The curious case of the imploding Victrola

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

today, as can be seen from the graphic illustration above, things have gone steadily from bad to worse in the House of electrofried. If only I'd listened to teenygoth ...

"Loud, Proud and Home-Baked"

Regular visitors with a day-pass to the House will be aware of mrs electrofried's long-standing dj slot at the Little Wittering branch of the Women's Institute. "Loud, Proud and Home-Baked", or "LP+h", as it is now known amongst the cognoscenti, has become a veritable legend in the world of institutionary.

LP+h's loyal following extends well beyond the boundaries of the village. Revellers have, in the past, joined us from such far-flung exotic locations as Greater Wittering.

A jam to remember

On one memorable occasion, the hall even played host to a touring charabanc-party from the birthplace of the British WI movement - LLanfair PG, or, to give it its full name:

"Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch".

Regrettably, by the time the charabanc operator had announced, over the feedback-infested tannoy system, the full name of the touring party, mrs electrofried's slot was all but over.

Had it not been for the timely arrival of the clotted cream teas, a small-scale disturbance seemed the inevitable conclusion to proceedings. Fortunately, all thoughts of riotous tumult were put to one side in the rush to score copious quantities of scone.

Even more fortuitously, this historic session was captured for posterity on the infamous limited-edition bootleg album, "Mrs electrofried meets the forces of Madge Watts in the House of Dub". The occasional copy can be found on E-Bay, and it commands a premium that frankly beggars belief.

Bangers and Mash

By custom and practice, LP+h usually takes centre stage at the Friday meeting of the Institute. Accordingly, mrs electrofried has been engaged most of the day in putting together her set-list for tomorrow.

Her favourite style of the moment is the "mash-up". Having discovered, from a stuffer in "Quilting Monthly and i-tunes", the black art of illegally combining otherwise unconnected songs in a rich melange of sound, mrs electrofried is regularly to be found hunched over the Remington Noiseless downloading MP3's from a variety of dubious wonderweb sites.

... and it was here it all started to go wrong.

Heed the warnings

Conscious that Friday was fast approaching and further melodies were still required for the set-list, I set off in search of teenygoth's MP3 player, certain in the knowledge it would be full to the gills with suitable material. As always, it was to be discovered beneath a mountainous heap of discarded garmentry and mould-encrusted table-ware.

"Leave it, Dad ... " protested the ever somnabulant teenygoth, "... you know you'll end up breaking it."

Undeterred, I seized the player and made off in the direction of the music room, screwdriver in hand.

The Overload

In just a few moments the front to the Victrola was off and I had it fire-wired to teenygoth's MP3 player with a length of flex purloined from the angle-poise in my study.

Just as I flicked the switch to initiate the download procedure mrs electrofried arrived, an accusative teenygoth in tow.

"Electrofried ... " she cried, "... not my Victrola??!!!"

Rewind, bo selecta

We did manage to put the flames out eventually. However, I fear we are in urgent need of some replacement valves and a new nickel-plated Horn Elbow. So once more, I find myself banished to the Tower as mrs electrofried and teenygoth seek to make good the damage.

Pray spare a thought for me as I ponder on the cruel events of the day. "Bo selecta, rewind", indeed!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Life's a Beach

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

tonight I sit in rather splendid isolation in the pasting room. Teenygoth has long since retired to bed to practice her presence, whilst Cook tucks into a freshly cut Mills & Boon, a half-drained litre of the finest super-strength continental lager close to hand.

Up in the servants' quarters Fetlock is, for some reason best known to himself, exploring the arcane mysteries of a Slovenian wonderweb search engine. The last I heard, he was attempting a translation of "my pomegranate is richly vibrant", which I feel sure will go down a treat, come the morn, when he tries out his best English on the unsuspecting burghers of Little Wittering.

Silence abounds

For her part, mrs electrofried is quilting a cover for her trusty Victrola. We plan an approach to certain well-known music magazines for a sponsorship deal and, keep this under your hats dear readers, we're quietly confident of a major bidding war between the likes of "Kerrang" and "Q" for the privilege of plying their wares before the massed crowds of the Little Wittering branch of the WI. Mrs electrofried has a stencilled motif prepared in readiness.

Even the nether regions of the House have fallen silent. The Black Dowager remains several feet beneath the basement, her ears trained, as ever, upon the sound of a laughing young girl up in the attic. One day, God willing, they may be re-united.

Picture this

But enough of such light banter. Now we are alone, I feel it's time to tell you a little more of the beginnings of the current line of electrofried. Picture if you will a classroom of hormonally charged Fifth Form boys.

Sitting at the back is a particularly unprepossessing specimen. In his mind's eye, he attempts to piece together some loosely worded descriptions from the well-thumbed pages of "Virgin Soldiers" to create a technicolour picture of womanhood. All the while he pretends to pay attention to the teacher.

Enter the Headmaster

His thoughts are rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Headmaster. The boy listens half-heartedly to his request for volunteers to help out at an evening club for the mentally disadvantaged - a place of respite for their long-suffering parents.

No volunteers are forthcoming until the Headmaster adds these few vital words, "And there's girls ... "

One hand is raised swiftly, and the rest is history, for this is young master electrofried we see before us.

Fast forward

And now we're at that very same evening club. Master electrofried spies at the other end of the room a shy, and rather beautiful, young lady who's repeated glances in his direction cannot be ignored. The two gravitate gently toward the table-tennis equipment and play out a game, oblivious to the general mayhem around.

Eight weeks on they're an item, six years later they are mr and mrs electrofried, and thirteen years from when they first met they cradle their newborn second child. Little do they realise that reallyfried, their son, will take them right back to nights at the club ... for he too, it will shortly be revealed to them, is mentally disadvantaged.

And now ... the beach

So why, may you ask, is there a crudely rendered photograph of a beach at the beginning of this increasingly tedious pasting? It's because it's the place that holds the very deepest of memories for mr and mrs electrofried - most happy, just a few that are sad.

For it was here we courted, holding hands to explore rock pools and things that would make teenygoth blush beetroot red. It was here we walked on the first night of our married life. All the way to the fish and chip shop at the far end to purchase supper with the few shillings left in our newly conjugal purse.

It was here, too, that Dr Phlegm, the electrofried family physician, splashed in the waves with his newly christened Godson, the baby reallyfried. Just a few months later it would fall to him to break the news that all was not well.

Bittersweet memories

Scroll up for a second, if you will, to the photograph. How does it speak to you? If you have bittersweet memories of a place in time then spare a moment to add a comment in the Visitors' Book before you leave the House.


yours as ever

electrofried (mr)

Universal jigsaw puzzles

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

it has to be said, the hands of my dear lady electrofried are forever dancing balletically across fabric and thread. Be it the simple sampler or a quilt exploding into patterns of the most exquisite colour and beauty, I never cease to be stunned by her work. It adorns every part of the House and extends to our wider family beyond.

A wedding treasury

I reflect on this at length during our recent visit to maximouse and His Imperial Hirsutelessness, further details of which appear just below in these increasingly bizarre meanderings. Adorning their conjugal bed is a purpled, kaleidoscopic treasure - a wedding present from mrs electrofried.

I look at it in wonder, studying the intricate fabric patterns that have been woven together in an extraordinary fabric jigsaw. How many generations to come, who have never met mrs electrofried or her half-wit husband, will also stand and gaze in awe at her work.

And then my thoughts pass to strands of DNA forever twisting and delivering messages, like the threads of a treasured wedding quilt, to those who must follow. Where did it all start and when will it all end?

More questions than answers?

In truth, I have no answers. I am content just to follow - and in this I find rich peace. There are many places in the House I fear we must visit together in the fullness of time, locked doors and bricked-up rooms. But for now, there is just one destination to which I would like to take you. Will you join me?

Along the corridor

It's good to walk with you along a corridor that exists only in a simple binary coding. As if to illustrate the point, may I adjust the lighting as we go. Here's a switch we will push up, and now another we will push down. And so it goes until a recognisable pattern emerges.

dot, dot ... dash, dash ... dot, dot.

Of course, it's no more than simple illusion, a little Vail code delivered by means of a carefully secreted squeeze-button, and yet in the flashing lights we sense a pattern we recognise. Which is a place we are now about to enter.

A room full of mirrors

Let me open the door for you - please do come in and let your eyes grow accustomed to the light.

We've just entered a large, high-ceilinged room. The windows are shaded by cream voiles that diffuse the fading sunset into a pleasing soft warmth. There is no need for further artificial illumination as the remainder of the walls are clad in ormolu-framed mirrors that reflect our image.

Who do you see standing next to you? Perhaps a portly horologist clad in black and wearing Predator sunglasses!

Table-topped jigsaw

There is, of course, one more thing to be seen. In the centre of the room squats a chunky wooden table and on it rests an album. Let's walk across together and see what's in there. We open it at random to a page that contains a photograph of a hand pouring out pieces of a jigsaw.

And at this point, please could I ask you to look up as I ....

A blinding flash of light

Oops, sorry! I should have warned you, but this is my studio, the place where my threads come together. Please forgive me for capturing your image.

There are many photographs in the electrofried family albums. They line an entire room in the House, and a brief selection from their pages already decorate this diary.

There are some that are my own wedding gift to maximouse and His Imperial, but they must remain as personal a jigsaw puzzle as the wedding quilt lovingly patched together by mrs electrofried. There are others that are blurred or over-exposed. And each is an observation - my take on life.

Room full of mirrors (slight return)

Which is where we step out into the light of a fresh day!

Would you care to come back another time to look through the family albums again with me? There are many stories to be told and, one day, all the pictures will link together in the universal jigsaw puzzle.

Until then, may I wish you as always,

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Tonight the world is quite, quite flat ...

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

tonight finds your correspondent pasting on the move. Mr and mrs electrofried (together of course, with dearest teenygoth) are currently deep in the heart of the Norfolk countryside. We're visiting the eldest fruit of the electrofried loins, young maximouse.

Feasting awaits

The fatted calf has been duly slaughtered, rendered and reconstituted to produce a rich platter of Farmer Brown's finest gristle'n'quorn burgers, a selection of which currently sizzle on the maximouse grill awaiting consumption. What better culinary treat could one hope for!

Chocolate, TV and plans ahead

Meanwhile, the ladies of the House are preparing to settle in to an evening of super-sized chocolate and light TV entertainment. Accordingly, yours truly and His Imperial Hirsutelessness (a charabanc-fettler extraordinaire and husband to maximouse) have plans for an expedition to "The Dog and ASBO", the local hostelry of choice to the young of the village.

We undertook a preliminary scouting excursion yesterday evening, but feel a more extended reconnaitre is in order tonight. We shall therefore set off shortly to lay claim to a pint or two of "Old Codger" accompanied by a fresh jar of pickled onions and a bag of pork scratchings - two essential ingredients that lie at the very heart of the Norfolk tapas bar.

An enlarged pack

Even the Hounds of Electrofried are at peace, having been re-united with the outlying branch of the pack. Maximouse and His Imperial are the proud owners of two lively cross-breeds whose combined gene-pool spans a considerable portion of the canine world.

The extended pack has chased, barked and gambolled to its hearts content and its constituent members now lie collectively on the kitchen floor, sizing up the Farmer Brown's with ever hopeful eyes.

On the soothing effects of flatness

One can only conclude this state of happiness has something to do with the state of flatness that is the distinguishing feature of these regions. All around is flat, with the possible exception of the Farmer Brown's that now sit puckered and beckoning on the plate before us.

There is a certain restful nature reflected in a sky that seems to have doubled in size since we set off from the House of Electrofried on our family visit. It is indeed good for the soul.

Old Codger beckons

And with that parting note I hear the discrete cough of His Imperial Hirsutelessness summoning me to the door. The chocolate is about to be broken out and it's time for us to make our escape. May we wish you all the very best of evenings from the extended family of electrofried.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

... in which electrofried becomes lost in the mists of time

A portly, black-clad gentleman wearing Predator sunglasses has just become lost in time. The annual summer holiday having reached its customary dampened and premature conclusion, he must once again return to the horology factory at the far end of Little Wittering and take up post as Chief Time-Keeper.

In pursuit of gainful employment

Regular readers will be aware of the unstable finances of the House of Electrofried following an unfortunate speculative venture. With much of the family silver sequestered by trade creditors, subsequent generations have been forced to eek out a meagre existence as best they can.

In the case of our host, the Black Dowager indentured him at an early age to the service of Little Wittering's very own Master Horologist, a greek emigre by the name of Eudor Clesiastise. It was at the feet of this strange and shadowy figure that electofried duly learned the trade which has since sustained the House through many a dark year.

His vain hope is that one day the opening of the House will provide sufficient income for him to resign his position as Chief Time-Keeper and return to Baronial duties. However, for the time being, needs must.

electrofried returns

Accordingly, on Monday morning electrofried rises early from a fitful night's sleep to extract the family charabanc from the stables. After a few turns of the cranking-handle the engine splutters into life and he's ready for the off.

The journey to Eudor's factory is uneventful. The motorised maelstrom that is the village High Street is, for once, blissfully free of traffic - scarce a soul moves. Almost before he knows it, electrofried enters an avenue of white-daubed tree trunks at the approach to the factory gates. Eudor is seated at the entrance, worry-beads in hand, waiting to greet him.

"Ellinika, electrofried!" and the day begins.

The drying room

Life in the horology factory is a strange business. Eudor seems quite mad, though in a way that might just convince us the reverse is true.

For many years now, Eudor has been in search of time. Rumours abound in the factory as to where he locates the fleeting moments and stolen seconds that are hung up to dry in the small whitewashed store opposite the main gates. Electrofried's job, however, is not to enter into idle speculation. As Chief Time-Keeper his sole duty is to ensure not one of the precious elements of time escapes the treble-bolted door and makes off in search of its rightful owner.

It is a task he takes most seriously indeed.

Selling time by the pound

Monday is a "red-letter" day at the factory. Over the preceding months, sixty precious seconds have been collected, dried and bound together ready for sale and now the customer is about to take collection.

Electrofried carries the precious cargo, wrapped in finest crystalline tissue paper, to the factory gates. He's accompanied by the Master Horologist, Eudor. A tall figure dressed in a sharply creased business suit awaits their arrival, thick wads of used banknotes padding out his pockets.

They greet, papers are exchanged and the customer departs. Electrofried counts out the money. Funny how much people will pay for one more precious moment at the end of time.

Ruminations on a life more simple

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

we trust the trauma of yesterday's "non-pasting debacle", as it has become known in the House of Electrofried, is now but a thing of memory. Fetlock's dusting brush has been duly locked away in the cupboard next to the Dyson Superturbo GTi (it being a day of rest) and we're hopeful there will be no repetition of this unfortunate turn of events.

Butler in study shocker

Fetlock himself has taken to bed, clutching a thin but well-thumbed Slovenian/English phrasebook of dubious quality. We expect his re-appearance shortly, doubtless armed with some finely honed phrase that has been distorted beyond all reasonable recognition.

By way of example, after much enquiry, we are lead to understand last week's offering was "Kdaj odpelje gondola?", which roughly translated means, "When is the cable-car leaving?".

This has caused much confusion in the local village-shops where Fetlock tends to ply his Slovenian/English transcripts, as the nearest funicular transportation is some two hundred miles away. Accordingly, cable-car related small-talk tends to be rather on the thin side in Little Wittering.

No matter, Fetlock is diligent in his studies and a seat of learning will always be available to him in the House of Electrofried for so long as he may choose to occupy it.

Out and about in the Baronial Grounds

Sunday in the House commenced, as always, with a rousing constitutional. Mrs electrofried and I decided this morning to walk the Baronial Grounds and were pleased to discover the fishing-folk of Lesser Wittering out in force. We allow them free access to the lakes in order to supplement the meagre fare to which they are accustomed - it's the least we can do really.

Unusually, teenygoth decided to rise early from her lair (i.e. within the hours of daylight) and elected to accompany us. That said accompaniment appeared to consist, for the most part, of a series of unconnected grunts only added to the pleasure of the moment.

Tented anglers

We were, however, in for an even bigger surprise than the pre-dusk appearance of our youngest fruit. As we made our way through the woods at the top end of the estate we encountered the strangest of scenes before us - the muddied banks of the Baronial lake were bestrewn with tents of various size, colour and shape, each of which we discovered on further investigation to contain one or more of our local angling fraternity.

These Glastonbury-like piscine foragers were apparently taking refuge from the mild showers currently making their way lazily up country.

"Let me tell you ... ", I called out to mrs electrofried, "... when my father used to take me fishing as a lad we had nothing more for protection than a trilby and a stout pair of walking shoes between us."

"Yes, my dear," came the reply, "that accounts for so much."

The perils of multi-rodding

Worse was yet to come. As we made our way down to the lake we observed that for each angler there were at least five rods pointed aggressively toward open water, each of which looked to be cast from the very finest the UK polycarbonate industry could provide.

Mrs electrofried was not slow in providing further commentary on this sad state of affairs.

"And I suppose all you had back then was a pointy stick, some knotted string and a bent paper-clip?"

"Indeed". I nodded, staggered as always by the intuitive prescience of my loved-one.

"Guess that's why your father maintained that standing account at Mrs Miggs' Fresh Fish and Licensed Victulling Emporium then?

I was reduced, for once, to silence. Pausing only to cast an icy stare in the general direction of the giggling teenygoth, who for some reason found our conjugal exchanges a source of some amusement, I struck off back to the House in high dudgeon.

The pleasures of the life simple

The rest of the day has been spent in conjecture at the apparent need for our fading civilisation to make life ever more complex. By way of example, I cite the following:

• Once we had a few simple shellac pressings and mrs electrofried's trusty Victrola - now we have CDs, SACDs, DVDs and those strange little shouty MP3 creatures that darling teenygoth keeps under her bed to alarm visitors with.

• Once we had bitter or pale ale - now we have shelf-loads of strange and exotic alcoholic beverages of quite extraordinary hue and strength.

• Once we had BBC and ITV - now we have a proliferation of terrestrial, satellite, cable and doubtless extra-terrestrial offerings, almost all of which appear to regurgitate shoddy and dated 70's sit-coms or mild pornography dressed up as "Yoof Culture".

I ask you, where's it all going to end??!!

Grumpydom beckons

Mrs electrofried has just brought through the conjugal Horlicks together with the latest listings for "Grumpy Old Men". I rest my case, but fear I cannot leave this pasting on a low note. So with this in mind - it's back to the "Poll of Hounds".

The voting goes on

Never mind the final of "Big Brother", the one they're all talking about in the world of Blogdem is the "Hounds of Electrofried Poll". We've been deluged with entries (well, three of you have left comments - for which many thanks!)

Currently, Daisy and Mollie are tied for first place, Dylanne lagging behind by a small tree at the edge of the woods. Teenygoth is concerned that should this come to her attention she could be further traumatised, having already suffered the indignity of "coming out" as a trans-gendered spaniel.

With this in mind I've published some puppy photos at the top of this pasting in an attempt to even things up a little. Why not ask a friend to vote too? The blog now comes fully equipped with the ability to mail individual sample pastings to your chosen others. All you need do is click on the envelope icon you'll find located handily at the bottom of each item. Unless, that is, Fetlock has been dusting again ...

best regards and looking forward to counting the votes,

electrofried (mr)

Confusion abounds ... an abject apology!

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

I am so sorry, but unfortunately Fetlock the Butler moved the Visitors' Book whilst dusting earlier today. Unfortunately, this has resulted in a temporary loss of functionality on the "comments" front.

The problem has now been sorted and Fetlock has been soundly boxed about the ears. Accordingly, the House is now in a position to receive your pastings.

Remember, it's not too late to take part in the Poll of Hounds. Which would you like most to see profiled in subsequent pages of the log? Please add your comments to the appropriate "Fact File" below.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Hounds of Electrofried - Fact File No. 3

The latest addition to the Hounds of Electrofried and, conceivably, the only trans-gendered springer spaniel in Little Wittering. Originally purchased as a dog, "he" and the remainder of the House were in for a big surprise come doggy-operation time. All was not as it first appeared!

Dylan, or more correctly, "Dylanne" as she is now known following a brief, but moving name-swap ceremony, has settled in well. She has fast become the apple of mrs electrofried's eye, being the only hound to date to have achieved lap-dwelling status.

Key Facts

• Little Wittering's sole trans-gendered spaniel

• the subject of a moving name-swap ceremony

• has already achieved lap-dwelling status in the House of electrofried

Hounds of Electrofried - Fact File No. 2

The "sharpest pin in the pack", Mollie was initially procured for teenygoth, but has since been claimed by the master of the House. For dog-breeders with an eye for a good lineage, she is a collie/spaniel cross or "Sprollie", as they are commonly known in the trade.

A one-time inhabitant of the local Home for distressed canines of the road, this fine specimen of a dog was rescued by the House of Electrofried some three years ago. Since then, she has been hard at work training her pet humans, a task she takes extremely seriously indeed.

Mollie is rarely to seen without a ball/frisbee/other potential throwable object of choice.

Key Facts

• the "sharpest pin in the pack"

• rescued from the local Home for distressed canines of the road

• enjoys nothing better than training her pet humans

Hounds of Electrofried - Fact File No. 1

"D" is in daisy and also in dense. The eldest of the Hounds of electrofried was clearly towards the rear of the queue when the brain cells were handed out. Furthermore, she's technically an offence under the Trades Descriptions Act, being neither golden nor a retriever. Daisy is, however, endearingly eccentric, as befits an inhabitant of the House.

Age has brought with it a most curious disability - Daisy suffers from selective deafness. This means she is unable to hear her masters' voice whilst out taking exercise, but can detect the sound of a food-bowl being filled from several miles away.

Key Facts

• dense

• an offence under the Trades Descriptions Act

• suffers from selective deafness

electrofried (mr) finds himself in choppy waters

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

I do trust you've had a good day. Here at the House of Electrofried I regret to say "choppy waters" have been encountered.

The story unfolds

It all started innocuously enough, as things often do, during morning ablutions. Fetlock the Butler had run the bath early, our plumbing having coughed up its customary tepid discharge in suitably bad-tempered style from the innermost workings of the House boiler. Young Fetlock, however, had an effluviant surprise in store, courtesy of mrs electrofried's most recent visit to the Little Wittering branch of "Body Shop".

It took the form of a bath-based scud missile that delivered its bizarre payload of scratchy-bottomed bath salts and mouldy rose petals whilst yours truly was in search of mr duckie and the yellow submarine. Bath toys are one thing, weapons of mass distraction quite another.

At the Breakfast Table

"That Ann Summers woman has much to answer for!", I remarked over the subsequent breakfast table, recalling the impact of "Body Shop's" super-strength bath suppository on my morning ablutions. I suspect, from the barely muted chuckling of teenygoth (the youngest fruit of our loins), that a case of mistaken identity was a distinct possibility.

Undeterred, and breakfast kippers having been duly despatched, I resolved to take refuge for the day in the House laboratory facilities - the concept of bath-time entertainment having sparked off, eureka-like, an idea so cunning you could pop a snout on it and call it mr fox of foxville.

A day of banging, sawing and general mayhem

We will pass lightly over the travails of the day. Suffice to say, intemperate expressions such as "Darn you, Sirrah" and similar such expletives punctuated the air at regular intervals as work progressed apace within the House laboratory.

Mrs electrofried will bear witness to my somewhat limited practical abilities, but notwithstanding, the task was at long last completed. I made haste toward the electrofried "en suite" with invention in tow - the time had come for the grand launch!

The "Unveiling"

A little over an hour later, the assembled populace of the House was ushered in by Fetlock, Cook having been instructed earlier to lay on a small, but tasty spread, to mark the maiden voyage.

"What on earth have you got up to this time?" enquired the good lady, mrs electrofried, as she took up battle with one of Cook's newly-minted cucumber sandwiches. Teenygoth, meanwhile, snorted derisively, as only young ladies of her age can.

"It's a natural, but innovative development of the i-pod, my dear." I announced, tugging off the tartan blanket that covered my newly-constructed artifice. "Behold, I give you the ... u-pod!!"

"Oh my goodness ..." retorted mrs electrofried as she cast eyes for the very first time on the gleaming metal-framed contraption that occupied much of the electrofried bath, "... what have you done?" I opened the taps full cock and the waters began to rise inexorably.

"The u-pod, my dearest, takes the humble MP3 player to the next level of enjoyment. It combines the very latest in multi-media technology with more traditional bath-time related entertainment."

With a grand flourish I unfastened the small leather valise by the side of the bath and drew out the remote control mechanism. Gripping this miracle of micro-technology firmly in both hands I pressed the master switch. To the collective gasp of the assembled populace a small, but familiar bath-time toy emerged from the top of the u-pod to the strains of "Yellow Submarine".

Shipping in Water

It was at this point teenygoth began to giggle. The metal-framed artifice now sat in several inches of tepid bathwater and she had noticed emanating from its base, a small, but persistent, stream of bubbles.

Pointing to this gaseous escape, she observed pithily, that my beloved u-pod appeared to be suffering from sub-aqua flatulence. I was not best amused, particularly as the dulcet tones of the Beatles had now taken on a somewhat less than jaunty air.

"Looks like you've sprung a leak, dad!" and indeed the young lady was right - the u-pod was shipping in water in Titanic proportions.

Rushing across to the bath, I rescued the u-pod from a watery grave and set it to rest in the middle of the floor. The metalled artifice sat forlornly in a spreading puddle, its internal workings now stilled and silent. Grimly I reached for my complimentary Ikea Allen key and began to unbolt the master-panel at the front.

"Electrofried!!" shrieked my good lady as the master-panel fell loose revealing the contents within. "What's my Victrola doing in there?????"

Tears before Bedtime

Sadly, the fortunes of the House of Electrofried seem unlikely to be restored by the u-pod. Brilliant though its design features are (and how many modern-day devices can claim a walnut-clad music-centre as their beating heart) the test-launch suggests considerable further development work is required.

The Victrola now stands drying before Cook's Aga. Mrs electrofried's weekly DJ slot at the local Womens' Institute ("Loud, Proud and Home-baked") is but a few days away and without her trusty phonograph to fire up the massed boom-boxes of Little Wittering all will be lost.

Meanwhile I have been banished to the Tower as penance. I await the arrival of teenygoth with stale bread and, doubtless, an ironic mug of stale bath water. Pray spare a thought for me as I set my mind to the next cunning invention that will secure the ongoing viability of the House.

best regards.

electrofried (mr)

p.s please do forgive my somewhat random addition of the photograph of an Alium head at the beginning of this most turgid pasting. It comes from Volume 98 of the electrofried family album and an overwhelming sense of curiousity, having just discovered inadvertantly the "photo-add" function in Blogger. Would readers like me to add further photographic offerings in due course?

A brief history of the electrofried lineage

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

First, and most importantly, may we thank our very first visitors to this new (and already somewhat rambling) blog for their most kind comments and encouragement.

Honorary Life Membership

In recognition, the electrofrieds have voted unanimously to bestow on Samsarajade, Kaspar and Panama honorary life membership of the House and a key to the Executive Restroom Facilities.

For future reference, these are to be found adjacent to the Scullery - turn immediately left after Cook's patented mouse-trap and combination crumbly cheese dispenser, then look out for the two green doors.

Please do feel free to sample the extensive collection of toiletries whilst there. These include (in the case of Samsarajade and subsequent lady visitors) a small sample bottle of Aquamanda - an inexpensive but curiously alluring perfume of 70's origin which carries a distinctive orange citrus note. It was worn by the good lady electrofried in her youth and is guaranteed to drive the man of your life wild.

Gentlemen will be relieved to learn there are no corresponding complimentary sachets of Brut in their facilities.

And now - back to the blog!

At the request of Samsarajade, there now follows a brief history of the family line of electrofried. (If truth be known, it is not so much a line, more a squiggle - not unlike that adopted for several years by "the artiste formerly known as Prince".)

Research Sources

The history below is based on research from two seminal works, both of which have been retrieved by Fetlock the Butler from the extensive electrofried bibliotheque and soundly dusted down, namely:

• "On the Origin of the Species electrofried by Means of Natural Selection: or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life". (C. Darwind - publ. 24 November, 1859); and

• "A Brief History of Time Reloaded". (S.W. Hawklord - publ. 1 September, 1998).

Early Days

Rumour has it the very first appearance of an electrofried takes the form of a mysterious black-clad figure to be found in one of the more minor paintings at the Chauvet-Pont-d'Arc Cave in France.

Curiously, despite the fact the galleries were composed for the most part in the Paleolithic era, the figure would seem to be wearing a pair of Predator sun-glasses and holds in the right hand a glass vessel containing red tincture. Detailed scientific study suggest this may well be an early example or wine-making, possible Beaujolais Tres Nouveuax.

The Trail Goes Cold

The trail then goes cold for several millenia, only to resurface in an ancient shipping docket. This was located recently during an extensive refurbishment of the former offices of Ye Anciente P&O Lineum at the historic Cinque Port of Sandwich.

The docket reveals the entry to these sceptred isles of one Eli Trop-Fried, a Huguenot farmer fleeing his native France in wake of the Edict of Fontainebleu. His sole possessions on arrival were, apparently, a small jar of pickled onions, a French passe-en-porte and a crumpled pink broadsheet ("Le Sportive Rose") containing details of the latest Tournement de Boules.

All of these were carried through Customs in the mandatory clearview pigs-bladder wallet.

Military Service

We then fast forward a century or two for the next credible sighting of an electrofried during the Crimean War. Declassified Military Service Records disclose the existence of a French zouave by the name of Yves le Crowflied, a foot-soldier in the 3rd Trousered Dragoons. Yves was apparently responsible for the brewing of a malted milk-beverage used for restorative purposes by allied troops during the siege of Taganrog.

From there it is but a brief hop, skip and jump to the trenches of the First World War - not those of the Somme, but instead at Aldershot Barracks. Private Alex D. Fraid (objector unconscionable) holds the record to this very day for the quickest construction of an outside latrine, a skill it would seem has been passed down the generations of electrofried.

Beverages Again

The beverage link then re-appears with the end of hostilities and the award of a sales franchise by the nascent Horlicks Marketing Department following the death of founder, James Horlicks in 1921.

The lucky winner was Master Alistair Defrayed, who subsequently changed his name by deed poll to "electrofried" in order to put chasing creditors off the scent, the concept of the franchise proving to be a little too early in the history of modern commercial practice.

Black Monday and the Misfortunes of the House

Despite initial setbacks, the electrofrieds persevered in beverage promotion with ever-increasing success, amassing a not inconsiderable fortune in the process. That is, until the fateful day of 19 October 1987, otherwise known as "Black Monday".

In one single trading session the Dow Jones lost 22.6% of its value and an ill-advised punt on the malted beverage futures market by Great Uncle Electrofried nearly brought the House to its knees. Had it not been for an illicit and highly suspect off-market powder trade in a Gentlemens' Convenience behind Threadneedle Street all would have been lost. Even then, the House was reduced to a state of penury from which it is only just starting to emerge.

The Story to Date

And that, dear Browsers and Browserettes, just about brings us up to date. There is, of course, more to share with you concerning the current lineage - characters such as the Black Dowager, our darling children, maximouse, reallyfried and teenygoth - but time, and we suspect your waning interest, does not permit. Perhaps on another occasion, if we can tempt you to return to the House of Electrofried.

In the meantime thank you so much for your ongoing patronage - and remember, it's good to invite a friend to join you on your next visit to the House. Insanity is a thing best shared.

with cordial regards,

your humble servants

electrofried (mr and mrs)

The House of Electrofried opens

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

it is with great pleasure that mr and mrs electrofried extend a cordial invitation (lime flavoured, naturally) to join us at the House of Electrofried.

Introducing Fetlock the Butler

Apologies for the rather Gothic introduction to our blog, but we left Fetlock the Butler in charge of the formal opening ceremony yesterday evening. As will become all too apparent in due course, poor Fetlock's uncertain Slavic origins have left him permanently scarred. To be precise, a three inch marking to his left temple that turns a rather off-putting shade of purple when Fetlock is not in the best of humours, which to be frank, is most of the time.

He is however a faithful, if somewhat wrinkled, retainer in the House of Electrofried. As such, he enjoys our full and ongoing patronage, notwithstanding his somewhat dystopian take on life in general.

A Toast to you All!

This may account in no small part for Fetlock's rather melancholic air in yesterday's debutante pasting. Rest assured, however, that whilst the House of Electrofried may on occasion demonstrate the odd whimsical eccentricity, it is by and large a happy place in which to dwell - a fact celebrated regularly by mr and mrs electrofried in the traditional manner of the household.

Accordingly, with conjugal mugs of the blessed elixir "Horlicks" raised aloft we wassail you all with a rousing cry of "Welcome!"

You, the Readers decide

Mrs Electrofried and I have so much to tell you about the House, but we feel this should be a place where you, our valued guests, are in charge. With this in mind, we set out below three possible topics for our next pasting, namely:

• a brief history of the family line "electrofried"; or

• a description of the West Wing of the House; or

• a list of the favourite pastimes of mrs electrofried.

Please do let us know which you would you prefer by leaving a short comment in the Visitors' Book. You'll find this, as always, on the sideboard somewhere near the portal to our world. Unless of course Fetlock has been dusting again.

A Favour in Return

We ask just one favour in return for surrendering control to you - please email two friends with a request to sample the Chronicles. You may wish to inform them sanity is optional.

with very best regards from your hosts

electrofried (mr and mrs)

p.s. for those of you who may be unfamiliar with the elixir, Horlicks, we attach below what we understand is termed in wonderweb parlance, a "linklet" to a most interesting site. It is indeed a thing of beauty to behold ...

http://www.horlicks.co.uk/

"tap, tap, tap .... ping!!"

We walk, braille-like, the length of the corridor, careful not to trip inadvertently into one of a series of mounted suits of armour that line the wall. We hear it again,

"Tap, tap, tap ... ping!", only this time, a little louder.

Approaching a half-opened door, we stand discretely to one side as our eyes become slowly accustomed to the gloom within. The room is illuminated by a solitary angle-poise, its beam directed upon a hunched figure seated at a desk. He's dressed in black, his eyes hidden from sight by a pair of Predator sun-glasses that cling insect-like to his face. A curious adornment, given the near darkness of the room in which he sits.

We notice his fingers dance balletically across the keyboard of a well-oiled Remington Noiseless 8. An instrument of some precision, it has been customised specifically for the task in hand. We follow the stranded electric cording attached to its rear. It leads in the first instance to a highly polished Victrola phonograph that bears a small brass plaque on the front. It's inscribed,

"Property of mrs electrofried - Loud, Proud and Home-Baked".

A virgin wax platter spins on the felted turntable of the Victrola, a cunningly improvised hard-disc drive for the Remington Noiseless. We trace the electric cording further across the desk and now it joins a silvered tray, above which hovers a quill pen.

"Tap, tap, tap ... ping ... whir ... scribble!"

The room becomes noisier by the second as the message is committed to paper. Its author leans back in the chair, a reflective smile playing across his otherwise passive face. At length, the whir and scribble comes to an end.

The man opens a drawer of his desk and pulls out a roll of sellotape. Tearing off a small strip, he gets to his feet and walks across to retrieve the freshly-inked page from the tray. We disappear backwards into the shadows as he marches to the open door. The message is duly posted to the open portal and reads,

"House of Electrofried .. now open for business".