Yuletide Greetings to all

A Merry Yuletide to all our readers - relax, crack open another barrel of Duke of Malmsey's finest, put your feet up by a blazing driftwood fire, and contemplate the mysteries of life while munching on a plate of hi-fat salty snax and counting your blessings.
If you've got any, of course. Is life a blessing, or a curse? as the sun crawls slowly along the horizon, and the snow and ice increase their grip, Geoffrey and I delve into the murky depths of our brains, and attempt to figure this one out...
Oh - by the way - the blazing Yule log thundered past, merely scraping the snow off the weather side of the Outcrop, and plunged harmlessly off the cliffs.
"Is it a sign, Geoffrey? an omen for the coming year? a Christmas miracle, perhaps?" I mused, as the sparks rose high in the night sky.
"Oh dear Tuppy. You're going soft. Time for the hi-strenf medication, I think! fetch the medical chest, quick!"
See you next year...

Yuletide cheer (not)

How wrong can you get it? very considerably, actually. The puffa jacket-wearing hordes were indeed our neighbours, bearing gifts. Gifts of BOGOF puffa jackets, I'm guessing - though I can't say for sure, as I'm not allowed to open my parcel till Christmas Day - or "Yule Morn" as we call it Hereabouts. Geoffrey has rigged up an electric fence style enclosure, in which our garishly packaged gifts sit side by side like a right pair of lemons. Or should I say, satsumas, pointlessly studded with cloves, to resemble something akin to Desperate Dan's testicles? not that we ever eat "fruit" (as I believe it's called?), but from leaflets stuffed through our letterbox relentlessly and without so much as a by your leave, we DO know that it exists and is important to some, as part of a so-called balanced diet.
Hark! I hear a rumbling noise, and it's getting louder and louder (yes, it IS my stomach - I feel a Lorne and brown sauce roll coming on) but there's something else as well.....
a blazing Yule log is rolling down the hill - and it's heading for...AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

solstice seige

"Quick Geoffrey! pile more stuff on the fire!" I urged, as the chanting hordes drew ever nearer. Yes, they were back, attired in their cowled robe-style things, padding closer and closer in that relentless manner that sinister cowled figures always have.
Just as Geoffrey was about to smash up my chair for firewood (we'd long since run out of driftwood), a tall horseman in a pointy black hat charged through the hordes, scattering them to the four winds. "Begone!" he shouted, brandishing a blazing torch. And they were.
Who was this brave horseman? none other than the Tupfinder General, of course, mounted on Titus.
Soon we were ushering them into comfy chairs by the fire and pouring them mugfuls of madeira (watered down a bit, of course - visitors are all very well but we don't want to leave ourselves short). Both declined a whiff of sal volatile, by the way. All the more for us.
"Who were those cowled hordes?" I quavered. "Minions, sent from the bowels of hell?"
"If you'd taken time to look, instead of panicking, Tuppy, you'd have seen that the so-called cowled hordes were merely your neighbours, out a-wassailing, dressed up in identical hooded puffa coats - which happen to be on special at Speedispend. They're BOGOFs. We've all got one. Look!"
And he whipped open his black cape to reveal exactly that.
"I don't put the hood up, because of my hat," he added, patting said pointy item. "And speaking of bowels of hell - where's that bowel cancer testing kit? throw another chair on the fire and let's all have a go!"

moaning and chanting hordes surround the Outcrop

Well it's almost the Solstice and so far so good. One benefit of the cold snap is that everyone's staying indoors for now - and for the foreseeable, going by the forecast. So, we haven't had the chanting, cowl-wearing, hordes pacing around impatiently outside the Outcrop, awaiting my appearance so's they can seize me and fling me willy nilly and without so much as a by my leave, Over the Top - unlike last year. Phew!!
Cheery item in the post today - a Speedispend free sample-style bowel cancer testing kit!!! what fun we'll have over the Festive, testing one another's stools for occult blood...speaking of which, there's just been a lull in the howling blizzard outside and I think I hear some moaning and chanting...

solstice terror approaches

After our traumatic attempt to reach Cuba (we ended up on the tinsel-infested gallows outside Speedispend, instead - see previous posts) and our dramatic albeit involuntary rescue by Spockfingers, Geoffrey and I crept back to the Outcrop under cover of darkness.
Why under cover of darkness, you ask? well, the days are so short now we'd little choice in the matter. It gets dark about half past one.
Besides, readers will remember (or perhaps not) that the Solstice is celebrated, or "marked" Hereabouts in Very Special Way. viz., there is a poll, and the person voted "least popular" is thrown willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave, Over the Top. Last year it was yours truly, 'cept being a highly resourceful type I managed to escape. This year, I might not be so lucky, so best to lie low for a while...

we escape!

Geoffrey just had a brainwave. He began to sing, softly at first, James Grant's Winter, and I joined in. We began to sing more and more loudly. As our voices reached a crescendo, the checkout operator's jaw dropped in amazement as all of a sudden, Spockfingers charged full pelt and singing at the top of his lungs, out of the Speedispend entrance and barged into the gallows, demolishing it completely. We ripped the bags from our heads, flung the nooses aside, jumped on Spockfingers back and galloped off into the gathering dusk...

on the gallows

Geoffrey and I are in a terrible state. Strung up on a gallows, to be precise, with sacks over our heads, awaiting execution. (how am I managing to write this then? don't ask.)
Why are we on the scaffold? well, when we finally reached the checkout, the assistant or "attendant" demanded, "Gorra Kloobkahd?" alternating with "Gorra Kashkahd?", to which we rather naively replied "no".
The assistant then bellowed into her tannoy, "Security to checkout 16,000000 please!" and we were whisked outside, via a side entrance, to aforementioned gallows - which are, by the way, festooned with twinkling fairy lights. Someone in a blue and red chequered uniform and wearing a Santa hat dangled tinsel-bedecked nooses in front of us and said "sign up for Kash n 'Kloobkahd's now, or else!"
What can we do?

extraordinary rendition (of a song, not us)

"TRA LA LA LA, TRALALA LALA WINTE-E-E-R..." Yes, it's Spockfingers. We've been in the Speedispend queue for, er, about 24 hours now and we've barely moved an inch. To make matters worse, Spockfingers turned up with a massive trolley and an iPod, and barged along the aisles singing along to James Grant's Winter. Seasonal, I'll give him that. And it's not that Geoffrey and I don't like the song - it's Spockfingers rendition that is, well, "extraordinary". Whip him off to Cuba via Prestwick, and leave him there, somebody, please.

"plastic" surgery

Well, we escaped from the whirlpool - only to be sucked up by the Speedispend vortex and whisked off to the Hypermarket and compulsory health screening centre, where we were coldly informed that we are both "morbidly obese"!
After that riveting bit of info., which is hardly news to either of us, we were whisked up in the air again and dumped at the end of a very long checkout queue, behind a massive trolley-load of groceries which, we explained to the faceless customer service assistant, we have no means of paying for.
"Sign for Kashkard!" it intoned in a grating metallic voice, as it handed us both a form with print so tiny we could barely see it never mind read it. "Sign for Kashkard!"

two passing minke whales discuss actors and films

Geoffrey and I were caught in a whirlpool for a few hours, and as we strove to escape, we overheard two minke whales discussing their favourite actors.
Number one, they agreed, had to be William Shatner, swiftly followed by Brian Dennehy. Reason being - it doesn't matter which parts they play, or what film or show they're in, they're always the same. "We lo-o-o-o-o-ve them", they sang to each other.
The result of that discussion being a foregone conclusion, they moved on to discuss films. One couldn't abide films set in Africa or South America, whereas t'other declared himself a big fan of The Wild Geese, starring, as we all know only too well I'm afraid, a host of fab actors such as Richard Burton, Roger Moore and Richard Harris (mind you, I have to admit that his specs in The Wild Geese are, as and in themselves, worth watching.) And what about Gold! again starring Roger Moore? Brill, they both finally decided.
Whales' worst film of all time - The Cassandra Crossing (starring Richard Harris).
Favourite line of all time? "Broadsword calling Danny Boy. This is Broadsword calling Danny Boy. Come in Danny Boy."

the debt-bringer

Blimey we've had a strange few days. As soon as Geoffrey finished waterproofing and "caulking" (as I believe those familiar with such goings on call it) the coracle, we put on our wellies and sou' westers and set off in a dreadful storm the other afternoon, just as sun was setting.
Rather than boringly pushing off from the rocks in the Bay below, as we normally would, we decided to try a new, exciting type of launch. We enlisted help from our neighbours, the T-G and Apsley and Cherry. Then Geoffrey and I sat in the coracle and waited for a suitably powerful gust of wind; when one arrived, our helpers pushed us in a windward direction, i.e. Over The Top - and off we flew, sailing out and over the Bay, carried by the storm in the general direction of Over There.
Anyway - we were heading for Cuba, so we were hoping that the wind would carry us in a westerly direction, for some considerable distance. If that occurred, and with any luck, we reckoned we'd definitely overshoot Over There, thus avoiding all the concomitent ghastlinesses such as the Speedispend Hypermarket and compulsory health screening centre, and so forth. But as it happened the wind shifted direction and forced us northwards. We now find ourselves just to the north west of Over There, and on course for Greenland rather than Cuba. Oh dear. To make matters worse, we seem to be just within range of the Speedispend magnet-style Xmas shopping victim detector and grab radar, (known as "the debt-bringer")so we are having to scull for our lives just to stay in the same place - if we give up for a second, we'll be sucked into the terrible vortex that is Speedispend. We can even hear the tinny blare of Xmas carols and pop tunes being played incessantly like some sort of ghastly medieval noise torture...
"Keep sculling, Geoffrey! for pity's sake keep sculling!"

Cuban Heels

Geoffrey and I are heading for Cuba. Anything to get away from this cold, wet, germ-ridden hell-hole. (And that's just our livingroom by the way.)
Yes, the long winter evenings are proving even more of a trial than usual this year, so we're off to the land of cigars and sunshine.
We'll have to use the coracle, of course, as we have to cross the Atlantic in order to get there. However, that's nothing to the likes of us. We'll head off on a cloudless, starry night, and set our course by the Dog Star. (is that the right one? don't suppose it matters much.) Geoffrey's been busy waterproofing with a tin of black gluey tar-like stuff, and we've strapped a length of Willesden canvas over some withy wands to form a cabin-type structure, so I'm sure we'll be fine.
I'm writing a list of comestibles at the moment. Geoffrey's developed a bizarre liking for honey sandwiches, so I dare say we'll have to find room for a few of those. As for me, I'm happy with handy, portable items such as tins and packets.
We'll take the old soup ladle so we can bail if need be, but the coracle's very robust and I hardly think we'll have any trouble...

boredom

Geoffrey and I are still recovering from the dreaded lurgy. We're not sure if we've had "swine-style flu", or just bog-standard, or just "bad colds". Either way, we've barely moved from the fireside for about a week. But we must be getting better because we've started to get bored. Readers will know that we don't have a telly or even a wireless. We do know about these things, and how people fill their time staring at other people capering around in little boxes blaring away in a corner of the room - or as Apsley and Cherry have theirs, nailed foursquare to the wall. But we can't enjoy such pleasures as we don't have leccy.
No. We have to entertain ourselves, the old-fashioned way. Sometimes we might take the old volume of Tennyson or Browning from the mantelshelf and read aloud to one another. Sometimes we might have a game of whist - although not often as that tends to get Geoffrey awfully worked up. He's a terrible loser. Sometimes we might whittle away at a piece of driftwood, fashioning some mythical creature from the bare wood. (actually, no, we've never done that.)
Mostly we just sit and chat aimlessly while enjoying our pipes and madeira, and wait contentedly for the odd visitor to arrive. And that's precisely what we've been doing for the past week. So why on earth are we bored? I wouldn't go so far as to say we're bored out of our minds, or bored rigid, it's more..well, I don't know...
"We're fed up, Tuppy!" declares Geoffrey, bursting willy nilly into my train of thought without a care in the world or a by your leave. "Let's plan a holiday!"
"But where should we go?"
"How about a health spa?"
"Don't be ridiculous Geoffrey! your mind must have been affected by the flu. Snap out of it, please!" Health spas indeed!
But he's got a point. They say a change is as good as a rest. Perhaps it's time for us to get the old coracle out and head across the seas again - although I don't think I could face the Flannan Isles so soon after the last fiasco...(see previous posts)

lurgified

Geoffrey and I have flu, so we are currently swathed in tartan rugs, smoking our pipes and sipping boiling hot madeira toddies out of pint sized pewter mugs beside a roaring fire. Readers will know that that is how we spend ninetey per cent of our time, anyway. Nevertheless, we'd like some sympathy - for example, where is Wilson when he is ...well, I can't bring myself to say NEEDED, but as we are feeling generally ghastly and have genuine death's door-style illnesses, some medical so-called expertise MIGHT come in handy. But no. Razor Bill has been delivering leaflets, under pain of death, which advise sufferers to use "self help remedies", such as staying indoors and drinking plenty fluids. "Take your chances" it says, smugly. "After all, it's your own faults for not taking the jab when offered."
Offered? Readers will know that Wilson was firing needles into people's backsides willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave - to the extent that it put me in mind of the English archers raining arrows at Agincourt.
I don't regret leaching the vaccine out of my behind with the bread poultice ( see previous posts). No, not a bit. Neither do I regret conspiring to have Wilson bucked off into the Bay, where I believe he is still just managing to evade the clutches of baby Orca (last time I looked).
People will wonder what became of the bread poultice, with which I leached out the vaccine from my behind, and which then lodged itself on Elizabeth T-G's bonce. And they won't be hugely surprised to learn that we ate it, toasted, with butter and marmalade, for our breakfast yesterday morning.
One benefit of having flu - Spockfingers isn't with us any more - he took off with his juke box, declaring that he didn't want to catch "the lurgy". I think he watched X factor at The Old Rectory, on Apsley and Cherry's 62 inch telly, possibly with a pineapple on his head.

hit record, yeh...er...no

Right - quick update. We finally staggered out of the lock-in yesterday afternoon and made it back to the Outcrop, followed by Spockfingers towing his jukebox and singing along to The Raspberries "Overnite Sensation". If I hear another Power Pop song in the foreseeable, I'll leap off the cliffs myself and join Wilson swimming desperately around in the Bay, being chased by Baby Orca. Yes - we finally managed to shoehorn Wilson into the straitjacket and strapped him on to Titus' back - from whence he was well and truly bucked off the cliffs. Readers will remember that the straitjacket was stretchy with velcro fastenings, so it was easy (sadly) for Wilson to free himself and start doing a creditable backstroke. Well, let's face it he's had plenty practice (see previous posts)
Everyone's relieved to have Wilson and his horrible jabs out of the way, for a while at least. If only he wasn't such a control freak - after all, it isn't very nice for us to have to throw or buck people off the cliffs, and we only do it if absolutely necessary/unavoidable. Geoffrey has just interrupted me to tell me I'm being very po-faced. But isn't there a place for po-facery, from time to time? "No," Geoffrey decrees. Now that his feathers have grown back, and he's recovered from his accidental compulsory detention in the Old Asylum, there's no stopping him. Mind you, it's great to see him back to his usual.
We think we're going to give our livers a break this weekend and avoid the usual lock in at the Puff Inn. NOT that we've paid the remotest attention to any of Wilson's cheerless advice. Far from it. We're going to put our feet up and watch X factor - looks like we'll be having a house guest, in the form of Spockfingers, so doubtless he'll provide us with his views on the contestants. Already we're liking Joe, and wondering if the straitjacket would stretch to containing both twins? they'd make one heck of a splash in the Bay...

o the road is deep and wide...

OMG! it's Wednesday and I'm STILL locked in to the Friday lock-in at the Puff Inn. Yesterday evening Spockfingers barged his way in complete with juke box, which he lugged behind him on a "wheelie"basket nicked from Somerfield - soon to be Co-op. Luckily he also brought some marked down fruit loaf, a jar of marmalade and a packet of trifle sponges which he found in the skip at the back, and just as well too, as we ran out of salty snax on Monday morning, and were surviving only on the calories gleaned from alcohol - and we all know what problems THAT can cause. Or do we? but that's another story.
Readers might know that Spockfingers is renowned for his amazing singing voice, but that it CAN get a bit much at times - which he now realises, hence the juke box.
Records available to play on said juke box include:
Hickory Holler's Tramp, by OC Smith
This is the Captain of Your Ship, by Reperata and the Delrons
I'm Gonna Run Away from Yoo-ooo-ooo by Tammi Lynn
Me and You and a Dog Named Boo, by Lobo(tomy)
Patches by Clarence Carter.
Doubtless all stolen from Jimmy Young's record collection - more will follow, I'm sure...

Friday lock-in continues

Oh dear. I'm afraid the poultice landed foursquare on the bonce of Mrs T-G. Regular readers will remember (or they might not) that Mrs T-G (Tupfinder general) is rarely seen in public. In fact, never.
When he stopped by for a snifter last week, the T-G had hinted that "Elizabeth" as he calls her, had put on a bit of weight lately, and had been advised by the ghastly Wilson to "lose some of the beef" - or else. Wilson mimed a cutting motion at his throat, as he said "or else". So, I can only assume that the unfortunate woman was in fear for her life and had set out on a desperate "health and fitness" walk, furtively creeping along the cliffs under cover of darkness. That'll teach her to pay attention to Wilson and his ilk.
Anyway, one side effect is that the poultice had retained sufficient heat to leach some of the fat cells out of her body ("Why did it not do the same for me? I asked Geoffrey, plaintively. "It would take more than a bread poultice to make a dent in YOUR waistline, Tuppy!" he replied, jokingly. At least, I THINK he was joking...)
ANYWAY - this latest atrocity from Wilson has strengthened our resolve and we are "making plans" as I write. In fact, I'm writing this in the Puff Inn - the Friday lock-in continues...

bread poultice

Bliss! thanks to the hasty application of a boiling hot bread poultice the "vaccine" has been leached out of my behind/bloodstream. Geoffrey valiantly offered to suck the noxious subtsance out, snake venom-style, but unfortunately his beak is hardly suited to such a task.
After it had done its work, I flung the poultice out of the window, and it landed with a loud slapping noise on the bonce of some passerby or other, I'm not sure exactly who...

blimey - medical chest disaster

I don't know if it's age, the time of year, clocks going back (or is it forwards?) but I seem to have lost me thread i.e. am going what I believe psychiatrists call "doo-freakin'-lally". Quickstyle.
I reached for the sal volatile earlier today, as it usually helps at such times, but was devastated to find that the bottle which has been my saviour on so many occasions (see previous posts, if you want to know exactly HOW many occasions - but be warned - you may be some time) contained nowt but a weak, namby-pamby mixture of synthetic eucalyptus and menthol. A quick whisk through the other items in our recently re-stocked medical chest (see previous posts - recent ones this time so it shouldn't take too long) revealed a horrifying sight. No morphia. No "equipment", viz. needles and syringes. No mustard plasters. To cap it all the emergency strait jacket (sometimes required for guests) has been replaced with one made of "stretchee" lycra-mix and has velcro fastenings.
And who has so defiled our box of medical basics? the ghastly Wilson, of course! a vile little label was stuck inside the lid, informing us that previous contents constituted a red alert-style health and safety hazard, and that henceforth we would be "allowed" only junior aspirin and elastoplast, plus of course the wishy washy eucalyptus and the rubbish straitjacket. What's the point of having a straitjacket that you can get out of in a trice? we used the old one to restrain the occasional houseguest - for their own good of course, but more importantly, for our entertainment!
We suspect that Wilson has purloined the old straitjacket so that he can restrain passersby willy nilly and without a by your leave,while he fires needlesful of swine flu "untested on anything remotely sentient, but totally safe" vaccine into their unsuspecting backsides.
Fortunately, the T-G has a replacement "genuine" one, which he is prepared to lend us as we assist Titus in his efforts to "unseat" Wilson (see previous post). Hopefully we will be able to preempt his vaccination mania before too many of us lose our sanities. We expect mission to be accomplished by tomorrow tea-time at the latest. That will leave the evening free for the usual Friday lock-in at the Puff Inn.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! too late!!!!!!!!!!a large needle and syringe has just lodged itself dart-like in my behind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

we discuss how best to murder the ghastly Wilson

"Well, I'm not really into murder these days," said Titus, when we'd related the ghastly tale of how Geoffrey was incarcerated in the Old Asylum. Minus MY part in the matter, of course.
"Can't you make an exception? stretch a point given the circumstances? old chums and all that?" we pleaded.
Titus pursed his lips. "Hmmm. Well, I'll think about it. But there mustn't be any comeback, you know."
"No, of course not Titus! we won't breathe a word. And we'd be awfully grateful," I gushed eagerly.
"Awfully," Geoffrey echoed faintly. He's still not quite his usual self - and who can blame him? mind you, his feathers are growing back wonderfully thanks to Titus' mysterious ointment.
"If you could see your way clear to...well, bucking him off again? that would be wonderful," I suggested.
"I'm not sure about THAT," said Titus. "After all, he's psychopathic, not stupid. I can't see him agreeing to sit on my back after what happened last time." (see previous posts, for an account of what happened last time)
"No Titus. That's not what I had in mind at all. I was thinking more along the lines of sneaking up behind him, and giving a swift kick to, well, his behind, from behind? perhaps on a dark and stormy evening...along the cliffs... if you follow..."
"I DO, Tuppy! I DO! leave it to me. But say nothing to anyone! I don't want to have to go into hiding again."
"Consider our lips well and truly sealed, Titus..."

we receive an offer of help from an unexpected visitor

"But why on earth did you sign the papers?" Geoffrey keeps asking me. He can't seem to move on, at all, and I think it's terribly unhealthy. I know that I made a dreadful mistake, signing his incarceration papers, but can't he put the past behind him? after all, it was last week.

"Perhaps you should go to Specsavers, Tuppy," suggested the T-G, who had stopped by for a chat on his daily patrol of the cliffs. Yes, he's still keeping a weather eye on things - when he feels like it. "Whatever THAT might be."

"Never mind that. I'll buy a pair of reading glasses for three pounds, from the mobile shop. It's due round any minute."

Sure enough, we heard the clippetty clop of hooves on the path and the Speedispend "Direct" van drew up, crammed to the gunnels with all sorts of essential supplies/staff of life-style goods. Clippetty clop, you muse? and well you might, because clippetty cloppetting along, drawing the van AND making a healthy profit selling stuff "off the back", was none other than Titus (the horse who bucked Dr "ghastly" Wilson right off in the summer of 2008 - see posts for details as to how and why).

Once we'd informed Titus of Wilson's latest atrocity, we purchased some ointment for Geoffrey's baldness (never mind Granny Sooker - I've the very dab, said Titus, when he caught sight of him) and stocked up on supplies, viz., one jar Chivers Thick Cut orange marmalade, one Mother's Pride loaf, half a pound of butter, three tins korn bif, two tins spam, half a pound of streaky bacon, porridge oats, potatoes, three packets Dream Topping, two tins froot koktale, one pack butterscotch flavour Angel Delight, half a pound of kola drops, half a pound of soor plooms, one box firelighters and a box of Bluebell matches. Not to mention a complete restock of the medical chest - but I won't go into that now. Other essentials such as tobacco and madeira are still...er...procured... via the Tunnels. And just as well too, as the only alcoholic beverage stocked by Titus is a rather attractively-coloured alcopop (bright pink, bubblegum flavour). Geoffrey was tempted, and I must admit that so was I, but as I reached for a bottle, Titus slammed a hoof down on the counter. "No, Tuppy! you'll regret it."

"But why, Titus? I'm sure..."

"Very low alcohol content, combined with dangerously high levels of sugar. If you switch to bubblegum alcopops now, you'll hit withdrawals within the hour, and probably develop type 2 diabetes. Mark my words. Stick to meths 'n' madeira. After all, it's not as if you pay for it. If you're REALLY looking for something different, though, I've some white cider due to fall off the back of the van before the raised minimum price per unit kicks in."

"N-no thanks, Titus."

"Wise decision. Now what's all this about "ghastly" Wilson? what on earth's he been up to, and how can I help?"

I DO rescue Geoffrey from The Old Asylum

Well, Geoffrey's home. But he's in a terrible state - and so am I! the trauma! I've had to step up my intake of sal volatile and madeira, and supplies are running low...but more of that later. I suppose readers will be eager to know how we rescued Geoffrey from the insane asylum. What happened is this.
After filling his pipe with a potent mixture of Old Fogey and gripping it between his teeth, the Tupfinder strapped on a brace of pistols and said, "Rightoh! off we jolly well pop!"
"Er...are you quite sure that you don't want to change into something more...suitable?" I postulated, concerned that the T-G was stiil wearing his dressing gown and slippers.
"I could say the same about YOU, Tuppy! but of course you're quite right."
I blushed, and looked at my reflection in the silver tea pot. Not an attractive sight. While the T-G stepped into his dressing room to change into his tweeds, I decided to rid myself of the satin loons once and for all. I seized the butter knife, jabbed it into a side seam and ripped the stitching down the left leg - one down, one to go...
"Come on Tuppy! no time to waste!" The Tupfinder appeared, dressed head to toe in tweed and carrying a sword stick and a bag of tools. I could see the pistols bulging under his jacket.
"But I..."
"Come ON!"
So off we set, me now wearing half the pair of tight satin loons and barely able to walk due to a terrible attack of pins and needles as the returning blood surged into my appendage.
We rattled along in the Tupfinder's hansom cab and before long we found ourselves at the ivy-covered gates of The Old Asylum. There was an awful creaking sound as the gates swung open and a raven croaked alarmingly from the depths of an old oak as we cantered up the neglected driveway.
As we drew up, a forlorn face peered wanly from an upper window - it was Geoffrey!
The Tupfinder shinned up the ivy in a trice and jemmied the window open.
"Out you pop old son. Can you fly?"
"N-no." Of course he couldn't...poor Geoffrey had had all his feathers shorn off by the asylum attendants...for his own good, they said.
So the T-G carried him back down to the carriage on his shoulder, and we had an emotional reunion.
"Oh Geoffrey, Geoffrey!" I sobbed, "Whatever have they done to you?"
Now we're safely back at the Outcrop, and Geoffrey is in his usual place toasting his toes by the fire enjoying a plateful of "tangy Cheese" Doritos and a hot mug of madeira. I'm sure he'll be back to his usual self in no time.
We're going to have to find some way of making his feathers grow back quick-style, though. It's getting a bit parky of an evening.
Perhaps we might have to consult...Granny Sooker (gulp)....

I plan to rescue geoffrey from the old asylum

Well, things have gone from bad to worse over the past week, and who's responsible? Wilson. Yes, the ghastly Wilson has been indulging in a bit of medical control freakery AGAIN.
This time, he's gone too far. Geoffrey was detained, don't ask me why, because I haven't time to explain at the moment, by said ghastly Wilson, under the Mental Health (Scotland) Act, 1960, section 31, without so much as a by your leave. Well, it did require my signature on the papers...but honestly, my eyesight isn't what it was and I simply didn't know what it was that I was signing. I assumed that I was receiving something pleasant like a parcel via Razor Bill (postman) when Wilson thrust the paper under my nose. Little did I know that I was sending Geoffrey to the padded cell, major tranquillisers and a straitjacket.
Wilson said that Geoffrey was suffering from prolonged and repeated bouts of melancholia, not to mention incipient psychosis, and declared him completely and irrevocably insane. And all because Geoffrey insists on having some "down time" once in a while! My usual "treatment" is to leave him be, wrapped in his favourite tartan knee rug and nursing a large mug of hot madeira. If he doesn't seem to be snapping out of it after a bit, I open a packet of Chili Heatwave Doritos and waft it under his nose - that usually does the trick. If not, I take my socks off - but that's a last resort as the fumes affect my sinuses really badly.
But none of these tried and tested home remedies washed with Wilson, who barged into the Outcrop waving a syringe and insisting that Geoffrey required to be taken away from his familiar home environment and locked up in an out of the way cell in a rundown building that could be perfect as a set for a Hammer horror film with total strangers and force fed massive doses of major tranquillisers, for his own good.
Once Geoffrey was whisked away in the horse drawn white van (at first light might I add), I rushed over to Tupfinder Towers to seek counsel from the T-G. I was in a terrible state.
"Help! help!" was all I could manage, waving the carbon copy of Geoffrey's detention certificate.
"Don't worry, Tuppy. I've already seen the van. And I'll think you'll find that Wilson has acted quite illegally. He's living in the past." The Tupfinder General, sporting zip up slippers and a snazzy woollen dressing gown of Tupwatch Tartan, calmly sipped a mug of tea as he spoke, and brushed some toast crumbs from his lap.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing he's used the wrong Mental Health Act. 1960? It no longer applies."
"So we'll have him out of there - wherever "there" is - in no time?"
"Yes, of course we will. Now sit down and have some breakfast before we set off."
A large plateful of bacon, eggs, kidneys, fried bread, sausages, black pudding, mushrooms and tomato appeared as if by magic via "dumb waiter", and I tucked in. I'd need a decent lining on my stomach if I was off to rescue Geoffrey...

drat! locked out of the lock in!!

Well! I'm black affronted! I made my way down to the Puff Inn (Geoffrey is indisposed at present - he takes these "turns" occasionally, and it's best to leave him alone to recover his, well, how can I put it? scattered senses) and was rudely dismissed.
Okay, I admit I'd indulged in a glass or two of Somerfield's version of Duke of Malmsey's finest, but to be refused admittance to my own local hostelry? What happened is this.
I ambled across the clifftops, admiring the view of the moonlight shining on the calm waters of the Minch and observing Baby Orca slowly circling in the bay below me, Spockfingers back legs still sticking out of his mouth and kicking wildly. I was still sporting my fancy dress outfit (Billy Ocean - see previous posts) from the party the other week, simply because I could not get the trousers off (satin loons). They're far too close a fit. I could cut them off, I suppose, but I don't want to ruin them...anyway I'll deal with that later...
Anyway, I arrived eventually at the Puff Inn, and tapped on the window as is my wont, only to be met with horrified stares from those within, and the curtains whisked across.
"It's me, Tuppy," I cried wistfully, thinking that perhaps they didn't know me due to my outfit.
"We know perfectly well who you are. Sod off," a sinister voice growled.
The curtains were still open just a tiny bit, and I could see the flickering of a cosy fire and hear the clinking of pewter mugs and the crunching of salty snax as the chosen few laughed and chatted together in the companionable warmth.
A thick drizzle began to fall, and I turned for home...I can only hope that dear old Geoffrey is recovering swiftly from his "turn". I don't cope well when he's not available to help me with these type of distressing-style upsets. Plus, I need him to help me cut the loons off toot sweet before they saw me in two - they've shrunk a bit due to being out in the rain...
But who was the owner of the sinister voice? I've a fair idea.

spockfingers plunges off the cliff....

Quick summary of weekend before last's final hours, before moving on to THIS weekend's. Suffice to say, Spockfingers arrived, and joined in with the rousing finale to Sweet Child in Time, ignoring the clouds of thick smoke billowing from the leccy socket.
"That wiz grate, Tuppmeister", opined Spockfingers, stamping his feet/hooves enthusiastically (Tuppence is sometimes referred to as The Tuppmeister. Of course, that should be MY nickname...but I'll deal with that later...) "Noo let's hae a go at Fanfare for the Common M-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-...................................." and his voice faded into a ghastly fading scream type thing, as he plunged of the cliff - yes, the blaze - the second in the space of two weeks, bear in mind - had weakened the cliff edge, leading it to crumble and collapse under Spockfingers' stamping feet and massive bulk.
On his way down, he let rip with a humungous anal emission - for which he is renowned - please see previous posts for an account of me lighting one and blasting my way forth from the belly of the beast - this propelled him earthwards, or should I say, BAY wards - at an even faster rate and he landed headfirst, smack in the jaws of Baby Orca, who as usual was lurking in the bay waiting for passing victims.
Methinks Spockfingers will prove too strong a meat for even Baby Orca, and I'm sure he will be belched forth before too long....
Off to the Puff Inn for the Friday lock in now...

slaughterhouse fifty five

Party party party! those were the words which greeted us as we arrived at the newly refurbished Old Rectory last weekend. No, not that weekend just gone past - the one BEFORE.
Yes, it's taken us that long to recover. Apsley and Cherry had really gone to town with a BBQ, patio heaters, outdoor jacuzzi, Dansette record player plugged in to an extension cable, mirror ball and flashing disco lights. Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) were guests of honour, as they redesigned the place of course. They've gone for a "retro" 70s look, very rustic, with dried flowers and gourds everywhere, and really uncomfortable orange moquette furniture. The wallpaper was the same as Jack Regan's in The Sweeney - sort of large, intersecting greenish and cream squares, specially chosen to clash horribly with the orange moquette.
The drinks (purple peril, natch) were served in olde style pint mugs, the ones you don't get any more in pubs (except in the Puff Inn, of course).
The food was to die for (more of that later!) Cherry had excelled herself as usual. Not only did we have our fave korn bif and pineapple chunk kebabs, there were weird things on sticks, jammed into upside down oranges covered with foil, such as sausages (my fave!!) cheese kubes (Hmmm....) pickled onions (better) and maraschino cherries (take them or leave them, personally).
And the guests!! first, the more savoury ones. Me and Geoffrey, of course, The Tupfinder General (Mrs T-G did not appear, as per), Stormy (appeared after closing time with a welcome couple of crates of meths), Razor Bill, and of course Ranald and Sandy. We all wore fancy dress by the way - the theme was 70s, to match the decor. Ranald and Sandy rather boringly wore denims and long wigs, and came as "The Sutherland Brothers" - very disappointing and out of character. Razor Bill wore moon boots (goodness knows where he dug them up from - but more of that later!) and came as David Cassidy - Stormy came as Robert Plant, which we thought doesn't really count as apart from wrinkles he looks pretty much the same regardless of decade - the T-G came as Sherlock Holmes, and nobody had the nerve to tell him he'd got it badly wrong (he thought theme was the 1870s).
I got my wool tightly permed and dyed black, wore blue satin flares, platform soles and a sequinned jacket and came as Billy Ocean. Geoffrey was mortified and almost refused to go to the party at all. In the end, he wore a long white cape and a blond wig, and went as Rick Wakeman.
Now for the UNsavoury guests. True to form, Tuppence arrived mob-handed with his gang of rats, and proceeded to "diss" the entire party, saying the music was "crap" (Apsley's Top of the Pops album 1972 with not the right singers on it, was playing at the time, so maybe he had a point...)and the food inedible (well, I suppose he had a point there too - some of it definitely was...and coming from me, that's saying a lot...) He then plugged in his moog, to Apsley and Cherry's generator, shouting "I'LL give you 70s" and started blasting out the opening bit from Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time.
As the song progressed, and Tuppence's screeching and screaming reached a ghastly crescendo, the generator began to overheat and smoke began to pour from the electric socket.
Before we knew it, a raging fire had started - AGAIN!!!!
more later....

the Fulmars invite us to a party/do

Great news! Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) have finished remodelling the Old Rectory (which people are rather churlishly blaming ME for burning down! see previous posts as to why this ridiculous accusation was made - as if it was MY fault the meths got spilt over the BBQ) and Apsley and Cherry are all set to move back in. They're fed up living in the caravan - it would do Geoffrey and me quite nicely as a holiday home/weekend retreat-style dwelling, but Cherry does like her comforts.
A large Speedispend van arrived at the Old Rectory this afternoon, stuffed full of every electrical appliance and mod con under the sun. (Cherry says the stuff's not costing her a penny, as she's put it on plastic and in any case will be getting a load of Speedispend kloobkahd money-back-style vouchers just in time for Christmas - personally I'm not quite sure she's got that right but time will tell) Chief item of interest alongside the foot spas, plug in back massagers etc. was a replacement 62 inch telly, and an invite arrived via Razor Bill this morning to an X Factor/housewarming-style party/do, this Saturday evening!
Let's just hope the house doesn't get TOO warm - like it did last time when it burnt down!

what exactly happens, after death?

Last evening, as we sat by our roaring driftwood fire, and chatted aimlessly over a glass of madeira and a pipe or two, Geoffrey and I realised that we had tired of our fave topic, "Is Death Avoidable?", and have taken the logical step of turning to the next rung up so to speak, viz., "Is There Life After Death?", or, "What Exactly Happens, After Death?".
"Does this mean that we've accepted Death as inevitable?" I mused.
"No Tuppy, of course we haven't," replied Geoffrey, refilling his pipe.
"All the same that doesn't mean that we're going to stop eating pies, surely?" I asked, worriedly.
"No. Pies, salty/fatty snax and processed meats will remain a major part of our diets. Have no fear on that front, Tuppy."
"What on earth do you mean then? According to the ghastly Wilson, our diet is killing us. Salt, the silent killer. Kidneys like conkers. Fatty atheromas. Plaques. You name it, we've got it."
"Yes, but who is Wilson, really? what does he really know? all this so-called research that he bangs on about viz a viz our diets could be just a load of old pants, quite frankly. And look at the state of him! So pale and scrawny. And that's him living on seaweed."
"Or so he says, Geoffrey. I've often suspected he might supplement his so-called diet with something else...but more of that later. I agree he does look as if he could do with a good feed."
"Yes and he's SO tense all the time! ranting on about people's mortality and getting worked up."
"Yes. I'm surprised that HE doesn't have a heart attack. He wants to chill out a bit. Anyway enough about Wilson. Get back to the point, please, Geoffrey. You were saying that we haven't given up on the idea that death could be avoidable?"
"Of course we haven't. But we might as well digress for a bit to consider what might happen should death occur - afterwards."
"Oh." I must say my heart sank as I contemplated this ghastliness. All sorts of depressing scenarios flooded my brain. Life without Geoffrey! And never mind that - would there be madeira, and crisps?
"No, Geoffrey, this won't do at all. This is depressing the hell out of me. We'll have to return to sunnier climes, viz., is Death Avoidable. And pass me that plateful of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches while you're at it."

I swap a knee rug for my immortal soul

Last evening, Geoffrey and I were enjoying our usual glass of madeira in front of a roaring driftwood fire. We sat in companionable silence for an hour or so, puffing away on pipefuls of Black Bogey and toasting our feet. Then...
"What's that awful smell?" said Geoffrey.
"Burning rubber, " I replied. The sole of my slipper had started to melt. Not for the first time.
Once we'd removed the slipper and set it at the front door to re-solidify, we sat down again and began to discuss our fave topic, viz. "Is Death Avoidable?" Regular readers will know that this involves a reflection on the point or otherwise of reducing dietary fat intake and increasing regular exercise. Usually we decide that there's no point in doing either - why make life more unpleasant that it needs to be?
As we did so, a shadow passed back and forth outside our window - the Grim Reaper himself, complete with scythe - the miserable old so and so.
"Get lost!" we shouted. "You're much too early. The winter hasn't even set in."
"Why isn't he down at the bay?" muttered Geoffrey. "After all, there's plenty work for him there, what with the new trip wire and all."
"Yes," a ghastly voice intoned (the Reaper), "but the tourist season's nearly over. I'm all out of cyclists and kayakers. I'm having to spread my net a bit wider. Can I come in? It's a bit nippy out here."
"No! go and spread your net somewhere else, why don't you?" I snapped. "What about Tuppence's wrecking light? aren't there any doomed seafarers you can pick on?"
"Good idea. Forgot about that. But I'm still awfully chilly."
"Tuppy - give him your tartan knee rug. And what about your zip up slippers? the sole's gone on one anyway."
With a sigh, I opened the door a crack and handed the Reaper said knee rug and slippers.
And off he went. For now...
"I want the rug back mind," I called. The Reaper replied with a nonchalant wave as he shuffled off down the hillside.
"Tuppy!" hissed Geoffrey. "You fool! You've given him a reason to return. Let him keep the thing. It's a small exchange for your immortal soul, after all."
"Ooops! I didn't think of that!"

embattled

My goodness, we're really getting them "Hereabouts". Fanatics, extreme sports enthusiasts, or "strangers" as we like to refer to them. They're either whizzing down the hillside on bikes, or kayaking across the bay clad in startlingly coloured lycra - which I have to say, does nobody any favours.
As readers will know, we prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves "Hereabouts", and don't particularly welcome visitors with their demands for mod cons and muesli-style breakfast cereals.
We had an emergency top level meeting at Tupfinder Towers, in which we discussed a strategy, viz., setting up a lengthy trip wire to run along the hillside, parallel with the cliffs, and similar in style and effect to the one which so effectively despatched the "stranger in our midst" just a few days ago. If we can manage to connect it up to the old generator over at the Old Rectory, and electrify it, better still. (by the way - renovations at the Old Rectory are continuing apace and it should be ready for habitation very soon. Apsley and Cherry have been forced to move out of Tupfinder Towers due to Mrs T-G having "one of her turns" and brandishing a carving knife at them over the dinner table, while screaming "are you NEVER going to leave?", and are living in a caravan next to the Old Rectory)
Not that we mean any harm to anyone, of course. Once they've tumbled off their bikes it's hardly our fault if they end up in the bay, a thousand feet below. And hardly our fault if they can't swim fast enough to avoid the snapping jaws of Baby Orca. Mind you, he's quite likely to be full up after bingeing on kayakers.
So, we feel satisfied with our plan to keep Ourselves to Ourselves and fight off the encroachment of the modern world. So far, so good.

Back at the Outcrop, after we'd rescued all the survivors and helped them on their way, Geoffrey and the T-G gave me a serious talking to, in the course of which I shamefacedly blurted out the details of my gruesome deal with baby orca.
"Foolish animal," said the T-G, who was still waxing stern. "Why worry about a few death threats from a killer whale? he can only harm you if you go into the water."
"Or near it," ventured Geoffrey.
"Indeed," agreed the T-G. "So no more talk about throwing people over the top willy nilly. Tell baby orca to stop throwing his weight about and crack open that barrel of illicit madeira."
Why didn't I think of that? of course I'm safe on dry land! perfectly safe...unless...well, I must admit I'm a little concerned that once he realises I've welshed he will enlist the help of A.N. Other, i.e. a hired assassin, to do me in. Tuppence and the rats, perchance?
They will soon tire of wrecking - too much effort - and I'm sure no activity is too nefarious for Tuppence and his gang - in fact, the more nefarious the better.
The T-G has agreed to lend me a musket, just in case...

ship ahoy

More gloom. Although...I must say, for my part it's more gloom mixed with relief. I feel terrible for saying that, but the way things stand with baby orca, well, I have to put myself first, after all. What choice do I have?
Readers will remember (if not, please delve back through previous posts) that baby orca pursued me for ages in a relentless attempt to seek revenge for his mother's death. He's still after me - hence the deal that we struck recently, in which I agreed to provide him with "fresh meat" on demand. (How did I manage to strike a deal with a killer whale? well, I used the heliograph, over by the old coastguard hut, and signalled to him in morse code from the cliff top. He replied in the following manner - one blast from his blowhole for "yes", and two for "no".)
Today's emotional "melange" comprises a) "gloom" because naturally like (almost) everyone else I do have feelings, can empathise, sense another's pain blah blah blah yawn oops! I mean etc. and so forth, and so when Tuppence's wrecking light succeeded in grounding a ship on the rocks close to shore early this morning, I was quite distraught, horrified, appalled and so on, and hurried down to the shore to see what could be done; and b) "relief", which, despite my efforts to dismiss it from my mind, forced itself into the emotional sunlight as I realised with (I'm ashamed to say) some joy that here before my eyes was the perfect breakfast for Baby Orca.
Geoffrey observed me jumping up and down with excitement, and knew immediately that something was up.
"What have you been up to, Tuppy? there's something you're not telling me. Out with it!"
"Let's get back to the outcrop first Geoffrey, and I'll tell you all about it over a glass of madeira. In fact, I think I see a barrel floating in the water over there. Hand me that stick. I'll just..."
"No you won't! you'll help the rest of us rescue the survivors. Have you no decency?" It was the Tupfinder, waxing "stern".
I gulped. Here I was, thinking of looting barrels of illicit madeira, when there were arms and legs waving helplessly in the bay. How could I be so callous?

nasty accident in the bay

Goodness, what a weekend we've had. Geoffrey and I battled our way along to the Puff Inn - and through a Force 9 gale might I add. No joke when you've got a nine hundred foot drop on your lee side and a list to port. (or something like that anyway).
Of course we were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the "stranger in our midst", but we all overindulged in the Purple Peril and after a while it didn't seem to matter quite as much that some narcissistic nutter had taken it upon himself to treat us like some sort of experiment for nothing short of his own unhealthy edification.
"Let him film us!" I remember shouting, standing on a table and brandishing a brimming pewter mugful of Stormy's finest. "What do we care? We've nothing to hide!"
Everyone applauded loudly and showed their approval by blowing up empty crisp bags and bursting them.
Naturally Stormy had his usual Friday lock-in and everything's pretty much a blank after that.
Next day, we were wending our way back along the cliffs after a "heart starter", and looking forward to a slap up breakfast, when we spotted what looked like a bundle of brightly coloured lycra rags, drifting in the bay below.
"Oh dear. How dreadfully, dreadfully sad," we said insincerely. "Looks like the "stranger" came a cropper in the gale last night. Dearie, dearie me."
Was he blown off the cliffs in the gale? Possibly - after all, it was a bad one. OR, was he "assisted" on his watery way, by "someone" setting an electrified trip wire in front of his tent? we'll never know for sure, and I couldn't possibly comment.
HOWEVER- sighted swimming round and round the bay in a very smug manner and looking rather full up, was baby orca. Coincidence? hardly. Let's just say, strictly between ourselves, that after a lengthy feud (see previous posts as to why I had to blast my way out of his mother's belly - twice - thus leading to aforesaid lengthy feud) baby orca and I have reached an "arrangement" viz. I keep him "fed", and he leaves me alone.
No, it isn't nice, I know. But needs must. Obviously Geoffrey and the T-G know nothing of this. They'd never permit such appalling behaviour. I feel dreadful about keeping secrets from dear old Geoffrey, but I want the nightmares to stop - it was awful closing my eyes at night and seeing him there, those enormous teeth, the huge dorsal fin, the snapping jaws, the beady little eye seeking, always seeking his prey - ME!!! I know it's wrong of me to even contemplate throwing living beings over the top in order to save myself, but honestly I can't think what on earth else to do. Oh well.
Besides, I probably won't have to contribute to his diet for the foreseeable, because something tells me he won't be going short of food for quite some while. Tuppence has been spotted setting up a wrecking light along the cliffs. He's up to his old tricks again, back in the tunnels, with the rats. No good can come of this, at all....

red alert - outdoor fanatic spotted

Newsflash - everything on hold - there's a stranger in our midst, viz. some outdoor fanatic wearing camouflage gear and living in a tent. He's carrying some sort of portable camera, and films himself, constantly, and even attempts to film US!! he - apparently - thinks he's living "rough" in "the wilderness", and plans to broadcast his "experiences" on telly! which we won't even be able to watch, since Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's place burned down (see recent posts) along with their 62" LCD TV.
Obviously this won't do at all. Something will have to be done. Personally, I'd chuck him "over the top" immediately, no question, (see Gazetteer and previous posts for details of this practice), but the T-G, Geoffrey, Razor Bill, Stormy et al prefer to have a top level meeting to decide on the proper, morally-correct-style course of action. So, tomorrow night a formal meeting of Everyone Hereabouts wil be convened at the Puff Inn, 8.30 sharp. Purple Perils and salty/hi fat snax to be provided by Stormy for a small remuneration.
Weather forecast is for gales and torrential rain - I only hope we make it...

attack of the vapours

Good heavens - what a morning it's been and it's only eleven o'clock. I was awakened at some ungodly hour by Razor Bill hammering on the door with the post and whistling horribly through his teeth - the few he has left, anyway. Normally this doesn't occur until mid-afternoon, by which time I'm more compos mentis. Anyway I staggered to my feet in my nightcap, tartan dressing gown and zip up slippers, gripping my favourite Meerschaum pipe between my teeth - the few I have left, anyway - and clutching a glass containing some dregs of last night's final bottle of madeira, and flung open the door.
"What ho, Tuppy!" he bellowed.
"What ho? what on earth do you mean by that? And why are you shouting?"
"He's still got his earplugs in, Tuppy. Look," said Geoffrey, from the kitchen, where he had his pinny on, preparing our usual breakfast of square sausage, fried egg, fried bread, fried tomato, bacon (grilled), fried mushroooooooms, followed by buttered toast and marmalade and washed down by gallons of tea.
I did indeed look, and sure enough I detected two pink wax thingies protruding from either ear. After extracting them and flinging them into the fire (they were revolting) we all sat down to enjoy our meal.
"Have you plugged in the defibrillator, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, anxiously, as he helped himself to another slice of fried bread.
"Of course. Now to more important subjects. Any news of Tupfinder Towers, and the Fulmars?"
"They're still there," said Bill, "But only because they refuse to leave. It's..."
"May I come in?" a voice called weakly from the door. It was the T-G himself, worn to an almost unrecognisable frazzle by his houseguests (the Fulmars - see previous posts).
"Oh - by the way - before I forget - you have a letter," Bill added, handing it to me ( see previous post for "letter" i.e. comment from reader!).
I was so shocked by this unusual event that I had an attack of the vapours and fainted dead away. Swiftly revived, of course, by a whiff of sal volatile and a few thousand volts from the defibrillator...

oh dear oh dear

Oh dear oh dear. I'm afraid we've had a bit of a week. On Monday last, Ranald and Sandy took a break from their labours trying to rebuild the Old Rectory, and went for a stretch of the wings. They headed north west, where Baby Orca (BO) was spotted patrolling the outer reaches of The Minch. He seemed to be building himself up into a frenzy, swimming round in tighter and tighter circles, while moving south east, i.e. towards US.
Bad enough - but directly in his path, they spotted Tuppence, sculling away for dear life.
Fortunately, the two of them managed to heave the coracle into the air, Tuppence safely on board but screaming the most foul abuse imaginable.
He likes to think he can handle any situation, hence his wrath. Hurt pride, plain and simple. But Ranald and Sandy were having none of it.
"Out you go, ungrateful brat!" they said, and tipped the coracle over. Tuppence hurtled to the ground - well, sea - where he had to swim like billy be jiggered while the orca powered his way towards him with a very determined look on his face. He made it to land, give him his due, but we're not sure where he is at the moment. Possibly hiding out in one of the tunnels, plotting his next exploit...
Meanwhile, the Fulmars are getting short shrift at Tupfinder Towers. Mrs T-G says they are eating her out of house and home, and using up all the hot water. The Tupfinder general is spending all his spare time here at the Outcrop, puffing away on his pipe in a very agitated manner and drinking all our madeira, saying he's desperate for some peace and quiet...
The sooner Ranald and Sandy get the Old Rectory up and running, the better.

the old rectory burns to the ground, and I get the blame

Geoffrey and I are having a quiet day today, huddled by the fireside with our kneerugs and steaming mugs of hot madeira as the rain pours down outside. Mind you, even if the rain wasn't pouring down, we'd both be pretty incapable of movement.
"Great to be back home again, Geoffrey."
"Indeed, Tuppy. Just wish we hadn't overindulged at the Fulmars' on Friday. Have you got any more Bisodal by the way?"
We were all invited to BBQ at the Fulmars' on Friday night, in honour of Ranald and Sandy's forthcoming re-modelling of the Old Rectory. Cherry had made up some of her famous korn bif and pineapple kebabs, and I'm sorry to say it and risk seeming ungrateful, but Apsley undercooked them. Geoffrey spotted that the gas jets on the barbeque were burning with a sinister yellow, not blue, flame, and pointed this out to Apsley, emphasizing the risk to us all of carbon monoxide poisoning, not to mention some sort of ghastly improperly-heated-through-food-style poisoning, as well.
"Rubbish! relax and have another drink, Geoff!" said Apsley in his fulsome way, slapping Geoffrey on the shoulder and pouring him another brimming glass of purple peril (meths based drink - see previous posts for recipe). Geoffrey hates being slapped on the shoulder, and he hates being called "Geoff" as well, but he was much too polite to say so. I therefore felt obliged to step in and say something.
Unfortunately, as I stepped forwards, my foot caught in the trailing string of Apsley's special plastic BBQ apron (ghastly - female Fulmar in black underwear on front), and I tripped, banging in to Geoffrey, and knocking his glassful of Purple Peril all over the BBQ, which consequently was set ablaze in no uncertain manner.
Some fool attempted to stem the flames by pouring more meths over, and you can imagine the result.
The Old Rectory was burnt to the ground, jacuzzi, 62" telly, Cherry's Burt Bacharach albums, decking, the lot. We all had to run for our lives!!!
We offered the Fulmars the sanctuary of our settee here at the Outcrop, which they declined rather sniffily, partly because they blame ME for the fire!! and partly because the Outcrop falls a tad short of their usual requirements viz a viz accommodation i.e. we have no "mod cons".
So they are now ensconced in the East Wing of Tupfinder Towers, which has ensuite facilities and gives a lovely view of the sea, so they imagine. (I think the ensuite facilities likely consist of a hole in the floor of the bedroom, with a "drop" on to the seaweed covered rocks below (East Wing is on the fourth floor) - not sure how Cherry will cope with that, but I'm sure we'll hear all about it - I'll bet there is no soft bog roll, either)
No sign of Tuppence yet - Geoffrey flew a mile or two out for a recce but saw nothing.
We can only hope that the Orca is still away visiting his family in the Southern Ocean...

heading for home

What luck! turns out Ranald and Sandy had stopped off at Flannan Isle for a breather on their way to "Hereabouts..." ( see gazetteer for info.) , where they've been invited to give Apsley and Cherry's abode, The Old Rectory, a makeover.
"But WHY? Only last year they got it stonecladded and decked and goodness knows what all else." we asked.
"That's precisely why," replied Ranald. "They want all that stripped down now. They're sick of it. They want a different look for the autumn. More rustic, I think, wasn't it Sandy? Log fires and sheaves of dried this and that? Gourds and twig-type stuff, in earthenware pots? Textured fabrics, in natural tones?"
Sandy shrugged. "No earthly idea and frankly I could not care one jot. They're SO tacky, and they won't listen to advice. It's their way, or no way. Frankly I'd rather it was no way, as I've NO interest in working for them, but what with the recession we need the money. Anyway - can we offer the two of you a lift back to the Outcrop?"
"Yes!!" we chorused, clambering on to their enormous backs.
"Hang on!" they shouted, as they unfurled their beautiful white wings, took off into the westering wind and soared homewards.
As we soared skywards, we glimpsed some wreckage. It looked very much like a pile of rusting tin cans - rusting korn bif tins, to be precise. In fact, we deduced that it was Tuppence's latest TTD (time travelling device - see previous posts), which must have crash-landed on Flannan Isle, hence his mysterious presence on the island. As we flew over the Minch, we glimpsed a tiny white woolly figure clad in yellow oilskins, sculling valiantly away, heading for...well, hard to tell really. But I'm sure it was Tuppence.

welcome visitors

We slithered over the rocks towards the cave where we'd stashed the coracle, closely followed by Tuppence, still firing off the odd shot.
"You're on a hiding to nothing, uncle Tuppy," he shrieked above the gale. "Look!"
We turned and glanced quickly over our shoulders, to see Tuppence brandishing something small in his hand.
"Oh no. It's the bung." Geoffrey's shoulders dropped in despair.
"What?"
"The bung. From the coracle. Without it, it'll sink like a stone."
With that, Tuppence scurried past us, bung in hand, and proceeded to retrieve the coracle.
"Bye, uncle Tuppy!" he screamed as he sculled out into thirty foot waves. "Happy landings!"
"He's gone completely off his rocker," I said. "But we still don't know how he got here in the first place. He must have had a craft of some sort. We'd better have a look round once the gale dies down."
"Yes," said Geoffrey. "Perhaps there's something we can salvage."
"Geoffrey, " I said, "I need to say something at this juncture. Please don't worry about me. You have wings. You can fly away whenever you like. Please don't stay here and starve with me. I'll be all right on my own. Please don't worry about me, being left here to die alone on the rocks, with no-one to comfort me. Don't worry in the least. Just you go, and save yourself. I'll be fine. Honestly."
"Nonsense, Tuppy!" cried Goeffrey, with tears in his eyes. "If I DO fly away..."
"Oh!" a small cry escaped my lips.
"If I DO fly away, " he continued, with a smile, "It will only be to fetch help. Don't worry, Tuppy. I'd never leave you to die."
Suddenly the gale died down, and we felt another breeze - as enormous wings flapped around our heads...
"Ranald and Sandy! how lovely of you to stop by!" cried Geoffrey. It was the Wand'ring Albatrosse's. What luck!

trapped in the lighthouse with an armed maniac

We followed Tuppence's advice and struggled out into the howling elements to rescue the coracle. Luckily for Tuppence, he was sporting full gale-style protection kit, viz. an oilskin coat which reached to his ankles, seaboots, and a matching oilskin hat. Geoffrey and I were less fortunate. Of course, my wool does contain lanolin, and Geoffrey's feathers have waterproofing, nevertheless we soon found ourselves shivering and soaked through as we battled across the slippery seaweed covered rocks to the shingle beach where we'd stashed the coracle.
Eventually we managed to drag it into a cave high above the tide line, where it should be safe enough.
After, we restored ourselves with some emergency madeira and cake rations beside a crackling driftwood fire, inside the lighthouse.
"But what on earth are you DOING here, uncle Tuppy?" queried Tuppence, fixing me with his most piercing and disapproving gaze.
"I might ask you the same question, nephew," I replied, refusing to be intimidated by his stare.
"Can't say," he said curtly. "Top secret. Special ops."
"For goodness sake! don't be so melodramatic!" I snapped, then instantly regretted my loss of self control as Tuppence threw off his oilskin to reveal a brace of pistols stuck into his belt.
"Don't worry, uncle Tuppy. I won't use them. Unless I HAVE to."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. Tuppence was even more power mad than ever. We would need to take steps. Either that, or leave the island asap.
As soon as Tuppence nodded off by the fire, Geoffrey and I had a whispered confab.
"We can't let him go around behaving like this, Tuppy! Carrying pistols, and throwing his weight about! He's completely deluded! he's going to end up in the hulks!"
"Hold on a minute, Geoffrey. We don't know who's pulling his strings, do we? For all we know, he really could be on special ops.."
"Rubbish! he's bonkers! let's get those pistols off him while he's still asleep."
Suddenly, a hail of shot blasted into the lighthouse wall, and the initial T appeared in bulletholes above the fireplace.
"You fools!" laughed Tuppence, twirling the smoking pistols then sticking them back into his belt.
Geoffrey and I backed towards the door as swiftly as possible under the circumstances. Trapped on Flannan Isle, with a maniac armed to the teeth? there was only one thing to do...
RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

a surprise meeting on Flannan Isle

Well we're still on the Flannan Isles and a wild and windy spot it is. We're quite sheltered in the old lighthouse, but it's terribly creepy (to put it mildly). The door was swinging open on its rusty old hinges when we arrived, and inside all was dank and dark. Geoffrey struck a match and revealed the cobwebby remains of the lighthouse keepers' final meal - a bit of stale bread and the dregs of some ale. Which I polished off - no point wasting it - and I have to say it was a damn sight tastier than Scott's last biscuit (see previous posts - some while ago, I got into a lot of trouble after scoffing that).

We got the fire lit and were toasting ourselves by its flickering light when we heard ghostly footsteps in the stairwell which spirals upwards to the light itself. At first we blamed it on the wind, which was beginning to howl abominably, and the pattering of rain on the tiny leaded window, but the volume intensified, the footsteps thundered downwards towards us, and eventually we huddled together behind the door in terror for our lives...

Suddenly the door burst open, and a voice piped, "Better move the coracle further up the beach uncle Tuppy!"

It was Tuppence, my incorrigible nephew - but what on earth was he doing, on Flannan Isle?

an unexpected holiday

Spockfingers threw himself on to the settee and promptly fell sound asleep. The snoring was so unbelievably loud that the walls and roof of the outcrop began to shake alarmingly. We decided we'd have to wake him up - no easy task - and instantly regretted it, because he then burst into song. Awful renditions of various "numbers" he remembered from T in the Park. We tried to find out how long he intended to stay with us, but he refused to say.
Eventually, we decided that if HE wasn't moving, WE would have to. So, we got out the old coracle, packed a few belongings and supplies into a couple of teachests and set off into the blue. We sculled and sculled with a following wind, past the time-space continuum anomaly, and the Infra Inn, and the Hulks, (now rusting and empty, thankfully - see last years posts if you want to know how we rescued all the poor sheep who were awaiting slaughter) until we cleared the headland of "Over There".
Eventually, we reached the archipelago of St Kilda, but the seas were against us and we had to scull away again through mountainous waves. After sailing through the night, we ended up at the old lighthouse on the Flannan Isles.
We're still there...

spockfingers returns

Well! you'll never guess what happened just before the poker dice game got underway. Just as Tuppence and Wilson were getting down to serious business, I offered to crack open another bottle of Duke of Malmsey's finest in order to oil the wheels of...the game, or whatever. This was declined by Wilson, who of course is - or claims to be - a very strict teetotaller. I then - out of sheer politeness - offered to make an innocent pot of tea, which he accepted, with the rather churlish caveat "make sure you give the cup a good wash, Tuppy, I don't want swine flu". Unfortunately, I failed to secure the cover of the spout (it's a whistling kettle, of course) and when the kettle reached boiling point, said cover blew off making a noise like a pistol shot and whacked Wilson square in the temple.
He then crashed to the floor like a felled tree, and in a trice Geoffrey flew to the sideboard and retrieved the sal volatile from the medicine chest. After waving it beneath Wilson's nose for a few seconds, he opened his eyes, sat up, and regaled us with several verses of "Spaceman" by well-known pop combo, the Killers.
"Oh oh oh oh, Oh oh oh ohoh..."
"Where did you learn that song?" asked Tuppence.
"I've no earthly clue," replied Wilson, rubbing his temple. "The song which came into my head when I came round, was Chris de Burgh's "A Spaceman Came Travelling", but somehow this other one came out when I started singing."
"FA-A-A-A-B-ulous choice!" a familiar voice bellowed from the doorway. It was none other than Mr Spockfingers, who had stopped off to sing backing with the Killers at T in the Park on his way home from the health farm he was sent to after failing to win Britain's Got Talent (see previous posts please, if you'd like more details....)

we dice with death

Tuppence stopped by last evening. First time we'd seen him properly in ages.
"Crikey you've aged, Uncle Tuppy," he trilled in his callous way."In fact, you look like DEATH!"
I took another sip of madeira, and stared at him sourly. "You might at least say death warmed up."
"Heh heh heh." a horrible snigger emanated from outside the half opened window. Geoffrey flew over.
"Wilson!"
Who else. There he was, clad in black, swinging his scythe without a by your leave or a care in the world.
"Come in, Wilson, why don't you," I suggested in a cold high voice. Geoffrey stared at me in amazement. Wilson had never before crossed our threshold. (for reasons which need no repeating for regular readers)
"Tuppy, old fellow - what on earth are you thinking of?"
I winked. "Yes, come in Wilson! make yourself at home. But leave your scythe at the door, if you please."
Tuppence pricked up his ears. Unlike Geoffrey, he had cottoned on.
"Shall we all have a game of poker dice?" said Tuppence, as Wilson eased himself into the shabby armchair opposite my own - which is usually Geoffrey's favourite. Been to uni and all that, but he's got no manners and not an ounce of sensibility. Geoffrey flew on to the mantelpiece and perched uneasily by the clock.
"Why not?" said Wilson expansively.
"Shake em and bake em," said Tuppence, blowing on his knuckles. Little did Wilson know what he was up against....

enjoy it while it lasts

This morning over breakfast - lorne sandwiches, washed down by lashings of tea, which we ate outside in the warm July sunshine, serenaded by the deep and mournful tolling of a bell, or "death knell", which was rung by the ghastly Wilson, who was sporting a black hood and carrying a scythe, still banging on about us not wearing sunscreen and bellowing "we're all doomed!" - Geoffrey kindly reminded me, in his cheery way, that as we are all to be dead of pig flu by end of August, there is little point in going to the bother of discussing death from other causes, and its avoidability or otherwise, with the Tupfinder. (Little point in wearing sunscreen, either, then). But, we'll just pop up to Tupfinder Towers anyway, and probably have a game of whist or something. The Tupfinder does love a round or two of Russian Roulette, but luckily Tuppence stole his service revolver (see previous posts) some time ago, and as I don't think his muskets and other antique weaponry would be suitable, I think we can safely assume that anything unduly alarming is off the cards. Mrs T.G. doesn't participate in Russian roulette, or indeed in anything much, but does provide the sandwiches, and on past occasions we've heard high pitched girlish-style giggling from behind an arras-style wall hanging type thing, and we deduced that she enjoys company albeit from a distance.
By the way we also suggested to Razor Bill that he return his faulty toilet roll to Somerfield - however, he informed us rather curtly that he "couldn't be arsed".

is death avoidable?

Razor Bill stopped by with the post this morning. Not that we ever get any real post, it's usually just Reader's Digest competitions, Betterware catalogues and address labels and stuff from the PDSA. Not to mention the occasional lump of dog muck. The item we look forward to most of course is the weekly Somerfield specials leaflet, which generally features our fave things, such as crisps, drink, fizzy juice, pies and korn bif.
Bill informed us that he'd treated himself recently to a multi pack of Somerfield own brand LUXURY toilet paper, and was SHOCKED to discover, on opening it, that the perforations were missing! imagine his horror!! not to mention the sheer inconvenience of having to rip it!!! that'll teach him to indulge in unnecessary luxuries.
Geoffrey and I, having used up the supply left by the visitors, have now reverted to our practice of going " au naturel".
The weather's been a bit hot recently so I got Geoffrey to clip my wool. He used the no. 1 setting on our tondeuse set which gives me quite a severe look, but I think I like it, although it does age me a bit. I then went out for a stroll along the cliffs to get a breath of air. On the way I bumped into the ghastly Wilson ( see list of characters if you don't know who he is) who was patrolling the cliffs to check that anyone out and about was wearing sunblock. Wilson demanded to know if I was wearing any - when I said no, of course not, he screamed at me to get back indoors, as in my hairless, fairskinned state, I was a cancer risk, and as such, was liable to give him an awful lot of unnecessary work, and possibly die, at some future date! charming!!
This led to a conversation between me and Geoffrey about death - specifically, is death avoidable? as we sat comfortably by our fireside (fire unlit, due to heatwave, and no tartan knee rugs, either) sipping a glass or two of iced madeira and puffing away on our pipes, after a slap up dinner of Somerfield steak and gravy pies and hash browns, followed by two blueberry muffins apiece, and looking forward to a late supper of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches, we pondered the question. If we did as Wilson demands, and gave up our pies, drink, pipes, and complete lack of exercise, if we never went out in the sun without hats and sunblock, if we never crossed a road, or had a bacon or processed meat sandwich, would we live forever? could death actually be avoided? we're going to ask the Tupfinder what he thinks, tomorrow.

summer visitors

Now it's summer we're getting lots of visitors, and we're so flattered because they do like to leave stuff behind, perhaps as a little keepsake/thankyou gift? Very generous of them whatever the reason. The socks are particularly brilliant, just the very dab once we'd brushed the earth and crustiness off them. Even the lavvy paper can be "re-used" once it's dried out a bit! it's so expensive, lavvy paper, nowadays - and I think this is the soft kind! (what a treat - we usually buy Izal!!) We've got it hanging on the line as I speak and I'm sure the brown stains will fade in the sun. We're keeping the lager cans and used BBQ tray in case Tuppence wants to make another heatshield for his new time travelling device (see last summer's posts for diagram of previous TTD, and details of its destruction). And as for the sauce bottle - well! we were ecstatic when we saw there was actually some left in it - and it's barbeque flavour! our fave - plus, it's a "brand name", not the Somerfield value kind which we usually buy - so we can take it along to Apsley and Cherry's next BBQ party and not feel ashamed! Thanks, whoever you were!!

midsummer on the outcrop

solstice balls

Well it's almost summer solstice, though you'd never know it. It's been freezing cold, wet and windy. Geoffrey and me have been huddled up by the fire, tartan knee rugs and slippers on, with only a guttering candle to illuminate the gloom of the evenings, reminding ourselves that next thing, the nights'll be drawing in again. Blimey.
The only cheery thing I can think of to keep my spirits up is that at LEAST I haven't been voted "most unpopular" in the bi-annual solstice poll - readers will recall that I WAS the winner of this dubious honour, on the occasion of last winter solstice. And I barely escaped with my life. "Winners" are chucked "over the top" - (see gazetteer, re. "over the Top".)
Goeffrey and I haven't demeaned ourselves by taking part in this summer's ballot, not really because we've any moral objection, it's just that we can't be bothered - though apparently lots of other people Hereabouts HAVE been bothered and we'll find out this year's winner tomorrow when the sun is at its zenith...

phew - a near death experience

Well, here I am, back at the outcrop - and I couldn't be more relieved. There was I, breathing my last, the strength draining out of my exhausted limbs, when Geoffrey appeared as I knew he would - sculling along in the coracle. I was alarmed to see that Tuppence was with him - as readers will know, Tuppence went right off the rails after his ghastly prog rock phase. But I needn't have worried.

"Grab an oar uncle Tuppy," he piped, and in a trice I was hauled on board and a flask of brandy was at my lips - but it was too late for brandy - I fell into a deep swoon - the last words I heard were,"Oh-oh - we're losing him - fetch the medical case, Geoffrey," as Tuppence snapped into his "officer in charge" mode.

I awoke to find Tuppence's concerned eyes peering anxiously into mine. "I think the adrenalin's working, Geoffrey. You can stop pumping now. Fetch the sal volatile, will you?"

Pumping? Indeed, I could feel the steady rhythm of Geoffrey's webbed feet beating out a one-two-one-two directly over my heart. Next, he snapped open a vial of sal volatile and waved it under my nose. I felt like my old self in no time at all, after that.

Later on, we sat by a roaring driftwood fire at the Outcrop, slippers on, enjoying a glass or two of madeira, a pipeful of Black Bogey and a bowl of savoury bacon flavour snax, and I was so glad to be home once more and among friends. Tuppence apologised for his past - quite frankly vile - behaviour, and I agreed to let bygones be bygones - for now anyway...

Word had also arrived, while I was "away", from Mr Spockfingers - he sent a photo of himself enjoying life on his health farm.

tossing about in the swell

Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!! double aaaaaaaaargh!!!! You'll never guess where I ended up!! I was washed south, flushed down with another mouthful of mackerel, through the orca's gullet and into the stomach, where I sloshed about for ages, waist deep in a stew of god knows what - old bones, fish guts, and general debris (see photo for example) A few mackerel survived and I had a bit of conversation with them about this and that. "What do you make of this?" I asked. "Well, we don't think much of THAT" they replied. Fans of Chic Murray will know that this is a very badly told version of one of his excellent jokes - and it turns out that the orca is also a fan of Chic Murray, because he was so nauseated by our despicable rendition that he roared a terrible, terrible roar and promptly threw us all up.

I'm now tossing about in the swell, somewhere between Hereabouts and ...Overthere. I'm not a good swimmer, the water's awfully cold and my wool is getting terribly heavy...where oh where is Geoffrey??

STILL in the belly of the beast

Hello..lo...lo..Is anybody there...there...there...? Yah-HOO!!! OOH!!!!OOOOHHHH!!!!!!!!!
(there's one heck of an echo in here.)
Good grief, I'm bored. I'm completely alone, as Geoffrey flew out yesterday when the orca burped after a good lunch (viz. a large shoal of mackerel, washed down with copious amounts of seawater; we had to hide behind the molars and cling on for dear life as they flooded past) I've kept myself entertained by picking all the orca's teeth, scraping his tongue, and now I'm bo..........aaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

return of B.O.

You won't believe the week I've had. Or where I am. I'm back in the belly of the frigging beast! What happened is this. In my last post I described how Nippy Grimshaw floated off the cliff edge and over the sea, due to his sandwich boards being caught by a gust of wind.
We thought little of it until Geoffrey pointed out that there was an orca in the bay - none other than B.O. - Baby Orca - readers will recall - see previous posts if not - that B.O. arrived here some months back seeking revenge for the death of his mother, which he blamed on ME. Wrongly! (okay, I lit the match, but, as readers may also recall, it was really none other than mr spockfingers who caused the explosion inside the orca's cavernous belly - in which I was incarcerated - ergo, spockfingers is the true culprit.)
Anyway, I tried to press the point with B.O. - Spockfingers is presently in a clinic, recovering from the stresses of performing in BGT, and is not due back till tomorrow, so I didn't feel in the least bad about putting all the blame on him - via a megaphone, but with no effect - if anything he become more enraged and began breaching and snapping his massive jaws and blowing spouts of water up in the air in a most aggressive and alarming fashion.
Meanwhile poor Nippy was slowly heading downwards, the sandwich boards having lost their "lift". Geoffrey decided that we had to help him. Naturally I was horrified, but he said that he'd never speak to me again unless I helped too. So, I'd no choice but to get the old coracle out of the attic and drag it down to the shore, and sail off, taking the Tupfinder's brace of pistols with us, to fend off the orca.
Need I say more? We were swallowed up in a trice, and here we frigging are, sitting on his back molars and bored out of our skulls. Do we have a plan? of course! it is this: next time the orca opens his gob - which shouldn't be long - Geoffrey will fly out and get help. I trust Geoffrey implicitly - I know he won't let me down...

blimey - near tragedy on the cliffs!

Blimey! what a day yesterday. Nippy Grimshaw marched up and down along the cliff tops wearing sandwich boards emblazoned with the words DOWN, DOWN, DOWN with EVERYTHING, and shouting the same at the top of his lungs! We tried to engage him in conversation, and offered him some refreshment in the form of a korn bif and wotsit sandwich, but he burst into tears - we felt terribly sorry for him but there was little we could do. We tried asking him to be a bit more specific - down with everything is a bit broad - but unfortunately before we got to the bottom of the mystery, a gust of wind caught the sandwich boards and lifted him off the ground and over the cliff edge. Nippy is now drifting on a thermal, slowly across the open sea...perhaps he'll return when the wind changes...

duck island

"Duck freakin' island? Duck FREAKIN' island???!!!" I'm afraid Geoffrey and I were awakened VERY rudely by Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's less than dulcet tones. What happened is this.

Apsley and Cherry are very nice in their own way - BUT - they are prone to petty jealousies. Hereabouts, we don't "keep up with the Jones's", we keep up with the Fulmars. Or would, if we gave a toss about keeping up with anybody - as readers will know only too well, we don't.

The Fulmars discovered that "someone" has built a floating island for ducks, half way between Hereabouts and ...Over there. It's not ideally situated, actually, as the sea gets terribly rough and there's a whirlpool and everything, (please see previous posts re. my travels to see the oracle in my coracle) so my guess is it won't last long. Nevertheless, the Fulmars are black affronted as they can see the freakin' thing from their patio. They're determined to either demolish it or build their own.

nippy grimshaw

Razor Bill told me this morning that a new person has moved in - someone called Nippy Grimshaw, and he's living in the flat above the Puff Inn. (no, Stormy doesn't live there - he lives in the old broch). A lot of people seem to be coming and going at the moment. The Narks are still at the North Pole, and obviously we're hoping they decide to stay there.
Spockfingers has gone to London for the finals of Britain's Got Talent. The Swallows are around, but we don't see them much as they're very busy due to impending arrival of youngsters. The Tupfinder general is recovering from a touch of swine flu, so has obviously been staying in. The only person we've seen this week is Razor Bill when he delivers the post.
I suppose we did have quite a weekend of it though, so can't complain.
Wilson's still working on a "cure" for swine flu, and as the dead pig behind our oven had rotted sufficiently to allow it to be unwedged, we managed to heave it over the cliffs, where it landed just above the tide line, and Wilson is presently performing a dissection.
We hope to make Nippy's acquaintance later at the Puff Inn.

spockfingers goes for bgt

What a weekend we've had. We all made a bit of a night of it on Friday, down at the Puff Inn. Stormy had a lock in, broke open some doritos and made up a vat of Purple Peril in honour of the return of Chic and Phemie Swallow - all courtesy of their second home allowance of course. The revelry continued until well into Saturday, when we all went round to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's to watch the Eurovision Song Contest on their 62 inch LCD telly. As readers will know, and despite what Dave and Valerie Nark might think, the Fulmars are the only folks Hereabouts who have leccy and a telly - however, Chic and Phemie are now planning to claim for an £8000 home cinema system, again courtesy of their seemingly very elastic second home expenses. They plan to generate the leccy for it by paying (or threatening) the rats to get on their bikes again and power it up - as they did for Tuppence when he went through his prog rock phase (see previous posts) and performed a gig with his moog at the Puff Inn.
Anyway - I conked out soon after the start of Eurovision (thankful for small mercies) but woke up for the voting. Geoffrey was glued throughout - his fave was Ukraine (something to do with the outfits, I gather), followed by Malta. Manners prevented him from commenting on the UK entry, or the winner, so I'm none the wiser.
More news - mr spockfingers has entered Britain's Got Talent, but is unsure which talent to display to the public. Readers will know he's got two. His singing voice is certainly unmistakeable, but a little voice in my head and a flutter of apprehension in my bowels tends to make me think that he will lean towards the appalling anal emissions department - he watched the chap who was on last week giving a very feeble account of himself and declared that he could do MUCH better - as if we didn't already know that. Oh dear - it's all terribly vulgar - mind you, if he makes it to the final, Geoffrey and I will be loyally feeding him cabbage and cheering him on, and if the Swallows get the home cinema system installed in time, I will personally offer to get on a bike and cycle like "Billy-be-jiggered" in order to power it up. (er...maybe not that last part...)

summer approaches

Chic and Phemie Swallow are well and truly back and ensconced in their "second home", designated as such for tax purposes and expenses claims. Some are whispering that it's their "primary residence", given that they raise at least one family here every summer and travel to warmer climes merely to escape the weather, but who knows. No-one else bothers paying tax Hereabouts anyway - we don't hold with such draconian goings on. Incomers have made attempts to drag us into that horrible system, but so far we've always managed to see them off.

Speaking of which, the Narks seem to have abandoned their yurt, hopefully for good, but people say they have gone on an eco-holiday to some boiling hot godforsaken hellhole, so we sense they may return and Bonkers McGee is standing by just in case.

Oh - Razor Bill has just delivered the mail, and he tells me the Narks have not gone to a boiling hot godforsaken hellhole, they've gone to the Arctic Circle and are planning to swim to the North Pole.

We can only hope that they will be suitably refreshed by their holiday and that afterwards they will have the strength to target their eco-rage on some of the massive multinationals who are belching out immeasurable amounts of carbon into the atmosphere instead of ranting on to us miserable individuals about our lack of cavity wall insulation.

tupfinder general livid - calls in bonkers mcgee to save the day

Well, we tried to tunnel out as best we could but we only made it as far as the deadfall (which we had prepared a few days ago in case Tuppence arrived to collect the dead pig from behind our oven. The pig's still there by the way, but we've kind of got used to the smell - strange to say, it seems almost pleasant now... that can't be normal, can it?) Geoffrey managed to fly out of course, being a gull, and he managed to drop a length of rope down for me to shin up. I got out eventually sans dignity but it was far from easy - never mind - at least it was a tad less traumatic than being blasted out of the belly of the beast by one of Spockfingers' anal emissions (see previous posts, if you're curious).
We spent the evening at the Tupfinders' - Mrs T-G had made some cucumber sandwiches - NOT my favourite, as regular readers will know, but managed to polish them off anyway - with the aim of hatching a plan to get rid of the Narks. But the Tupfinder already had it all in hand! he was absolutely livid.
"We can't have this kind of carry on round here. Leaflets thrust through letterboxes willy nilly. Quarantined without a by your leave. Cavity wall insulations if you please. Pipe lagging experts springing up like a bad rash. Ghastly lectures about living without cars and LCD tellys - we don't HAVE cars and tellys Hereabouts...never mind cavity walls...most of us don't even have leccy...but they don't care about that..."
The Tupfinder was in full flow. "It simply won't do. I've contacted the Heavy Mob."
"Not Bonkers McGee?" Geoffrey and I were aghast.
"We've no option. Serious times need serious people. And there's no-one more serious than Bonkers McGee."
"But..who's going to control him?"
"Who said anything about controlling him? I intend to let him rip...as far as I'm concerned he can do his worst."
Bonkers arrives on Monday, and is sure to be tooled up. We've all battened down our hatches. Bonkers' worst is sure to wreak absolute havoc Hereabouts...

a pig flu

I'm afraid Dave and Valerie refused our invite to a BBQ at the Fulmars, and furthermore didn't like our "general attitude", which they found slack and degenerate! apparently, we are completely lacking in knowledge of our local ecology never mind that of the "planet" and we need to be "re-brained".
Clearly this won't do - and we aren't taking this lying down, or even "feet up on the sofa" - but more of that later. As regular readers would expect, we are having a top level meeting with the Tupfinder to discuss a riddance plan over a glass or two of madeira. But there is a bit of a problem at the moment - we can't actually get out! Dave and Valerie have decreed that as we are not humanoid like them, we are a massive pig flu threat and we have therefore been quarantined, at the outcrop. (It might also have something to do with the powerful reek of rotting pork emanating from the back of our oven...)Dave's using a surveillance camera to ensure we stay put, and if we don't we're going to be hit with a tranquilliser dart and shipped over to the hulks, and we know what ghastliness happens there, having rescued all these sheep from the jaws of death just last year (see gazetteer for "hulks" and previous posts for the rescue drama)!
The likes of Dave Nark isn't going to get the better of us. He's clearly raving. We're resourceful characters and will be out of here in a trice. Fortunately, we have spades and have started a tunnel - we hope it will link up eventually with one of the many others in the tunnel system in the cliffs (see gazetteer), and we'll be able to escape via the landmark on the cliffs known locally as the "sow's purse" (well it is now, and it will be added to the gazetteer forthwith).
Of course, before we hit on the idea of digging our way out, we were feeling quite "boared" and so we had a game of "backGAMMON" until we got "pig sick" of it. I'm sure Wilson will be working on a "cure" for pig flu but he's bound to make a "pig's ear" of it. It's high time he got the "chop". I've heard the symptoms of pig flu include crackling in the ears. Instructions for taking remedies involve "swilling" down some medicine with a bucket of water....

new neighbours are utter swine

We've got new neighbours. Two eco-style warriors have set up home in a yurt in the tourist car park. They're called Dave and Valerie Nark, and they want all of us to get our roofs and pipes lagged, and cavity walls insulated, or they'll do something terrible. They announced through a loudhailer that we're destroying our environment, and if we don't do as they say, they will spray the area with the deadly pig plague virus. That way, the environment will be free from our contamination and abuse.
Obviously this is a bit worrying, but we think if worst comes to worst, we can ask the dreaded Wilson to manufacture "vaccine" from the dead pig behind oven - yes, it's still there - we can't move it, it weighs a ton. We'll just have to leave it till it rots away completely.
We can't possibly get our walls etc. insulated - the Outcrop is "traditional-build" i.e. draughty and full of holes - it would be a case of rebuilding the entire place, and that is utterly unthinkable.
We're going to try and get Dave and Valerie along to a BBQ at the Fulmars, this weekend weather permitting - although they do have supercharged patio heaters, so weather doesn't really matter - to see if we can get them to mellow out a bit.

dead flying pig source of horrible pong

We found the source of the horrible pong - there was a dead pig behind the oven. Geoffrey says that his cousin Ranald (Ranald Wand'ring Albatrosse) has seen pigs flying about willy nilly all over the shop, and we can only think that one of them passed away and plummeted to earth, via our holey roof, and landed behind our oven, whilst we were in Weatherfield visiting our friends in Coronation Street. When I say "passed away", there is a bullet hole in the pig's skull. The only guns Hereabouts belong to the Tupfinder general - and of course Tuppence stole the Tupfinder's old service revolver from the vitrine some while back ( see previous posts)
The Tupfinder still has a brace of pistols, but I can't really see him firing them at pigs. We can only hope that Tuppence does not come looking for his "bag". Well, if he does, he will get more than he bargained for (I say bravely). We've dug a deadfall outside the front door, just in case.
He won't be expecting that! neither will anyone else, of course - which could be a problem...

spring cleaning

Due to extreme nature of pong, we decided we had to do some spring cleaning, so Geoff and I put on our pinnies and Marigolds and got down to it.
We ended up having to use a blow torch for some of it - burnt on grease etc. - losing the general "patina" in the process - I'm not sure if the place looks better or worse.
We've got rid of the smell at any rate - when we pulled out the oven, you'll never guess what we found...

smell a rat

Geoff and I have been sleeping off the effects of a "lock in" at the Puff Inn - Stormy decided to push the boat out in honour of my and Geoffrey's return last evening, and he fetched an extra couple of barrels of madeira from the cellar - not to mention a few rounds of Purple Peril. I don't remember much after 8pm (we'd been there since lunch) - I know we staggered home eventually around dawn, as I can just recall the dawn chorus being in full cry just as I was dropping off.
I'm not sure if this really happened or if I dreamt it - but I think Granny Sooker made a rare appearance, carrying a basket of plants for sale - absinthe - which she's been growing in her "garden" or rather, outside laboratory. Geoff and me must have purchased a few stems - anyway there's something green, fibrous and slimy soaking in an old zinc bath at the back door - we'll leave it to macerate for a while longer, then distill it down once we've got all the goodness out of it. Might be nice at Christmas - if we can wait that long!
We awoke this morning to an increasingly terrible "pong". At first we attributed it to our own breath, both of our mouths not being in tip top shape after last night's bacchanalia - but after cleaning our teeth and checking our extremities I'm afraid to say the smell was still very much in evidence. We realise we're going to have to track it down - okay, we can often open windows at this time of year, but the weather isn't always this clement - this will undoubtedly mean doing some pulling out of furniture, lifting of lids etc.
Can't face it today - but will have to see if we can find the strength tomorrow. Goodness knows what we will find.