For some reason it took me about six weeks to get through the gates of the portcullis. I’m not sure if the yeast extract on my right hand is losing its incredible inter-dimensional and temporal properties, the dark savoury matter that allows me to jump through space and time.

Derrick could do six weeks of fuck-all with no problems, him being a habitual hibernator as well as a generally lazy and belligerent super intelligent dancing bear.
I however didn’t enjoy my stint in flux. I will need to pop home and re-apply my mystical marmite when I get out of this mess of a storyblog.

While I was hoping for a grand entrance, Derrick decided to give his wang a waxing, which he explained later this as urgent due to the morning glory attached to six long weeks of slumber, I too was feeling this frustrating side effect as a result of our time stoppage, so actually understand his predicament fully.

The crowd soon dispersed, bored. There were already two wanking bears performing at the tower this season, and despite the tsunami of built up bear-batter Derrick really didn’t do anything to make his act stand out from the competition. Before I could get him to do his real act most of the crowd quickly slipped away, literally, in the flood recently created by Derrick.

The Tower of London hasn’t changed much, they still keep the crown jewels locked up, and there is a busy gift shop with packs of people everywhere staggering around getting in your way.

Lucky for us we had a pair of VIP passes thanks to the Kings demand to see my hairy but groovy mate and myself. We skipped the queue's and got a good look round.
I bought a few severed finger paperclips for my notes, and Derrick kicked up a fuss until I gave in and got him the full set of twenty four Mary Rose commemorative spoons, despite my best attempts to convince him the bloody ship will/did sink next week/ages ago.

The torture chamber was great, really realistic, and you get to interact with all the exhibits. They were only too happy to let you try everything for yourself. After twenty minutes of skewering and chopping bits off a “spy” (I wasn’t very good, couldn’t get him to admit to it) the guards came to take us along to see the King. We were being cordially invited to entertain the ruler of England and his mates while they have their dinner.

We did the act for everyone at the feast, Derrick throwing some spaced out shapes and cutting deep, dirty and dangerous moves to the cranky beat of the um-bongo dance mix stored on my PSP.

The King was pleased, which everyone assures me is the state you should try and keep him accustomed. The last bloke to bring a bear to a feast didn’t go down too well so the King had his balls cut off and made to watch them being flung into the Thames.

I thought we were the headline act, but it turns out Henry VIII is having bit of a national talent search, with his favourite act getting their own castle for a year and a chance to invade France.

After the other entertainment had come on and done their pieces (an early attempt at balloon sculpture using live animals, a three legged minstrel accompanied by three hideously deformed troubadours, and a man that tried to turn into chicken before our eyes, he couldn’t do it but I have to admit was very funny watching him try)

It was close, the King was still wearing a crown made of tangled stoats when he made his final decision, but we won…………