Blushing a little, Goodman told A.B.Fox that Delores sounded like a feisty young vixen. A.B.Fox merely sighed and looked into the distance. I thought it best to change the subject. "Well," I told the assembled literary devotees, "I'm sure tomorrow will bring another fine example of our detective's ingenuity in escapology!"
Lat night I dreamt I went to Homopoly.
It was most peculiar. It began by me being interviewed by Mister Wossy. In the dream, he was a fanatical collector of board games. He kept on going on about a very rare edition of Monopoly he had that was set during the blitz. It sounded a very difficult version of the game, given that you could put a hotel up on Park Lane and the next minute have it blown up!
He asked me if we played Monopoly here at Homeward. Of course, we have our own version - Homopoly. The Great Hall is the equivalent of your Mayfair and then there are the various towers that all have their places on the board. Watercress tower is worth quite a lot, but Haunted Tower has little value. Badfort is, not surprisingly, of a similar value to the Old Kent Road.
The dream then got even stranger as we all became part of the game.
I was staying at Sunset Beach in a holiday home owned by Mister Wossy and his wife, the Ferret Princess. It was infested with extremely long mice and their youngest child insisted on letting them loose in the skirting boards. The electricity kept blowing up as they gnawed through the wires.
I was there to present a programme on seaside resorts with a Mister Walliams, the famed cross-channel swimmer.
As you know I am very fond of seaside holidays.
He was presenting his part of the programme from, of course, Dover - in England.
We did a live link-up, and as a jest about the quality of the weather at seaside resorts the director had arranged for large storm clouds to appear in the sky at both Dover and Sunset Beach. It poured with rain.
Dear reader - what can it all mean?
Do the storm clouds infer that trouble is brewing with the Badfort Crowd?
What a marvellous day it has been!
My supporters organised a fantastic show in the pavilion at the end of the pier.
Noddy Ninety sang and Wizard Blenkinsop gave an amazing display of the art of prestidigitation. This was followed by a performance of a play I had written myself on the dangers of revolutionary zeal called "Homeward - This Green and Pleasant Land".
At the end of the performance a brass band began to play 'Hail to Glorious Uncle' and as I walked onto the stage a group of young badgers began to sing:
"We love to hear of Uncle's deeds;
He makes us feel so glad;
His bounty makes the poor man rich
And fills with joy the sad.
"How vast his stores of ham and lard;
How huge his vats of oil..."
Unfortunately, at this point a raucous voice interrupted:
"See that pompous humbug Unc
On the platform raise his trunk...
I felt that the only dignified course was to take no notice of this sordid and unfortunate incident. In the corner of my eye, though, I could see Beaver and Hitmouse bobbing around on a raft by the pier and making rude gesticulations towards me. I decided to make my short speech of farewell in which I thanked everyone for their support and hoped that the tourists would enjoy the rest of their holiday. Besides me were a whole pile of parcels containing items such as buckets and spades, rubber rings and water wings which I graciously offered as a token to their esteem.
Everybody clapped and cheered and, despite the incident with Beaver, I felt it was a fitting ending to my time at Sunset Beach.
This morning, Beaver Hateman and his gang of villains made an attack on Homeward armed with their latest weapon the Johnny Seven (OMA) gun.
But we were prepared, I had surrounded the courtyard of the Great Hall with followers - armed with high power treacle hoses.
I had ordered the that only light resistance should be made so that as soon as they burst through the gates we would have them trapped and surrounded.
My plan worked perfectly, I knew that once the firing pins of the Johnny Seven (OMA)'s were sufficiently engulfed in treacle they would be useless.
Unfortunately, they were still able to let off some initial salvos of Duck Bombs - one of which hit me square on the trunk.
Totally incapacitated, I found myself trapped in the deluge of treacle.
Beaver had also been mired in the flood and for a brief moment the hostilities of battle were put aside as we aided each other to escape the quagmire.
Of course, I did not allow the sentiment of this isolated incidence of camaraderie to prevent me giving him a good kicking up as soon as the effects of the Duck Bomb wore of.
The village has suddenly sped up on its journey. We have become caught in the West Wind Drift, have rounded the Cape of Good Hope, and now find ourselves in the Indian Ocean.
As we drift through the tropical seas, the people who are left carry on a dream-like way of life - not caring where we are going or what is to become of us.
Tourists still bring in a bountiful revenue, as do the offshore registered companies, so the villagers are still wealthy. But they no longer seem interested in money - they are happy to sit watching the long blue ocean swell past giving the whole mass of the place a slow, sleepy, gentle rocking motion.
Only Beaver is still scheming away with money-making ventures.
The one thing that I have missed on our journey is bananas - I do like my bananas.
So, I was most pleased today when Beaver paid a visit to my cell with a big bunch of them.
"Thank you very much, Beaver, but why the despondent air?" I inquired of him.
"Them damn yellow fings - thats wot" he bellowed "You know its the Brits favrite fruit? I thought I would corner the market in the fings! make a killing. So I met up with some plantation workers and done a deal with them for some knock-off fruit. Only I found out I paid the same wot Tesco do!"
"Hmmm, I see - well look at it this way Beaver. For every £1 worth of the fruit, the retailer takes 40p, the international trading company gets 31p, the distributor gets 17p, the plantation owner 10p and the worker picking them 2p. By buying them direct from the workers you have just exponentially increased their wages. It is a huge publicity coup!" I replied.
"Cor, strike a light you're right, mate! Beaver Hateman - Hero of the Working Classes!, I can see the headline now!" marveled Beaver.
"So, how about releasing me - in return for that sage advice?" I asked him.
"You must be joking - after that kicking up you gave me?" laughed Beaver. "Not on you Nellie!".
I remarked that his attitude merely confirmed my belief that he had turned the village into a banana republic - but he did not seem to get the joke.
Boris Badger claims that his office was infiltrated by Internet hackers who broke into his email and disrupted his computer system for several hours. He also said that his opponents were "fighting dirty" and would use any tactic to smear him and ensure that Ken Goat won a third term as mayor.
A politician, journalist and former editor of Badger News, Boris is the great-grandson of Ali Brock, a Turkish journalist who was briefly Interior Minister in the government of Ahmet Melo Borsuki, Grand Vizier of the Ferret Badger Empire. On his Web site Boris describes himself as a "one badger melting-pot," with Blaireaus, Porsoks and Dachs among his ancestors.
Cowgill has insisted that I get up to date with modern communications and start being a twit.
At first I thought that he had gone mad and was insulting me but, apparently, it is all the rage and many celebrities are doing it.
Now you can keep track of all the momentous events in my life, that may have global significance, in the column on the right.
I think it is marvelous and quite enthralling but the Old Monkey is cynical. He thinks that it is frivolous time wasting and merely reflects the mundanity of most people’s everyday lives.
I would hardly describe my life as mundane.
He says that, as with all new gadgets, I will soon get bored with it and fed up with being constantly twitted.
We shall see.
My first day's twitters:-
* The Old Monkey has drawn my bath. With an HB. Now he is filling with lots of hot water to the optimum temperature.
* Lost the loofer. Old Monkey is diving for it.
* Barack on the phone - in the middle of my bath! Honestly, he cannot keep ringing me up for advice all the time! about 23 hours ago
* Breakfast. Bananas and Koolvat! My Favourite!
* Rent Day. There is nothing more I like to see than the sight of thousands of dwarfs in well organised lines queueing to pay their rent!
* Gordon just twitted me - should he smile more? No, I tell him your lugubrious features fit perfectly the current depression.
* I am sure that Goodman had made a mistake in his book keeping - we are a farthing short!
* I'm making Goodman count them all again. One has to learn the importance of punctiliousness. Meanwhile, I am having a nice cup of tea.
* Having a ride around in my traction engine!
* Barack twitting me now. Any more whizzy ideas for saving the world economy? he asks - honestly can a celebrity entrepreneur ever have peace?
* Beaver just threw a duck bomb at me. Missed!
* Sarkozy twitting me now. Absolutely furious that Barack is visiting me first!
* Stephen Fry just twitted me. Apparently he is going for a walk.
* Even the birds are twittering at me now.
* Elevenses! A cask of Ham and a bucket of Cocoa!
* No surprise that the King of the Badgers is twitting me now - and no surprise that he wants to borrow some money!
* Nasty itch in my trunk - the Old Monkey is scratching it for me.
* Gordon again. Wants to know if he should save the car industry. Tell people to get on their bikes I say.
* Now Beaver is twitting me! He wants to know if I have had any bowel movements today!
* All this twittering is driving me twitting mad!
I have come under some criticism over the use of my EUV (Elephant Utility Vehicle). In particular, The Badfort Press have taken great delight in making snide comments and accusations about it's fuel consumption. I have therefore decided to convert the top of Ramshackle Tower into a sustainable forest. I have re-named it Green Tower and will, from henceforth, only be using logs from this source to burn in my traction engine. I have also instructed Cowgill to put a wind turbine on top of Windy Tower. This will supply most of the power needed in Homeward Hall. I hope this proves my green credentials.
The Old Monkey is very much enjoying swinging around in the newly planted trees on Green Tower.
Last night, Beaver and I were invited to a party - the launch of the Atlantis Palm Jumeirah hotel in Dubai.
Well, actually only Beaver was invited - due to his status as the leader of the newest offshore state. I, apparently, no longer count as a world leader because of my dispossessed position.
Beaver, in a surprisingly jovial mood, kindly brought me as his guest.
It was a lavish affair - even by my standards. There was a heady cocktail of sunshine and as much champagne and oysters as one could wish for. We partied away in the company of A-list stars and had a feast of 4,000 lobsters.
The nightingale from down under, Miss Kylie Minogue, performed and was, as usual, radiant.
Beaver and I decided to get some fresh air and take a ride around. We were appalled to discover a city of labour camps hidden away from the eyes of tourists. Migrant labourers lured into a life of squalor and exploitation.
"This is an absolute disgrace. This is no way to treat one's workers - if this is the price to pay for a life of luxury it is not worth paying!" I declared.
"To right, Unc - its a bloomin' disgrace. Lets show 'em a good time for a change - we'll take them to the party!" shouted Beaver.
For once, I heartily agreed with him.
In a long procession, we led them all to the party - Sultan Ahmed Bin Whassisname went puce with anger but there was not a lot he could do about it without provoking an international incident.
Beaver sidled up to him and whispered "I've got a duck bomb under my kaftan and I ain't afraid to use it - one false move and Badsea declares war on you."
It was wonderful to see the workers partying with all those celebrities - Robert de Niro, Janet Jackson, Wesley Snipes, Michael Jordan, Charlize Theron, Mischa Barton, Agyness Deyn, Sir Philip Green, Dame Shirley Bassey, Yasmin Le Bon, Jade Jagger, Lily Allen and Lindsay Lohan.
Mind you, I suspect that they thought they were all unrecognisable Bollywood stars.
I see that Mister Gordon Brown, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, has called on all the major countries to cut taxes to prevent the global economy sinking deeper into recession.
I was expecting a call from him asking me to attend the G20 Economic Summit. I felt sure that they would want to draw on my many years of expert opinion. No such call, however, was forthcoming.
Of course, Hateman has been a major ally and confidant of Mister Brown in his endeavours.
Beaver has been crowing about the success of his policies ""Good evening, friends, unlike other countries, hit by depression, Homesea is very much afloat - because here no one pays any taxes!" he declared on the television last night, during one of his 'fireside chats'.
Of course, that is only half the story. The village has gone gambling mad and Beaver is raking in the money at the Town Hall Casino.
He declared that today they would mark the great success of his fiscal stimulus by having a special parade for the needy children of Homesea.
Beaver Hateman has been playing the Pied Piper of Badsea, leading the children around the village playing his flute and singing "Hail, the Revolution!", a traditional Badfort protest song.
Like the Pied Piper, I am convinced he is leading them astray. It is not surprising that the children are needy - their parents spend the whole day at the roulette table.
"Look at the old miserable elephant," shouted Beaver as he strutted past me "I have just given a million to Children in Need, hope you have turned out your pockets!- have to do your bit don't you and, as you know only to well, the odd philanthropic gesture does wonders for the image don't it!"
I have, of course, made my usual donation. I did ask Sir Terry not to make a big deal out of it - but he insisted on waving my cheque about in front of the cameras. One does find the acclaim for ones generosity quite embarrassing. I really think it was a bit much, however, when he pulled out Beaver's cheque and said "and look here is another even bigger one from the old sackcloth saviour himself, Mister Beaver Hateman- Baron of Badsea !"
If only Sir Terry knew the source of those funds I am sure he would be outraged.
Today is the 41st Anniversary of my first landing on the moon.
As you will remember, last year we celebrated the 40th anniversary by returning and sorting out a bit of bother that the dwarfs mining on the moon had got into.
One year after my first landing, some Americans turned up on the moon. We thought it best to keep quiet about our own presence. Over the next few years they left rather a lot of junk to clear up but, as I suspected, they soon got bored and stopped coming.
They are still under the illusion that they arrived first - and I think it best that they do not find out how lucrative Helium 3 mining is.
I am often asked what happened to all the discarded American Lunar Modules?
Clearly we could not let them crash on the moon - for they could have landed on one of our mining operations, damaging equipment and putting the lives of dwarfs at risk.
So we would collect them from lunar orbit and let off a small explosion on the surface so that the Americans would think that they had crashed on the moon.
I can now reveal that I have the actual Apollo 11 Lunar Module, here at Homeward, in my Space Museum.
Here is a picture taken today of me sitting in it.
I have had to make some adaptations. It needed to be strengthened a little as it was designed for two humans - an elephant is somewhat heavier.
Whilst A.B.Fox continued his investigations to discover how Beaver intended to make use of the Wizard's Dressing Gown, we decided to continue our tour of Homeward with a visit to the Homeward Art Gallery.
It is reached via a cupboard at the bottom of the back stairs at Homeward. Once through one enters an open space between immense towers. The gallery is in a tower opposite a very strange-looking castle called Crack House.
As we arrived the curator, a small shabby man called William Snowjuice, came rushing up to us. "Oh Sir, calamity, calamity - all your paintings are gone. They came to life!....they literally floated out of the gallery of their own accord!" he cried.
We rushed into the gallery and it was true - it was empty apart from one crude picture of myself. "Oh yes Sir, as the other paintings all left this one floated in and hang itself upon the wall - It is by the artist J von Tussle." explained Snowjuice.
Jellytussle is one of the Badfort Crowd, he's thickly covered with jelly of a bluish colour, and he's a very spiteful character.
It did not take much thinking to work out how Beaver had made use of the Wizard's Dressing Gown. By rendering him invisible it had enabled Beaver to remove the paintings undetected - creating the impression that the paintings had taken on a life of their own.
At that point, the artist, Waldovenison Smeare arrived. He is very thin, with long hair and a thin straggly beard, and he was wearing paint-stained trousers and a coat made out of a worn hearthrug.
Looking around at the empty gallery he let out a groan and collapsed. "My Masterpieces!" he moaned "Breakfast at Homeward. The Owner of the Castle and Friends, The Stolen Sandwich...and one of my earliest works - Still Life.One melon on a cracked plate....all gone." he cried.
Overcome by the loss of his precious work, Smeare fainted.
The One-Armed Badger carried him to a couch and sat near him with a tray of delicacies in case he recovered enough to nibble a few of them.
It was indeed a black morning.
I inspected the caption that had been pasted alongside the Von Tussle.
The Tyrant of Homeward - hit him where it hurts! it said.
"A bad day, Sir, indeed" said A.B.Fox "...but it gives us a clue to where they might strike next. They have struck here for a purpose. Most of the stolen pictures depict the glorious events in your life - you opening the Dwarfs' Drinking Fountains, opening the Hoof and Claw Trimming Stall, and the many illustrations of your battles with the Badfort Crowd - their aim is to take the objects most dear to you. To wipe your deeds from history and humiliate you. There is only one other thing they could do to bring you down - hit you in your pocket."
I looked at the Old Monkey and we both nodded, at least we knew Beaver's next target.
Homesea is drifting past Christmas Island.
It has made me rather homesick, for normally at this time of year I would be making preparations for the Great Homeward Christmas Eve Party. I feel that I cannot leave, however, until the village is out of the clutches of Beaver Hateman.
Christmas Island has an administrative body which basically governs the island, of which the head Administrator and his wife are known in some circles as the King and Queen.
Chief amongst the old ladies of Church Square is Miss Fitzbuller, and it turns out that forty years ago she went to school with the Queen of Christmas Island.
They have been having a good old chinwag about hockey teams, school chums, the old times and looking at old faded photographs.
It did not surprise me when she told me that she and the other ladies of Church Square had decided that they would stay on the island. The climate is delightful, there are strong young men to do things and she tells me that they intend to celebrate Christmas Day everyday from now on.
It does, of course, mean that there is no longer anyone to run the teashops. So the Old Monkey and I have decided to rename one of them Chez Oncle and run it ourselves.
We are doing a brisk trade - the remaining old Homesears, and the pirates in particular, do really like a nice cream tea.
Beaver Hateman still insists that he is in charge, but as I keep reminding him - of what does he think he is in charge?
It seems to me that Homesea could drift forever, about the oceans of the world, no longer serving any useful purpose in his hands.
I have hardly had time to catch my breath after my trip to the moon.
As soon as we returned I had to perform the civic duty of hosting the Opening Ceremony of the Homeward Olympics 2008.
It was all going rather well until it was discovered that Hitmouse had dressed up as a little girl again and pretended to sing "Hail to Uncle'. It turned out that Beaver had kidnapped a young dwarf, who was supposed to perform, and forced her to sing while Hitmouse mimed. I immediately became suspicious when the words "Hail to Beaver" were substituted for my own name.
Beaver then had the cheek to claim that the Badfort Crowd were merely seeking the "best voice and the best performer" for such an important ceremony - and anyway he was sick of the whole event being hijacked to bolster the ego of some jumped up elephant!
The whole farrago got worse.
Beaver has managed to bag himself a world record 12 Gold Medals!
He has won Gold for the "Yard of Black Tom' competition, Long Distance Skewering (even beating Hitmouse), brawling, the One-Legged Donkey Race (there was only one entrant!), haranguing polemics, both the Short and the Long Con (he managed to trick a number of people into buying fraudulent tickets for the event and sell the Stadium to a rich Texan), mud throwing, food eating (24 large hams!), debt collection (a lot of dwarfs will be ruing attending that event), the raucous singing competition, and the Stolen Bicycle Race!
You might well ask how all these strange sports came to be part of the Olympics?
So did I !
A.B.Fox interrogated the Olympic Committee - and it turned out that they had all been bribed by Beaver Hateman!
Needless to say, I won a Gold for my skills at Kicking Up - and I am sure you can guess who the recipient of the Kicking Up was.
I had the King of the Badgers around today, wanting me to bail out something called Badgertown Rock. I could not understand why he wanted me to fund some music festival?
He had brought with him some sleek looking badger in a rather ostentatious suit. He introduced himself as, Peter Porsche, COE of said Badgertown Rock. It turns out they are some financial organisation that has got involved in lending in something he called the sub-prime market. Enough of your financial gobbledegook, I said, what you mean is that you have been stupid enough to lend to some ne'er do wells and you have no hope of getting the money back have you?
Peter Porsche admitted this was the case. It turned out that they had lent a million pounds to the inhabitants of Badfort who had used Badfort castle as collateral. I spluttered in disbelief. I could not believe that anyone would be so foolish as to lend money on the basis of the value of that broken down old wreck of an eyesore.
Porsche, looking embarrassed, argued that Beaver Hateman had claimed it was a desirable residence, with beautifully laid-out grounds and an excellent scob-fishing river running through it. Yes, I told him, but if he had thought to actually look at the place he would have seen that most of the windows were smashed and the beautiful rooms long since torn apart for firewood.
I surmised that they would have no hope of getting their money back from those blackguards. Porsche started crying then. Apparently he had been around to Badfort to tell Beaver that steps would be taken to turn him out and he had been answered with a volley of Duck Bombs.
The Old Monkey and I soon came up with a solution. I told Porsche to block the Scob river at either end and put road blocks at all entrances so that they could turn back any transport carrying Black Tom.
That will force them to hand back their ill-gotten gains.
Never mind the world economic stimulus, I know that, who sat next me? is the burning question you all want answered.
Well here is the all important seating plan for dinner at Downing Street, last night.
As you can imagine, it was quite a game of diplomatic musical chairs as everyone wanted to sit near me.
It has to be said, it was a bit of a tight squeeze on my side of the table. "Shove up, Barack!" I said good heartedly "This is half the size of my banqueting table, you know!"
Everyone shuffled along a bit and we all fitted in eventually. Luckily, the Korean President is only a little chap so he did not take up much room on my left.
The German lady and that funny French man were a bit sulky - I don't think he was too happy with the "best of British" menu. He kept complaining it was too stodgy for his tastes. I gave him a withering look and he could tell that I would brook no storming off.
There was a lot of, frankly, rather boring talk of reshaping capitalism and reviving the stalled global economy. I do wish that people would not talk shop at dinner.
I soon had them in stitches, however, as I regaled them with some of my funniest anecdotes about Beaver Hateman's antics and his foiled attempts to usurp me.
More tedious discussions today.
The King of the Badgers has turned up for another State Visit. This usually means he is short of cash and is looking for another hand out. He started banging on about the 'special relationship' between Homeward and Badgertown which spells trouble. I expect Beaver Hateman is refusing to hand over his rates again so he needs some enforcement help.
My detective A.B.Fox is providing his exemplary services to ensure security for the visit. He's already foiled Hitmouse's attempt at throwing a duck bomb at us as we were enjoying a garden party on the lawns in front of Homeward. Duck bombs cover you from head to foot in a liquid that looks like lemonade but instantly turns into a tough jelly which is almost impossible to remove."Not a problem, Sir" he said when I thanked him for his vigilance. Exactly what you would expect from a fox whose Great-Grandfather worked for Pinkerton's Detective Agency. Down these mean streets a fox must walk who is neither tarnished by nor afraid of the Badfort Crowd.
Today we set off on our great bus journey around Homeward.
The Old Monkey was determined to have a go driving the bus - which suited me fine.
Goodman filled the jacuzzi with mud and, after a leisurely breakfast, I had a good wallow. There is nothing like a good soak in bubbling mud to start the day.
We received lots of telegrams from the inhabitants of my estates - wishing us a safe trip and tremendously excited at the prospect of a chance to meet their benefactor.
