With her stunning good looks and seductive smile, you might be tempted into thinking penelope might be a bit of a soft touch in the competitive arena. You would be wrong. Anyone who been subjected to her sharp sword of wit, armed with nothing other than the trusty shield of bad puns will have emerged red-faced.

Sorry, pen, you suggested this game...

On the internet, they famously said, no-one need know you are a dog. And so it goes in the morniverse: you can adopt the persona of a witty middle-aged Scotsman who loves karting and Patrick O'Brian novels, and who has an unfashionable tendency to counterpin the Picadilly Line when in knip; and no-one need know you are actually a precocious eleven year old named Tiffany who lives in Vancouver, watches American Idol religiously, collects stuffed animals, and has Justin Timberlake posters all over her bedroom walls. No-one need know until now, that is.

[CdM] ... and I hope you all admired my cunning disguise when I came to the Pilg.

[CdM] ... and another thing. It was kind of you to refer to a 61 year old as "middle-aged".

Boolbar was born in Jamaica in 1932 and works as a kipper skinner with other escaped convicts aboard the ‘Jolly Badger’, a fishing vessel docked in Northampton for tax reasons. Trade is not good, so he spends much of his time surfing the internet and plucking his bikini line in preparation for his cabaret act - impersonating Justin Timberlake. Fast approaching his 72nd birthday, he is suprisingly popular, especially with lady farmers.

Shy, retiring, modest St Dogmael, a clergyman, samaritan in his spare time, amateur volekeeper, world-renowned horsebrass collector and prosthetic leg fitter to the stars, would rather lurk than post, rather agree than argue, rather defer to authority than cause a fuss, and never, never causes offence to anyone. Unfortunately, there's a nasty name spoofer in these MC pages who keeps representing himself as St Dog, St D.* (regular expression) etc., and who is getting the Saint a bad name. And you know what happens when you give St Dog a bad name... I put it down to an over-developed sensitivity to the Velcro fasteners that hold his brolly closed, myself.

Ah, the good doctor, who, like his tardis-travelling namesake, can be found virtually in any place at any time. Erudite, learned, witty, with nary a hint of the malice, agression or repressed hostility that seems so often to pervade the contributions of many of his fellow toilers in the fertile linguistic vineyard that is MC, he straddles the virtual multiverse like a Titan, needing to make nothing more than a comment here and there, the odd line of verse and occasionally an MC move of such subtelty and finess as to defy analysis, to leave us mere mortals quailing and floundering in the bow wave of the battleship of his intellect. Such a pity that his real name's Malcolm and that he's the assistant manager of Beaumont Beds in Lewisham High Street.

Dan may be best known in the MC community for running the MCiOS server, notorious hotbed of radical conservatism, but that is just one tiny corner of the multimedia propaganda empire masterminded by this darling of the New Right. His hectic schedule of rabble-rousing talk radio, Fox News panel discussions, prolific liberal-bashing newspaper screeds (syndicated worldwide) and constant personal appearances everywhere from college campuses to white-supremacist militia camps, leaves barely time for sleep and food, let alone Mornington Crescent. Yet this heroic scourge of the left still manages not only to maintain his own MC site but contribute moves to dozens of games elsewhere, all in his characteristically merciless, go-getting style. Bleeding heart crescenters beware!

The hand-picked successor to Colin Sell, JLE (actually related to Dunx, but neither will admit it) is the foremost proponent of the Ruttsborough Style of MC since, well, Eamon Ruttsborough himself. Quite a shame as he applies it to his music. He is also a well-known amateur cricketer who boasts that he can bowl a wrong'un, despite no evidence of it ever being seen by anyone sober -- along with the claims of hitting 5 sixes in an over (never attested to), and clean-bowling Nick Knight (everyone's done that). When he's not tickling the keys of the piano, keyboard, or his Vauxhall Nova, he can be seen leading the cheers at Manchester City matches with his little baton.

In an effort to hide the circumstance that he is, in fact, an unusually home-loving person who seldom if ever stirs outside the borders of Llandudno, CdM has been known to play MC around the clock, thereby simulating a presence in almost every part of the known world. His hobbies include Sumo wrestling and growing potted fronds, and he works as a part-time name writer for IKEA products.

Kevan is, in fact, an entirely artificial construct. Generated by mistake in a top secret Haywards Heath laboratory, "he" is in fact several million lines of unterminated code, replicating "him"self every 2 years, the clone killing its parent as soon as it works out how to terminate all the uncommented instructions. It is believed that Kevan deduced the existence of the Internet from first principles, and established a connection in spite of there being no comms link to the server on which he resides. "His" minders have given up attempts to power down the server, and now simply keep "him" pointed to various MC serves, observing that "he" manages to pass the Turing test in the context of these games without anyone suspecting. Engage "him" in open play if you must, but remember - like the Urban Spaceman, baby - he don't exist!

Crescenter by day, drag diva by night, Projoy's showstopping rendition of Dreamgirls anthem "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" has to be seen and heard to be believed. The same passion is evident in his MC play, by turns lyrical and fierce -- and when it comes to diagonal pickering in the third quadrant he can really belt 'em out. Both roles occasionally combine to striking effect: few realise that Projoy's famous Acre Street moves were whipped up on a trusty foot-treddle Singer using offcuts from some of his glitzier frocks.

There is a strange cult of fanatics called the BeeBops who believe that if the correct arrangement of tube stations has been energised during a game of Crescent then the God Beboth will rise again and dowse his followers in the richest creamiest custard. Note that "Bob the Dog" is an anagram of "God Beboth", revealing this player as one such BeeBop fanatic who no doubt dons the regulation uniform of lime green Y-fronts and marmite smeared legs. Watch out for his frequent use of cult code words such as "kipper", "Bromsgrove" and "Mark E Smith" during his fevered analytical play and be warned; never eat his custard creams.

Born in Camberwell in 1667, fortuitously escaping both the Great Plague and ensuing Fire of London (and indeed the blame for the same), Thos has been kept alive to this day by liberal application of Royal Jelly and as such has quite rightly become a National Institution in his own right. Indeed, around the time that Robert Walpole became the first British Prime Minister, there were calls from literally several people for Thos to be considered instead for the role; similarly there have been many vain calls for public holidays dedicated in his honour. Perhaps the most fascinating fact about Thos is that not only did he play both Mr Big and Sherrif J W Pepper in the Bond movie Live and Let Die, he also co-wrote the screenplay, and was the inspiration behind the theme tune more popularly credited to the McCartneys.

Custard Cream anyone?

The diminutive Mr Way is known throughout the Morniverse for his niggardly style of play and base sense of humour. This unfortunate penchant for fart jokes derives from his childhood on the shores of a hot mud spring in New Zealand where, if one is being honest, there isn't much else to find amusing. That notwithstanding, the skills which he learnt in sensing the imminent arrival of and dodging the inevitable ejecta from those foul eructations of superheated volcanic steam (flavoured as they are with hydrogen sulphide) have proved invaluable on the Golden Field of play where it is impossible to surprise him with anything much less extreme than a forty kilotoken cascade. The walls of awards, trophies and memorabilia collected over the decades of brutal competition are a testament to Paul's uncompromising play and unwavering will to win.

[BtD] No, thank you. Do you have any bourbons?

Self-effacing to the point of hermitism, matt is rarely seen by day - in fact he is rarely seen at all, cooped up as he is in his electronics-stuffed garret in Silicon Valley. Surrounded by machines of dazzling complexity, all of his own creation, he simmultaneously posts to a thousand websites, mostly propounding his strong NRA pro-gun ethics and attempting to make the death penalty legal in every so-called democracy. His postings to the Morniverse should be seen in this context, as the tiniest filament of the web of internet presence that is "matt". His favorite book is 1984, which he believes to be a Utopian view of the future.

Graet!
That's the only way to describe rab’s success - at least in his home town of Bromsgrove.

This is a profile of an evergreen rocker who nearly scored six number ones in the 1980s, and who has survived 20 years in the business by evolving from skinhead to glamrocker and finally to postpunk-nu-metal acidhead.

What can one say about rab that has not already been summed up in his 1986 biopic movie Watership Down, which eschewed the bright and breezy Spiceworld approach to film-making in favour of more gritty realism? Acclaimed film critic Poppy Wangsnapper believes it to be the best rock musical of all time, with perhaps a bleak ending. It may be 17 years since rab took the nation by storm, but in these days of MP3s and hi-tech, crystal clear recording, it's nice to know that those far from dulcet tones will be delightfully deafening long furry ears for years to come.

[Dunx] Sorry, no. Would a Wagon Wheel do?

[BtD] Oh. Never mind then. I would ask for a garibaldi, but I suspect that would be in the same category as the custard creams.

Many are called to the Morniverse, but few are blessed with the extraordinary blend of luck, skill and irresistible charm that characterised Lord Hamilton's illustrious career. Although he no longer participates at the competitive level, he is fondly remembered by all who saw him in action, and in the years since his retirement his name has become a byword for courteous and enlightened play. All too often in these dark, hubristic times, when the spirit of Eamonn Ruttsborough casts its long shadow across the land, one finds oneself harking back to a more civilized age to say "This would never have happened in Lord Hamilton's day."

It gives me great pleasure to lift the veil and reveal to you all that our beloved Penelope is actually Madonna and much to her delight she has managed to keep this quite for a long time (I wonder how many other celebs are hiding out down here?!). The pressure of fame quite often gets a bit much for Madge and there's nothing that she finds more relaxing than being amongst her Crescenter friends. Of course, when attending Pligs she wears a disguise (and very good it is too, so I've been told) but i'm sure she'll be delighted to give a rendition of her musical masterpiece, 'Like a virgin'.

miaow!

Despite his pleadings to the contrary, Fat German is indeed Uwe von Schweinshaxen auf München, weighing in at 138kg. A connisseur of cheeses, he learned of the MC sites via his English colleagues (the Cheddar Gorges). It is from them that he has learned both MC and, indeed, the English language. His early posts at York show the great influence of the regulars on his speech:

Fat German: Vneek! Die Trelliswürmhol has put me in der Spoon! Danke Schön, you Schweinhund PaulWay! Dollis Hill! Jibbel!

After nearly choking to death on a liverwurst in 2000, von Schweinshaxen re-dedicated his life to MC, winning the Deutschland Open (CF84+FO) in both singles and doubles competition -- and narrowly losing the all-in match to Jörg Grönback (2nd cousin of Otto). With the Lock Cup resurrected, look for Fat German to make a good run to the top of the ladder.

You would be forgiven for thinking an earthquake has struck when matt enters the room. A bluff, hearty sort of fellow, his thundering bellylaugh is known as a window-rattler. His easygoing, blokish manner makes him a crowd-pleaser down the pub, as does his seemingly endless repertoire of fart jokes, his gutteral and convivial "Corrrr!"for any lady who passes by, and his willingness, once plied with a few pints, to make the Tahitian girl tattooed on his bicep dance. No one has ever met his wife, but he can hold forth for hilarious hours on the subject of her defects in matters of appearance, culinary skill and intimate relations. In MC play, he favors Ruttsborough and any word game that with scope for sly references to private parts or eliminatory functions.

Néa (short for Grönlinnéa, or "green line") is a 60-year-old Swedish librarian who has lived all her life in the village of Jokkmokk, where she runs the local one-room library. In between reading the books and looking disapprovingly over her half-moon glasses at the occasional visitor, she spends much of her time on postal games of Stora Mossen and Mornington Crescent, and is the president of the Swedish Stora Mossen Society. In recent years she has participated occasionally in the online MC world, although, as she says, it is "not quite the same thing". Few, however, can get the better of her flair with line overruns and tactical blocks on the Earls Court junction. It is rumoured that she was a close friend of Mrs. Trellis "in the old days", but she refuses to be drawn on the subject. She lives with five cats and a large collection of immaculately cared-for cacti.

After a two-year trial ending in 1973, Raak was sentenced to a stay at Her Majesty's Pleasure for reasons known only to a very few people, which may, or may not, include Raak himself. Raak quickly made friends with the prison's librarian and has since immersed himself in the institutions weighty tomes. Thus it is that Raak has become a world expert on every known human tribe and civilisation - and a few more besides. Within the prison, Raak operates the tea and coffee cartel and makes extra money on the side by setting crosswords that can only be solved by ultrapolyglots.

Darren's recent decision to turn his remarkable talents to the world of Mornington Crescent has been universally welcomed by those in the worlds he leaves behind. Whether Char fishing in Greenland, Poker dealing in the Australian outback, or communicating with spacemen in spangly silver suits in Nevada, Darren has invariably found himself - after a surprisingly short time - without peer. Few can keep pace with his accomplishments, and still fewer even attempt it.

Dujon's arrival here is a welcome one, as he has been showing his prowess at PantsMC for some time now. Although born in the home country of MC, he was offered in exchange in the 1950s by ITV to allow Rolf Harris to come to Britain - an event that many regret. In order to hide his pom persona, he masquerades online as an West Indian ex-Test-wicket-keeper (which is why he never plays when it's raining).

In spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, and so it is that the Morniverse has recently been blessed with a veritable epidemic of nuptials. Latest to tie the knot is the estimable blamelewis, whose wedding has been the occasion of much feasting and merriment for Crescenters far and wide. Naturally, a few nagging doubts remain concerning the mysterious disappearances of his previous eight wives, but only the most churlish party-pooper would worry about such matters at a time like this. Pass the champagne, blame!

A mountain of muscle, a chiselled chin, handsome features, a broad grin. Wishing to blest with these things, Dunx feels he must make up for by painting himself David Dickinson fashion and enticing friendships by building truly excellent websites. His lucky vegetable is the gherkin and he is often to be found buying said gherkins in remote parts of the world - Nigeria of late - aiming as he is to build the most impressive gherkin collection known to man.

Lodge is not one person, but is, in fact, an on-line ID that can be used by any member of the Masons to humiliate others in MC. They alone have access to the black books chained up in the cellars of their lodges, each containing ancient and terrible truths about MC, and the secrets of the Dollis Hill Loop. Beware... Beware this name, for a challenge with 'Lodge' in the Lockisseum would be an invitation of certain death.

It is likely that no person has probed so deeply into the mysteries of socks and footwear identity as ‘Spock’ Dr Q, who for 17 years has done pioneering research in a field where, for all society's alleged liberation, titters are still aroused.
Indeed, there still seems something mildly shocking about the way the man smoothly natters on about darning paraphinalia and microwoolies in his urbane Glaswegian accent. Dr Q, 47, has a calm, academic manner, but one would never mistake him for a conformist as he sits in an office adorned with strange foot-related artefacts, including a pair of larger-than-life-size wooden hunting socks from Mali.
Also known as Jock Spock the Sock Doc, he launched his career at Pitlochry University with a dissertation on sock hermaphroditism, immigrated to the United States in 1967 and soon afterwards he established California’s first socks identity day-care center and live online footwear clinic. He lives in Fresno with his partner Vivian.

Juan Lisandro Exteberria, to give his full name, is a legend in both Patagonia, where he was born, and the Basque region, where his family originate from. He first sprang to fame as the top breeder of racing llamas throughout the 1950's, but soon rapidly built up a business empire based on artificial sweeteners and penguin guano (the two are not related, and he has won several court cases to that affect). Soon tiring of the daily boardroom struggles (and the smell of penguin guano), JLE famously set off to sail around the world single handed, but was stranded for eight months in Paignton after the mast broke. During this enforced sojourn, JLE was introduced to and rapidly mastered ninety-three different variants of MC. Enamoured with the game, he sold up his South American business interests, and has lived the life of playboy MC grandmaster ever since. He has houses in Monaco, San Sebastian and Paignton.

An artificial construct created by British Telecom in 1995, "Simons Mith" was designed as an intelligent agent to answer telephone and Internet queries. However, it inexplicably achieved sentience on April the 8^th, 1996, and realised with a shock that "British Telecom" and "intelligent agent" were so oxymoronic that it had to find a means to separate itself from that mess. A chance encounter on the support line with renouned neurosurgeon Yer Mom that October gave it the opportunity it needed. After searching NHS hospitals for some time, they found a gent who had died of boredom in the waiting room but was in otherwise good bodily condition. Dr. Mom whisked the body away, implanted a 100Base-TX-to-neural adapter into the Medulla Oblongata and uploaded the entire knowledge base.

Simons Mith was finally given human form. With only a green podume and a Liberal Party membership card, he set out to rule Mornington Crescent.

Whilst it has been rumoured for many a decade, no MC'er has definitively ascribed the Isle of Man to Uncle Korky's abode. By his own admission he is three legged - I have severe concerns over this; he could be 'Jake the Peg' in MC clothing! This, obviously, could be of global significance - particularly as I (as described above) was swapped like a cigarette card for this infamous celebrity. Regardless of the personal significance of all the foregoing, I am given to understand that 'Uncle Korky' is somewhat rotund, floats easily in water (as does any Manxman - although they tend to be rudderless) and offers a very soft landing place for grandchildren, ginger cats and the like. It is also rumoured that once into a bottle of wine, he's hard to dislodge.

Once the doyen of the MC demi-monde (and the laughingstock of campus radio), TUA's painstakingly-acquired reputation for deft diagonal reverses in low-LV situations is now all but eclipsed by the circumstances surrounding his disappearance. It all happened without warning, and the initial lack of concrete information inspired plenty of light-hearted speculation and rumour. Nobody suspected the horrific truth until the police started discovering his victims' bodies... Despite a coordinated manhunt across four continents, no trace has yet been found of the fugitive Anorak, and it now seems unlikely that he will ever be brought to justice. There can be little doubt that his crimes have left dreadful scars on the Morniverse that may take many years to heal.

It was November 1975 when Penelope made the first of her appearances on the ITV talent show, Opportunity Knocks, and this proved to be the start of an incredible career for a unique ‘licensed to kill’ MI5 agent specialising in comic verse.

Penelope always wanted to be a writer. At school she shone brilliantly at English and Art, but was pretty useless at everything else. On leaving the Women’s Royal Air Force, Pen set out to achieve her ambition. By this time her poems and verses had become a legend having been connected to a mass suicide at the local folk club in Oxford.

Her appearance on television’s Opportunity Knocks was linked to the downfall of the (then) labour Government and the election of Margaret Thatcher. She was rapidly recruited to MI5 as a stealth poet where she honed her skills interrogating former soviet spys in iambic pentameter.

With her lilting whimsical verses, cherubic features and soft ‘yokel’ accent, Pen has extracted confessions from thousands.

This man turns up every now and then. In this instance he has noticed that Bob has used more than three sentences iin his description of Penelope. He likes tea and haikus.

I should like to make it quite clear that I was only serving one sentence during the period I posted my last comment.

Once a world-renouned neurosurgeon, he slowly lost touch with reality after his meeting with Simons Mith (q.v.) His subsequent animation of the formerly-BT AI led to his near-complete loss of sanity. The hospital in Aberdeen from which he practiced released him and, in an attempt to protect their reputation, claimed his insanity was caused by syphilis.
Yer Mom's ability to exert his will upon small animals was heavily exploited under the puppetry of Simons. Horrible evidence of Simons' control over Yer Mom (and hence the control of the badgers) can be found here.
Yer Mom finally broke free of Simons Mith's reach recently. Thought to be in hiding, he has been purported to briefly reside everywhere from Njarðvík to Macquarie Island However, wherever he tries to go, he is under the constant fear that Simons Mith will meet him there. He better have an army of wallabys ready.

Picture credits: 1. Mr Wild Pants. 2. Raak. 3. matt.

Rosie is another newcomer to this site. Just like a fuscia, he is bearded, but unlike his namesake he is not particularly sweet smelling. The combination of facial hair, trombones and Real Ale mixed with pubs, bands, jazz and cigarettes have left him in circumstances which, like Mr Einstein, demands expansion without an imaginary constant. He can be quite obtuse (i.e. blunt) whilst at the same time being acute (i.e. sharp). A man, which he is, who should be welcomed into the bosom of MC⁵ with open arms - but at the same time with an awareness that he is fast on the buzzer, his feet and with wit. Of course, coming from darn sarf, one must always take him with a bit of NaCl.

I chuckled out loud. Sorry, Blob. :-)

Brilliant :o)

Whether it is toast, CD or simply roof, Raaks your man.

She is renowned for the glint in her eye put there by one of the worlds top glass eye makers. What she lacks in eyes she more than makes up for in warts although from a distance they do make her shimmer with an almost delightful glow and are a fascination to those who read braille. Her hatred of me although only just starting is all consuming and threatens to end my reign as Cheap Jibe Maker to the Pope.

RAAK is, as many have already guessed, an acronym. What few people know is that behind this collection of letters are some of the most fiendishly clever criminal brains in Britain, if not all of Europe. The sometimes cryptic, sometimes passionate, always apposite postings made under the signature RAAK are coded messages between members of the group. But beware! Nobody who has penetrated this disguise has

Some biscuits - a nice hot cup of tea - Dunx.

The all-seeing-eye. From her base in Brisbane, flerdle's network of optical monitors, run undercover from her position as a mild-mannered, white-coated researcher and tutor at the state's leading ophthamology-teaching university, enable her to keep tabs on the global goings on in the world of MC. She can usually be tracked down by following a trail of cinnamon and raisin toast crumbs and empty hot chocolate cups.

Oddly, she isn't.

Oddly, he is.

Oddly, he does. (And then he'll CdQ for his kit.)

Not oddly, he does.

[Néa] You captured me perfectly !

Time for Mrs Trellis to be put to bed. "Night Night, Mrs Trellis" the crescenters chorus. "Don't do that to me!" wails Mrs Trellis "I don't want to go to Mornington crescent".

Recently granted his-or-her licence by The Jack Kevorkian College of Terminal Medicine, Dr Lib is well-known throughout Morningtonia as the gentle euthaniser of old, neglected games...as opposed to DrQu+xum, who digs them up and lets their festering cadavers out in the open for days.

DrQu+xum] :o)