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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.