Tis almost the season......

Hello me ansums, time for a bit of news from the very heart of the fish counter.
According to buoy George (not Boy George) there’s plenty available down at the fish cellars and prices are not too bad, and he’s laid it out all nice for you. He’ll carefully fillet whatever you want, except prawns and jellyfish obviously. 
You can’t be too careful these days, can you?..... Remember the chef who baked fish pie for Her Majesty the Queen mum (Gawd rest her soul) and nearly choked her with a fish bone all those years ago, well he’s up for probation soon. He must be relieved. I wonder if the palace have kept his job open for him? 
Thing is, in the intervening years since he was locked away for treason, chefs have become all powerful in this country, and there’s not a night goes by without some preening ponce in whites extolling the virtues of extra virgine first presse or squid ink linguine (makes your teeth black mind!). 
I guess if one of the royals was choked now and someone was banged up for it, we’d have mass celebrity chef and food critic demos in London chanting ‘Free the palace one!’ down the Mall. 
Can you imagine it? Gordon Ramsey self- immolating in Trafalgar Square? I’ve got some kindling if that would help. 
Or critic Charles Catchpole going on hunger strike? This scenario is unlikely I know, as above all else (finely honed palate, sophisticated taste) he does seem to be just a fat greedy bugger, and I can’t see him foregoing his grub for anyone. Maybe in protest he could throw himself in front of the Queen’s horse at Ascot? 
He’d probably kill the poor horse rather than himself – imagine the following week’s Masterchef skills test, and Monica telling the terrified contestant that she wants him to butcher a horse and prepare it for an equine banquet…
Am I going too far? Sorry.
I’ve been a bit full on, barrow-boying me books at various Christmas Fairs around the dear old county since the last little tour to Hastings, the Union Chapel and Milton Keynes. 
What a blast we had with you all, and cheers for your joyous support and enthusiasm. You really made all the journeying worthwhile! 
It was particularly fun to see the Sveaas and Haden-Paddens at the Union Chapel – yes, they sound like warring factions from Game of Thrones don’t they? – they usually come and see us down at the Platt in Port Isaac, and I did hear one of them whisper that £25 was a bit steep for tickets. 
I had to remind them that they’d been feasting on our top-notch international cabaret for nearly 25 years for free in P.I., and that consequently it all worked out rather nicely for them at about a quid per head a year. 
On reflection, in view of the entertainment on offer maybe they did have a point; a quid a year is probably a tad on the steep side!
One of their lovely party was heavily pregnant on the night, and indeed it was touch and go whether we were to witness the first arrival of the first FF’s baby during the rollocking, bollocking, Jolly Rogering chorus of South Australia but,bless, she held on in there. 
We had a pre-gig agreement that any baby that arrived should be named after a fish. Easy enough if it was to have been a buoy – Ray, John (Dory) or even Gurnard – but trickier if it had been a little maid. Halibut was the best we could come up with – Hali is not too bad, is it? 
Anyway, it’ll be nice to know at Christmas what it was and how they all are.
Can’t believe that Christmas is creeping up, although we’ve been sort of celebrating it here since September first when the Co Op put the mince pies on display. I’m not joking, and they were in red, green and gold boxes with shiny, sparkly bits that didn’t actually say Christmas, but we all knew what they meant! 
I’m looking forward to Easter now, which here in Port Isaac always starts on Boxing Day with the re-appearance of the Cadbury Crème Eggs, and they always go down a treat with the cold turkey and bubble and squeak. 
My, how the years fly. Grab ’em while you can dears!
May see you at Padstow Christmas Fest, until then, ‘Dreckly!’
The stinky ole Walrus of P.I. xx