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All posts for the month April, 2012

Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow being read by The Thunderous Mother.

Published April 25, 2012 by loonyliterature

See The Thunderous Mother reading a short passage from ‘Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow.’

WARNING!!  THIS TAKES PLACE  IN THE LOONY LITERATURE LABORATORY.  WATCH AT YOUR COST!!

Strange things happen when in The Laboratory, so we can not be held responsible if you become as potty as us.

Get Your Revenge! Want To Blow Off Steam? Get Your Good Quality Insults Here!

Published April 17, 2012 by loonyliterature

 Will Blyton has had enough of The Stinking Shadow and tried to lock him in a trunk. 

It didn’t work.  The Stinking Shadow whiffs for Olde England and the stench broke the lock.

Will Blyton is always on the wrong end of Hamnet’s, the tiny boy trapped in a stone, insults.  Always being one for an opportunity, Will has decided to use  some on  The Stinking Shadow.  Who would you use them on? 

Thou wilt regret this warty nose.

Leave me be, thou fetid skanky breath.

Thou art but a worm eating corpse.

Mule’s manure, that is what thou art.

Thou bent nosed fool.

Thou springy haired oik.

Get off thy knees thou feeble minded dog.

It wilt happen later, old septic earache.

Thou leaking guts.

Thou mangy rat’s bum.

 

RAT is Formed!

Published April 3, 2012 by loonyliterature

An exclusive interview

By

Ambrose Pimple.

Groaningsea Gazette Editor, Reporter and Coffee Boy.

          Sales of the Groaningsea Gazette have almost doubled since Groaningsea’s premier crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple, uncovered the  mob in our mist!  Residents were so shocked at the threat to their beloved seaside town that they have joined forces against crime with the Groaningsea Gazette.  The local people have banded together to form RAT – residents against terror.  The chairlady is Mrs Croak.  In an exclusive interview by Ambrose Pimple, Mrs Croak warns criminals:

          “The residents of Groaningsea are respectable folks.  We will not put up with the underworld trying to spoil our beautiful town.  My teenage son, Elvis, known to his mates as The Toad, will be on watch during the early evening.  Anyone caught doing anything, anything whatsoever, will be done.  Us Croaks don’t take to criminals, especially ones as we don’t know.”

          Further action has been taken by the local librarians who also represent R.A.T.  They are closeting their  umbrellas under the returns desk.  Anyone stepping out of line will feel the force of Mrs Chalk’s umbrella, be stamped on the forehead and get a fine.

          We want local residents to rest assured that they can count upon the Groaningsea Gazette to join forces with R.A.T. in the fight against crime.  Top crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple will be available anytime and anywhere – that is Monday –Friday (9a.m. to 5p.m. within the Groaningsea area.

 

Anyone with any information or in danger please ring:

 

Ambrose on Groaningsea 666.

 

Gangsters Go For Gobber!

Published April 3, 2012 by loonyliterature

by

Ambrose Pimple

Groaningsea Gazette  Editor, Reporter and Coffee Boy.

 

http://openclipart.org/clipart/people/magnifyi...

http://openclipart.org/clipart/people/magnifying_glass_01.svg License: PublicDomain Keywords: people Author: AbiClipart Title: Magnifying Glass (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gobber’s Joke Shop has graced Groaningsea’s back streets since anyone can remember.  Gobber is Groaningsea and Groaningsea is Gobber.  We have to ask ourselves why is Groaningsea, and now Gobber, being targeted by the mob?   

To understand the intensity of this crime we must realise that it is not one single crime which Gobber has been victim of but a catalogue of them.  Regular readers will remember Ambrose Pimple, head crime consultant of the Groaningsea Gazette, dutifully reporting how Gobber suffered crime in the past.  For new readers of the Groaningsea Gazette, who we hope will become regular readers, let me explain. 

Being the principle joke shop owner of Groaningsea, well actually, he’s the only joke shop owner of Groaningsea, Gobber feels it is his duty to be a role model to his young customers.  As fresh air and exercise is the order of the day for a healthy mind and body, Gobber does a daily jaunt on the promenade.  Gobber’s celebrity status in this small town means that during the school holidays he is accompanied by his fans spurring him on. 

On the unfortunate day of the first crime, some hard nosed criminal attached a sign onto the back of Gobber’s anorak.  The sign read : 

Gobber smells.  Yell if, you agree. 

Consequently,  a shouting mob stampeded the promenade with Gobber in front believing his own personal charisma was causing the racket.  Not that Gobber doesn’t have personal charisma, you understand.  Top crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple charged through the crowd, whipped his windcheater off, flung it over Gobber’s head and made for the Drowning Fish Café.  Peace soon ensued but there was more to follow.

The next attack on the unfortunate Gobber was the advertisement in the Groaningsea Gazette.  A ruthless criminal masqueraded as Gobber and placed an advert in this very newspaper.  We have to be dealing with the professional underworld, otherwise how would the fake advert have gotten past Doris the cleaning lady who sells advertising space on her day off?  The advert, which looked very impressive with our new style headings read GRAB FREE GOODIES AT GOBBERS.  Derek Frisk, the local St John’s Ambulance man resuscitated Gobber as his shelves emptied. 

A wooden "roller" type rolling pin

A wooden "roller" type rolling pin (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gobber wishes to warn the underworld that he has now taken arms and his mother Mavis is hiding in the back of the shop with her rolling pin and length of elastic, ready for action.

 

 

Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective’s Video Diary 1.

Published April 3, 2012 by loonyliterature

Find out what The Stinking Shadow steals.

Watch the video and find out what happens when Will Blyton comes face to face with The Toad, Ferret and Snot.

Notice what The Stinking Shadow hides under the table.  I think there might be the beginning of a story there for you.

After watching the video, why not make up your own scene about bullying with some friends.

Act it out.  How does the person who is being bullied feel?

How do the bullies feel?  Think about why they do it.

If you have access to a camera, why not film yourselves.

Have a great Loony Literature time.

Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective’s Video Diary 4

Published April 2, 2012 by loonyliterature
Artwork by Charles Raymond Macauley for the 19...

Artwork by Charles Raymond Macauley for the 1904 edition of The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. Publisher: New York Scott-Thaw (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Watch the terrible Mr Hyde from the Boris Death room.  Why is he so shocked?

Will Blyton decides he needs publicity.  He will he approach Ambrose Pimple?

Why do you think Mr Hyde seems to be so friendly towards the other monsters from The Boris Death room?

What does he steal?

Based on your answers, why not write your own sketch about some ghoulish characters and perform it with friends?



Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective’s Video Diary 2

Published April 2, 2012 by loonyliterature

See the werewolf from the Boris Death room dancing.

Will Blyton and his friend Bongo creep up to Boris Death’s old house on a Sunday Morning.  Find out what they see.

Notice the hand hanging on the table when the werewolf is dancing.  Who does it belong to?

Why does the werewolf steal the body parts and the jar of eyeballs?

Perhaps you could use this video to make a ghoulish story for yourself. 

Werewolf, by Rodrigo Ferrarezi Português: Lobi...

Werewolf, by Rodrigo Ferrarezi Português: Lobisomem, por Rodrigo Ferrarezi (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gangsters Go For Groaningsea!

Published April 2, 2012 by loonyliterature
Garden gnome with wheelbarrow

Garden gnome with wheelbarrow (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 by

Ambrose Pimple

(Groaningsea Gazette Editor, Reporter, Secretary and Coffee Boy.)

Residents of Groaningsea be on the alert!  Strange happenings are taking place on your very own doorstep.  It is thought that a master criminal is on the loose.  It is not an ordinary criminal, that much is known.  How do we know this?  Ace crime reporter, Ambrose Pimple has been on the scene of these extraordinary happenings.  Stone gargoyles with secret messages on them have been left on doorsteps in the town. 

Ambrose Pimple has made the decision not to disclose the secret messages at this point in time as it could cause a spate of copycat crimes.  As an ace crime reporter, Ambrose Pimple has delved into the mind of the ruthless criminal over the years.  He has to admit, he has not come across such a cunning criminal mastermind of this type before.  The key question, says Pimple, is what is so unique about this crime?  He understands that the ordinary public will not be able to answer this penetrating question and so he explains:  The ordinary criminal takes from us.  We have all been there when our garden gnomes have disappeared.  However, The Gargoyle Gangster, as he will be referred to from now on, has us on the run.  He plays with our law abiding minds – he doesn’t whiz our washing from our lines or even pilfer our plants, NO!  The Gargoyle Gangster leaves his threatening mark upon our doorsteps.  What has this criminal mastermind got in store for Groaningsea next?

Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow. (Chapter one.)

Published April 2, 2012 by loonyliterature
When, Hamnet, a tiny boy trapped in a stone, promises Will Blyton time travel, he thinks his problems are over. When a 14th century monk becomes his Stinking Shadow, he realises the trouble has just begun. Find out how Will stops the malicious shapeshifter, Ravensmite, from returning Hamnet to his cursed existence whilst, at the same time, plotting to send The Stinking Shadow back in time. Amidst the chaos and dark humour is the story of a boy battling with his own self worth and the start of a strange and powerful friendship.  Join Will in 1970s Groaningsea for a rip roaring time.

A boy trapped inside a small stone cannot exist – but he’s still there even when I use my magnifying glass.

CHAPTER 1.

Last night I dreamed of Groaningsea.  The closed railway station had a train again – it was a shiny, black monster with a leering face hurtling down the track towards me.  A pop eyed toad, wearing a railway cap, hung out of the window and flicked its tongue to catch the flies that clustered around its head.  The station was full of clowns and puppets dressed in stripy jackets and straw hats.  A shrieking voice caught my attention as Mr Punch hit Judy with a policeman’s truncheon.  Suddenly, a weasel faced ferret, with razor sharp teeth, poked me in the ribs with his walking stick and I woke up sweating.

I threw back the blankets and rushed to the window but nothing had changed.  The sky was vast with heavy, black clouds almost meeting the roaring, grey sea in the distance.  Groaningsea was still dead.  Could I imagine it being returned to the days of the ghost train and donkey rides when people would come for miles to get the sea air?

The door shuts heavily behind me as I pull on it and then run across the empty road to the deserted beach.  I try to remember my dream full of stripy clothes, fried onion smells and the tinkling circus music that makes the horses dance.

A sharp nip stings my cheek and my specs are gone.  All I can see is a head resembling a dead bat moving towards me; it has to be The Toad.  You can always tell him from the fake, leather jacket he wears.

Always watch your back; it will save you frantically sticking your hands out when you’ve been shoved. 

I know it is Snot who has pushed me; I can hear his whiny, nasal voice shouting. Snot is The Toad’s sidekick; a dried crust of mucous always covers his face, hence the name.

I ask them for my glasses back but my voice sounds weak and I feel like an ant before a shoe takes away the daylight.

My glasses hurtle over my head and I get a short, sharp pain in my back.  The Ferret cackles that he thought I was a football.  Ferret is the other sidekick of The Toad.  He is small with pointed teeth and omits a malodorous odour when excited.  I suspect he is very excited.  I swallow deeply to rid my throat of the lump in it.  I dream of being Robert the Bruce – the freedom fighter who beat his oppressors.  The sea rages in the background and I wish it was me with all that power and fury. I try to get up but Snot pulls my legs from beneath me and I hit the sand again.

Robert the Bruce

Robert the Bruce (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My grandma believes in angels and when I hear the croaky voice of Toad’s mum shouting for her crumpets, I believe in them also.  

The Toad answers to the name of Elvis only to his mam, as he calls her.  I hear him shouting back to the croaky angel as if he too is sweet and heavenly.

The Ferret sniggers as he drops my specs in the sand.  My breath comes quickly and heavily through my lips as I watch their outlines saunter away.  My belly is determined to shoot my Weetabix out through my mouth and my legs want to give way beneath me.  I gulp down a sob and get on with the job of finding my specs.

I kneel down thinking I am automatically going to set hands on them but all I grab are millions of tiny grains, an empty Dandelion and Burdock bottle and a piece of soggy seaweed.   The Thunderous Mother will go bonkers if I go home without my specs.  If I tell her about The Toad she will march around to his house and complain to his Mum.   She thinks being nice is slamming the door in someone’s face so I’d better keep digging.

“Thine intestines wilt be mine!”

I glance around.  I am alone.  The sky is almost black and the furious rush of the sea is urgent.   A shiver runs down my back as I edge my blue scarf further up my neck.  The sound of the wind often gets distorted on Groaningsea shores, although it has never sounded like a threatening voice before.  I shrug at no-one in particular as my fingers grasp something smooth like glass.

“Thou wilt regret this warty nose.”

I rub my ears with my free hand.  A voice without a body is not possible.

“Leave me be, thou fetid, old skanky breath.”

I freeze as I hear the clucking of a tongue.

“Thou art nought but a worm eating corpse.”

Without a word of a lie, the threat appears to be coming from my hand.  I slowly look down at my fingers wrapped around the stone and then quickly spring them open as if on a mechanism.  The stone is clear like glass.  My eyes widen at the shock of being able to see it clearly without my specs. 

A boy, the size of my palm, is in the stone and scowling up at me.  He is in a prison cell.  It has bars on it and there is a small bed at the far end, a desk and a chair.  There is a writing quill sitting on the desk.

“Who art thou?  I thought thou wert that devil Ravensmite.”

I open my mouth to reply but nothing will come out.  The boy has long, dark hair with black, piercing eyes.  He is dressed in a green knickerbocker suit with a frilly ruff around his neck.  Huge, shiny buckles sit on the front of his shoes.   I stare at him like a goldfish.

“Mule’s manure, that is what thou art.”

I finally manage a few words.

“What… What are you?”   

“Marry, I am a grand warlock.”  The boy struts up and down within the stone prison cell, like a male pheasant.  I am sure that I should be saying something important or clever or well, anything really.  It’s not easy when faced with someone who is dressed so oddly.  I decide to act as if this type of thing happens to me every day.

“You’re a minute boy in a stone.” I wrinkle my nose to throw doubt on his personal hygiene.

“I can slay thou withal one breath, thou bent nosed fool.” He puts his fists up.

I scratch my head.  I’ve never been in a situation like this before.

“Why do you want to fight me?”

“So thou art not an agent of Corpsehound?” The boy in the stone drops his fists.

“Corpse what?”

The boy’s body becomes like a glove puppet when the hand has been taken out.

“Does thou hast a dwelling, thou springy haired oik?”

My hand shoots to my hair and I pat it down frantically.  The boy’s voice is suddenly soft and sweet, it makes me want to eat marshmallow.

The boy said something about a dwelling.  We don’t seem to be speaking the same language.  Some people have started flying to Spain for their summer holidays so I wonder if he has come from abroad.  For some strange reason he starts to sob and a tear shaped bit of rock, like a piece of dried snot, falls into my hand.  At this point, I feel like running away but I need to know more.

“Hast thou got a dwelling young ruffian?  What name do they give thee?  It must be Turnip Head.”

“Will Blyton.  I live at that house over there.” I point to my home across the road.  I thought that the boy was strange from the beginning but when he gets down on his hands and knees and starts to pray – I am sure he has come from somewhere far away.

“Take me to thine abode, Blyton, thou jug eared clown.  I am a powerful magician who can grant thee any wish.”

I don’t believe him, of course.  His face leers up at me and I stand back in shock.  He is handsome until he smiles; his teeth wear a thick, yellow coating as if they are covered in custard.

“I don’t know.”  I try to play for time to help me think.  “Do you have a name?”

The boy sticks his small chest out.

“Hamnet.”

I eye Hamnet carefully and wonder how he can be of use to me.  Would it be possible…  I wonder…

“I will take you home if you can send me back to the fourteenth century; I need to ask Robert the Bruce how to decimate The Toad.”

Hamnet stands up quickly. 

“Will he helpeth me?”

“Who?”

Hamnet pushes the palms of his hands out quickly and nods eagerly.

“Robert the Bruce – the great magician who can turn evil creatures into a thousand pieces.  Thou really art a wart headed fool!”

For a moment, I can’t work out what is going on.  l look up at the darkening sky; I then realise what the boy is getting at.

“No, he is not a magician.  He is a freedom fighter.  Oh never mind.  Make me time travel.”

Hamnet blinks quickly and closes his eyes for a moment.  He slowly opens one, I peer at him hopefully.   Hamnet opens the other eye and tries to smile. 

“I wilt make thou travel through the mists of time if thou takest me to thine abode.”

I clutch at the stone and think about the forthcoming journey back in time.   If I take the strange boy home, he will call me names and I get enough of that from The Toad.   I don’t fancy it.  I glance down at the boy again.  It would be worth it if he could take me to Robert the Bruce though.  I decide to give it a go.  After all, I am never going to get another opportunity like this and I can always take the stone back to the beach.  I will take a chance but first I need my specs.

I fall to my knees and rummage through the sand at ninety miles an hour with my free hand.   Sand flies everywhere but there are no specs to be had. 

“Get off thy knees thou feeble minded dog, I do not care to hang around this dreaded place too long.”

I stand up and hold my palm out so that I am looking at the boy.  I explain to him that I have lost my specs and cannot see very well without them.  He has his fingers lurking near his nose again and I wonder if it helps him to think.  The next moment, his eyes start to gleam and he is pointing and shouting to a spot in the sand.

“Marry, the seeing instrument is there.  I see it! I see it!”

I sink to my knees again and grasp at my specs.  I wipe them on the bottom of my jumper and quickly put them on.  Hamnet is jumping up and down and waving his hands about.

“Hurry Blyton, we have no time to waste.”   The boy is bossy; anyone would think he has someone after him.

I cross the road to go home.   The fury of the sea lashes behind me so I will be glad to reach the warmth.

Once inside the house, I tiptoe up the stairs, missing the third one altogether as it has a wailing creak.  Scurrying quickly across the landing before anyone sees me, I rush into my inner sanctum and close the bedroom door shut.   I lean against it and listen.  All is quiet so it is safe to pull the stone out of my pocket.  I proudly tell him that I have brought him home.  I wait for him to be flabbergasted at my fantastic bedroom.

Hamnet peers through the stone.

“Are thee a servant Blyton?”

I shake my head.  Once again, I am lost for words as I watch Hamnet gazing around my room.  I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach as he wrinkles his nose; anyone would think it was a pig sty.

“I thought not, thou hast many objects but thine chambers are a pitiful size.”   

My bedroom holds a bed, a wardrobe, a set of drawers and a bookcase full of my Sherlock Holmes detective stories, Doctor Who books and annuals.   All of these have been painted blue to cover up the scuffs and scratches when I have barged into them. 

There is also my special curiosities cabinet which holds my old coins, bones and fossils.   On top of it is a pea shooter, water pistol and catapult.   Hamnet obviously hasn’t noticed the precious treasures like my cassette recorder and my camera.   I had to wash up, empty the bins and dust forever to get that camera.   It seems he is not that well up on the latest technology.  I wonder if I should show him my dark room down in the cellar.  I know for certain that room will impress anybody.  He doesn’t deserve to go there.  I will ignore Hamnet’s comments because he never says anything nice.  To get my own back, I order him to make me time travel.

Hamnet sits down at his desk.  He rummages around in the drawer and then takes some parchments out and places them on the desk.  He runs his index finger along the parchment and tuts.  He then mutters to himself.  I am impressed.  Suddenly, Hamnet springs up and reads aloud from the parchment.

 

To the fourteenth century, send this

young skunk

To behold a squire, a knight, or a

monk.”

Hamnet waves his hands about grandly whilst my stomach churns but nothing happens.  He picks his nose with his little finger; removes a bogey, looks at it and then flicks it in the air.  He then seems to remember me standing there waiting.

“It wilt happen later, septic earache.  Hamnet will keep thee safest when thou goest to the fourteenth century.”

I open my mouth to protest but Hamnet walks to the back of the cell and the stone becomes a dull pebble.  I rub it and knock on it but nothing happens.

I look through the bedroom window.  The rain pours down like a river and the wind sounds like a giant cow mooing.   I sigh, nothing has happened.  I hold the stone and stare at it.  No matter how hard I stare, I am in the twentieth century.  Even when I screw my eyes up and grunt hard, I am still in my own 1970s bedroom.   As you can imagine, I do not know what to do.  One moment, I am on the brink of a time travelling adventure with an insulting boy in a stone – the next moment – nothing.  Life just isn’t fair.

I grab a book called Medieval England off the bookshelf.  I hurriedly flick through the pages to find what I want and then leave it open on the bed.  Perhaps I am not concentrating enough.  I hold the stone in my hand and place it over the book to give Hamnet a flavour of what I want.  There is a picture of Robert the Bruce fighting his oppressors, the English, on one page and monks outside a monastery on the other page.   I sigh; the Slade posters still hang on my bedroom walls and the stone lies flat and grey. 

I shout out that I wish to travel back in time.  It doesn’t work but I can’t give up.  I would never have a flashy camera if I wasn’t a determined sort of person.  I squeeze the stone, it changes to glass and the boy appears.  

“Does thee never restest that flubbering tongue Blyton?”

I take my glasses off and rub my eyes.  I put on my best cross voice and give him pain because he has gone back on his promise to make me time travel.  I finish off by loftily telling him that there is no way that he is a magician.  I wait for him to try to better that.

Hamnet shakes his head and wags his finger at me.

“Thou! Thou! Thou leaking guts.  Goest to the fourteenth century and fall in a dung heap.”

I pull the stone up close to my mouth and loudly whisper that I am taking him back to the beach in the morning.  I accuse him of telling me lies about time travel and as I am sick of him calling me the most stupid names I have ever heard, I tell him that too.  Suddenly, I don’t feel as glum.

Hamnet clasps his hands together and falls to his knees.

“I wilt take thee back in time Blyton.  Marry, I need to work on it.”

I put my glasses back on.  Things are looking up.  I’m not going to let him off that easily though.  So I make it clear that the name calling has to stop.

“I promise thee, thou mangy rat’s bum, that I will give thee only names of nobility.”

I am about to point out that I have just been compared to the worst part of a rat when I hear a distant rumbling again.  I count three strides across the floor to look for the storm through the bedroom window. 

The wind tosses the waves about across the road.  If I stand to one side of the window, I can see the Floating Wreck Lighthouse which The Thunderous Mother runs as a museum in the summer months.  A force of electricity flashes behind the lighthouse in the shape of a fork, this eerily lights the white building up.  The huge waves slap angrily against the sea wall and the rain lashes down non-stop onto the pavements. 

I give my specs another quick clean on the bottom of my jumper and put them back on.  Standing under the yellow street light is a monk with his hood up; he goes down onto his knees and starts to pray.  The rain falls heavier as if whipping the ground but the monk does not seem to notice it. 

I open the window and stick my head out as far as it will go.  The window creaks open and the monk stops praying.  As he looks up at me, the rain hits his face.  His lips are cracked and thin under the street light.  He stares at me so strongly that my stomach churns; I can only imagine the rest of his face and I back away.

In the safety of the room, I hold my hand out as my fingers tremble and I hold onto Hamnet.  A shiver travels down my back; I have never seen anyone like the monk before.

I grab the book from the bed and hold it in front of the stone.  I prod the book harshly as I tell Hamnet that there is a similar monk standing outside.  Hamnet gives that wave of the hand again; it is as though he can get rid of all our problems by waving them away.

“Thine seeing instruments are bewitched and playing tricks on thee Blyton.”

I prod the book again as hard as I can and argue that the monk outside is exactly like the one in the book.  I am beginning to wonder if Hamnet only listens to what he wants to hear and that I am wasting my breath.  He leers at me with a yeasty smile and I wonder what is coming next.

“Hark, clothead, it was not really my fault.”

A prickling sensation begins at the back of my head as I see the fixed grin stuck on his face.  What does he mean, it is not his fault?  The prickling sensation comes down all over my head and I know exactly what he is saying.  I must be dreaming, surely this cannot have happened?  I point my finger at him and accuse him of making the grotty monk time travel instead of me.  My heart sinks as Hamnet clutches his hands together and smiles generously at me.

 “Thou dost not need to give me thanks; it was nothing, old flatulent one.”

My head is going to burst, no, my whole body is going to burst.  It is not just the fact that he gets things wrong but he acts as if he is so clever when he does it.  I can’t let him get away with thinking he is so much better than I am.  I tell him that he could have at least brought me a knight instead of a grotty old monk.  I am on the verge of telling him that he is a rubbish magician when The Thunderous Mother shouts up that dinner is ready.  Nobody keeps The Thunderous Mother waiting and so I let her know that I am on my way.

I look back through the window but the monk has gone.  I put Hamnet in my pocket and wonder where the monk can be.

I go downstairs and sit at the dinner table.

“Putrid bums!”



Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective Video Diary 3

Published April 2, 2012 by loonyliterature

See what happens when the monster from The Boris Death room comes to life. 

The Boris Death room is  in The  Floating Wreck Lighthouse Museum.   Wait until you see what the monster does with Will’s deerstalker hat at the end of the video.

Will tells us about creeping up to Boris Death’s old house to try to get a photograph of a ghoul. 

Will he do it? 

Watch the video and find out.

If you saw something really creepy what would you do?

Imagine you went into the room and saw the monster dancing?

Think how you would react and write it down.

If you need to describe the monster, watch the video again.

How does he move?  What is he thinking?

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