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Well then, this should keep you busy…

As we know only too well, the devil makes work for idle hands to do. Here, then, is an exciting craft project to ensure your hands do not remain idle over the weekend. Go to a field. Attaching clamps to slats with quarter-inch gulliver bolts, smear some lattice-work with a decoction of binding-agents and thread the netting through tin clips, then dislodge the hasp on the paddle in order to provide enough purchase on the metal flanges, which should be arranged in rotation beside colour-coded pails, the white one being strapped to a clogged bracket, the red one spinning on the torque engine, the blue one held in place by rubber frets, and the black one chiming against the aluminium knob on the wicket, which is fastened to the anchorage unit by a system of winches controlled by a clay handle on the bole, against which pellets are fired at pre-arranged intervals by the steam gun just below the fourth set of nozzles, cleverly positioned at such a distance from the first three sets to provide a constant stream of gases to pass over the tarpaulin, in which punctures have been made to allow ease of passage for the andiron tubes carrying ballbearings to the spandrel and thus on to the rotating wooden platform, upon which the greased hinges chafe against the pulleys sufficiently for the sparks to ignite sulphur bombs inside the bakelite carriage, without endangering the pads, bulbs and chocks on the hooter, at the sounding of which the intricately-wired snares snap shut and entrap the oiled plasticine clumps, thus momentarily halting the recurrent biting movements of the cogs on the discus, throwing shards of todge into the motor around which you will have placed canvas bags packed with candles in order to steady the persistent rattling of the ticker on the back of the iron sledge underneath the trolley carrying the double battery-powered hammer which serves to agitate the drum containing the four-inch blades detached from the rusted bowl of the compass, held in place on the rocket by a monstrous titanium screw wedged against the plackets of the grit distributor, customised by locking its gut probes into position with no less than twenty six separate multiple-gate plugs, on each of which a scorched zinc disc swivels in response to the magnetic properties of the special basin receiving the droplets of highly acidic gum arabic spilling out of the glass globe tethered to the scalding hot clasps of the larger plate by chains which run parallel to the lengths of string tied at one end to the pirate’s aureole and at the other to the shank of the casket nailed to the box of flags stolen from the same warehouse which provided the hooks for the plank balanced uneasily across the gap between the pinboard and the hodometer fitted with small beeswax parcels lashed to the crane from which dangle several springs and coils loaded with lead weights and enamelled cubes the purpose of which becomes apparent when the gleaming cork is plunged into the canister of boiling duckpond water kept at constant temperature by hastily-repaired piping fed by siphons and buttressed by giant prongs from the surfaces of which have been expunged precisely engraved instructions for the use of the inspirational choir funnels hidden inside the derrick next to the pumps on the tray of bauxite pebbles wrapped in hideous orange taffeta swaddling material as a sop to the git who provided the jars, flakes and asbestos-free wing cranks you will require for timing the bleaching operation on the plastic squirting mechanism moulded out of discarded beetle caps salvaged from a manufacturer of resins whose grotesque sponge hood has been incorporated into the workings of the shiny magnesium tripod atop which lurks a uranium pill squashed underneath a varnished Icelandic pan containing phosphorus hoops and a glamorous leather trumpet pitched towards a cobalt beaker lit up by the Mackenzie Beam angled obliquely next to a yellow fustian canopy covering a massive trellis to which are glued an up-ended cone of polythene veiled by cotton-wool wrapped around a toy horse with a propeller caked in mercury powering the fulcrum and bails on the fractured tub countersunk behind the crust of a feather on a stool with pins affixed to the leaching grille placed askew atop the big cracked bucket of winnowed sand. Now stand back, shut your eyes, and count to a hundred.

Do not forget to buy innumerable copies of Frank’s new paperback Brute Beauty And Valour And Act, Oh, Air, Pride, Plume, Here Buckle! in time for Christmas.