Ditching his French Horn and donning a cloth cap, Morris takes his message of Salopian goodwill to Albania.

It was the concert today. The coach arrived at the venue in Elbasan, the "Square Peg" theatre, just in time and it was all a bit of a rush.

How Norman is remembered at The Square Peg Theatre

Fortunately I was on hand to give the Albanian Musical Theatre audience a presentation on the values of Shropshire living while they waited for the Orchestra to take their places.

I don't think many of the Albanian audience understood what I was saying, but they seemed to greatly enjoy my recitation of that old Shropshire folk song "Shropshire The Brave" and joined in as best they could with the chorus-

"Shropshire the brave,
Shropshire the good
Shropshire, Shropshire, Shropshire
Shropshire is good"

It's a classic.

After my warm up, the performance itself went very well. I pretended to play the French horn with as much panache as I could muster.

I mock blew in all the right places and I moved my fingers up and down in what I considered to be not only a convincing, but also a confident and musically sound manner.

I let myself down a bit when I improvised a solo. I was so caught up in the moment and I felt the piece needed a big finish and stood up on my chair to jazz things up a bit.

It would have been more effective if I'd been able to make some actual noise, but I think that overall I added to the piece.

The small percentage of the Orchestra that were actually playing their instruments did a sterling job and we got a standing ovation at the end.

I think Efthimios was pleased with the performance as he jumped into the crowd and started high-fiving people on the front row. Afterwards he paid for us all to eat out at a Norman Wisdom theme restaurant.

I broke it to them (over a Grimsdale salad) that I'm leaving the Orchestra.

I had mentioned to Hestia that I might stay on a bit longer, but now I see what a stranglehold Norman Wisdom has in Albania, I see that I should be trying to do the same.

I said goodbye to the Orchestra this morning.

Hestia seemed quite upset, so I had to explain once again that my journey is one of solitude and sacrifice.

I must harden my heart to any emotional entanglement, as my one true love is Mother Shropshire and she is a magnificently jealous spouse, prone to emotional outbursts.

For some reason, Norman Wisdom is incredibly popular in Albania. They call him Pitkin, after a film character he played, which is a bit like a whole country insisting on calling Harrison Ford "Indy". It seems to display a tenuous grip on reality.

I haven't seen the film though. It's not set in Shropshire, so maybe it was such a commanding performance it just embedded itself in the culture. Whatever the reason, he enjoys the same sort of adulation here that Percy Thrower does in certain Salopian Garden Centres.

Whenever I try to interest someone in Shropshire, they realise I'm from the same country as Norman Wisdom and then just want to talk about him.

I've taken to pretending that I'm his nephew - this has been incredibly successful and I'm now staying with a lovely family reminiscing about Uncle Norman and trying to drop in the odd mention of Shropshire.

They have a whole room filled with Pitkin memorabilia and I'm sleeping in there. To be fair, the people here are all incredibly friendly and welcoming, not as nice as in Shropshire, but a close second. When not worshipping the Balkan God Norman Wisdom, the whole family work at the local cement factory.

I checked, and Norman was born in London, not Shropshire, so I've really no rational way to account for his godlike status.

If it was someone like Clive of India or Sir Gordon Richards or Iron Mad John Wilkinson I could understand it, but all Norman seems to do is fall over a lot.

I fall over quite a lot; maybe they'll take to me in the same way.

I've received the following message via the BBC -

"Hello Morris,
For somebody who is unemployed you seem to have an endless travel budget.
How do you fund your extensive travels not to mention your Salopian promotional materials?
(Unless your share options in office supplies have finally paid off).

Your message of praise for Mother Shropshire seems to be falling on a few deaf ears at the moment. I was thinking that you might want to enlist the help of someone who is a real mover and shaker, someone who has the necessary gravitas and diplomatic ties to help your cause. Of course, I am speaking of our very own right royal Salopian Lord Lieutenant Algernon Heber-Percy.... Surely he would love to hear from you and could lend assistance to your current Greek tragedy.
M via the Long Mynd"

I often get asked how I fund my travels. It's quite simple really, I use a combination of savings built up since 1989, supplemented by Bingo winnings.

Due to the unique way the BBC is funded, they don't actually pay me anything, but I imagine this is all just politeness on their part and they will offer me a massive retainer at some point in the not too distant future.

His Grace the Right Royal Salopian Lord Lieutenant Algernon Heber-Percy is a man I admire greatly and I did consider petitioning him. But as I understand it, he is the representative of the Crown in Shropshire, and as such he answers to the Monarch.

Since Lord Lieutenant Algernon Heber-Percy maintains the façade that Shropshire is in some way subservient to the crown, I can have no dealings with him without asking him to compromise his position of servitude.

I suspect that his current, supposed position of subservience is really just a cover while he plans an uprising in which Shropshire will take its rightful place as sovereign county, where Shrewsbury becomes the British capital city and Telford the true seat of power.

To some degree this has already happened, but I trust that old Algie will choose the correct time to announce the regime change.

Albania reminds me of so many of my previous destinations - it just reeks of not being Shropshire.

I have to sleep every night looking up at pictures of an old man wearing a flat cap, which wouldn't be so unsettling if that wasn't all he was wearing.

I spent most of today walking around, exploring the area, making notes on places where people congregate, and I bought some clothes from a Norman Wisdom themed clothing boutique. My intention is to use the hysteria surrounding Pitkin and fashion it to my own ends.

I did meet a fascinating gentleman called Petroi, who bore a quite shocking resemblance to Antoine De Caunes, only less French.

Petroi sits in the marketplace painting, except he makes everyone he paints look like Norman Wisdom.

In much the same way that Sam Lowry painted matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs, he paints Norman Wisdom men and Norman Wisdom cats and dogs.

They are all painted wearing tweed flat caps with the peak turned up (even the cats and dogs). The sad thing is, the locals buy his work quicker than he can paint them.

After talking to him for a while Petroi wearily admitted to me that he would prefer to paint his subjects more realistically... or do a few landscapes or studies of flowers in vases, but he has to bow to commercial demand.

It's the quandary many artists have faced over the centuries - do you create what you want to for the sheer joy of doing it; or do you create what people want, so you can eat?

Apparently Monet much preferred painting comical animals wearing lederhosen and playing competitive sports, but his friend Pierre convinced him it was the smudgy scenes of Impressionism that the public wanted, so that's what he gave them.

Today I put into effect my Albanian master plan.

I went to the busiest square in Elbasan. I put on my tweed cap, slightly askew with the peak turned up, my two-sizes-too-small jacket with matching trousers, my crumpled shirt and my tie fastened with all the dexterity of a nervous panda. Then I stumbled around, fell over, shouted "Mr Grimsdale" repeatedly and waited for my followers to come to me.

My theory was that if I could tap into this Pitkin worship, if I could get people to listen to me thinking I was Norman Wisdom on a quick state visit, and then steer them along the path to Shropshire and true happiness... it would be a deception for their own good.

What I hadn't counted on was the level to which the Albanian people have embraced Norman Wisdom.

I soon realised that my Wisdomesque antics only made me blend in more than ever. I was just one flat-capped, crumpled, bumbling figure shouting "Mr Grimsdale", lost in a crowd of other flat-capped, crumpled, bumbling figures shouting "Mr Grimsdale".

I might as well have tried to stand out at Ascot by wearing a silly hat, or tried to make an impression at the Country Life offices by telling evil lies about Shropshire.

Good news from home today. Aunt Felicity called, Mother is alive.

She did apparently get quite severely injured when she was trying to get a statue of me winched onto the front porch.

The doctors are hopeful she'll regain her speech within the week, and the use of both legs within the month.

Fortunately the artist skimped on materials and didn't use Shropshire slate (as mother had requested), but papier-mâché packed with rubble... which turned out to be a good thing when the winch rope broke and mother found a two times life-size replica of her son landing on her from a great height.

I'm sure that once she is able, mother will have a good old laugh about it all and get on with the work of erecting a proper monument to me using lightweight but durable materials.

Toby and Sophia are back from their Honeymoon. They decided to go somewhere exotic, beautiful and unparalleled in its romantic charm and mystique.

They went to Telford.

The Travelodge on the junction of the A5223/A442 is very nice apparently.

I went to the Turkish Baths in the centre of Elbasan today. I'd never had a Turkish bath before, just English ones with hot water, bubble bath and rubber ducks.

A Turkish bath is something else entirely and my pores have never felt so open and cleansed. The experience was only marred by the song "Big In Albania" by Norman Wisdom and the Pitkins that played on a continuous loop.

I'm going to leave Albania tonight. I've bought a donkey called (unsurprisingly) Norman and I'm going to seek out somewhere more receptive to my joyful message of Salopia... and less receptive to nineteen fifties black and white slapstick comedies.