a blindman could navigate. They also put up a good fight when in their pack but start crying when cornered). Mr Ben, however, insisted on wasting the season away by dressing up and playing shops, and for some unfathomable reason, the silly arse roped me into it. Suffice to say no wolves were harmed that year.