Tumbleweed and low groans

Frank has disappeared into his shed to count his ever growing collection of broken ice-shelves; Ern is in the Bahamas planning how best to convert his latest bail-out into fine wines and extra bedrooms; The chocolate fireguard is at home watching soul crushing celebrity quiz shows; Prof Boffin is up to his arse in the search for a breakthough techno-miracle and Zorro is casing next door's chicken coop.
No one is available for apocalypse based humour today.

As for me, my day job seems to be be unaccountably draining an unhelpful amount of my energies at the moment, so I am disinclined to chase the chaps down and force them at gunpoint to amuse me. The Pending Ecological Debacle will still be pending tomorrow.

Not that Throbgoblins International is the sort of fictitious organisation that likes to give in to despondency, you understand. Nil Desperandum and all that.Thankless and time-consuming tasks are what we thrive on. The Welsh are trained from birth for this sort of thing.

No - we're not complaining. We like nothing better than to spend our days in the forensic madhouse workshop handing out chissels to smack-addled psychopaths and then trundle home on our world class public transport system in order to joyfully wax sarcastic on the steady drum beat of increasingly bad environmental news. It gives us something to do and keeps us off the pop. Things could easily be immeasurably worse. At least our employment is (medium-) secure.

But...
...if anyone should feel an uncontrollable urge to sponsor us, it would make the whole enterprise so much more sustainable.



No? Ok then. Never mind.

Forget I mentioned it.