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Saturday 25 December 2010

Kriss-mass-time, etc.


"Kriss-mass-tahm, don' let the belzend..kriss-mass-tahm, don' let the belzend..."

Spockfingers is giving it plenty welly this morning. We had a marathon festive lock-in at the Puff Inn last night, and I don't mind telling you I feel like death warmed up...might tell you all about it later...

Tuesday 21 December 2010

Thanks and a very happy Solstice to all my readers

I'd just like to say a big thank you to those who have contacted me over the past day or two to say they're reading and enjoying this blog. And of course, massive thanks to those who have kept hanging in there over the past couple of years. It goes without saying, but I'm saying it anyway - you're all Very Much Appreciated. Indeed.
Blogging can be kind of like screaming into a void, so getting that kind of encouragement means a lot - especially on this, the darkest day of the year!!!

#duh duh DUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHH!# (dramatic music)

I have already posted the promo video for Jethro Tull's Solstice Bells. [As mentioned on my musical tastes page, despite all my better instincts I do have a weakness for "the mighty Tull", possibly after getting Ian Anderson's autograph in 1976. His auntie was our local chemist.]

Later on, Geoffrey and I will be putting on our jester's hats and our slippers with the pointy curled up toes and bells on the end, getting blind drunk, expanding our brains with strange herbs we've foraged from the moors, lighting a roaring driftwood fire and hunting down and roasting the first sentient being we can find in a ghastly low budget re-enactment of the final scene from the Wicker Man. I'll tell you all about it later.

Saturday 18 December 2010

Black Bun - the scourge of Scotland


Geoffrey and I have been arguing over which special comestibles to get in over the Festive.
As long-term readers will know, the "Big Day" Hereabouts is the Solstice rather than December 25th which we see as mere southern jiggerypokery and up-their-ain-bumness.
Yes, we celebrate the sun's nadir and the total dearth of sunlight and warmth and cheer with as much glee as we can muster - which isn't that much if I'm totally honest.
Geoffrey reckons we should try to obtain some "Black Bun".
"I really fancy a slice of Black Bun," he said. He sounded enthusiastic enough but I could still sense an element of doubt in his tone.
"I haven't laid eyes on a Black Bun since 1978," I countered. "And I can't say I'm all that sorry. As I remember, I burst a filling on the last slice I attempted. It seemed to be full of low grade gravel. And it tasted like something that came out of a dog's behind. So I can't see the attraction, quite frankly."
"I don't care," he pouted." I'm going out to search for some right now."
"Knock yourself out," I said, reaching for my pipe. "I'll keep an eye on your online Heartache Removal Service till you get back..."

Friday 10 December 2010

My new dentures


It's amazing what modern dentistry can achieve. My orthodentist-style person has managed to craft a set of teeth identical to the ones he extracted from my mouth, just last week. Nobody would guess they're fake, and cost twenty grand.
They're a lovely fit as well. Thanks Dr. Will I. Kilmore!
Meanwhile - back on the boat....

Thursday 9 December 2010

More sing-a-longs in the sea


We've only spent the entire night in an open frigging life raft.
"Come on chaps. We must keep our spirits up," urged the T-G, rubbing his hands together.
"Oh I'd love to keep my frigging spirits up. I'd kill for a brandy."
"No need for that kind of attitude Tuppy. We have to work with what we've got. We're all intelligent creatures - well, kind of. Think of Captain Scott."
"He died of starvation."
"And possibly of the cold, and scurvy as well. But that's NOT going to happen to us," he replied firmly. "Look at Spockfingers. He's an example to us all."
Yes, Spockfingers was still there, swimming around the boat.
"Ah'm running oot o' fuel lads," he gasped. "Youz'll huff tae let me intae the boat. Ah cannae stay afloat. Ah cannae tak' much more o' this."
And he plonked his front hooves on the edge of the life raft, making it dip alarmingly.
"No Spockfingers! You'll sink us!" we shouted.
"Poke him with an oar T-G," I begged. "Get rid of him. Shoot him if you have to. He'll take us all down with him."
Spockfingers glared at me balefully. "Duly noted ye yeller wee get. Duly noted. Ah'll get ma revenge yoo mark ma wurds. Noo let me suggest an alternative. Let's all hae anuther wee sing-sang an' ah'll gulp doon lotsa air while ah'm daein' that, and try tae manyoufaktyure sum mare wind. Mebbes ah'll manyoufaktyure enuff tae power us hame. Noo whatsit tae be?"
"How about Row Row Row your Boat," suggested Geoffrey.
"NO!" we all replied. "That's far too twee. Let's go for Sweet Child in Time by Deep Purple."
"Okay doke," said Spockfingers, wriggling his shoulders. "Ah jist gang mare or less strait intae the climax."
"SWEET CHAHLD IN TAH-AH-M
YOO'LL SEE THE LAH-AH-T
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."
His falsetto echoed ear-splittingly round the Bay.
"For heaven's sake, " said the T-G as we all exchanged worried glances. "He's going to do us a damage screaming like that. We'd better try something tamer and hope that he joins in. Anybody got any ideas?"
"I rather like Daughter of Darkness by Tom Jones," suggested Geoffrey shyly. "I'll start it off."
"AH'LL start it aff," Spockfingers interrupted. "Heer we ging."
#" Dodder of dah-ahrkniss
Stay oot o' mah life mah life
You nicked ma chips an' you et the flamin' lot
Yoo dodder of dah-ah-rkniss..."
"Oh that's not right," scoffed the T-G. "It goes like THIS. #Woman, I can remember a woman... warm were her...#"
"Is that Mrs T-G you're singing about T-G," Geoffrey butted in eagerly. "Is she a woman? can I meet her? I've not met one before you see, and I'd love to."
"Geoffrey!" I frowned."I've warned you about this type of thing before. You can't have truck with women."
"Why can't I have truck with women Tuppy?"
"I explained all that already."
"No you didn't. I don't understand, at all."
"You're getting uppitty now Geoffrey."
"Oh I don't know why I'm even sitting here freezing my nuts off and being bossed around and sneered at! After all, I'm a gull, and I've got wings. BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
And with that, Geoffrey flew high into the lowering grey sky, and headed who knows where.
Meanwhile, back on the boat...
"Ye've goat room fur wan mare noo ah see."
Frigging hell.

Wednesday 8 December 2010

A Tom Jones sing-a-long in the sea

Well here we are waiting to be rescued. Apsley said he's sending for help - god only knows how long that will take. Meanwhile to keep our spirits up we're having a wee sing-a-long.
#"Well sheez all yood ever wan' sheez god stahl sheez god grace sheez a winner"# I began, clicking my fingers and standing up in the liferaft.
"Stop it Tuppy!" commanded the T-G. "You'll capsize us. Sit the frig DOWN. Besides, you're doing it all wrong. It goes like THIS.
(he coughed)
#Well sheez all yood evva wan' sheez the kahnd yood lahk to flaunt an' take to DINner#"
"NO NO NO NO NO!" boomed a voice from nearby. "YOU'VE got it wrong an' all."
"Who the frig's that?" I muttered. "Oh my God. It's Spockfingers. He must have..."
"Yes! I've survived the blast and here I am large as life and twice as nasty. You lot are pants at Tom Jones. Here's how it SHOULD be sung." Spockfingers approached the boat at an impressive rate of knots. Apparently, he was still passing wind, and it was acting like a kind of crude but highly effective and convenient form of jet propulsion, enabling him to not only stay afloat but to travel about in the water at will. He began to circle the boat, singing as only he can sing (see post about me and Spockfingers in the belly of the beast, to find out just how powerful his voice is...)
#"Well sheez all yood evva wan' sheez the kahnd o' burd they'd lahk tae flaunt an' tak' fur CHI-ips
Sheez the kahnd o' burd whit likes her plaice
sheez got salt sheez got broon soss...
Sheez a winner..."#
"Frigging hell. Make him shut up, someone."
#" Shee kin tak' whit ah dish oot an' that's no eezy
She's fine an' breezy...
Her feet R cheezy..."#
"Oh - an' by the way - yooz lot didnae contribute SHIT fur the sick and poorly weans in Africa. Yeez are a bunch o' stingy bastards. Ah'll deal wi yooz la'er. Noo piss aff an' let em feenish ma sang.
#Oh she et ma fish an chips an' removed ma orange pips
Sheez a lady...
wo wo wo
She's...#"
I think that's QUITE enuff of that jist fur the noo. I'll go and shampoo my sporran now.

KER-B-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you heard. KER - B-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What happened was this.
Readers will recall that on Saturday Geoffrey and I were invited to Spockfingers fundrazing gig for awfy needy sick wee kiddies in Africa. We ended up watching X Factor first, and look where that got us.
Caught in a net, dangling hundreds of feet above a fiery pit, awaiting our turn at the Mindmuck removal device.
Anyway. Back to KER-B-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!
There we were, swinging above the flames at the end of our tethers and at each other's throats, when suddenly...
"WHAT ABOOT MA FUCKIN FUNDRAZER YE STINGY GETS? WHIT ABOOT THON WEE SICK AN AWFY NEEDY KIDDIES IN AFRICA? GET YER WALLETS OOT RICHT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
And with that, Mr Spockfingers turned round and let rip with one of his special hi-octane cabbage-fuelled anal emissions. Regular readers will know what THAT'S like. (Irregular readers will have to click on the post label below, to find out more. )
The concentrated jet of methane collided with a swift updraught of flame from the fiery pit and the result was an almighty explosion.
Still tied in the net, we were blown clear out of the cave and far out into the Bay.
"I can't swim! I can't swim!" I burbled, flailing.
"Never fear, Tuppy," soothed the Tupfinder-General, calmly treading water. "I've got an inflatable life raft. Just hang on a jiffy till I pull the toggle. It's caught in my...ouch!"
"Hurry up! I'm sinking!" I spluttered. Geoffrey lifted my head with his wing as the T-G struggled to inflate the raft.
"Just as well I did junior life saving at the baths," he said proudly.
POP!!!!!!!!!! WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"There we go," said the T-G, heaving himself into the life raft. "Stop whingeing Tuppy. You've no moral fibre at all, have you?"
"It's all very well for you two. You're not handicapped by wool."
Geoffrey chortled. "I'd like to see your face if anyone else said wool was a "handicap!"
"Never mind that now. Where's the medical chest? I could do with a good whiff or two of sal volatile and a couple of opium tabloids to get me through the afternoon without going completely insane."
"For heaven's sake Tuppy! We'll have to get sculling. We'll have to get home before dark, and there isn't much time. You'll have to put your back into it I'm afraid. We can't afford slackers. If you can't manage, I'm sorry but we'll have no option but to shove you overboard. We're all in this together you know."
"Oh. I didn't realise Nick Clegg had joined us." I glanced around in an exaggerated comic kind of manner.
"H-E-E-E-L-L-O-O-O-O-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" A voice boomed out from atop the nine hundred foot cliffs just to our right.
It was Apsley Fulmar, using a megaphone.
"Hang O-O-O-O-N! We're going to rescue Y-O-O-O-U!"
But how?
more later.

Tuesday 7 December 2010

Still suspended in a net, over a fiery pit

Yeah, we're still here, and I don't mind saying that it's getting a tad uncomfortable.
The three of us - Geoffrey, me, and the Tupfinder General, are crammed in here together and once we get out we're going to have shocking criss cross net imprints on our backs. Mind you that's the least of our worries while we're still stuck up here like a right bag of lemons.
Everyone's nerves are strained to the limit.
"Get your foot out of my face, Tuppy," asked the T-G through gritted teeth. "I'm asking you nicely this time. Next time might well be a different matter."
"Oh you'd be no fun at Twister. You're sounding about an eight on the tension scale T-G," I snickered rather unpleasantly, not moving my foot an inch.
"Make that a ten,"he growled, and I heard a distinct "click" as he released the safety catch on his pistol.
"Now now chaps. Let's not start turning on each other like a pack of wolves just because we're trapped in a net above a fiery pit with no apparent means of escape. Let's all try to keep our sanities shall we."
*Oh stop being so flaming sanctimonious Geoffrey. If I want to lose my mind I'll flaming well - "
KER-B-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
more later.

Monday 6 December 2010

Muckfast Abbey

(first off - apologies for the brown thing at the RH side of the bottle - there's something stuck in my scanner)

...there we were, suspended in a net, hundreds of feet above a fiery pit.
Far below, we saw thousands of rats scurrying around with lengths of tubing, attaching them to bubbling, smoking test tubes.
"What's going on?" we gasped in unison.
"Welcome to Muckfast Abbey," shrilled Tuppence, removing a pistol from his belt and twirling it in a devil-may-care fashion.
"He's only extracting Mindmuck and distilling into a rather lethal tonic wine!" whispered the T-G.
"I heard that!" snapped Tuppence, giving the net a shove with a pointy stick and making us swing out further over the fiery pit. "Yes. I'm making Muckfast, and it will be available in a range of flavours in Speedispend hypermarket and compulsory screening centre for Christmas. For example - Greed, Jealousy, Spite, Envy (that's a bit like Chartreuse), Bile, Hatred, Lust (not that that applies to you lot), Foot-picking, and Arse-scratching. There will be more. And for that, I need more source material."
Tuppence lifted a megaphone to his lips. "Lower the net! get them into position, then begin the MindMuck Removal procedure IMMEDIATELY!"
"Oo-er Tuppy," quavered Geofrey. "Hadn't we better ought to DO something?"
"Anyone got a pair of scissors," I asked feverishly. "Maybe we could cut our way out of the net."
"Don't be stupid Tuppy. We'd only plummet into the fiery pit. We'll have to think of something else."
more tomorrow.

Sunday 5 December 2010

The Mind Muck Removal Kit

God almighty! what a night.
After some debate Geoffrey and I decided to attend both "functions" i.e. despite the sub zero temperatures we sat on some rusty old sun loungers on the Fulmars decking and watched X Factor on their 62" telly through their panoramic French window style doors, warmed by their patio heaters and our tartan knee rugs.
We'd brought some crisps and a flask of purple peril and plenty of black bogey to keep us going.
UnFORtunately, there was a bit of a drama when Simon Cowell smiled suddenly just as the cameras were zooming in for a close up. The resulting glare from his teeth ricocheted off the cliffs opposite the Fulmars, setting off a terrible din - a sort of clattering, rumbling noise.
Apsley and Cherry heard nothing due to their octuple glazing, but pretty soon we heard the tippetty tap of the Tupfinder general's cane rattling off the ice as he hurried along the cliff tops towards the source of the sound.
"It's Tuppence! he's up to his old tricks again!" he shouted. "Ive been keeping watch as usual, and now I'm off to intervene!"
With difficulty we heaved ourselves off our sun loungers and headed after the T-G. Geoffrey was still in bits after watching Mary cry at the end of "Memories".
"She sang it for her dead mother, Tuppy!" he sniffled as we hurried along the cliffs.
"Oh shut up Geoffrey and stop talking such a load of old cock. Dead mother nothing. She was just thinking about how she'd feel if she had to go back to working in Speedispend - and I can't say I blame her."
"Oh you're so hard hearted Tuppy. Can't you...oh!"
Geoffrey halted suddenly as the clattering, rumbling, sucking noise grew louder and louder.
We were nearing the source.
"Be careful lads. Look!" said the T-G, beckoning with his pistol. (we had caught up with him).
We found ourselves at the mouth of a gigantic cave. Inside, illuminated by an arc light powered by rats on several bicycles, was a chair. Sitting on the chair, was a female sheep with what looked like a metal colander on her head with some tubing coming out of it and going in to a bucket (see diagram above). Behind the chair stood Tuppence, directing a solar-style panel.
What had happened was this.
The glare from Simon Cowell's teeth, magnified by the Fulmars' octuple glazing, had ricocheted off the solar panel, which in turn set off the "Mindmuck Removal Device, or "kit"".
He was testing it on the poor ewe.
"Oh, she's got a very clear conscience," said Tuppence. "How tiresome. No muck to remove, at all. We need to find another victim to experiment on. Aha! Visitors! Perfect!"
Oh no. He had spotted us...
"We're armed," said the T-G.
"Yes, I can see that you've got a pistol ASUSUAL," smirked Tuppence, "but ASUSUAL it's half-cocked, just like you. Mwah ha ha!"
And with that evil guffaw, he yanked a lever in the wall and a giant net dropped down on top of us. In a trice we were whizzing through the air, suspended above a bottomless pit of fire...
More tomorrow...

Saturday 4 December 2010

Spockfingers warms up for a gig

'#...black is black
Ah wunt mah baybee back...
'S grey is grey
Der ner ner ner ner...MOOO!#'
"Oh do bog off Spockfingers!" I was becoming a little tetchy after hearing Spockfingers' umpteenth rendition of Black is Black.
"Don't be so uncharitable Tuppy. After all, it is in a good cause."
"What is?"
"The fundraising gig, tonite at 7pm at the Puff Inn. Spockfingers is doing a fundraiser to raise funds for ...erm...something or other. Don't tell me you'd forgotten?"
"Forgotten? Hardly! I didn't get the chance! Nobody thought to inform me. Now I'm going in a massive huff and you can all sod off."
"For God's sake Tuppy. Take one of your special pills and pull yourself together. Here - " Geoffrey seized the medical chest and threw it open " - take several. Take them all!"
"Well! if THAT'S the way you're feeling..."
"It is. I'm pig sick of you and your huffs Tuppy. I want to be able to sit down this evening in front of Apsley and Cherry's 62" telly and watch X factor and enjoy myself. Even though Wagner's out. I don't want you ruining it with an atmosphere."
"WHIT ABOOT MAH FUCKIN' FUNDRAZER?" demanded Spockfingers, front legs on hips.
"Oh, my! Language! a bit of decorum, please, if you don't mind and all that."
"AH DINNAE FUCKIN' CARE ABOOT THAT. FUCK THE LOT O' YEZ. IF YER NO CUMMIN TAE MAH FUCKIN' FUNDRAZER YEZ CAN A' DAE YIN."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances and I quickly put my huff on the back burner as Spockfingers began drumming one of his feet in rather a tense manner.
"Erm..what are you raising funds for, Spockfingers? what's the cause?"
"COZ? COZ?? the coz is sick kiddies in erm...Africa. Aye. That's richt. Sick kiddies in Africa. They're awfy needy an' that. Yez cannae deny them your dosh you stingey bastards. Sick kiddies in Africa. Noo kin yez?"
"Hmmm..."
X factor down at the Fulmars' place, sitting outside on their decking eating crisps with the super-powered patio heaters blasting away full-tilt, or a dodgy fundrazer down at the Puff Inn, featuring Spockfingers and his dreadful, nightmarish screeching, off key voice.
We'll see how we feel nearer the time...

Friday 17 September 2010

Enough dullness - back to the Outcrop

Right I'm fed up so it's back to business as frigging usual.

Me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire last evening, puffing on our Meerschaums and working our way through a barrel of madeira, when suddenly the door burst open and in came Razor Bill, clutching a telegram.

"I think it's bad news!" he blurted, before throwing himself exhausted on the couch and fanning himself with a copy of the Speedispend Christmas catalogue.

"Open it then, Tuppy," said the T-G in his serious voice.

"We've to start paying rent!" I said shakily, after reading the awful news.

"Rent! what's that?" asked Geoffrey.

"And council tax," I added.

"But why? and who to, exactly?"

"What for, you mean," said the T-G. "This isn't on, lads. Not on at all. We'll have to take action. Where's me pistol?"

"Can we not have a bacon sandwich first," I asked in an outraged voice. "Surely..."

"Stop thinking about your stomach for one second, Tuppy. There are more important things afoot. Grab a packet of smokey bacon crisps and let's get cracking."

Friday 10 September 2010

He is.

He is. He's doing one of his so-called "gigs". He found the remains of the moog at the bottom of the cliffs (see previous posts if you're that curious - I can't remember which ones but click on "moog" in the post labels and it might take you there) and managed to reconstruct it, adding some extra poo-foo valves and di-lithium crystals.
God knows what he's going to challenge our eardrums with - some foul "mix" of his own, doubtless involving Rick Wakeman and a cloak somewhere along the line.
"Geoffrey! medical chest! quick-style!"
I'm definitely going to need the laudanum.
Off to the Puff Inn now - might be back sometime tomorrow.

Free at last

Well that's me safe and well back at the Outcrop. I'm sitting in my favourite chair by a roaring driftwood fire and I'm settling down with my fifth mug of madeira and a multi pack of salty snax.
Geoffrey's got sausage rolls in for our dinners so all's right with the world.
How did I escape? well - the smell of frying fruit pudding wafting under my nostrils made me desperate so I breathed in as hard as I could, expanding my chest and stretching the gaffer tape to snapping point - when suddenly -
"What the frigging heck's going on here then?" a familiar voice boomed. "I'll be having some of that. ALL of it actually. IF you don't mind."
It was none other than Mr Spockfingers. He seized the frying pan from the Grim Reaper and wolfed the lot in a oner.
"Hey! what about me?" I cried. "I'm starving!"
"All in good time," said Spockfingers. "I'm just waiting for..."
"Never mind him. What about ME?" crooned the Reaper, brandishing his scythe.
"AND me!" whined Wilson in the nasty whingey voice he uses when he's not in full control.
"...nature to take its course," continued Spockfingers.
"Oh NO!" we all screamed, as Spockfingers let rip with one of his "specials". And if you want to know about the damage THAT can do - please have a search through previous posts.
At any rate it's an ill wind as they say - the Reaper and the Ghastly Wilson fled for their lives, and I managed to place some Vick's under my nose and high-tail it back to the Outcrop.
And here I am. Later on Geoffrey and I will be heading off to the Puff Inn for the usual Friday lock-in. I can only hope that Tuppence isn't doing another of his "gigs".

Thursday 9 September 2010

More horror

(Well at least it's not green - yet.)
"You'll have to eat it juiced," smirked the Ghastly Wilson, poking me with a stick.
"Not - ch-ch-chipped, or made into crisps - mashed, even?" I quavered.
"Juiced. Along with a couple of onions, some garlic and a handful of alfalfa sprouts. If you won't take it through the normal channels we'll have to put the tube down again."
How on earth had I come to this sorry pass? Strapped in a chair (with a hole sawed in the seat for my "convenience" in case you're wondering) with the Ghastly Wilson force feeding me vegetables.
"You couldn't bung a sausage in it, could you? I'll pay."
"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Ghastly Wilson, throwing his head back and revealing some rather poor dental work, if I'm honest. "But you haven't got any munny! besides - munny's worth nothing Hereabouts."
"You're not even doing this for my benefit. You're doing it for your own sadistic pleasure."
"So what if I am? I don't get much fun out of life. You can't begrudge me this."
And he switched on the juicing machine full blast. "Come on boys - I need more voltage - pedal for grim death!" he shouted at the rats (who were powering up the generator via pedal power - please see previous posts if you don't believe me)
"Not so fast, Wilson," said a suave voice. A claw-like hand reached out and yanked the plug from the socket. There was an overpowering smell of mothballs and half a dozen spiders scurried out from beneath his long black robes.
"Oh for f - "
The flaming Reaper again.
"We don't want him to live, Wilson. We want him to DIE!! I need to keep my quota up, remember? you did agree to help. And now I find you going behind my back and feeding people vegetables to make them healthy. Now stop all that nonsense and fire these under the grill quick-style."
And he produced a family sized BBQ pack of mock chops, Chinese-style ribs, Cumberland-style sausages, fruit pudding, black pudding, smoked sausage, and lard-burgers.
"Hope you've got soem brown sauce," I said eagerly.

Wednesday 1 September 2010

the Winner of Name this Tune asks...

The winner of the latest Name this Tune has emailed in a query.
"I got the skratchings, k thx, but i don' like brissles, how do i get teh brissles out? soz kthx xxx"

May I suggest the following.
1. simply tweeze them out, like Les Dennis did with his nose hairs on Big Brother (I only heard about it, so if he didn't really tweeze his nose hairs on BB, I withdraw that comparison, of course.)

but if tweezing is too finicky and time consuming, try

2. sandpaper - fine grain.

Hope that helps!

Answer to yesterday's name that tune

Anyone get it?

Last chance to try!

"Er er er
Er er er er
Er er er
Er er er...

DE-E-E-E-R (screech)"

Answer? Smoke on the Water!

and the prize is...a year's supply of pork scratchings made out of REAL PIG.

Tuesday 31 August 2010

Name this tune ( an exciting new feature!)

I'll give you a clue - it's a well-known riff.

"ER er er
er er er er
er er er
er er er."

Got it yet?

Right, I'll try it again...

"Er er er
er er er er
er er er
er er er."

Answer will be provided tomorrow.
(I'm in seapenguin mode at the moment - Tuppy is on a total detox in preparation for his new vegan lifestyle-type-thing. But he'll be back tomorrow.)

Monday 30 August 2010

A hierarchy of meat

A hierarchy of meat.

Cow - king of meats. Contains steak.
Pig - only good for bacon and sausages IMO.
Sheep and lambs - cannibalism - unthinkable.
Humanoids - supposedly taste like pig/chicken, but I've never tried one.
Birds/hens - too close to Geoffrey in the gene pool, so fall into the unthinkable category.
Processed meat. This purports to be okay, because it is heavily disguised and does not resemble "meat" as we know it. Sneaks under the wire of blood-free acceptability. A "wolf in lamb's clothing" you could say. Duplicitous. Which makes it the WORST of all.

Reasons to eat it - it tastes good.

Reasons NOT to eat it - it causes other sentient beings to suffer - appallingly.

Does anyone need to milk a sheep?

I'm only asking.
If you do, may I point you in the direction of some plans I drew up last year, for my "SMD" or "sheep milking device"?
Simply click here and here for super-detailed diagrams of the CTR or Central Tubery Regulator, and the meths stove used to power the whole device.

Sunday 29 August 2010

Sentient beings

My few days of self-imposed exile in the kitchen proved very instructive from an improving-moral-perspective point of view-style-thing.
Sometimes it's good to spend some time alone with your thoughts...(clutches head and runs screaming over the cliff...gets jumper/wool caught on a handy gorse bush and climbs eagerly back up again...)
"Geoffrey." (fortunately, the others had all got fed up and gone home.)
"Yes, Tuppy?"
"I don't think we should eat meat any more."
"You mean...?"
"Yes. Even sausages."
"Oh dear Tuppy - I hardly think..."
"No Geoffrey. You don't think. That's half your trouble."
"You're one to talk. Anyway - what's brought this on?"
"The other day - "
"Before you flounced into the kitchen, yes..."
"Someone said..."
"Someone said you only cared about people eating sheep because you are one yourself."
"For pity's sake! Will you allow me to finish a - "
"Sentence. Certainly. OW!"
"Honestly Geoffrey. I'm not a naturally violent person but - "
"Yes you are."
"Well I'm sorry you think so. I only hit you with the poker because you were getting on my nerves and grabbing all the attention and I think any sane person would agree that's reason enough. Now I'm folding my arms and going straight back into the kitchen again. And I WON'T be putting the kettle on."

Chic Murray jokes

Chic Murray was very funny.
Here are some of his jokes and one-liners, mostly courtesy of a webpage I found here.

"If something's neither here nor there, where the hell is it?"

"I met this cowboy with a brown paper hat, paper waistcoat and paper trousers. He was wanted for rustling."

"Kippers - fish that like a lot of sleep."

"I drew a gun. He drew a gun. I drew another gun. Soon we were surrounded by lovely drawings of guns."

"I'm not saying my wife's nose was big, but she could smoke a cigarette in the shower."

"My mother was a simple woman. My father was a simple man. You see the result standing here before you - a simpleton."

Saturday 28 August 2010

Oh dear oh dear - I haven't got a soul

When I finally emerged from the kitchen, I was confronted by an awful sight.

Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.

Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.

"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"

Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.

Or perhaps that was me.

"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."

I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.

"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."

To be continued...

Thursday 26 August 2010

Bacon sandwich, anyone?

It was a wet and windy night and me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire back at the Outcrop.
"Wonder where B.O. is now?" I mused, packing some Black Bogey into the Meerschaum.
"I'm sure he won't be too far away. Here - have my Swan Vestas. Those disposable lighters are useless," said the T-G.
"Awful if he got turned into fish fingers," said Geoffrey.
"Meat fingers, actually," said Peter Edant, pushing up the sash window and sticking his oar in.
"I suppose you better come in before we all expire from the cold, Edant. But do try to control your more boring propensities," I said.
"Oooh! get you uncle Tuppy! Porpensities!" it was Tuppence - sticking his oar in as well. They both clambered in the window.
"PROpensities, actually," murmured Edant.
"Tuppence! what on earth are you doing here?"
"Yes! You see? You can't get rid of me so easily. I was wearing a life preserver, remember!"
We all exchanged glances.
"You don't still want to harpoon baby Orca and turn him into fish fingers, I hope?"
"Of course I do! think of it - we'd have our own food supply right through the winter and beyond, and that's AFTER we've sold the bulk of it to Speedispend and made our fortunes!"
"But that's WRONG, Tuppence."
"In what respect?" frowned my nephew.
"Killing your fellow creatures, and eating them. Let me explain why," began the T-G.
"Okay - I can see this is going to take a while so I'll just put a few sausage rolls in the oven and make up some ham sandwiches to keep us going..."
They all stared at me.
"Well? oh - I see. Well, let me remind you that I was key to the release of the lactating ewes from the Hulks in summer 2008. Remember?" ( see previous posts)
"That's all very well Tuppy. But you only did that because they were sheep like yourself. What about other animals? You don't seem to bother so much about pigs and cows."
I rushed into the kitchen in a huff and didn't come out for four days...

Wednesday 25 August 2010

Kind of like...weird

I just switched to a new template - and can't seem to switch back - so, hope it's not too disturbing for any readers who liked the old one.
Soz!
seapenguin

"DON'T say "soz!""
"Don't be so pedantic Geoffrey. I'm only trying to keep up with the times."
"In your dreams."
"Don't guffaw Geoffrey. I don't know if you're aware of it but it makes you spit. And sneering isn't a good look for you. Now fire some bacon under the grill - I'm starving."

We save baby Orca from a terrible fate

"But I've not got fingers!"
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."

Tuesday 24 August 2010

A reader complains - again

A regular reader whose name I won't reveal - as all readers will know, confidentiality re. readers' identities is KEY on this blog - oh, all right then, it's Peter Edant, or P.Edant if I really have to spell it out - writes in to complain that there is a spelling error in a previous post.
Apparently, I spelled "tin" wrongly. I can only apologise for my appalling incompetence and inability to spell even a three letter word correctly.
I also regularly mis-spell "hazard" and "corned beef" - so there, Peter! Now bog off before I introduce you to one of the less savoury inhabitants Hereabouts!
Any other complaints?
(all comments are welcomed and complaints WILL be acted upon - wun way or anuvver)

In the Bay

"Put your back into it Geoffrey! you can't expect me to do all the work."

"I've got a splinter. I can only row with the one wing."

"For heaven's sake! no wonder we're going round in ci-i-i-ir-r-r-rc-c-c-cles!"

Friday 20 August 2010

A reader asks...

A reader (Axle Snailbotom, if you must know) has emailed in, demanding to know where he can obtain Tincture of Mattesson weight gain micksture, super hi strenf, as mentioned in a previous blog post.
He also requests that I spell his name correctly, viz. with ONE "t".
Well Axle, the micksture is highly combustible and constitutes such a serious helf 'n' safety hazrd that it is not actually available in the shops/Speedispend - as I'm sure you knew.
However - should you care to micks your own - this is how it's done.
Take one large helping of own choice processed meat. Boil it up in a pan - NOT aluminium - with some lard and a splash of plain water - until you are left with a brown layer of sludge at the bottom. Syphon this into a glass jar or bottle, top up with methylated spirit, and cork securely. Leave for three minutes (approx) then neck it. Oh - perhaps best to open a window first.
Let us know how you get on.
(PLEASE NOTE - THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - IT'S JUST A JOKE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)

The Giant Phag - an unexpected twist

"I spot an opportunity, Geoffrey. Get the coracle down from the attic. Is it caulked?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Caulked. Oh, never mind. Take that old korn bif tine in case we have to bale. And don't forget the medicine chest."
"Oh yes. I better make sure there's some Vick's in it, in case we catch a chill. It's a bit parky out there in the Bay."
"Yes, we can heat it up with some ribena on the primus - FOR FRIG'S sake! Vick's? What do we need with that when we've got every opiate known to man?"
"Opiates are no use for colds, Tuppy. There's nothing like Vick's for a chill."
"Oh well, if you feel you must. I don't suppose it takes up much room."
"That reminds me Tuppy. Why was the toadstool not allowed into the party?"
"Because there wasn't MUSHROOM inside. For pity's sake, let's get on with this. The nights are drawing in already."
"Yes. but wasn't he - Tuppy! Wasn't he -"
"WHAT?!"
"A FUN-GHI! a FUN - ghi! so, it's a shame he didn't get in!"
At this point, I sigh heavily, open the medicine chest and carefully select a vial of hi strenf tincture of laudanum. Just to numb the pain.
We WERE on our way to the Bay - what with the bed sheet landing on the bonce of Baby Orca, we thought we'd take the opportunity to inform him of Tuppence's nefarious plan to turn him into fishfingers. We MIGHT get there some time before next Christmas...

Wednesday 18 August 2010

The Giant Phag (continued and ongoing)

"Right Tuppy - you hold on to that end and I'll pin this one down with a rock. Then we can start piling in the filling."
"Righty oh."
We started making the world's largest phag this afternoon, and it wasn't easy. It was blowing a gale Hereabouts, and we found it impossible to keep the wrapping on the ground.
"Oh, let's pack this in for a game of soldiers," I said, letting go of my end. With that, a gust of wind caught the "wrapping" or king-size bed sheet we'd obtained from Mrs T-G's linen kist, and off it flew over the cliffs and out into the Bay - where it landed four-square on the coupon of - well, you know the rest. At least he's not been harpooned yet.
To be continued...

Monday 16 August 2010

The Phantom phag nicker

"Oh come on. Give me my phags back. I'm gasping."
That's what we heard in the small hours as we gazed up at the toweriest tower of Tupfinder Towers.
Suddenly a plume of smoke and a fountain of orangey red sparks lit up the moonless sky. A lone figure stood leaning over the edge of the tower, silhouetted against the inferno. We heard him cry,"You rotten swine. Have a heart. Twenty Rothman's and a disposable lighter, and make it snappy. Or I won't be answerable."
A second figure caught our eye as it scurried down the ivy-clad walls.
"Hee hee hee!" it sniggered evilly.
What was going on? well, the T-G's had a guest staying in one of his upper rooms. The ones with the bars on the windows and the reinforced doors. Apparently, he's been there for quite some time. Like, his entire life. It's a cousin of Mrs T-G, who happens to have rather unfortunate maniacal tendencies. Seemingly, if he's let loose, he creates mayhem with an axe.
The only thing that keeps him sane is his phag habit - and now, someone has nicked his supply.
"I daren't go near him," quavered the T-G. "Not while he's in this state."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was most out of character. the T-G is usually someone we can turn to in a crisis.
"We'll have to administer a tranquilliser. We'll need to use the blow-pipe of course."
Of course.
"I've got one..."
"In the vitrine. Yes. But that means..."
"Going into the tower itself..."
"Yes, but surely..."
"He'll be safely locked in the upper room? I wouldn't be so sure..."
"Can we not just chuck him some phags?"
"I'm afraid it's gone beyond that now. The thing is, he's already reached such a stage of withdrawal that the strength of phag required would be beyond our wildest imaginings. It's simply not something that would be obtainable, in the normal way."
"Nothing's beyond OUR wildest imaginings. Maybe we could make him a special phag. A giant, superstrength one? Home-made?"
"Maybe..."

Thursday 12 August 2010

Sausages

"Sausages," groaned a small voice from the corner (mine).
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)

Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)

Wednesday 11 August 2010

Aloysius/Axle Snailbottom tries to frighten us - and fails

Axle Snailbottom persists in flinging abuse at us, and threatening legal action, albeit from what he assumes is a safe distance.
He might be living in la-la land but he forgets that we still have live grenades up on the roof - and a very powerful catapult. La la land is nothing to us.
Think on, Axle. Think on.

Tuesday 10 August 2010

Breaking news - fish finger battle over

Well, it's over.
The Tupfinder General found some old grenades in his vitrine in the upper room - the one in the ivy-covered tower, where I found Scott's last biscuit (and ate it - oops! - see old posts if you want the full, shameful account). We sent a warning message to St John via the heliograph, and were all set to launch them from the catapult on the roof, when a reply flashed across from the Hillock.
"OKAY OKAY," it read. "NO KEECH ON FINGERS. BBQ SAUCE. PLEEZE NO FIRE GRENADES."
Well it LOOKED like keech, and it sure smelled like it. But, apparently, it's been Barbeque sauce all along. We don't know which brand as yet (not planning on getting any in the foreseeable).
So that's plan one out of the way. Now all we have to do, is work on plan two - how to prevent Tuppence murdering Baby Orca and turning him into "fish" fingers. I think I'll start by pointing out that a killer whale isn't a fish. But, I don't think that will stop him...
Large snifters all round.

Monday 9 August 2010

The Fish-finger battle, contnd...

"This is ridiculous," said Razor Bill, ducking. "I'm only trying to deliver the post, and I'm being pelted with frozen fish fingers, covered mark you, in a noxious substance. It's hardly fair. I've got dogs and all sorts to contend with. I can do without THIS, as well."
He was quite right, of course. Steps needed to be taken. So, last night, Geoffrey and I headed round to Tupfinder Towers for a top level meeting with the Tupfinder General. After all, due to the pong, we were going to become persona non grata (even more so than normal) before too long.
"Here," said the T-G as we arrived. "Take this, for pity's sake." And he handed us a can of Febreze before quickly rushing indoors.
Obediently, we sprayed ourselves with Febreze "Caribbean Sunset" and waited for it to work.
"That's worse!" said the T-G through the letterbox. "Oh, never mind. Come in anyway. I'll just put a peg on my nose. The old ways are usually best. Mrs T-G can give the place a mop down with Zoflora once you're gone."
Once indoors, we sat round a blazing log fire, sipping glasses of brandy, mulling over the fish finger situation.
"Why bother?" said Geoffrey. "Surely the whole thing is self-limiting. After all, he's bound to run out of fingers before long."
"That's not the point," snapped the T-G. "You can't let St John get away with this. He's a newcomer to the area, and already he's throwing his weight about like he owns the place. It's completely unacceptable."
"It's not his weight I'm worried about," I said.
"I'm not surprised," said the T-G, getting up from his chair and pacing around the room. "Because let's face it - he MIGHT run out of fingers. But he's hardly going to run out of the other."
He crossed over to an oak door next to the ivy-framed leaded window. (Ivy which I shinned up, last summer - but that's another story...)
"Let's have a look in the Tower," he said, unbolting the door. "I MIGHT have something helpful in the vitrine..."

Sunday 8 August 2010

Two words St. John - Lady frigging Grange - that's all I'm saying




St John (that's Aloysius St John von Pierce Bladder to you) has upped the ante. He's rigged up a crossbow on a hillock "over yonder" and started firing frozen fish fingers at us. That would be fine - save us obtaining our own - but, they seem to be smeared with a noxious substance, which we can't quite...
"It's keech," smirked Tuppence.
"It might be brown sauce," said Geoffrey hopefully.
"Keech." repeated Tuppence smugly. "I can smell it."
"All right!" I snapped. "But you don't have to look so pleased about it. Fetch the tarpaulin Geoffrey, and shut all the windows. If they come down the chimney, we'll just have to hope they burn up fast. Get some pegs as well. For our noses."
You see? St John has been behaving outrageously. Way beyond what is acceptable Hereabouts - even after a Friday lock-in.
So we're moving quickly vis a vis our Plan.
Two words St John - St. Kilda, and Lady frigging Grange. And WE'VE got a coracle. Okay that's more than two but -
Think on.

Saturday 7 August 2010

I sense the return of my mental powers

"Geoffrey."
"Yes?"
"I've calmed down a bit now."
"Good. Did the raw opium help?"
"Yes. And the brandy, the madeira, the absinthe pastilles, the Piriton and the extra strength junior aspirin. Thanks Geoffrey. I sense the return of my mental powers."
"And?"
"Well - "
Just then, a familiar voice trilled,"Hiya uncle Tuppy! any chance of a cup of tea?"
And in strolled Tuppence, muskets stuck in belt as per usual.
"I've got a munny-making scheme that just might interest you..."
"Well? spit it out," I snapped. "Though I can assure you that munny doesn't interst US in the least."
"So you say, uncle Tuppy. But it interests ME - and besides, I think ALL our interests just might coincide on this occasion. IF I may be so bold."
"Oh, no doubt you will," I muttered sourly. "Get on with it."
"Listen up then."
Turns out Tuppence and the rats hatched a plan to kill baby Orca, and process his meat "for sale"!!
"How utterly ghastly!"said Geoffrey.
I had to agree. Nobody is more scared of baby Orca and his terrible mood swings than I am. But to commit cold-blooded murder? Never.
"Think of all the fish fingers we could make out of him!" beamed Tuppence, leaning forward eagerly in his seat. "We could flog them to Speedispend! We'd make a frigging fortune!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was going MUCH too far. But how could we stop him?
We'd have to think of ANOTHER plan. That's TWO now. Blimey.
"Medical chest, Goeffrey! Quick!"

Wednesday 4 August 2010

Medical extras

Great news! turns out that Tuppence and his gang of rats are doing a nice line in "medical extras" down in the tunnels, and we're fully stocked up now. So, we don't have to go to Speedispend. Thank goodness - after our last experience.
No, we don't want to be strung up on the gallows again, or be tested for bowel cancer while we're waiting at the checkout, thank you very much.

I embarrass myself, and the medical chest runs low

...c-c-c-c-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-f-f-f-f-s-s-s-s!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
In my excitement over winning the rice pudding challenge, I forgot myself, and toppled backwards over the cliffs.
I'm SO annoyed with myself. I've spent most of my life here on the Outcrop, and even when I've over-indulged down at the Puff Inn, I'm so well aware of the dangers that I've never embarrassed myself like this. (Especially since I've pushed a few others Over the Top myself. Or so the tittle tattlers would have you believe. But that's all documented in previous posts.)
Fortunately, Ranald and Sandy Wand'ring Albatrosse were flying lower than usual, in search of some cave or other which they were scheduled to refurbish. They swooped underneath me and attempted to push me back up to the top of the cliff. However...
"Ow! For pity's sake, Tuppy! not being rude or anything, but how much do you weigh, exactly?"
"Let's not get into specifics, Ranald. This isn't doing my back any good. I'll simply have to let him go."
"No, don't! don't!" I cried, glancing down to the Bay, where a very familiar fin was circling ominously.
"Well help us out here Tuppy! do some work!"
And with that they heaved me as close to the clifftop as they could manage. I seized hold of a tuft of grass with my teeth (thank goodness they are my own) while the T-G gripped my fore legs and pulled me up.
"Blimey, that was close. I thought we'd have to get the winch," sniggered Tuppence, who had been watching the whole proceedings with folded arms.
Ranald and Sandy collapsed on the grass beside me, demanding hot stones and a Swedish massage.
"Swedish massage? Hereabouts? Hardly. The best we can do is some embrocation. I think there's some left in the medical chest..."
"No Tuppy. You drank it last Saturday after the madeira ran out, remember? to wash down your Ginster?"
"Oh yes. Fetch the medical chest, anyway Geoffrey! I feel a bit bilious..."
"Tuppy - I'm sorry to say this, but the medical chest is running low. We're out of mostly everything. Sal volatile. Opium. Morphine. Junior Aspirin. Rennies. Senokot. Japps. The lot. We'll have to go over to Speedispend and stock up. Do they still do opium tabloids in a multipack?"

Tuesday 3 August 2010

Spot the rice pudding skin

No, you can't see it at the moment. It's currently submerged, after landing four-square on the coupon of none other than baby Orca - and long-standing readers will know what THAT means. If you're not a long-standing reader - here's the basics - I ended up - ages ago - being eaten up by a killer whale (Baby Orca's mum). How did I survive? well, I got swilled down the gullet and into the belly of the beast by a wave of seawater. I sat on her molars (or something) till someone else came along - our friend Mr Spockfingers (look - this is all TRUE! if you don't believe me, click on a few old post labels. Honestly) Mr Spockfingers managed to pass wind with sufficient gusto for me to set light to it and blast a humungous hole in the side of the whale (oops, sorry! but it was her or me). But I'm rambling now - and in any case, this is all documented in previous posts - if you can find them (I can't).
Yes, the vendetta remains very much alive. BO didn't like being slapped in the face by the skin of a rice pudding. Not one bit. He's after me now. Again. I'll just have to ensure I don't slip off the cl-i-i-i-i-i-i-ffs.....

Monday 2 August 2010

More arrant nonsense

"All right Geoffrey, you can let go of the strings now. The cape's in position, the laser's fired up and I'm all set to go."
"Hurry, Tuppy. You'll have to turn round so's the dying rays of the sun...oh - it's disappeared..."
"What do we do now? the laser gun won't operate if there's no sun."
"SHHHHHHH! not so loud..."
What the heck is this all about you ask (if you haven't read the blog for a few days)? Well, we were up on the clifftops last Friday evening, trying to harvest the final rays of the sun so that I could laser the skin off a rice pudding (while pretending to blow it off. Difficult. DO keep up.)
Fortunately, at the very moment the sun sank behind a cloud, and then behind the horizon,, Apsley Fulmar lit his gas BBQ and de luxe patio heater combo, and like greased lightning I spun round, caught the glow from the BBQ in the mirror/magnifying glass attachment, and fired up the laser. It was all over in seconds - I blasted the skin right off the pudding in a oner, and it sailed out over the cliffs and into the Bay - where it landed full-square on the coupon of none other than...but you'll have to wait till next blog post to find out. Bet you can't wait?
Meantime - all those who bet on me made loads of money, and those of little or no faith, lost their shirts.

Saturday 31 July 2010

The laser gun (contnd.)

In order to get the laser gun in full working order, while at the same time remaining fully concealed, I had to enlist some help.
"The sun's about to go down, Geoffrey. Hurry. Get the cape on while the rays are still strong."
"All right Tuppy. I'm doing my best."
"Here - I'll do it," said the T-G barging his way in. "You're all fingers and thumbs."
"I don't HAVE fingers and thumbs," sulked Geoffrey.
"Yes, T-G," I said, "You should know that. And Geoffrey's terribly sensitive about it, as you well know."
"For goodness sake!" snapped the T-G,"Let's get this sodding thing on before it gets dark. I've got money on you Tuppy - that laser beam better work!"

Thursday 29 July 2010

I've built a laser gun

Right. I've built a laser gun, following Tuppence's old blueprint for his TTD. I managed to find a load of tin cans in the bin up at the tourist car park and I fashioned them into a pointy thing with a mirror attachment and magnifying glass at the business end - I simply used Geoffrey's shaving mirror.

If my calculations are correct, I reckon that if I face west at sunset, I think the power generated by the dying rays of the sun magnified via the mirror/magnifying glass combo should be sufficient to remove that dratted skin from off of that rice pudding.

I can conceal the whole thing (I think) beneath a cape, and so everyone will think I've actually blown it off.

Then I can collect my winnings and get on with my life.

Anyway I'm setting it up for tomorrow evening - I like a bit of drama. I can't wait to see everyone's faces.

Tuesday 27 July 2010

I'll huff, an' I'll puff...

...an' I'll B-L-O-O-O-O-O-O-W the skin off your rice pudding..."
That's the plan anyhow - Stormy's opened a book on whether I'll manage it, down at the Puff Inn. The pudding's still in the oven so the skin will be welded on like tarmac to a pothole but hey, I'm up for a challenge.
I'll have to cheat though. Possibly using some sort of hidden laser...anyone got any ideas?

Saturday 24 July 2010

The rice pudding business

I'm presently in training for my "blowing skin off rice pudding" challenge. It isn't going to be easy - Cherry Fulmar's had one baking at gas mark 4 for three days now, and the smell of boiled milk is dreadful. I'm dreading it - the skin will be like shoe leather.
I was hoping they'd just produce a tin of Ambrosia and fire it under the grill for a few minutes (even then I'd be struggling), but no - they've gone the whole hog and have made the thing from scratch with real "pudding rice".
I'm never going to manage to blow the skin off something of that calibre, so I'm racking my brains trying to think up a way to cheat.
Geoffrey foolishly suggested I go swimming underwater in the Bay, to strengthen my lungs.
He's been reading Frank Sinatra's biography. Seemingly, Ol' Blue Eyes used to do that in order to improve his "phrasing".
"Why don't you try it, Tuppy?"
"Don't be stupid Geoffrey. Singing My Way is one thing - blowing the skin off a rice pudding is quite another. Me and the Bay don't get on - as you well know. Unless I'm in the coracle - and even then I have to be careful. It would be sheer folly to go swimming. Aren't you remembering Baby Orca and his vendetta? I don't want to dice with death thank you very much - I've got quite enough of that going on with this rice pudding business. And what about my wool? It would pull me under in a trice."
"You could get a wetsuit."
"Bog off Geoffrey. Put the kettle on and fetch me a Ginster's. You're getting right on my nerves. I need to concentrate on a PLAN..."

Wednesday 21 July 2010

Death - is it avoidable?

(I know - I've done this before. A few times. But hey. Always worth another visit.)

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire discussing the ways of the world, while the rain battered the tiny windows of the Outcrop.
"Another madeira, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, rising to his feet.
"Why not," I replied, proffering my mug. "Another pint or two should keep out the chill on this fine July morning. And fire on the lorne - I'm gasping on my breakfast."
"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Geoffrey, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "After all..."
"Not you as well!" I spluttered. This was too much.
"Well, diet and exercise, Tuppy. Very important if you want to keep your health."
"You've been brainwashed, Geoffrey. You've gone over to the dark side. I thought you had more fortitude. Well, let me tell you this. If the Grim Reaper wants to meet up with me, mano a mano, for a square go anytime - bring it on."
"Square sausage more like."
"Are you implying that I couldn't take on Death?"
"Yes. I'm not being rude or anything, Tuppy, but you couldn't blow the skin off a rice pudding in your current condition."
"Alright. If you want to be like that, fair dos. All I'll say is this - bring me that rice pudding, and watch me blow its skin off. Just watch me do it. And now I'm going in a massive huff."

Wishbone Ash?

"Er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er doombiddy doombiddy er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er..."
"Will you stop that racket, PLEEEEZE!"
We're all in an air guitar frenzy here - and as with everything, it all gets a bit much at times. Especially when you're recovering from an almighty three day sesh at the Puff Inn, as we are.
But not as far as Tuppence is concerned. No. I'm afraid to say that my intrepid nephew is hellbent on getting a real guitar. (His moog ended up in the Bay after exploding and bursting into a ball of fire during his umpteenth rendition of Nut Rocker.)
"I want a change, uncle Tuppy! I'm sick of the moog!"
"Phew," we sighed. "At last."
"I want something else - something screechier..."
"Screechier than a moog?"
"Yes. I want a Gibson flying V. Like that guy from Wishbone Ash. And nothing's going to stop me."

Monday 19 July 2010

Fire in the freakin' Sky

"Der-ner-ner, der ner ner ner, der der der, der de der," screamed Tuppence at the top of his lungs, while he played air guitar. "Smo-o-o-oke on the wa-a-a-a-ter..."
"Shoot him," whispered Geoffrey. "Put him out of his misery. Not to mention the rest of us."
"Besides," added the T-G sagely,"It's not even proper prog."
Geoffrey and I looked at each other in amazement. "Since when could YOU tell prog from a Ginster's slice?"
"I enjoy a bit of Rick Wakeman from time to time," he said loftily.
"Oh yes. Which bit?" we sniggered.
"FY-ER IN THE SKY..." Tuppence continued, whirling his arms like Pete Townshend.
"I must say though, this acapella version is a bit much. And all the appalling gesticulations. Where's his usual instrument of choice?"
"The moog? Bottom of the Bay with any luck."
"Ginster's slice, anyone?" offered Stormy proferring a plateful (yes, we were in the Puff Inn, and it was the Friday lock-in...)

Friday 16 July 2010

Munny - is it the root of all evil, or what?

Well, it's 10.33, the T-G has arrived for his morning snifter and so it's high time we cracked open the madeira and lit our pipes. Geoffrey and I have been recovering from our recent ordeal in the tunnels, in which the Grim Reaper aided by the Ghastly Dr Wilson attempted to make us part of his "quota". As if.
Anyway, we're none the wiser re. how Tuppence got his digital camera, never mind his "munny".
"But why do people need munny?" mused Geoffrey.
"Nobody needs munny. It's the root of all evil," asserted the T-G, poking the fire with his sword stick. "Take Speedispend for example. You can bet your bottom dollar that's where Tuppence got his camera."
"But we've not got bottom dollars. That's what we're getting at. Should we have? Is munny necessary? Should we be going to Speedispend as well?"
"NO!" shouted the T-G, leaping to his feet and releasing a shower of ash from his pipe. "NEVER darken its doors."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. We already did darken its doors, by accident last summer, when the TTD went awry (I think - anyone keen to read that episode will have to trawl back a bit) and we had a dreadful time.

Tuesday 13 July 2010

The Bacon Torture (contnd. - again...)

"Get your laughing gear round THAT," said a muffled voice. It was Mrs T-G, talking from a crouched position in the dumb waiter. (as regular readers will know, Mrs T-G is rarely if ever seen in the flesh - and possibly just as well).
Yes, we managed to escape from the tunnels, thanks to the T-G's pistols, and we're now sitting round the fire in the study at Tupfinder Towers, about to tuck into bacon rolls. At flaming last. We've no idea what happened to Tuppence by the way - but we'll be having top level discussions later on, over steaming mugfuls of madeira...

Monday 12 July 2010

The Bacon Torture (contnd.)

"Put that frying pan down!" commanded the T-G.
"Yes," I added eagerly, "And get that bread buttered while you're at it. I'm gasping on a bacon sandwich. Any brown sauce?"
"Red for me," said Geoffrey.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Reaper. "Your puny weapons are quite useless against me - I'm dead as a doornail."
"And besides - bacon's for CLOSERS!" chortled the Ghastly Wilson, just as a bullet whistled past his ear.

Sunday 11 July 2010

More on the Bacon Torture

I've digressed a bit but yes, we ARE still in the tunnels having bacon wafted under our noses, and the T-G has just whipped his pistols out. More on that later...

Friday 9 July 2010

The Bacon Torture

Before we knew where we were, we found ourselves "huckled" towards some ghastly-looking machinery and strapped on.
"Turn the switch!" commanded the Reaper.
We assumed that he meant our exercise machines and braced ourselves accordingly - but no - Wilson was busily stuffing vegetables into three blenders, all going at top speed.
"That's enough!" said the Reaper. "We don't want to lose all the fibre. Now get the tubes in."
As Wilson approached us carrying several lengths of rubber tubing, the Reaper continued.
"You are about to have a healthy mixture of berries, wheatgerm, leafy green vegetables and alfalfa sprouts poured down your throats, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, I will start frying up a bacon sandwich, nice and crispy, which I will then waft under your noses just out of reach. I might even bung on a sausage as well. The resulting mental and physical torture should finish you all off nicely, and I shall make my quota no bother. Goodbye!"
And with that, he turned his back and proceeded to light a gas ring and open a packet of Co-op smoked back.
"I'll just wait till the pan's nice and hot," we heard him murmur to himself as Wilson began pointing the end of the rubber tubing at my throat.
"Just hold it right there!" bellowed the T-G. Somehow, he had managed to twist free of the burly henchmen and had whipped a pair of pistols out of his belt.

Thursday 8 July 2010

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

...none other than the Ghastly Wilson, all togged out in Lycra for pity's sake. And looking very full of himself.
"He's looking very full of himself," whispered Geoffrey.
"And well he might," I muttered. "Look who he's got riding shotgun. In a manner of speaking."
"Blimey!"
Striding around impatiently at the back of the podium was none other than the Grim Reaper himself.
"Come on, come on, get on with it," he hissed, swirling his cape around and creating a terrible draught. "I haven't got all day! I need to make my quota before midnite. Get them on the machines, toot sweet."
"Yes, master," grovelled Wilson. "And I'll start feeding them the health foods, as well. Just to send their systems into shock."

Sunday 4 July 2010

We meet our nemesis (again)

"Ah! welcome!"
Arc lights suddenly dazzled us as we crept along the passageway beneath the old coastguard hut, causing me to drop the picnic hamper I was carrying with a loud thump.
"Mind the flask, Tuppy!" scolded the T-G.
The flask was the least of our worries at that point. We had arrived in an enormous cavern, which appeared to have been transformed into a giant, er, gym.
"What's THAT?" I whispered to Geoffrey.
"I think it might be what they call a running machine."
"A running...machine? How absolutely ghastly!"
Suddenly we were grabbed from behind by two burly creatures in matching trackie bottoms and white vests. They propelled us forwards, until we came face to face with our nemesis. (or one of them - there are a few...) It was...

Thursday 1 July 2010

We hatch a plan

"But how did he get a digital camera, Hereabouts? and how is he, er, plugging it in?" mused the T-G earlier this morning over a reviving post-half-ten snifter.
"I don't even know what a digital camera IS," said Geoffrey.
"Modern technology, Geoffrey. All part of the cut 'n' thrust of daily life, for folks Overthere."
"That's it!" I cried. "He must have been travelling Overthere - to Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Health Screening Centre! he must have got hold of some munny!"
"Great Scott! I think you're right, Tuppy! but how - "
"He must have rigged up another TTD (time travelling device). Either that, or - "
"He's smuggling again."
"Let's all calm down for a moment. Let's think about this rationally," said the T-G, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "After all, it's only natural for a young lad like Tuppence to want all the latest gadgets."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "We never had any gadgets. And look at us."
"Exactly," said the T-G.
"But Tuppence has turned to crime. He's out of control. He's smuggling, and wrecking ships. He's dealing in contraband, and getting - "
"Munny. I know. Besides, he could make all our lives a misery with that flaming camera, sneaking up and taking pictures willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Well, there's only one thing to do now. We'll have to check the tunnels under cover of darkness. I'll bring the pistols, Tuppy, if you and Geoffrey wouldn't mind organising the medical chest, a flask, and a few sandwiches. We'll meet at the witching hour, and take it from there."

Monday 28 June 2010

We Attempt to Make a Bucking/Frigging Coracle

Bucking or frigging, take your frigging pick. (You can guess which is MY fave?!!)
Yes, 'scuse the language, but you'll understand why I'm just a bit tetchy when you learn that Geoffrey and I have been busy trying to make another coracle, ours having been torn to pieces by the propellor of a Calmac ferry last week, somewhere in the Minch - as readers will of course remember.
It isn't easy, finding willow wands, never mind weaving them into a coracle. We managed it, but I'm still picking out splinters.
"Why do you need a coracle, uncle Tuppy? why not have a modern boat - something made out of plastic, or fibre glass?" Tuppence sneered.
"If you have to ask, there's no point explaining," said Geoffrey.
"Don't get priggish with ME, Geoffrey," Tuppence retorted. Else I'll tell Erchie McPheasant-Blaster ALL about your exploits at the Fulmars' BBQ at the weekend."
"Since when did you get so uppity, calling Geoffrey Geoffrey, and not UNCLE Geoffrey?" I said, springing to Geoffrey's defence.
"Ever since I got THIS," said Tuppence, waving a digital camera in a horribly triumphant fashion. "And anyway - he's not my uncle. I've known that for YEARS."

Friday 25 June 2010

False Frigging Alarm

What a frigging liberty. For frig's sake. As the photo below shows only too well, the craft spotted by Ranald and Sandy was defo. NOT the frigging coracle. As if! no - what they spotted is a rusting old hulk, whereas our coracle was beautifully woven out of willow wands, following the traditional method used by monks.
We'll just have to make another one. Sigh. That's if we can find any frigging willow trees.
BTW - we're off round the Fulmars' shortly, for one of Apsley and Cherry's famous BBQs. The medical chest is well-stocked-up with Bisodal etc., just in case - they do say that charcoal is very good for the digestion but there are limits...and I do hope that Apsley won't be parading around starkers beneath that horrible plastic apron with the hilarious (not) naked fulmar on the front, waving his fish slice before all and sundry.

Thursday 24 June 2010

A Miracle - the Coracle has been found

Word arrived via Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse - Geoffrey's cousin and his civil partner) that the coracle was spotted, aground, in some "godforsaken hell-hole" as they put it none too politely. Joy! we could swear that we saw it being chopped up by the blades of a Calmac ferry just last week. Somehow, it managed to escape, or reconstitute itself. Geoffrey and I are off in a mo to try to retrieve it before the wreckers get it.
By the way - readers might be wondering - and I can't blame anyone who isn't - what happened to young Sir Erchie McPheasant-Blaster's newspaper, featuring yours truly and the full unexpurgated story as to how I got wedged in the crack then blasted free by a humungous, forensically-aimed anal emission from Spockfingers. Well, so am I...but wonder no more, because just recently, Geoffrey admitted that he has heard titters coming from the direction of just about everywhere Hereabouts, along with the words "crack" and "wedged". I'm sure it won't be too long before a well-wisher pushes a copy of the abominable thing through our letterbox. Probably under cover of darkness - not that it gets dark at the moment, Hereabouts. I'm going to stay up late, and watch.

Wednesday 23 June 2010

The Alexander Brothers pioneer plastic surgery shock

A slight but vital correction to our previous reference to Tom and Jack Alexander doing a gig at the Hadron Collider. As it goes, they are doing a gig ON the Hadron Collider - the brave chaps are singing and playing the accordion, perched atop the thingy that careers along the thingy really fast/at a rate of some considerable knots.
Why? well, word has it that as well as performing for munny, they are attempting some sort of pioneering, high tech, non-invasive plastic surgery method - following the theory that the enormous "rush of wind" experienced as they career along the Collider will act as a wrinkle-smoothing agent, forcing any loose skin nape-of-neckwards with such force that it will/should "stick". It can then be tied into a knot and left there to turn black and "drop off" in its own time, covered conveniently in the interim by a trendy longish hairdo. Stormy Petrel has connections in showbiz circles, and he tells us that this is so.

Tuesday 22 June 2010

Solstice Insanity

In one of his poems (can't remember which, off-hand) Sorley MacLean describes Nietzsche as a "lying braggart". Discuss.
On second thoughts - don't bother. Blimey, it's hot. My brain is over-heating.

Sunday 20 June 2010

We Must Find the Alexander Brothers

"Where is it? Where is the anti-matter?" Tuppence raved, thrashing his head from side to side.
It was no use. Geoffrey and I had administered doses of sal volatile that would have floored a horse (and we should know - we tried it on Titus) and he was still running a temperature to rival the solar wind. Which, as most folk know, is so hot that the sun's gravity cannot hold on to it. Actually, it's the sun's corona which is the hot bit, and the winds...anyway, I'm digressing.
"You must find Tom and Jack! ask them what it was like, to stare into the abyss - to stare at anti-matter, mano a mano, and survive! find them! find the Alexander Brothers!" And he fell back on to his pillows, exhausted.
Yikes. I think I read somewhere they're due to do a gig at the Hadron Collider.

The Death of Prog

"Whatever happened to prog?" Tuppence shrilled for the umpteenth time, as he lay slumped in the corner, exhausted after his five nite run at the Puff Inn performing The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth" on his moog. "Nobody gives a toss any more about Tull, or Yes, or Egg."
"You can say that again," muttered Geoffrey, who had long since lost patience.
"Look, Tuppence," I interjected. "What more do you want? You've just had a five nite run at the Puff Inn, with an audience of at least three each nite, and five on weekends. That's pretty good, for Hereabouts. The Alexander Brothers had an audience of minus twenty five last year. Think on. Think how THEY must have felt, faced with an audience of anti-matter."
"I know, I know. Tom and Jack got sucked into a black hole. I've heard it all before. But I want something different. I want the Big Time. I want the Skye Gathering Hall. I want the Birnam Institute! I want the Gig in Blairgowrie!"
Geoffrey and I shook our heads sadly and exchanged glances. "Fetch the medicine chest, Geoffrey. Before it's too late."

Tuesday 15 June 2010

Rick Wakeman Rocks!

Least, that's what Tuppence screamed as he powered up the moog last Friday evening and began belting out the first few bars of "The Six Wives of Henry VIII". Can't remember much after that. Probably just as well.

Biscuit of the week - Fox's Ginger Crinkles

Yes, here it is again - our popular biscuit of the week feature! This week's chosen biscuit is the Fox's Ginger Crinkle. It WAS going to be the Fox's Ginger Crunch Cream, which we picked out on Friday - however, due to over-ingestion of meth 'o' pops over the weekend, we forgot and ate them all before we took the photo.
In our opinions, the Crunch Cream is a superior biscuit. We like the cream filling. But a Crinkle will do in a crisis.
Health and Safety warning - this biscuit MUST be dunked, otherwise teeth may be broken. It's pretty freakin' hard.
Plus - it's kind of syrupy and really sticks to your teeth, so a large quantity of tea is required, in order to rinse it off. Be especially wary, if, like us, you have false teeth - you can end up with them glued together for some considerable time. I'm saying no more (because I can't).

Friday 11 June 2010

Tuppence's fleece

BTW u2 can buy a fleece like Tuppence's - here! let's all get beige and look the same!!!

The rats drag a moog into the Puff Inn



It doesn't say anything on the blackboard due to the rain having washed it off, but Tuppence is playing a gig at the Puff Inn tonite. I saw the rats dragging in the moog earlier, along with a couple of crates of salty snax 'n' stuff, plus a vatload of absinthe flavrd meth 'o'pops and a couple of stomach pumps. Geoffrey and me are already in the Q - see u Munday!!!

Saturday 5 June 2010

By the Way

In case you're wondering - Tuppence swam back to shore. He's still on his health and fitness drive, and was determined to show off his prowess.
"For pity's sake," we shouted, as he prepared to jump overboard just as the "Hebridean Princess" bore down upon the coracle, "Don't be foolish, Tuppence. Nobody could care less about your prowess."
But our words were drowned out by the ear-splitting honking of the boat's fog horn, and the horrified screams of the passengers as the coracle was sucked into the wake and chopped into a million pieces by the whirling propellors.
He returned late last night, none the worse and unbearably full of himself. And amazingly, his wool was bone dry.
"See, uncle Tuppy? I'm in terrific shape. A quick five mile swim in the icy waters of the Minch is just the ticket. Dr Wilson..." (at this point, Geoffrey and I sighed loudly, and spat into the fire)"...Dr Wilson has started up compulsory body pumping classes, followed by a glass of black carrot juice, colonic irrigation and a ten mile hi-energy jog along the cliffs. I'm all for it. Besides, he sez anyone who doesn't take part, will..."
At this juncture, a familiar face, or rather, hooded head, appeared at the open window. It was the freakin' Reaper - again.
"Why bother with all that rubbish? You might as well relax, put your feet up and eat chips. After all, you're all going to die anyway!" and he laughed his horrible, hollow, echoing laugh as he glided off.
"I think a quick snifter's in order," I murmured, reaching for the madeira. "By the way, Tuppence - why isn't your wool soaking wet, after your five mile swim? it's not acrylic, by any chance?" I sniggered in an unpleasant, snide kind of way.
"Don't snigger like that," scolded Geoffrey. "You're lowering yourself to his standards. There's absolutely no need. Besides, you're right. It IS acrylic. Look!"
Tuppence was unzipping his "wool" which, it turns out, is actually an acrylic fleece-style zip-up jacket. Beneath that, he was wearing a "dry suit" and a jet-propelled life jacket.
"You didn't think I'd go out in that holey old coracle unprepared, did you, uncle Tuppy?"

Friday 4 June 2010

Disaster

What a disaster. Me and Geoffrey ended up going slightly "off piste" due to "someone" stopping rowing (he blames me, but he's completely wrong - as usual!! he nodded off due to the "intense heat"/over-ingestion of madeira (we'd found a loose barrel floating in the Bay, and tied it on to the painter), but he'll never admit it. Of course, I would NEVER let HIM down by doing such a thing.) and us ending up going round in circles.
Upshot was, we ended up "Overthere" for pity's sake, and barged into the path of an oncoming Calmac ferry. We were then dragged on board by the scruffs of our necks by the over-zealous crew - to prevent us being sucked into the propellors, apparently.
Once on board, we hoped for a triple brandy snifter AT LEAST, but instead we were offered a strange brew which they referred to as "koffy" - the most disgusting concoction I have EVER tasted. It was "served" in a cardboard-style cup, and came spurting out of a "Jackson"-style boiler/machine, and tasted like...well, what I would imagine (not that I want to) whatever revolting sludge lurks at the arse end of the Fulmar's septic tank. Regular passengers are charged the princely sum of £1.55 for it! (£ = munny BTW)
Anyway - after the utter indignity of being placed in the hold as "livestock", we managed to jump ship and make our way back to the Rocky Outcrop, where we are now sitting toasting out feet by a roaring driftwood fire and sipping mugs of boiling madeira (not actually boiling as such - we wouldn't want to boil off the alcohol - quite the reverse...)

Geoffrey poses for the camera

Here's Geoffrey, in a favourite pose during a stop-off on our coracle trip.

Wednesday 2 June 2010

We Dust Off the Coracle (again)

"Come on, Uncle Tuppy! get some of that fat off!"
It was Tuppence, shouting in the window at some ungodly hour. He threw open the curtain - releasing a cloud of moths as he did so - and clambered in.
"What was that? Speak up uncle Tuppy!"
I cleared my throat and decided not to repeat it. After all, why risk a serious "doing" when you don't have to?
"We're only on our fourth cup of tea, for pity's sake Tuppence!" complained Geoffrey.
Anyway - the upshot of it all is that the three of us have dragged the old coracle out of the attic and we're off for a scull round the Bay.
I can only hope that the weather remains calm, and that Baby Orca is still somewhere off the Orkneys...

Sunday 30 May 2010

Processed Meat Slice of the Week - Corned Beef


This week's Processed Meat of the Week is The Co-operative Corned Beef (5 slice pack).
This is probably our fave meat, though normally, Geoffrey and I prefer the tinned version. However, we take our pleasures where we can and if that's all they've got it's all they've got. Plus, we got it cheap as it's reached its sell-by.
Corned Beef - or "korn bif" as we know it - is a versatile and tasty meat. We eat it cold on its own with some red sauce or "yellow sauce" (salad cream). The T-G tells us that Mrs T-G makes it into something called "korn bif Alaska", which consists of a slab/tin of korn bif, covered in red sauce then covered again in mashed potato and grated cheese, and baked in the oven. Naturally Geoffrey and I can't be bothered with all that faff.
Readers might recall that Cherry Fulmar often prepares something called "korn bif kebabs" when she's having a BBQ. These consist of chunks of korn bif, skewered on sticks alongside chunks of tinned pineapple, BBQd, and served with a "yellow sauce coulis". Again, Geoffrey and I can well live without the pineapple chunks ("froot" - yuck) but we'll eat anything if it's free.
The Fulmars haven't had a BBQ this year due to inclement weather, so fingers crossed they might be planning one soon.

Processed Meat Slice of the Week - Corned Beef


This week's Processed Meat of the Week is The Co-operative Corned Beef (5 slice pack).
This is probably our fave meat, though normally, Geoffrey and I prefer the tinned version. However, we take our pleasures where we can and if that's all they've got it's all they've got. Plus, we got it cheap as it's reached its sell-by.
Corned Beef - or "korn bif" as we know it - is a versatile and tasty meat. We eat it cold on its own with some red sauce or "yellow sauce" (salad cream). The T-G tells us that Mrs T-G makes it into something called "korn bif Alaska", which consists of a slab/tin of korn bif, covered in red sauce then covered again in mashed potato and grated cheese, and baked in the oven. Naturally Geoffrey and I can't be bothered with all that faff.
Readers might recall that Cherry Fulmar often prepares something called "korn bif kebabs" when she's having a BBQ. These consist of chunks of korn bif, skewered on sticks alongside chunks of tinned pineapple, BBQd, and served with a "yellow sauce coulis". Again, Geoffrey and I can well live without the pineapple chunks ("froot" - yuck) but we'll eat anything if it's free.
The Fulmars haven't had a BBQ this year due to inclement weather, so fingers crossed they might be planning one soon.

Saturday 29 May 2010

Biscuit of the week - the two finger Kit Kat


This week's biscuit of the week is the two finger milk Kit Kat. We've tried the peanut kind as well, and we like those also. We don't care for the orange variety - too frooty.
Why has this been chosen as biscuit of the week? well, it's all we could find in the bins at the tourist car park today - plus, the red wrapper is very eye-catching and it makes you want to pick it up.
It's also a very good biscuit. We don't choose any old rubbish for this feature, even though we might find things in skips etc.. The chocolate is very tasty and not cloying like Cadbury's (can be).
Geoffrey enjoys a frozen Kit Kat, whereas I prefer mine slightly off the chill. Not that I'm fussy or anything.

Thursday 27 May 2010

Tin of the Week


This is an unusual item - a tin containing "froot".
We don't normally eat "froot", as we like to stick to our processed meat and salty snax diet as much as possible. Our systems are accustomed to it and we feel that "froot" would interfere with that.
However we found this on the skip outside Tupfinder Towers, and decided just to take it for a rainy day, or for throwing at visitors, or both.
It's a tin of Co-operative pear quarters, and was priced down at 39p. It states on the tin that you have to eat THE WHOLE TIN in order to reach just ONE of the mandatory five a day, as laid down by the Ghastly Wilson and his ilk. Needless to say we won't be bothering with that carry on.

We talk about jobs and munny

We quickly became bored with our cloaks and have stuffed them under the sofa, to use another time.
Razor Bill stopped by with the post this morning, and stayed for his usual blether.
"It occurs to me that I'm the only person Hereabouts with a "job"," he said, tucking into a hefty bacon and double egg sandwich.
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "What's a 'job'?", we asked.
Bill nearly choked. "Look at ME! carrying sacks of letters and goodness knows what, all over the shop! you don't think I do this for pleasure, do you?"
Bill explained that he works a certain number of hours per week, for an employer, viz. the G.P.O., and is rewarded with "munny".
"But we don't use "munny" Hereabouts. We don't need it."
"I know," said Bill. "It's all very well for you chaps to rake bins and skips for food. Not to mention your OTHER activities. Manners prevent me from saying what. The rest of us mortals have to LIVE. People talk about you two, you know."
"Well, we're not the only ones who don't have jobs. No-one else does Hereabouts. We're all self-sufficient. And by the way - how's your bacon and double egg sandwich? no trouble at all to fry that up piping hot for you and put on the red sauce just the way you like it and everything."
Bill coughed in an embarrassed way as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Very nice thanks. Suppose I'd better be off."
"Suppose you'd better," I scowled, glancing at the letter he'd brought. Oh no. It was another one from the Humungous Whacking Great Pylon and Compulsory Green Energy Consumption Commission.
I put it on the fire while Geoffrey wasn't looking.

Tuesday 25 May 2010

Hours of Fun

Geoffrey and I have had a great time today. We decided to try out our new hooded black cloaks, and so we got up early and went for a walk along the cliffs. It was a blowy day, with a storm brewing "Over there", and looking very much as if it was feeling like heading "Hereabouts".
As we neared the Old Coastguard Hut (see gazetteer)the sky turned an odd pewter-like colour, which put me in mind of my own dear pewter-style mug, which I use for supping madeira.
"Perhaps we should head home to the fireside, Geoffrey, and have a stiffener. After all, it's gone half ten."
Before he could reply, a crowd of rats emerged willy nilly from the tunnel entrance/exit, which readers will recall is located within the Old Coastguard Hut. When they caught sight of us, they ran back in, screaming at the top of their lungs.
"It's the Reaper! And he's got back up!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "Let's take the long way home, and scare some more people!" I suggested excitedly, enjoying the feeling of power. "I wonder if we can pick up a couple of scythes from somewhere. Let's have a look in the T-G's skip!"
"Don't be selfish Tuppy. Think of the elderly, and the sick. You could tip them over the edge..."