19th June 2017 

So I’m there in my pantry, buffing my spoons, when Satan / The Devil / El Diablo / Horned Kevin comes in dancing a merry jig while playing his fiddle like a grade-A ragamuffin.
        “Christ, Satan, mind my canned gnome legs!” I cried, affronted like that time Buddha stole the largest chip off my plate when we went for that curry and then he told me to not to worry about it.
        Satan? Well, he just tittered like the crimson reprobate he was and danced right back on out again. Back up to the bathroom and my various scented bath lotions, no doubt.
        Keep dancing, Old Scratch. One day, me and you, we’re gonna tangle.

 15th June 2017 

I awoke with a burning urge to invent wood only to find out someone had beaten me to it.
        Following this unfortunate realisation, I bounded down my stairs just in time to catch the post that dropped through my letterbox before it landed on the fenced-off compound I’d shrunk down to miniature size the previous night. With me, their new god, having saved them from being crushed by my latest issue of satirical magazine Fact Punch, the tiny communists who occupied the compound burned a tea cosy in my honour.
        Later, after supper, I found that the communists had used their own clothing to spell out a message intended for me on the floor of their compound: “KILL US”.
        How I laughed. Oh, tiny communists, not before you prove you can arrange your own tiny pub quiz.

14th June 2017
“Come outta there, ya egg-sucking clam!” Bugsy ‘Shrubs’ Hooper shouted a moment before an arseload of bullets tore through the ground-floor windows of my house. “We got the place surrounded!”
        Now I knew Bugsy was no dandy morlock, no way no how, this was the guy who iced Floyd ‘Handsome Ski Lift’ Marlowe and stole the legs right out from under Ray ‘Woah Mama’ Pavement, so I knew if I was gonna survive this assault from him and his gang of no-good thugs and gun-plumbers, I was gonna have to fight fire with fire before they plugged me as a lesson to anyone else who had the stones to speak out against the extortionate price Bugsy charged for a perm at his barber’s.
        So I opened my washing machine, took out my freshly cleaned Tommy guns and strode out through my front door, ready to blast God’s beard off his chin if he got in my way.
        “Here you go, Bugsy, you wrong man!” I yelled cleverly as I pulled my triggers and spewed hot lead every which way but loose, like that Clint Eastwood film, The Bridges of Madison County.
        Bugsy and his boys, frozen in terrified awe by the sight of me, no doubt partially due to my saucily arresting boots, seven-foot-tall helmet and Bauhaus T-shirt signed by Frankenstein, stood no chance as I gunned them all down like the crime-bags they were.
        They would all be back to try their luck again tomorrow, of course. They were zombies. But for now, I went back inside and finished my cryptic gyrations.

13^th June 2017

Well, that’s the last time I try to pull off a bank heist planned by gibbons. Lesson learned there.