Sydney does a runner

I had a phone call from Cecil (our vicar) on my mobile - it was at a most inappropriate time: I was unblocking Carol's U bend. Wayne, her youngest, had emptied a full packet of Porridge Oats down the sink; and you know that stuff sets like concrete.

Anyway, Cecil was in a right tizzy; seems Sydney never turned up at camp. And Cecil had reserved him a place in his tent. Anyway, when he hadn't showed at 2am he gave the place to young Bert from the Off- Licence. But he thought he had better give me a ring.

Well, I am sure I don't know where the silly sod is. And I have more pressing matters to attend to. But I rang the local nick to report him missing. Inspector Wetherspoon is still on 'gardening leave' so I had to speak to that dolt Berkinshaw - how he made seargant I'll never know: I could hear him licking his pencil over the phone. He asked me had Sydney been worried about anything. I said what's the little bugger got to worry about. He lives in the lap of luxury. I don't think Berkinshaw liked that. He put the phone down.

I also tried ringing his mother, but the lesbian has her phone switched off. Her and the Swedish tart are in Blackpool; or so I'm told by Harry Carter. He'd taken them to the station in his taxi and hung about a bit. Swears he heard them book tickets for Blackpool North.

Well, as I said, I have other fish to fry. Talking of fish, Carol and I had a lovely fish-supper last night, with a couple of bottles of Newcastle Brown (each). I must have been really merry - I've agreed to get a tattoo done!

Let you know if it hurts.

George