Aunt Alice and Spot. Usually written by Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp, but this week by me, Dickie Branson.
Hello there readers, are you still silly enough to be following this ridiculous story? If you are, then it seems to have fallen in my lap to update you all. Standby and grab a cup of tea whilst I do, and then check on upcoming Virgin flights to far away destinations. You will understand why at the end.
As you know, I was released from a jar of pickles by Spot, when Tracey Edges, his betrothed, (even though she doesn’t know it) made him a cheese sandwich. I granted him three wishes that day that only he and I know of. He has one remaining, but I cannot divulge what that may be. As the senior genie in the prestigious Branson family I have significant powers so, as one would expect, I am in a unique position to explain the overall situation. However, this is impossible owing to the fact that all, apart from Tracey, are utterly mad. I hesitate to include Aunt Alice in that number as she is simply too kind. If she has now lost her sanity, that situation was brought on by Spot himself. No wonder she is away in the country, taking the waters wherever she lays her hat! Good luck to her, I say!
Here we go then, a summary to end all summaries.
Spot has finally got his hands on Brenda, the usurper to the Crown of Wales. He captured her whilst riding in the Sahara desert, depositing her at the gates to the British embassy in Cairo. From there she was transported to a military prison at Cheltenham in the picturesque County of Gloucestershire, here in England. Spot has subsequently disappeared. This maybe because the stolen iPad he was using has melted in the Egyptian sun, or perhaps needs charging, or the camel he was riding became so feed up with him that he abandoned the demented teenager somewhere. All three possibilities cannot be discounted. Our story does not, unfortunately, end there, how could it with such ludicrous characters running around!
Read on if you dare!
We are about to read from a note left by Brenda for her daughter, Myrtle. If you can understand what follows, then you are a better man than me, Gunga Din.
My dearest Myrtle, I’ve awakened here… Wow, much more than six-feet inside the earth’s crust, and with a warm soggy leek clenched between my teeth that I found laying beside my decapitated foot which was stuck to my ear, next to my knee, that the penguin carried in its mouth before I ate him to rid myself of the headache I can only assume was caused by hunger.
I’ve removed the white dress made specially for me by the sweet fighting men of Cairo. Pity, they worked so hard to shackle me, even sent out for bigger and heavier wrist irons and hobblers, but they ended up losing custody of me due to the old – “We Saw Her First,” rule. Those selfish English fighting men naturally staked their claim, which is how I ended up at Cheltenham.
That reminds me, I was LIED to! At Cheltenham, those men swore they’d search every square inch of my person… But if they had, how’d they miss finding the penguin? And this red lipstick I’m using to write this note on my white dress? Incompetence is ANNOYING! When I reign as Queen of Wales you can bet Body Searches will mean the whole body…Or heads will roll! Overlooking a person’s crevices is something that gum chewing Spot would do! It’s my fault, though… I should have lifted my back folds and insisted they do a sweep through the cracks, but I got caught up in the way they playfully chanted teasing and urging me, “Let’s see you escape this time.” You know how I can’t resist the English accent, when I can understand it.
So of course, I got all giddy and giggly and once they attached the anchor to my backside, I showed off by tucking and rolling, cracking the floors and crashing through the walls. And boy did they scream and shout! Their horns and bells sounded like rhythmic sirens. Electrifying pulses tapped me from head to toe causing my adrenaline to overflow… It was so exciting! They couldn’t get enough of my bodacious bod’s display of peekaboo as my skirt went up and down during every tuck and roll.
I admit it; I got carried away. I should have used a little restraint. But that’s hard to do when you want to please the ones who work hard to enslave you. All in all, if Lakenheath was less accessible, I’m certain that my anchor wouldn’t have melted and welded to that rocket ship, which got in my way whilst I rolled! But it did, and yes, it is comforting to know that during take off, I provided a glorious climax to my peekaboo finale!
The officers who ejected from the rocket were grinning and waving as the ship took a nose dive into the Barnard Castle’s garden. There is a blazing fire about a quarter-mile above my head. Helpful, because I need the use of its light while I finish scraping my brains off the wall of dirt.
This lipstick is about all used up, now. If your father has survived all my previous advice, please tell him not to worry, because all he has to do is light an inserted stick of dynamite and he’ll be rid of pesky hemorrhoids.
Remember Myrtle dear, no matter what happens to me, I, your mother, shall always love you—if you find and capture Spot, conquer England and crown me—Brenda, Queen of Wales.
Dickie here again folks, I hope you all followed that.
It would seem that even in death this weird person, going by the name of Brenda, deludes herself.The rocket she mentions did indeed crash and burn in the grounds of Barnard Castle, some twenty miles away from Lakenheath aerodrome. However, her presence aboard this experimental moon vehicle, developed by my brother, was not recorded. The Virgin authorities were too ashamed. Her body will never be discovered by Myrtle or her pile stricken husband, unless of course I’m wrong, in which case I will resign from the Honourable Society of Genies.
The world is well rid of someone who writes this…. It was so exciting! They couldn’t get enough of my bodacious bod’s display of peekaboo as my skirt went up and down during every tuck and roll.
Here I must leave you, returning to my sacred jar and, like you, I hope that Spot is well. We can do no more. If you have a continued liking of causing pain to yourself, then keep reading Female First magazine, where any further news will be published immediately it becomes available.