Abner Brown

I've waited ten months for scrobbling season, only to find some dolt has beaten me to the jewels in The Louvre. They better not have their eyes on the presents under the Bishop of Tatchester's Christmas tree.

Righto, @foxyfacedcharles.bsky.social - once the curates have got over yesterday's blood sugar rush, have them clear away all the pumpkins and cobwebs, and get the scrobbling equipment out of storage. It's that time of year, again.

Don't say I didn't warn you: from now on, you'll no longer be able to call yourself the Prince of Darkness. From now on you'll just be the Darkness formerly known as Prince.

He might have remembered my hat.

The curates have been having a go at pumpkin carving. And when I find out who was responsible for this one, the dolt is going straight into the scrounger.

Saints alive! Not only have the clocks gone back, so has the thermometer. I've had to give Animus another blanket.

I've set all the clocks at Chesters back an hour in preparation. So, it seems, has Charles. And Joe. Also Animus, Creatuuuure, Head, Rat and, well I won't go on. Suffice it to say we shall be cancelling the midnight Christmas Eve service sometime on Boxing Day.

I see that a few flakes have been forecast for the Scottish mountains this weekend. That, of course, means the Tatchester Gazette is predicting snowmageddon in Condicote. Which reminds me, is Animus out of his pit, yet?

I was hoping the king would nip in to Chesters for a quick pray after seeing his Holiness. But apparently he's busy making his devotions to a pizza and a bottle of Chianti.

If you're wondering about the lack of blizzards today, it's because of a major failure of the Animus Web Service. I'm confident all will be well just as soon as we invoke the Slave of the Night.

I thought about giving up my titles, too. Then I discovered it is much simpler to set up a fake missionary college, change your name and stop going out in daylight. Can anyone lend me half a crown for food, I mean, the poor box.

Owing to the weather I shall be suspending scrobbling operations for the evening, donning my second best long-johns and a muffler, and huddling under the eiderdown. I may even light Animus, if I can find the dratted matches.

Sunday afternoon - tick
Clear skies promising a cold night - tick
Wolves pacing their runs - tick
Halloween has happened - drat.

Never mind, next time the wolves will run.

The committee are a bunch of dolts. However I did receive the Chesters Prize for Scripture Knowledge and Scrobbling - which I belive is the bigglyest honour.

Isn't it December, yet, boys? This autumn seems to have been going on forever.

The wind howled and rattled all night,
But Joe grinned with cheeky delight.
Each trumpet-like blast,
Left the wolves running fast,
’Twas his backside that gave the real fright.

Saints alive - I thought some dolt had opened the sluices. It turns out it's just rain. I saw the Bishop's mitre floating down the high street, earlier. I don't think his grace was in it, at the time.

I'm looking forward to getting my digital ID card. It means that this Christmas I shall be able to prove beyond question to that dratted @kayharker4.bsky.social that I am indeed the Dr Rev Boddledale, and not some ne'er do well called Abner Brown, at all.

I was thinking of canceling Halloween this year, to make a change from Christmas. Then I pictured the dungeons, filled with small children dressed as skeletons and all demanding sweets. So, scrobbling starts 1st Dec as usual and any dratted child throwing eggs at my front door gets fed to Animus.

So let's charge half a crown for it, and call it the Dolt Card. That should persuade the idiots that we're tough on scrobbling.

@kayharker4.bsky.social @condicote7000.bsky.social @brown-abner.bsky.social not long until the #WolvesAreRunning #BoxOfDelights

Saints alive, we had a frost last night, and @foxyfacedcharles.bsky.social was still in his bathers. It took me half the morning to defrost the dolt in the dolly tub, and he spent the entire time muttering something unintelligible - racing, tracing - something like that.

I'm reliably informed by Waterfall Boy that it is known as an Equinox as it is one of only two days in the year when Jean Michel Jarre LPs run for exactly the same length on both sides. Dolt!

I'm used to rows of swallows on the telegraph wires, ready for the long flight away from the gathering gloom of winter. But if I'm going to have to put up with hordes of blessed Joneses and dratted Harkers peering through my window, there are going to be scrobblings.

Whew - he's gone. We can go back to me being the only blustering, devious, thieving git in town.

I'm reading a lot about how AI will replace the honest scrobbling clergyman. I'm not so sure. The Inspector used AI to create a wanted poster of me, and now the people of Tatchester are on the lookout for a tall distinguished man with six fingers on each hand and a potted marigold on one shoulder.

This is Animus - he has crawled from the nethermost pit of despond to torment the just and the unjust equally. He is also ambassador of the Lord of Flies. So by contemporary standards he's not a bad chap.

The good people of Condicote are very keen that I should publish my tax return. I don't think the dolts have yet spotted the basic flaw in this proposal.

Mass panic at Musborough Junction. Some dolt claimed to have been defrauded by two curates and a fox. If you ask me, he's just trying to get away with travelling without a ticket.

Shocking scenes on the Tatchester underground as crowds of choristers bemoan the lack of trains. You'd think the dolts would be more concerned that they are clapped in irons and the water level is rising...