Peter Madison, 'The Teenage pensioner' – AKA Mac 'The Knife' Peters, picked up his quill and penned the following, after being revived with a large 'Shirley Bassey' (*1) – a pipe-full of 'Old Dublin' and a seaweed massage from his mermaid servants (*2)

By Jove, me auld watery wireless pals, it's that time again!

I was just on my way home to Lancashire to audition for Simon Cowell's 'By 'Ecks Factor' when I stopped off to visit my Grandfather's grave. Now there's a genuine auld pirate for you! A pirate cloakroom attendant, Angus McCoatup-Madison. He wore a patch over one eye to disguise the fact that it was made of glass. As a child, he'd amuse me by dropping it in his tea to see how much sugar was in there or, at the bus stop, throwing it up in the air to see if there were any seats on top.

Angus also had a parrot, which taught my Grandmother to swear in fifteen languages. (Granny was almost totally deaf, that's why she had so many children - Angus would say, "Do ye want to go to sleep or what?" And she'd say, "What?") When he'd had a skullful of rum Granddad would roar, "Where's me buccaneers?" And Granny would reply, "Under yer buckin hat, me auld spalpeen!"

I am fortunate that I didn't inherit the family trait of the accursed wooden leg. Yes, friends, they run in our family. The sad end to this tale was a dreadful fire on Granddad's lugger. The ship was saved but Angus was burnt to the ground. All he left me, apart from a tendency to come too soon (*3 was a mysterious treasure map which was tattooed on his good buttock by a Madagascan witch doctor. (This was only last year, by the way.)

When I win The Lotto, (which should be very soon because I had a near-miss last week – the man next door won), I shall charter a schooner and set off to search for the lost island of British West Hartlepool. I'll bring plenty of beads, trinkets and shiny things for the natives, only the boys... and a Megawatt transmitter, a mighty mast and a clockwork turntable. (No, this is not a wind-up.) Northern Sole will be heard on the wireless again while I dig up the bogs and try to avoid a hernia while I search, athletically for a box. It should be easy. After all, I once had athlete's foot.

So, if you are fiddling with yer Grundig, phondling yer Philips or stroking yer Sony on the 19th – listen for me, and (as Granddad used to say) "I'll keep an eye out for you."

Take me to the bridge... here are the footnotes from the athlete's footlocker:

(*1)... it's an Irish Whiskey called 'Black Bush' – think about it!

(*2)... their vital statistics are, 38 - 26 and 42 pence per pound.