Abner Brown

I don't understand all this fuss about removing pictures of the great and good. I've been trying to get my picture taken off @condicote7000.bsky.social's dratted 'wanted' poster since Christmas Eve.

I see the Archbishop is going to do a pilgrimage to Canterbury on foot. Quick, get your scrobbling ropes and head her off at Bromley. I'll put fresh towels in her cell.

The new wildlife themed bank notes are rather arresting. I wonder if they'll put that dolt, Master Harker on the obverse the half crown.

No scrobbling this morning - I shall be locked in my study, trying to tune the cats whisker to the Home Service to listen to this.

I'm sorry Animus, you're going to have to stay in, or wear a costume. There are half-wits and dolts out there who believe this end of days stuff and keep writing to me demanding we invade Musborough.

I told you Joe - if you want to do a convincing impersonation of Winston Churchill, you need to get yourself a cheroot and flick a few more v-signs.

Anyone attempting to decapitate the regime here at Chesters would do well to check out what I keep in the cellar.

As that detestable child, Peter Jones would say - splendiferous!

Ghosts, Monsters And Legends (And Tennis Prodigies) From The Box Of Delights to Aliens In The Family, a look back at the BBC’s spooky sci-fi run-up-to-Christmas children’s serials.

From The Box Of Delights, The Children Of Green Knowe and The Moon Stallion to Codename: Icarus and Aliens In The Family, a complete guide to the BBC's spooky slash sci-fi run-up-to-Christmas children's serials. It really is a box of... *some* delights.

timworthington.org/2019/12/19/g...

You're welcome to him. The dolt keeps on demanding we send out for pizza and bring him a clean shirt.

If shenanigans in a first class rail carriage counts as misconduct in a public office, then I fear @foxyfacedcharles.bsky.social is about to have his collar felt by @condicote7000.bsky.social

Good to see that @condicote7000.bsky.social was out and about on his bicycle early this morning, rounding up miscreants.

When Christmas is over, you've scrobbled everyone worth a flea-bite, you finally saw the sun today but there is rain forecast for the rest of the week.

Looks Unfamiliar: Stephen O’Brien – Whether They Had A Million Pounds Or One Pound, They’d Always Give It A Go Stephen O’Brien joins Tim to take a trip back to 1984 for a look at how the BBC’s acclaimed adaptation of The Box Of Delights was received at the time by its target audience, long befor…

Always weird to think that back when it was very first shown, The Box Of Delights really was honestly just another children's programme and was even sort of half-forgotten for a while after that. In case you don't believe me, here's a chat about precisely that.

timworthington.org/2020/12/24/l...

I'm not sure it was wise to Scrobble all the clergy. I've tried to assemble a shadow Synod but with Charles in charge of admissions and ordination, and Joe looking after tithes and stipends, my choices for Dean of the Confessional are Animus or Maria Jones, and both are shockingly indiscrete.

When I instructed you to gaze into the misty future and pluck thence the mysteries of eternity, I was hoping for something a touch more useful than 'pancakes for dinner, tonight'.

The melting snows may not have drowned the choir and clergy, but they have certainly dampened my undercroft. I shall have to send Charles down there with mop, bucket and waders.

It's good to see that Animus' efforts with snow drifts are paying off handsomely in our haul of medals. I think we'll have a punt at putting @foxyfacedcharles.bsky.social into the Olympic knobbly knees team, next.

It was very practical-minded of the Romans to chop Valentine's head off. Simply turn upside down, and you have a handy vase in which to place your dozen red roses.

All this talk of unprecedented rainfall this winter is nonsense. By the way, @foxyfacedcharles.bsky.social , is that body of water the lake or the place that the lake used to be before it became Tatchester Sound?

This is not me enduring my seasonal Christmas dunking. It's me putting the bins out after 5 weeks of nob-stop rain. My rubber duck has just gone over the weir.

That's inflation. It costs half a crown now to use the drinking fountain in Condicote Town Square - though for that you do get a complementary dose of cholera.

Tonight I've resigned from the Glee Club to avoid creating any more embarrassment. Though, frankly, why my rendition of Christmas Eve at the Workhouse, accompanied by Shakespearean actions should cause such a fuss, I really can't fathom.

I'm standing in the by-election as candidate for the Scrobbling Party. We promise:

- the smack of firm government (by appointment, discretion assured)
- curates on all trains
- a clampdown on mid-winter festivals, unless accompanied by a magical wooden box.

Sensible policies for a, senseless age.

I see the dolt who makes electric car-o-planes wants to start selling artifical people who will do all the work. I think he'll find I have the patent. And the dratted things don't do any useful work at all.

I've recruited a fine collection of crooks, buffoons and dolts for this year's scrobbling. Oddly, they look exactly like the same collection of crooks, buffoons and dolts that made such a mess of last Christmas.

You won't catch me being daft enough to allow that dolt Joe to stand for chief server. I saw him coming out of Bob the Baker's this morning with a bag of self-raising and a mutinous look.

The Head has revealed to me a dreadful premonition. The time will come when to park for 5 minutes in Condicote High Street will require a pact with an infernal device that refuses to take payment, or use a demi-demon that lives in the telephone and calls itself Ringo (but doesn't play drums).

As the living, breathing incarnation of a character from a 40 year old TV show, would I risk vanishing in a puff of causality if I admitted to never watching the TV? Drat it - I'm here and I'm staying!