The Bangor Sun God

It’s gloriously hot and sunny here in North Wales. I’m just back from the newsagent, where I went clad only in my thonged Speedos and flip flops to buy the day’s outpourings of Fleet Street. I’ll be soon tanning myself in the communal garden we have attached to the flats.

If I’ve been a little quite for a day or two, then you have to just forgive me. The tax forms have been giving me serious trouble, but now I’m back in the groove and full of determination to advance the Chipster cause in the coming weeks. I’m encouraged by the fact that with the British sailors unable to tell them their tales, the newspapers will find themselves with a few column inches left to fill. I intend on contacting them later on to sell them the full story of my time in solitary. I can see the headlines now: ‘A Easter in Tax Hell’.

My cousin also arrived last night. Bags on the doorstep. The smell of the farmyard lingering in the hall. I’m going to write up the details of The Farmer’s visit but I just want to get some suncream on this skin of mine. Give me an hour or two to let these fingers hammer the keyboard and I’ll deliver you a full account of The Farmer and why I say that North Wales must take his threats seriously.