By Sockwinkel, Founding Father of Frivolity

If you’ve read my previous glogs (and if you haven’t, I’m not mad—just deeply disappointed), you already know I’m the original plonk-sipper, chaos-conductor, and sock-shaped spark that ignited this glorious mess. But even a legend needs backup. Enter: the Plonkers.

These are the gonks who saw me leap into the unknown and said, “Ooh, that looks mildly dangerous—let’s do it twice.”

Bitty’s got the energy of a raccoon in a glitter factory and the impulse control of a toddler with a foghorn. He’s been my sidekick since the Great Sockwinkel Incident (details classified, but it involved stilts and a goose named Trevor). Bitty’s the distraction to my deception, the sparkle to my scheme. If I’m the brains, he’s the jazz hands—and together, we’re banned from three libraries and one moderately fancy garden centre.

Fudwick used to be the kind of gonk who alphabetised his complaints and sighed at sunsets. Then he tasted the plonk. Now he’s the one suggesting we build a trebuchet “for recreational purposes.” He still grumbles, but it’s usually while loading confetti into a leaf blower. Fudwick’s our reluctant rebel, our curmudgeonly cannonball, and the only one who knows how to hotwire a mobility scooter.

Snubbin believes life is best lived with a bang—preferably one involving glitter and mild property damage. He once tried to launch a bottle rocket using a fondue set and a quote from Kierkegaard. He’s the existential threat to public order and the reason we now carry marshmallows just in case. His motto? “If it doesn’t sparkle, did it even happen?”

Mimsy receives visions from the future via disco ball reflections and speaks exclusively in rhyming couplets. She predicted the Great Plonk Spill of ’23 using interpretive dance and a colander, so now we treat her prophecies with the reverence they deserve. She’s our spiritual guide, our sequined sage, and the only gonk who can moonwalk while meditating.

Grindle refuses to drink plonk unless it’s been “emotionally validated.” He carries a tiny notebook to rate every sip and once held a protest because someone served rosé in a mug. He’s insufferable, pretentious, and somehow always right. I find him useful—mostly because he remembers where we parked the inflatable canoe.

Clott claims to be my cousin. I deny it. He reappears every few weeks wearing someone else’s hat and speaking in riddles. He’s the wildcard’s wildcard. The smoke machine to my spark. The reason we now have a “no ferrets indoors” policy. If you hear dramatic music and smell cinnamon, Clott’s probably nearby.

So there you have it. The Plonkers. We’re not a team—we’re a travelling circus with questionable ethics and excellent taste in wine. If you’re here for wholesome content, you’ve wandered into the wrong glog. But if you’re here for mischief, mayhem, and mildly illegal use of confetti—welcome home.

Until next time, stay plonked and mildly unhinged.

Sockwinkel