Following an incident some time ago involving Sir David Attenborough, an air rifle and a nasty twist of fate, I have had no genitalia.

I have never complained about the fact that my underwear has contained little more than a metal tube, even though it has cause me much excess weight gain... my libido may be shot to pieces, but my appetite for Battenburg shot through the roof. But then again my Cornish chum Randy Boo McGriffin Junior does pay me handsomely for letting him life my sex life vicariously through him.

But I forgot that genitalia is for continuing the family line, as well as Naughties, and we were in trouble when last tuesday my cousin, Cousin Mostyn, died.

This means that my other cousin, "Fat" Bob Bloodstream, is set to inherit Father's estates should I predecease him.

So I had to think fast to preserve the "proper" family name... which brought me to Miss Eartha Knickerbockerstockingsglorybunns.

I shall explain... Eartha Knickerbockerstockingsglorybunns is the niece of the present mayoress of Fennybough, and what is known as the local goer, or bike.

Some years ago when we were but youngsters full of spunk, Eartha and I had a fling. Granted it lasted only six days , (ending when I acccidentally killed her father when I got my amphetamine milkshake mixed up with his own private Holy Water) but Eartha is a woman of nostalgic leanings (who isn't, these days?) and is known to keep the juicings of all the males she has conquested in phials in her freezer.

So Dinsmore, Father and I decided to break into Miss Eartha's flat after dark, in order to find my own precious juicings and maintain the Mostyn family line .

Unfortuately, on opening the freezer, we found three phials full, all labelled "M".

...A Problem.

But there was little time for decidings, as then the door opened and we were caught in the act by Father's chum, Lord Jeffrey Archer of all people.

Lord Archer explained that he was only in the flat because he had accidentally flushed his trousers down the lavatory at a dinner party some time earlier, and was waiting until everyone had gone to bed before exiting the lavatory and leaving the flat, less any unscrupulous paparazzo got the wrong idea.

Father declared that we should all go back to Mostopia for coffee and cakes (taking all the phials with us and sorting that sort of thing all out later) and Miss Eartha Knickerbockerstockingsglorybunns need not be any the wiser... plus Mostopia would soon have a young heir or heiress, plus Lord Archer's reputation would have been saved.

We all smiled... the Day, and our collective bacon, had been saved.

Unfortunately, fate shat on us from a great height at that very moment, as at this point the Great Earthquake struck, and the juicings were dashed on the floor below.

Enraged, Father attacked me with a crinkle-cut chip slicer, but I ducked and he accidentally sliced Lord Archer's head off, killing him instantly.

Suffice it to say, Miss Eartha was awakened, and we were all arrested.

See you in court.

MOSTYN 

I thought that life at Mostopia had been lovely and calm ever since we all gained parole.

But it seems chaos is reigning once more.

The other day it was Dinsmore and his choice of T-shirt (an unwise choice, in my view), and last night it was Father's further attempts at social integration.

Ever since Big Ken at the Irish takeaway called Father a "racist bastard" due to some unfortunate comments he made about Leprechauns, George Best and the Pope, Father (once again, sigh) feels the need to prove his enemies wrong..... SO: he decided to invite some black vegetarians round to our place so we could all have wines and a nut roast. And bacon sarnies with plenty of HP sauce (not "fruity" flavour).

However, the ethnic vegetarian minority in Fennybough is particularly tiny, I am sad to say, so Father was upset that he was unable to fill more than a quarter of the drawing room.

So Father ordered Hemmings to go with our groundskeeper, Mr Crane, to go round up some pregnant women, lesbians and disabled persons, which they did. Then Father proceeded to put boot polish on their faces and sit them all down together so they could sing along to that catchy tolerance song, "Why Can't We Be Friends" – an event that Hemmings was going to film so we could sent Big Ken a tape to prove Father is indeeed a man of the people, and not an ivory tower xenophobe.

However, I think I must have had the volume up too high on the gramophone, for as soon as the song ended, the Fennybough Ku Klux Klan/Michael Ball appreciation society (an unfortunate merging, due to limited space in the town hall meeting room) broke in, and decided to shake their fists menacingly in the faces of our guests. 

I thought that with the aid of tear gas, we could take them - but then the Buddhist extremists crashed through the french windows, and all hell broke loose.

I hoped Dinsmore would rush in to save the day, but then as I heard the Dambusters Theme begin, played from somewhere upstairs, I knew I would have to face this one alone.  

Fortunately, I triumphed by hiding underneath the billiards table throughout the carnage. Hemmings fared less well, as he was killed. Father jumped on the furniture and tried to disperse the Klan with a flaming, rolled up copy of The Guardian. In doing so, though, he inadvertantly set fire to the building.

Luckily the fire brigade was swift, and only the south wing was destroyed. (Again.)

Father, in a little bit of a mood by this point, tried to attack one of the firefighters for being a "f*****g Welsh bastard", until I reminded Father that he himself was a Welshman. Annoyed, he tried to take an overdose of "heroins". Fortunately for him, his delerium tremens were so bad at this point that he accidentally injected the Klan member next to him, who died.

***

But it's not all doom and gloom. At least today the sun is shining.

And Father has promised to make amends, declaring that he will re-record a celebrity charity version of "Why Can't We Be Friends" with Jonathan King, Gary Glitter, Lord Jeff Archer, Lady Jade Goody, Alan Carr and Sir Jim Davidson.

A triumph for toleration, indeed.

Quizzically yours,

MOSTYN

There are many things a gentleman should not do in public - wear a cravat with a wing-collared shirt, eat a Greggs' vegetable pasty without a serviette to protect his frontage, polish his brogues with Mrs Dunsinane's yorkshire terrier and so on.

To that list must now be added the wearing of a "t-shirt".  Especially if said shirt is adorned with the name of one's favourite popular beat combo.  Doubly especially if the name of said combo is Paedophobe.

Mostyn and I had been to see Paedophobe supporting Negroid Penis at the new arts centre in the village and an evening of splendidness had been enjoyed by one and all.  I myself had been quite carried away by Paedophobe's acid-electro-panpipe sound and in a moment of recklessness not seen since I'd married both of the Ruby-Munster twins for a bet back in '83 I had purchased the aforementioned item of apparrel from Smog, the avuncular "roadie" who was "manning" the merchandise stand next to the tea urn.

Bedecked in my newest shirtage I had strolled home through the village with Mostyn, both of us giving full-throat to a lusty rendition of Paedophobe's latest single, "Shave That Feeling".  We had barely got to the chorus ("Lather up now baby/And here's what you will get/I just wanna shave that feeling/With my Love Gillette") when I was accosted by local bully-boy and ne'r-do-well Phillip Phnip.

Phnip is not only a thug of the lowest order he is also a 24-carat, dyed-in-the-wool idiot (the man's extensive, self-engraved tattoo collection includes the words "hat" and "vole" inscribed on his knuckles).  In his boundless ignorance he had misunderstood my newly purchased garment's message and, to an accompanying diatribe concerning someone by the name of Gareth Glitter (I think), he cuffed me monstrously to the floor before tearing my shirt assunder, burning it repeatedly and threatening me with further bodily harmings unless I mended my ways.

Mostyn had heroically dashed away to get help and returned at that moment with Phnip's mother, Phyllis who, thanks to her work as a hostage negotiator for Damart, managed to diffuse the situation with a bottle of dandelion and burdock and some pink wafers.

To conclude then, although my admirings for the works of Paedophobe remain undimmed and my desire not to be cowed by mob rule and public ignorance is great I fear I shall be restricting my wearings of musician-based clothing to my own private dwellage in future.

Regards,

H.P. Dinsmore Esq

We all go to some private function... we concoct some subtle scheme.... Dinsmore clicks with some ladies... I get into some trouble socially... Father attacks someone with a piece of furniture.. then we all get arrested. Same old, same old...

Well... this festive tale is not that different really.

It all began yesterday morning when Father told Dinsmore, Hemmings and myself he wanted us to dress up as the Ghosts of Christmases past, present and future, so we could scare him half to death and help him to become a better person like Sir Ebenezzer Scrooged.

I pointed out to Father that none of us were keen on doing this, because when we did the exact same thing last year, at the end of it he told us simply to "f**k off".

Father pointed out this was because last year we hadn't been convincing enough for him to change his ways, but that it was alright this year as we could use the Quantum Leap Accelerator he built this summer to travel back in time and view Christmases from long ago.

I pointed out that Father's time machine didn't work, so he ran down to the cellar to turn it on and prove it.

There was a flash of light, before Father came running back up the stairs shouting "it worked!"

Unfortunately, it hadn't worked. He only thought it had worked because in his drugged-up-to-the-eyeballs state he thought that I was in fact himself – from 1969 – and that Dinsmore was Dinsmore's own dad. When we convinced Father this wasn't the case, he smacked me in the face with a brick and went to stick his hand in the breville-maker.

He followed this by theatening to jump off the roof. Again. But we managed to talk him down by promising him his "John Nettles/Celebrity Scooby-Doo Christmas".

(Let I explain... every year Father enjoys Christmas day with a trip down the local pub to "meet the plebs" then we all go to the bistro owned by friendly Stroudie homosexuals Alexandross Chuffmaestro and his lover, Ricktey Lovejoylesseraphimtymorebry (or, as we call him, Rix) for a cup of Camp coffee, then we head home for the leftovers of the previous night's Chinese takeaway, and Father falls asleep in front of Midsomer Murders with a bloodstream filled with barbiturates and Red Bull.

But then every Boxing Day Father awakens from his coma and says, tearfully: "I wish John Nettles were here so we could have a Celebrity Scooby-Doo Christmas".)

So this year we're going to have to come through on our promise.

The only problem is that Mr Nettles might want to spend time with his own family instead of with Father... if it should come to this, then kidnapping will have to take place. Fortunately Hemmings has the chloroform, rolled-up carpet and Jimmy Hill disguise in the brown paper bag in our car just in case.

And once Mr Nettles is here, we'll take part in Father's pantomime that he made us write the script for at spearpoint.... I've a feeling things will go well.

Hemmings will post the details shortly....

Otherwise we might just see you in the New Year, providing the judge is sympathetic.

Have a Midsomer Christmas!

In collaboration with the Elmo Munson CBE Memorial Fund...

MOSTYN AND DINSMORE'S PRESENTATION OF....

A DINSMORE AND MOSTYN PRODUCTION FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY...

"SCOOBY-DOO AND SAINT NICK:

                             A FESTIVE MIDSOMER MYSTERY"

                    at Mostopia, Fennybough, Great Britain, UK

                                 25^th December, 2007.

                        7pm till "late".  (Bring a bottle.)

Starring the cream of British acting...

   Commander SIMON CALLOW as "Fred"

   FRANCES BARBER as "Daphne"

   BARBARA FLYNN as "Velma"

   Sir ANTONY SHER as "Shaggy"

   and Sir MICHAEL GAMBON as "Scooby Doo".

With Special Guest Stars...

   H.P. DINSMORE Esq. as "Dinsmore"

   JOHN BARROWMAN as "Mostyn"

   MATT Di ANGELO as "Sergeant Troy"

   and MOSTYN'S FATHER as "Father".

And Special Guest Appearance by JOHN NETTLES as "Inspector Tom Bergerac".

   Script by MOSTYN and HERCULES P. DINSMORE, Esq.

   Drinks served by A.Q. HEMMINGS III

   Battenberg served by Miss LUCY PINDERS

   Tickets come in three prices: "Cheap Bastard", "V.I.P.", or "F.I.P.", depending on  your level of quality. Prices will be decided at the door depending on mood.

   All monies will be enjoyed.

      MERRY F***ING CHRISTMAS FROM MOSTOPIA!

Father feels his failure to win is because he was passed over because born in Wales, though I suspect it may been more due to his hatred of having to do sports.  

But Father feels differently. He claims to have won the Olympic Gold medal for rowing along with Ranald Laurie in 1948, though there is no reliable evidence to support this.

But nontheless, with also-ran man-child Formula One losing racing driver Lewis Collins a dead cert for the award this time (hence nobody voting) I thought this year should be Father's year, so I scribbled his name on a sheet of paper, and wnet down to Birminghamland with Dinsmore, with the intention of placing my sheet of paper inside the winner's envelope.

Getting intot he awards ceremony was easy – a quick change into our Murray Walker and Damien Hill disguises worked a treat – but I was unable to bribe five times Gold Medal-winning Olympic rower Sir Michael Redgrave to read out Father's name, so decided to cheat the more direct way.

But as I popped round the back to swap envelopes, I noticed that Calzaggie's dad was doing the same. The Welshtalian spiv.

Calzaggie's dad then injected me with muscle relaxant, so I wasn't able to tell anyone what was going on. So by the time I managed to get to my feet, the winner had been announced and the cameras were off. I had failed.

As I stumbled back into the main room, heavily sedated, trying to find Dinsmore, it was then that I was accosted by a beefy chap with a broke nose, who was demanding to know where his "bird" was.

I soon discovered that his bird was in fact Zara Phillips MBE, grand-daughter to her Holiness the Queen. And then I realised that not only was Ms Phillips missing, but Dinsmore was conspicuous by his absence also.

Unfortunately, I did not help matters. When I went to reply to the broke nose chap, I was unable to do so properly due to the muscle relaxant and ended up dribbling on him.

Fortunately, I was saved from a bashing because Father dropped down on a rope, SAS-style, from the ceiling, and went to attack Sir Bobby Robson with a chair, "shouting "DIE, CHATAWAY!".

But reassuring TV presenter Claire Balding saved the day by body-checking Father before he reached Sir Bobby. Father pulled out his little derringer pistol, but Ms Balding incapacitated him by pounding him heftily with her handbag full of cue balls.

Father cried out "not my beautiful face!" and, between punches, vowed to get his revenge by thumping little Willie Carson at the next Royal Ascot.

Sensing that all this frakass might lead to some arrests, I started a brawl by knocking double-Olympic medalist Dame Kelly Brook's beer out of his hands and telling him that Stirling Moss did it.

One thing led to another, and before we knew it the two of them were having a fist fight. Then Paula Radcliffe decided to join in, crying out "who wants some?!" and glassing gentleman Johnners Wilkinson in the face.

A melee ensued... fists flew, tables were overturned, Sir Henry Cooper made a dash for the exit and Mark Lawrenson set fire to the building, which ultimately burned to the ground.

No fatalities, plus in the confusion I did manage to steal formula One racing driver Lewis Collins's shoes... so in the end the evening can only be described as a triumph.

MOSTYN: 1

THE PEOPLE: NIL

I have been in court this morning, after becoming Fennybough's Public Enemy Number Two (after Sir Will Self... for one obvious reason).

It turns out that I, Mostyn, am not allowed to vote. Which is a bit of a bitch to be honest, but there you are.

Trouble is, in the last local elections, I voted 6, 923 times for the same party.

(I really did think you could have as many goes as possible in the time.)

The Mayor of Fennybough, John Bland – who last week changed his name to deedpoll to "Tiberius Jizzmonster III" (in order to sound a bit more of a "character") – came in to speak on my behalf, as his vote majority is only seven.

Things did not get off to the best start when my barrister, Elmo Munson QC, died halfway through opening statements.

Fortunately his murderer, a professional Noel Edmonds impersenator named Gareth, admitted under duress that he had indeed been put up to Mr Munson QC's murder by Mayor Jizzmonster's enemy at the town hall; the husky-voiced, sultry but lethal Councillor Magdala Knickerbockerstockingsglorybunns, who is, I believe, an old acquaintance of Dinsmore's.

Unfortunately, Judge Greavsie dismissed this evidence on the basis that I had instructed my valet Hemmings to keep cutting off Gareth's fingers until Gareth confessed to Councillor Knickerbockerstockingsglorybunns' guilt.

So I was found guilty. Three hours later, I was fined 15 pounds, 3/6d... and the chain of mayoral office was passed over to the femme fetale. I have also been instructed that I can never vote again unless it is for the Conservatives. A bad day for justice and democracy. Especially as new Mayor Knickerbockerstockinglorybunns' assistant, a rather soupy oik named Felch, sniggered at me. And HE comes from Somerset so it just really wasn't on.

But then Dinsmore, who had come into court late with a couple of ladies, patted Tiberius on the shoulder and said:

"Looks like it's all gone a bit tits up, Jizzmonster."

...I never tire of hearing that phrase. Our former mayor, on the other hand, hung his head sadly.

But snap elections are a thing of frequent occurence in Fennybough, so fingers crossed...

After consulting with my barrister, Father feels it necessary to make an important emendment to the "BANNOCKBURN, THE MUSCIAL" post:

"The book will NOT be written by Derek Belms of any persuasion, even if they can come kick my hairy arse if you think you're hard enough, you sp*nk-spewing BusyBollo*ks."

That is all.

 The dress rehearsal did not go well... which is perhaps a lesson for all those who try to make a cast perform a musical play at knifepoint.

In the middle of the last number, that fine Scottish actor Brian Cox jumped up from behind the lupins and attacked Father from behind with a piece of sharpened battenberg.

Father tried to bring down Bri Cox, only succeeding when he finally injected him with laxative anti-depressant.

But in the kerfuffle, some of our celebrity cast managed to escape, but Father, with his air rifle and Hemmings, has gone after them on Hemmings' moped.

(He doesn't like to give up, does Father.)

But good old Johnny stayed behind to mop up the blood - he's a fine human being – and his new CD album is a triumph, too.

And poor old Bri Cox is still on the toilet... though he seems quite happy about it.

Bohh!

MOSTYN 

Oh I'm Robert the Bruce, Aye, I'm Robert the Bruce!

And I've got to fight this battle 'cos I cannae have a truce

And when I've killed King Edward we'll all go back to ma hous

Then the lassies will dance wi' me 'cos they think I'm kinda spruce!

Oh I'm Robert the Bruce, Aye, I'm Robert the Bruce!

My curtains they are chintz and my wallpaper it is puce

And when I've chewed ma shortbread I'm as randy as a goose

So I likes my laddies willing and all of ma lassies loose!

© Lord-Webber/Stuart/Mostyn.