Dear Granmuggins

Messages from a twisted island

From me.

Dear granmuggins

Hi granmug. The trip has been planned and we are ready. Me and Margarine are finally flying to New Great Britanica later today. Im so exited! We will begin on our 6 week tour of the historical little island nation. Air Tickets were cheep on Offerbunny and we actually got paid by the British tourist board to come here. It's so amazing to come to the birth place of all those old castles, fairy tale and the famous tudorian play write Arnold ScribeSmith. Once upon a time the Queen Valactica used to rule world from here giant crystal throne and her empire exported Trojan mind control teabags as far Antarctica, Dankly Swalland and Asta Goima. On the news we are always seeing stuff about the underground pyramid of Richard the -9th, I know what you You thinking but it's not as ancient here as it looks in movies, it actually has an proper airport and the zeppelins and there not made of lead like in stories. We have a nice cosy cabin room and in the one over from ours were some very rich looking britic people. Margarine swore she saw good Prince Biggins of Dukeminster. Tbh I thought he looked like some old dude with regal Antelope Boots and a very fancy Motherford tweed 3 piece. Not being funny but I don't even think Margarine knows anything about the Britannic Royalty. She reckoned everyone on famous because when walked around the deck she made out like she sore Lord bellows of Admugussy and his armoured guard. Just because the Brits wear garments enslawed with antelope skin and sheep-weave waistcoats doesn't mean they are royalties, heirarchies or nobilities, she been watching to many movies. Any way I have to go because There is a little maidservant and its banging on our door demanding to see our paper work and she she brought complementary vollovons. Be in touch soon Mug-Mug. X

Hi grandmuggins.

Touched down on land and the adventure officially begins here me and Margarine made a pact to stay together at all times. It's totally true what they say about everything being way smaller here, we got the train from Gatheath Airport and the stations were tiny. It was cute how the little trains crawled all over each other and piled up together like a a bunch of baby snakes. I managed to catch one and Margarine jumped in the main deck before it slithered away. We duly ordered a conductor to drop us of at Queens X St Uterus. Geography told me that this was in the center of the capital city of Edmadon. Margarine, the dum bitch got us trouble because she moved her train cabin so it was side by side with mine on the rails all because she wanted to show me a selfie of her a the good prince Biggins. I told her it was a bad idea because The trains here aren't like the ones in the USA, and are far less flexible. Our train conductor had to climb back and unfold the pile up she caused. Luckily they were only freight trains carrying migrant fruit pickers out to the outer strawberry field labour camps and no one was that fatally injured. She did however get a 60 pound fine that she had to carry round her neck for 4 days. So Finally when we got to the city centre and saw the famous red brick scyscaper palaces and the and neo-tudorian town cottages, all Margarine wanted to do was go to our hotel and check in. She said the heavy fine was hurting here neck and back and wanted to go back until it wore off. Her neck did look rather purple and her face was a red as a tomato, but it pissed me off how this was all her fault and she couldn't just suffer a little bit for me so we could go sight seeing. The Hotel was nice and the hagged old receptionist made me think of you Grandmuggins. Not sure what the plan is for the next few days but I'll write to you soon X

Dear grandmuggins

Hello finally got Internet again. The last four days have been kind of shitty to be honest. Margarine still had the 60 pound fine around her neck until this morning. She was insisting that I didn't got out without her until it had worn off. British television is so fucking boring. We just sat in the hotel room watching antiques programs and tea tasting videos on the tiny little black and white flat-screen TV. Our hotel room was -101 so didn't even have windows. Margarine was just moaning and choking on about about her Injured neck the whole time. The blisters and bruising were bad, but it was selfish of her not to consider how she was making me suffer by not letting me go out without her. I know we made a pact to stay together at all times, but this was to much! I wasn't even allowed to leave the room to walk around the block because margarine hid the key in her bra so I couldn't get out. When the 60 pound fine faded away this morning Margarine finally got out of bed and we went down to try a famous British breakfast in hotel food court. It was fucking disgusting, the sausages were made of badger testicles and had decorative fir on them. The eggs were pigeon and boiled to the most rubbery of levels. The toast was floppy and dripped lard onto my brand new botty hillfinger top. The goat pudding had been made out the gums of a herding flock hand reared on the Gonningham Downs and the molars were left in for authenticity. They seem to have an obsession here with covering everything with red blood gravy making everything soggy, gory and inedible. What was worse was the potato sauce. Margarine loved hers though, she chomped down the whole plate in seconds and got splatters of blood all over her face and blouse. I guess it's understandable, the dum bitch hasn't eaten anything for four days lol. Her necks looking better and the top layer of blistering has begin to scab over. Hopefully now we can begin vacationing properly. X.

Hiya.

I know you love the queen granmuggins and guess what, today we went to her house, Snortringum palace. Before we went in we managed to get two brand new selfie drones for only 100 British coins of one eyed pirate street seller. Margarine was moaning that it was to expensive, but she is a stingy bitch. It's not my fault her parents are life insurance lump so was small. She said we needed only one selfie drone between us and we could co present the show. The thing is it's not a selfie drone, if you have to share it. Other wise it would called a sharey drone, DURR!. The ones we got have REAL-E! Documentary making software support so they were well worth it. we can present our own show and it's automatically uploaded online everyday. I don't want margarine co-presenting my documentary, her face is to spotty and her neck blisters are repulsive. When we finally programmed our doco-drones to entertainment mode we went inside the palace, it was so regal and fancy. It had over 2000 rooms. I was a bit disappointed not to see the queen of New Great Britanica. This is because Because she is nearly 190, but in her palace they had a fully animatronic speaking queen in each room. They even went as far as to grow a organic face for the robots using real Royal queens highly guarded DNA recipe, which made them all look fucking awesome. One exhibition showed how the queens were grown and example of the different ages and types. The real queen has to be kept in her underground lab to remain alive using a life support super diamond. She is only brought out famous crystal coffin for show on jubilees. Not long for the big Uranium! Check out my show online to see my exclusive tour of the palace.

Ps don't watch Margarines, hers is boring because she set the documentary mode on her drone to culture and she just tried to copy mine anyway.

Hi.

Granmuggins I know you love drinking so you would have loved what me and Margarine did today. We went to British bar, which over here they call a local public house drinking establishment centre aka a LPHEC. It was a really cool old fashioned tudorian wood paneled inn the called the Blottoman Swallows in the smoggy suburbs of Smithyingley. The sign outside showed a naked witch being sliced to pieces by 10 monks. The pois murderers had dainty little fruit knifes and the sight has been there for over 20 years. Everyone stared at us as we walked in and the place was full of crusty old pagans, peasants and old rockers. the walls were plastered with beer mat relics and on the oak beams were hung dried fox testicles, this is to protect the LPHEC from boring spirits. The beer, a cloudy bitter was called Barsteadly and Muntley, but the the local always call it Munter. Me and Margarine had two munters with tradition britanica tapas of Turkeybiscuits and plum berrie maraclase. The maraclase was probably the nicest thing I have had to eat as most of the food taste like horrible pototo suave and wallpaper paste. It wasn't long before we had a crowd of wrinkly little people sniffing and hanging around us, I guess it's not often they get real Americans here. We don't just exist on TV lol. Margarine was loving all the attention and the old witches were practically begging her to go into the grotty back room with them. If the dum bitch wants an excision then it's up to her but I'm not coming. When she came back she was pale and didn't say a word. Probably the quietest I had ever seen all holiday, which was nice. Later that nite I watch her excision on REAL-E! and vomited all over my Tony Adams jacket. We made a new pact and never spoke of it again. It's time leave this city.

Hi Mug-Mug

It's been a week in capital and we have get out here. The police have been following us because Margarine keeps leaving her bag unattended at tube stations. We went for a pee and she left luggage outside the turnstiles again when it was her fucking job to protect it, when we came out there were three British Bobbys aiming sniper rifles rocket launchers and moonraker lasers at us. Luckily none of the billets hit me and Margarine only got hit once. Her hand looks pretty militated, as if she needed anything more to moan about lol. We've seen enough of this disgusting smoggy red-brick dump-hole and we are heading out country into what they call here the Counties of Shire. That is where the famous strawberry labour camps and the powerhouse orchards supply the country and the world with there sweetly delights. I’m excited to see a different side to New Great Britanica and we going to the medieval town of Boroughborough in the West-Anglian DirtWords. When Margarines bag was destroyed by the city police she only had what she was wearing so she only has one top left and it's covered it blood gravy, corn beer and tears. It made me laugh when she had the cheek to ask to borrow some of my cloths after it was her fault her bag was destroyed in first place. I let her borrow one of my old toilet dressing gowns only if she carried my luggage around for the rest of trip, it's only fair. one of hers hands functions perfectly well and why should I loose out. I Had to hide my secret set Designer spares in the bottom of my bag, she would only mess them up anyway. Please get back to me GranMug I miss you.

Hi GranMuggins.

In our second week now and We decided go and stay in Screechmere grotto a few miles from Boroughborough, it's a cute old village in middle of nowhere. Famous because Histories says that the local Monodictine Church building was the final resting place of Saint Barry the incumbent, who first brought his traveling glitch monasteries here in the early 2nd century. The Ultra gothic brutalist revival church is the largest of its kind in the West-Anglian Dirt wolds according to the placard outside. Next to the Church is the famous Barrylictic underground monastery where The Barrylitic monks traditionally brew a wine made from sheeploin and mulberrys. The wine known as the Polygon Octolus has been made in the village in since before the Bouroughman empire. History says When The Bouroughmans of new gipswick occupied the area for 10 dozenal centuries they forced the Barrylitic monks to make their wine out the loin juice of pigs and not sheep. It was because their religion stated in its holy scripture "though shalt notly gulp outo the sinitistry gravy of any creature that is heathen in the dutty oil of lanolin". The defiant Barrylictic monks secretly continued to produce wine in their original way but were forced into the under ground sewers of there masters homes, that was until the pagans revolt in the noise ages. They soon answered to the call of the double church and Their New masters allowed them continue to make there wine in the original way but they had to remain deep underground. Still Tied in metal chains that were the descendants of those monks remain to this day. We went down to the historical brewery and the 3rd born son of each family in the village is still actually raised fully underground, their pius life was dedicated to the compulsory production the magical wine. The Polygon Octolus wine is so important that the whole economy of Screechmere Grotto relies on it and no one else works in the village other than the Underground Monks. Each little monk had its own cute little stone cell and a sweet little itchy hessian tracksuit. The little guys all had matching tattoos on there faces with their own scripture text Monk identification Number. It was hard to film in the cells with the our selfie drones because it was so dark. Margarine nearly got us kicked out for taking a selfie with some high Monks during their compulsory prair using a her xenon flash. The poor guys are not raised for light and the flash burnt deep into their sensitive retinas. I was more sensible and I still got an amazing documentary to upload, cos my drone has a night vision mode. Margarine never comes prepared that's why her documentary are shit. In mine I got a monk to tell me one of the secrets behind the wine production but he got caught by the bishops guard and got sentenced go to the sub-mantel seclusion centre for deep prair. I want my shows to be hard hitting and gritty so I filmed whole the trial and hopefully he we be allowed up in less than ten years. That's why my REAL-E! page has tens more followers than Margarines. I've been checking my profile on REAL-E! and I noticed you not following it granmuggins. Please watch my documentaries Mug-Mug. I really think I've got what it takes to be the new Chantelle.

More coming soon