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Showing posts with label dave nark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dave nark. Show all posts

Saturday 23 March 2024

Tupfinder Towers opens to the public

 


We had forgotten entirely that the T-G intended opening Tupfinder Towers to the public.  And fortunately for us,  he opened it - charging sixpence, to include a nice cup of tea, one of Mrs T-G's black sausage rolls, a pickled worm and entry to the castle and grounds - the day after we leapt into the oubliette in a hail of buckshot.

The first visitor was our friend Dave, fresh from his sojourn on the moors and a period of reflection in the sweat cottage - more of which later.  And were we glad to see him, when he peered over the edge of the oubliette.  He even had a 'pamper package' with Val's 'fun size' nettle hand cream, hogweed facemask and deadly nightshade shower gel, all done up in a basket woven from nettle fibres.   (The T-G had a small gift shop set out in the old stable block alongside the tearoom, stocked with Val's own-made health products and Mrs T-G's own-made range of pickles.  Dave felt obliged to purchase, given he didn't want to risk angering Val if she found out he hadn't.  Regular readers will know why.)  

The tide was rushing in through the hole in the wall and we were freezing.  We knew it was high springs and we had to get out of there before we perished from pneumonia.  Dave thought on his feet and rapidly unwove the nettle fibre basket and threw it down to us, with the bottle of deadly nightshade shower gel tied to the end as ballast.   The rope was flimsy but nettle fibres are tough and we were sure it would hold - it had to.  We managed to fashion it into a makeshift abseiling device and up we went as fast as we could manage.

Soon we were all sitting on the edge of the oubliette, soaking wet and freezing, with grazed knuckles from bumping against the medieval stonework, but alive. 

'Gosh thanks Dave.  I can't wait to get home for a mug of hot Madeira and a bacon sandwich.  Now all we have to do was escape from Tupfinder Towers without the T-G shooting us.'

Too late.

'AND HERE WE HAVE THE DUNGEON,' boomed a familiar voice, 'I'M SURE YOU'LL AGREE IT'S A FASCINATING IF GRUESOME FEATURE, AND THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE - .'  The T-G stopped at the 16th century oak door and stared at us.  Behind him peered half a dozen goggle-eyed schoolchildren and a bemused teacher.

Next time - does the T-G have the nerve to mow us down in front of paying visitors? moreover does he really want to do this, given we were all best friends till we stole - or borrowed, depending on your point of view - the map?







Thursday 21 March 2024

The T-G has a Meltdown


'You've been my friends for years,' said the T-G, cocking his shotgun. 'How could you do this?  Stealing from me.  It's an absolute disgrace.  You only had to ask and I'd have let you turn the rug over to see the map, if indeed that's what it is.  But it's too late for that now.   Just get in the oubliette before I open fire.'

We were teetering on the rim of a forty foot deep 'oubliette' - a bottle-necked dungeon from which there was no escape other than Death itself.

We could hear the tide rushing against the rocks far below.

'Oh it's not enough that it's bottle-necked and forty feet deep - it's got to be tidal as well!' wailed Tuppence. 

'Yes!  And don't start getting your hopes up thinking you can sail out with the tide.  You can't because the hole it comes in is much too small.  And you won't have a quick death through drowning because the tide doesn't come up far enough.  Eventually you'll die of starvation or foot-rot, which ever comes first.  Your only luxury is the tide will wash away your faecal matter.' gloated the T-G.  'Not that there will be much of that after the first terror-induced spasms, because you won't be getting any food.  Heh heh heh.'

And he let fly a hail of buckshot.  

We all leapt into the dungeon hoping for the best.  Well, it's all you can do sometimes.

Next time - Dave arrives with a care package from Val...full of pampering products made from nettles.  What a shame he didn't bring a rope - oh wait...

Tuesday 19 March 2024

Plague Island - or is it?

 


Thankfully, the T-G hadn't bothered to lock up and it was fairly easy to gain access by sliding a stout piece of card between the two casements.   Tuppence and I rolled up the Aubusson, tied it with rope, and shoved it out of the window.  There was a lot of rustling as it slid down the ivy and the Moon was shining brightly upon the castle walls leaving us quite exposed to anyone who happened to be having a midnight ramble.  However we had to take the chance because unless we tried to cram it through the waste hole of the 'garderobe' we had no other way of getting it out.

Back at the Outcrop we unrolled the rug.  The map was clearly visible on the woven underside, rather than on the stained and worn 'pile'. 

But what was it a map OF?  Or indeed, where?  We had to bear in mind that we were looking at a reverse image.

There were symbols for water, and a distinct outline of a tiny island.  On the island was the symbol for a church, or at least some sort of religious structure.  

And next to it, a skull and crossbones.

'What does that signify?' asked Geoffrey. 'Pirates?'

'Death,' said Tuppence. 'Poison.  Disease.  It's a plague island.  Of all the rotten luck.'

'So we've wasted our time then,' said Geoffrey. 'The whole point of nicking the map was to find buried treasure.  Gold coins, doubloons, pieces of eight and caskets of jewels.  Because where there's a secret map there's always buried treasure.  Not that we need munny or anything, it's just nice to have the satisfaction of finding it.  Oh well, I suppose we'd better take the rug back before they notice it's missing.'   He reached for the grappling hook.

'Hold up, Geoffrey,' I said.  'Could it be that the skull and crossbones IS a pirate symbol, rather than death or poison, and that there's smuggled treasure hidden there?' 

'Or, perhaps whoever made the map wanted people to think it was a plague island to put them off and there is really a hoard of gold and jewels hidden in a crypt or something,'  said Geoffrey.

'There's only one way to find out.  We have to figure out which island this is and get over there quickstyle,' said Tuppence, twirling a pistol.  'Fetch the coracle Uncle Tuppy, while I fire up the iPhone and do a reverse reverse image search.'

next time - we find the island, only to discover it's already heavily featured as a fun destination on Instagrot and a million people and their kids have already trampled over it, paddle-boarding and barbecuing and defecating everywhere and destroying any potential clues...but the Old Tup was a canny character and nobody's fool.  There were secrets yet to be discovered...and we were the ones to find them - with the additional help of Dave, his trailcam and his newly-developed, super-sensitive 'third eye'.  More on that next time.




Friday 15 March 2024

Plans for a Hate Crime Dobbing in Centre and Two for One Brazilian Butt Lifts

 


 'We're going to drive new traffic to our yurt business by making it a dobbing in centre for hate crimes.  So Val says.  She says anyone promoting hate deserves everything they get and she's prepared to catch them herself,  lock them into her therapy yurt and chain them to the massage table till the coppers arrive.  She's even bought a hi-viz jacket and a cattle prod.  But I don't feel right about it,' said Dave. 'I don't want to grass anyone up.  When I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Indeed,' said the T-G,  'It has the potential to be catastrophic in terms of local community cohesion.  Neighbour pitted against neighbour and so forth.'

'Val says it's great publicity for our business.  It'll make us seem current.  She says we need to move with the times and diversify.  She's making a sign for it right now from locally-foraged shells and sea glass with 'HATE CRIME REPORTING CENTRE' on it in seaweed fronds.  And she's made nettle scones with H A T E on the top.  People can buy a set of four and have HATE nestled right there in an eco-cellophaned nettle-fibre refillable basket. They can then literally consume HATE and expel it via the customary orifice, thereby destroying it.  She's also going to throw in two for one Brazilian butt lifts for anyone reporting a hate crime cos she's just completed an online course in how to do the liquid injection ones.  I get what she means but I just don't feel comfortable.'  Dave fiddled anxiously with a fingerless glove. 'Especially with an open-ended concept-style thing like hate.  It's not a word I even like to say to be honest.  It's kind of strong.  You know when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'What is a hate crime?'  I interrupted.

'Not sure,' said Dave. 'But when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'It sounds like something best not to get involved with,' said the T-G loudly, poking at a pot hole with his sword stick. We were out for a walk by the tourist car park, assessing the local infrastructure in view of his plans to open Tupfinder Towers to the public.  'In my experience as the local magistrate-style person-in-charge type thing,  evidence, proof, impartiality and a sound knowledge of how the law applies are crucial when administering justice.  This rubbish sounds like it was made up on the back of a fag packet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' I said, my voice fading and echoing as I fell into a super-deep pothole.

'As I was saying,  when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ve....He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeeeeee.'


next time - Dave finally manages to tell us what exactly occurred in the sweat cottage, and Val remains determined to forge ahead with her plans.  


** for readers outwith Scotland, who may be puzzled by the above -  we have a new Hate Crime law here.  Hate crimes can now be reported at specially designated hate crime reporting centres, including a mushroom farm and a sex shop.  I'm not making this up.

Dodgy Brazilian butt lifts have also been in the news.  

What a strange world we live in...

Thursday 1 February 2024

Dave's Hurting Soul


'Dave.  You need to spend some time alone mate.  You need to reconnect with yourself.'

Dave thought back to when he was a teenager.  Endless hours spent listening to Nick Drake on dull winter afternoons, smoking endless cigarettes and thinking endlessly dark thoughts.  It was always late autumn or winter back then, or so it seemed.  Everything grey and brown and muddy.  Mirroring how he felt inside.

He remembered longing for a cleansing frost.  And a homely house in the countryside with a welcoming fire, books, and a patchwork bedspread.  Instead of the damp featureless first floor apartment in the brutalist concrete housing estate where he was brought up.  

Was he connecting with himself, back then?  It was hard to say.  It was just the way he was, back then.  Friendless.  Introverted.  Relying entirely on his own company.  Escaping on his bike to bits of scrubby ancient woodland still hanging on amidst the concrete and rubble of new roads and shopping centres on the outskirts of town and finding solace for his hurting soul in a bit of birding.  

I haven't changed a bit, he thought.   I live in the countryside and I'm married to Val now, so I'm not on my own.  

But my soul still hurts.

Tuesday 9 January 2024

Dave Nark has an existential crisis

'Does Santa wear a full wig, or is it a ring of white hair attached to his hat to make it look like a wig? What does he do for the rest of the year, what does he think about?  Does he garden at all?'  Dave Nark muttered as he paced back and forth in front of the row of composting toilets behind the yurts as the snow began to fall.  He was wearing khaki-coloured fingerless gloves and biting his nails. 


'I can't go on like this,' he thought. 'What am I doing with my life?  I'm 59 years old and the world has passed me by.  Or is it the other way round?  Am I really happy with Val?  Or am I just making do - settling, as they say.  I think I know the answer to that one.  Oh dear.  But it's not just that.  The wildlife vids are just not cutting it.  I'm losing my touch.  Everyone's tik tokking now.  My vids are old hat.  Nobody's interested in otters.  They want killer whales and breaching humpbacks.  I have to up my game or move on.  Basically that's it, isn't it.  Up my game or move on.  Move on into the fucking grave.'

'DAVE!'  screeched Val from inside the healing yurt.  'Don't forget that you've kindling to chop, logs to bring in and the woodburner to clean when you've done digging out the toilets.  And you can make me a cup of goji berry tea while you're at it.  Properly mind!  I want the water freshly boiled not flat and under-oxygenated like the last time.   I'm worn out hot-stoning.'

Dave stopped pacing for a moment.   He rubbed his long nose in a thoughtful manner and removed a drop of moisture with the back of his fingerless glove. 

'DAVE!'

'DAVE ARE YOU LISTENING!'

'DAVE!'

And then he started pacing again, only in a different direction.  Rather than pacing back and forth in front of the toilets (which he hadn't dug out by the way), he narrowed his eyes, adjusted his bobble hat and headed behind them - towards the moors...

next time - Dave has an odd encounter in a sweat lodge

Thursday 7 December 2023

Christmas Dread

 


We were sitting round the fire again.  Well, there isn't much else to do at this time of year.  It's dark at half past two, rainy, sleety, horrible.  Best to tuck a tartan knee rug round, light your pipe, pour yourself a mighty slug of something extremely mind-numbingly powerful and chuck another piece of driftwood on the fire.  Maybe find a decent book to read before slipping into a coma.

But I need to go out to work, you say.  I can't buy baccy and drink and knee rugs when I've no money.  And I have no answer to that.   I realise how fortunate we are Hereabouts, with easy access to smuggled goods and lots of driftwood lying about.  

'I hate this time of year,' said Dave. 'I just want it to be Spring again.'

'Don't wish your life away Dave.  It won't be Spring for four months.'

'Three.'

'Four.  I don't count March as a Spring month, it's too brown and cold.'

'What's everyone doing at Christmas anyway,' asked Dave. 'We've got Val's mother coming to stay.  I've got to say I'm totally fucking dreading it.  She's a joyless old bat with a seriously bossy streak.'

'Commiserations Dave.  You're always welcome round here if you need to escape.  We won't be doing much.  Cracking open a tin of corned beef and sticking a sprig of holly in it.'

'Good to know.  I will need to escape, thank you guys. Val's bad enough but her mother's a million times worse.  She says I don't do the hoovering and washing up properly, I've to up my game and start rinsing the plates first before washing them in soapy water then rinse them again after.   She's always on my back to take the bins out and stuff.'

'Hoovering and washing up?' said Tuppence, aghast.  'Rinsing plates?  Dave, you've got to man up! Next she'll have you cleaning the toilet and making the tea for heaven's sake.'

'I know.  She's only staying for a few days but after she's gone there's always sort of a hangover effect on Val.  It's like she becomes infected by her mother's horrible personality and she starts on at me in a similar manner.  Like I can never do anything right at the best of times but it's even more so after her mother's been.   Oh well.  I'm in for a rough Festive but at least I've still got my wildlife vids.  Glass half full guys.  Or is it empty.  I'm never sure.  Anyway, thanks for listening.'  He dabbed his nose with the end of his sleeve and sighed heavily.

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances.  We both knew what the other was thinking. 

We knew what it was like to have a rough Christmas and we weren't about to see a mate go through similar, if it could be avoided. 

We were going to give Dave the best Christmas ever.  

Next time - we make plans for Dave's best ever Christmas, starting with cracking open two tins of corned beef instead of one



Monday 4 December 2023

Bad Gigs


The wind howled in the chimney and the rain battered against the window-panes like a hail of buckshot. We were all - all being me,  Geoffrey,  Dave Nark, Tuppence and Alexa - sitting round the fire, chatting about old times, as you do on nights like that.    I was not feeling all that terrific so was covertly chewing on an opium tabloid just to take the edge off.  Others were enjoying a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit.  Dave Nark was rolling himself a cigarette.   Val doesn't allow him to smoke unless it's organic herbs so he comes round to ours to do it. 

'What's the worst gig you've ever been to Alexa?'  asked Tuppence.

'It was that night you played the Puff Inn and your Uncle Tuppy dropped his pint on the keyboard of your Moog and the electrics exploded and set the place on fire razing it to the ground.   We were all evacuated on to the moors and it was dark and freezing and I'd left my jacket behind and I was desperate for the toilet but I didn't want to go outside because there were too many people about.  I'm surprised you even had to ask.'

'Oh yes!  All those stolen barrels of 100% proof brandy in Stormy's cellar went up like nitro-glycerine and flames shot out of the hole-end of the tunnels at the cliffs.  It was quite a dramatic display.  But to me,  you see, that was a great end to a gig.  You're never going to get that again.'

Dave lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.  'I had some cracking gigs when I was the drummer with the Minds,' he began.

'More tea, anyone?' Geoffrey glanced at me in a significant manner.  We didn't want Dave starting up about gigs with the Minds.  It never ended well.  He'd end up morose and ranting about Jim Kerr again.

'We're not talking about cracking gigs tonight Dave, OK?  We're talking about bad ones.  I have to say Bo Diddley was pretty crap.  He arrived on stage five hours late.  The support band played their set three times over and everyone was very drunk.  Someone was sick into their shoes right in front of me.'

'What about Jack Bruce?' said Geoffrey. 'That was epically bad.  We tried to get out but we couldn't manage to open the door.  We thought we were locked in but thankfully it was only stiff.  We escaped and went for chips.  We needed the sustenance after that nightmare.'

'Dr John though Geoffrey.  Remember?' I enthused.  'He was okay but the people dancing right in front of us waving their arms in a faux-artistic manner ruined the whole experience.'

'I hate artistic people,' said Tuppence.  'They're always annoying.'

'That's because you're a Nazi Tuppence,' said Dave. 'Don't bother to deny it, we all know.  Personally,  I like artists.  I like to think I'm kind of an artist myself, with my wildlife vids.'

'Your wildlife vids are brilliant Dave,' said Alexa, patting Dave's knee.  Dave blushed and looked pleased.  Geoffrey and I exchanged looks.  'Brilliant' was going it a bit strong.  Grey and fuzzy with strange unidentifiable sasquatch-like creatures roaming around in the dark with glaring eyes was more like it.   But we wouldn't offend Dave by saying so.   


Next time - Dave gets confused about Alexa patting his knee.  Could she really be interested in an older man?  or, was she just after a cleaning job in the yurts?  It didn't occur to him that neither might be the case.





 

Thursday 30 November 2023

Musical Memories


 'Nobody wants to know about the Canterbury school of prog Tuppence.   It's like from the dark ages,' said Val Nark,  shaking the dregs of a goji berry and chia seed smoothie on to an 'own-made' gravel flapjack. 'You don't seem to realise your terrible taste in music is why your band-mates abandoned you. Well, partly, anyway.  I'm sure your awful personality and penchant for random shootings didn't help.  Life moves on.   You need to up your game.'

'Oh really.  Any ideas?'

'Maybe move into the 90s or something.  What about doing some covers of the Verve or the Stone Roses?'

'I thought maybe Simple Minds?'

'The Minds were shit!' spluttered Val.  Shards of gravel flapjack ricocheted off the window of Val's eco-cafe. 'For pity's sake.  They were the 1980s anyway.  Which was all totally shit.   You really have no musical knowledge whatsoever.'

'They were indeed shit,' said Dave, as he fried a plant-based burger on the compressed-wood-dust-fired stove.  'And I should know.  I was their first drummer, till I left through mutual agreement.  Just before they got their recording contract.'

'You got fired then.'

'No.  It was through mutual agreement, like I said.  They said I was great but just not a good fit for them at that time.  I'd be better off moving on and looking for something else that showed my talents off to the full.'

'Fired.'

'No. They said they didn't actually need a drummer at that time and I'd only be bored with nothing to do.'

'Fired.'

'No.  They said I was perfect for the band and a great drummer,  only not right now with them kind of thing.  It was all good,  I was fine with it.  I was totally thrilled for them when they started having massive chart success.  Ow!'  Dave burned his fingers flipping the burger and adding a slice of vegan cheese-style topping.  'Shit.  That's the finger I use to press 'record' when I'm doing my wildlife vids.'

'Let's face it they were a shower of bastards Dave,' said Val briskly.  'Dark days.  But we moved on, didn't we? We coped.  We thrived!  I picked you up out of the gutter, and forced you to face the world again.  And here we are!  Living the good life on a croft-style place in Scotland, renting out yurts and selling eco-goods and putting wildlife vids online and stuff.   If Jim Kerr ever turns up,  he'll get the doing of his life.'

Next time - Jim Kerr turns up and gets the doing of his life


Monday 10 January 2022

The Vaxing Yurt

 

Fortified by large helpings of sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes we sat uncomfortably on the Morocco ottoman by the mullioned window and awaited further thoughts from the T-G.  

'Would you look at the nick of that roaster with the cattle prod in the hi viz jacket - who is it Geoffrey - I can't tell what with the mask, the safety goggles and the balaclava helmet.'  I rubbed at a diamond-shaped pane of glass with a corner of my plaid scarf and peered at the grassy knoll far below, where a tall, rangy figure stood waving his arms and gesturing with a cattle prod towards a newly-erected yurt.

'Of course you can.  It's Dave Nark.  Who else would it be?  He's rounding up stragglers who won't take the vax.  People won't go into the yurt now because they're saying they've seen others go in and never come out.  That's why he's using the cattle prod.'

'Cripes.  Can't we nobble him?'

'I'm sure that's not beyond our wit and skill Tuppy.  But we'll need to be careful.  Oh - settle down.  The T-G's on the starting blocks again.'

We moved towards the roaring fire and sat gingerly on the fender seat.  The T-G sat on his customary leather armchair beside us with his long sea-booted legs stretched before him, a Meerschaum pipe gripped between his teeth.

'Is there at the core of Man such a limitless darkness that can never be apprehended by the human mind?' he began.

'You know Val Nark's selling heat logs made from compressed sawdust,' said Geoffrey, sotto voce.  'They're meant to burn quite well and are much more eco-friendly than normal logs.  Perhaps the T-G...'

'Don't be stupid Geoffrey.  They wouldn't do on a fire this size.  You need proper logs three feet long to fill this fireplace, not Chad Valley rubbish.'

'Well I was only saying.'

'Fine, but don't bother next time.  Did you bring the hip flask?'

'N-nooo,  I left it on the - '

'Oh for pity's sake.'  I needed that hip flask, and I needed it badly.

'We are the void.  We are blackness.  We are the manifestation of the type of evil that results from sheer ignorance - our actions driven by wilful blindness to our own faults and a vainglorious belief in our superiority as a species.  At best, we are egregiously foolish, at worst, deliberately wicked.  Or is it the other way round.  I'm not sure.  Anyway,  in short, we should never be allowed out on our own.  None of us!'  The silverware on the oak monastery table rattled as the T-G thumped his sword stick on the floor.

Many floors below there was an unearthly scream as Dave Nark cattle-prodded another quivering victim into the vaxing yurt.

'We're going to have to do something aren't we Tuppy.  How I hate it when things get to this stage.'

'Afraid so Geoffrey,'  I said, stifling a sausagey belch.  'Fetch the blunderbuss and limber up.'


more later



Thursday 9 September 2021

Dave Nark - Covid Tester and Wildlife Vidder

 A year on, almost, from the previous post.   And we don't have 'covid marshals' any more.  No - we have 'vaccines' and 'vaccine certificates'...and covid testers...


'So.  Dave Nark's a covid tester now.  Sticking cotton buds up people's noses in a caravan in the tourist car park for what he claims is a 'competitive salary'.'   The T-G had stopped by for a glass of piping hot Madeira and was reading a crumpled copy of last week's 'Daily Bugle'.

'He needn't bother sticking one up my nose,'  I said, throwing a piece of driftwood on the fire.

'Or mine', agreed Geoffrey.

'Or indeed mine,' said the T-G.  

'Is he still posting those wildlife vids on Youtube?'

'I believe so Tuppy.  He did get banned for a while after his trail cam filmed a staycationer doing the toilet in the burn.  He posted it without realising, or so he said.'

'Gracious.'

'Indeed.  Number twos, as well.  Val was mortified.  People were saying Dave was a pre-vert.  She was terrified the negative publicity would ruin her ear-candling and hot stones for well-being business.  She was running out of furlough money and it happened at exactly the wrong time, so she told Mrs T-G anyway.  Not that there would ever be a right time for that kind of thing.'

'Good grief.'

'Indeed.   Apparently the clip went viral before it was removed.  They've put portable toilets in the car park now so there's no reason that kind of thing should happen again.  Black Bogey?'   The T-G proffered his worn Spanish leather tobacco pouch.

'Thanks T-G.  How does Mrs T-G feel about it all?' I asked.  'Is she pro or anti vax?'

'Oh she's been double-jabbed, like me,' replied the T-G. 'We've had no side effects to speak of, other than the pustule eruptions, the chronic halitosis and the growth of the tail.  And of course Mrs T-G has the enormous wart on the end of her nose - but that was there before.'

'When I went for my jab I asked - ' Geoffrey spluttered and had to pause to control his laughter - 'I asked - ' Geoffrey doubled over in hysterics - ' I asked -'

'Oh do get on with it Geoffrey.  We've heard this one umpteen times already and it doesn't get any more amusing in the telling.'

''I asked if I'd be able to play the piano after the jab,' he blurted, ' Of course, replied Dr Wilson, looking amazed as he waved a needle in my face.  That's great,  I answered. Because I can't play it now!  Ba-boom!'  Geoffrey rocked back and forth with laughter while the T-G and I lit our pipes and stared grimly into the glowing embers.

'Interesting times,  Tuppy,' said the T-G.  'Interesting times...'

more later




Monday 12 October 2020

Dave Nark - covid marshal

 Tuppence staggered in at dawn this morning and threw himself on the sofa.

'Thank fizz you've got a hole in the wall for a front door uncle Tuppy cos I'd never have managed a proper door handle,' he wheezed, pulling the tartan knee rug over himself as he curled into a foetal position.

'Thank fizz?  are we in an Enid Blyton story Tuppence?  next you'll be wanting lashings of ginger beer, treacle tart and heaps of cook's special plum cake.'

'I wouldn't say no.'

'Where've you been all night anyway?  And why wouldn't you manage a door handle?  You look awful.'  I kicked a fresh log on to the smouldering embers and wafted yesterday's 'Bugle' in front of it to get a flame.  

'Don't ask.  Well, do.  I don't mind talking about it.  I've binned Alexa.'

'Really.'

'Well all right, she binned me.  There, I said it.  Are you happy now?  She only got off with Alvin, the frozen foods manager at Speedispend's pre-lockdown completely non-socially-distanced street party last night while I was providing the musical entertainment with my band.  You'd think she'd want to stick with ME, the mercurial, brooding, Byronic musical genius, the undoubted future STAR of the 2030 Jools Holland Hootenanny - but no, off she went with fizzing Alvin and his frozen fizzing fish-style fingers.   I was in the middle of a fantastic rendition of Egg's classic from 1970, 'The Song of McGillicudie the Pusillanimous' when I saw them openly flouting the social distancing guidelines together.   It totally put me off my half hour moog solo, to the extent that I fell backwards off my organ stool, getting my fingers trapped in a tightening coil of the electric cable as I did so, and toppled the entire amplifier stack as I yanked at the cable in the - ultimately successful - struggle to free myself.  Nobody helped.  Not even the rats.  I was utterly humiliated and I've been wandering the moors ever since.  My fingers are still swollen - look.'

'You'd better have a mug of hot Madeira and get off to your bed then.  I'm sure everything will seem better after a bit of kip. What's that noise?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

'Somebody's thumping the wall with a big fizzing stick!'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

A lump of plaster fell off the ceiling.

'Hey just a  - '

'OPEN UP.  THIS IS YOUR LOCAL COVID MARSHAL. WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE BRAZENLY FLOUTING THE COVID LAWS.'

'That's Dave Nark's voice!  What the fizz is going on Dave?'  I poked my head through the hole in the wall and peered at him.  He was sporting a yellow hi-viz jacket and a peaked cap, and was carrying a clip board and a mobile telephone.

'That's Sir to you if you don't mind.   I'm here to put you all under house arrest for not adhering to the new covid rules.'

Turns out that Dave's Youtube vids weren't bringing in enough dosh to keep him and Val in teabags never mind anything else, and so he applied - successfully, weirdly enough - for a job as Covid Marshal at the princely sum of £8.72 an hour.

'At least I've got my pride!' said Dave.

'Really,' I replied. 'You'd better come in and have a cup of hot Madeira to keep the cold out.  That rain's dripping off your cap and right down the back of your hi-viz jacket.  Before you know it you'll have a sniffle and have to self-isolate for fourteen days.'

'But you're a separate household.  We're not a bubble.  We cannot - I cannot - I cannot - '

'You don't understand the rules, do you Dave.  Never mind - nor does anyone else.  Just come in and take the weight off for half an hour.'

'Oh what the fizz.  Don't mind if I do.  I'll just scan the horizon with my hi-powered binoculars - the ones I usually use for watching wildlife for my Youtube vids - to see if any potential grasses are watching.'

NEXT TIME - a potential grass WAS watching, and we are forced to track them down and 'correct' them in the customary manner.  Dave sees the error of his ways and packs in the job as covid marshal, leaving a vacuum that only Nature - or some venal jobsworth - could fill...





Thursday 17 September 2020

 'Is there going to be another lockdown?' asked Geoffrey, breathlessly.  'Is the social distancing and handwashing and stuff working? What about the test and trace system?'

'Stop getting over-excited and get those fish fingers grilled,' I replied, packing my pipe with Black Bogey.

'No it's just that we might have to start stockpiling again.  Toilet paper and that.'

'I thought we went through all that already (see previous posts)?  We don't NEED toilet paper.'

'I know WE don't need it, but what if we have visitors?'

'If there's a lockdown we won't have visitors Geoffrey.  But if you feel THAT badly about it, nip down to the tunnels after lunch and see if you can find a pack or two of Izal.  And pick up a barrel of best Madeira while you're there, we definitely don't want to run out of that.'

'Wilco.  Val Nark's coming over later, she's got a petition for us to sign.  It's about the Gaelic signage.'

'Wot?'

'The Gaelic signage.  Someone's been going about with a tin of blue paint, erasing all the English signs so nobody knows where they're going.'

'And?'

'Val wants the remaining Gaelic signage to be replaced by pictograms - that way, nobody will feel left out and everyone will be able to understand - or 'unnerstaun' - the signs and therefore won't get lost.'

'I see.  Well, I daresay we can have a look at it and if my inky footprint will help then she's welcome to it.  We can't have folk stumbling around lost hereabouts - the cliffs are far too dangerous, as well we know (see posts passim) Does she still have folk self-isolating in the yurt?'

'Yes, still the same ones.  Nobody's seen them for six weeks - Val leaves quinoa and wholegrains and such-like by the flap and they pull it under using the end of a walking stick, and push out their rubbish when they're finished, using a toxic waste bin which Val then flings over the cliffs - it's a good system.  I think she's put Dave on the furlough scheme, he never does much anyway except film otters and post his vids on the internet.'

'That runs out in October though.  What's he going to do then?'

'He's applied for a job as a covid tester.  And, coincidentally, so has Tuppence.'

'What does that involve?'

'Well, I gather you get masked up and stick cotton buds up people's noses and test them for covid using a test-tube and some sort of 'liquid' covid-detector-serum. If they turn black and shrivel in the fresh air you've got it, and they fling you in a dungeon, or something.'

'They won't get anywhere near my nostrils with their cotton buds I'll tell you that for nothing.  They can stick 'em where the sun don't shine and it isn't up their nose.'

more on this later



Monday 27 July 2020

Arson About

Remember the unidentified pile of bones found when the wicker man burned down? Well, they aren't 'unidentified' any more.  Not really, anyway.  This is what happened.
Dave and Val were livid when they saw what happened to the wicker man. When I say 'what happened to',  of course I should really say 'what Tuppence did to'.   With a Zippo lighter and a box of firelighters.
'We understand that Tuppence has issues,' said Val. 'We aren't surprised that he's turned to arson.  The poor creature hasn't even been to school.  And with role models like Tuppy and Geoffrey...'
'His diet's awful as well,' added Dave. 'No fresh vegetables.  I think he just gets crisps, fish finger sandwiches and corned beef to eat.'
'It's a wonder he's alive,' added Dr Wilson, 'he'll never make it to old age and maybe that's a blessing.  For all of us.'
This 'convo' took place on the headland where Dr Wilson was picking through the remains of the wicker man, and was overheard by Geoffrey as he circled over on his way to the Tunnels to check out the crisps and corned beef situation - we were running a bit low on supplies for that evening's tea.
'They even let him have a brace of pistols,' said Dr Wilson, foaming at the mouth, 'and live ammo.  He should really be in a secure unit - one of the old-style Borstals, where they could birch some sense into him. That's clearly a human femur by the way.'
'Oh no!' said Val, 'it's not his fault.  He needs help.  Proper psychological help like what we can offer and that.  Punishing him won't help.'
'He's already been in the sweat lodge (please see paperbacks for details of this awful experience).' said Dave. 'I'm not sure we can offer much more.'
'What about a short course of online C.B.T. or some ear-candling - once the pandemic's over of course?' said Val. 'It might help him develop a more positive mental attitude.'
'That wouldn't even make a dent,' scoffed Dr Wilson,' the lad's battle-hardened.  No, no, no, a good birching once a week would sort him out.  I'll do it. I've got a birch tree growing outside my garden and - '
'He hasn't even got a garden,' I said, interrupting Geoffrey's account. 'He's raving again.'
'I know,' said Geoffrey. 'Just wait till you hear the next bit.'
'OK but hurry up. I'm starving and I want to get the tea on.'
'Well,' said Geoffrey,' I'll cut a long story short.  Turns out Val and Dave had a self-isolating visitor self-isolating in their healing yurt, and they went for a socially-distanced stroll along the headland to admire the view.  Thinking they'd get an even better view from the top of the wicker man, which was of course then in situ having been erected as a publicity stunt by Val and Dave, they climbed to the top, got trapped in the head and were unable to make their way down.  Tuppence failed to hear their frantic screams over the calling of the gulls and the howling of the gale that whipped over the clifftops as he set light to the thing, and they perished in the inferno.'
'What a lovely story,' I said. 'Did you get any corned beef when you were out?'

next time - Stormy's relatives return to the States having failed to inherit the Puff Inn, and Dave and Val start a government-style anti-obesity clinic, free at the point of delivery - actual funding details to follow.  The bones of the late self-isolating yurt guest are hygienically crushed into paste with hand sanitiser, hygienically folded into a face-mask and flung over the top of the cliffs and into the sea, for hygienic funeral-style reasons.  Somebody says a few words but nobody can hear them over the calling of the gulls etc.. and there is a ham sandwich tea back at ours.  Dave and Val don't come because we don't provide a vegan alternative.  Tuppence hears about Dr Wilson's plans to birch him, and plots a ghastly revenge...



Thursday 18 June 2020

Tuppence came in last night in an agitated state.
'I'm in an agitated state Uncle Tuppy,' he said, wringing his hands. 'Where's the chainsaw?'
'We don't have one.' I tipped an extra dose of laudanum into my tea.  Lord knows I need it these days.
'Well an axe then.  An axe will do.  Anything with a blade.  And ropes.  A block and tackle.  Matches.  Petrol!  Tinder!'
'Usually you manage fine with your brace of pistols Tuppence.  What's all this for?'
'I want to tear down the wicker man. Destroy it, and push it into the sea, to perish on the rocks below.'
'Not the wicker man that Val and Dave Nark have just finished carefully fashioning from locally sourced willow wands, and placed on the headland to attract tourists!'
'Yes!  it's a representation of their two-legged tyranny over the neighbourhood Uncle Tuppy.  A grotesque symbol of the dominion held by the two-legged haves over the four-legged have nots. Dave and Val are money-grubbing capitalists of the first water, trying to slip under the radar camouflaged as green sustainable living type people.  They're nothing short of fascists Uncle Tuppy and I want to saw the legs off their statue and burn it to the ground.  Burn it I say!'
'Why don't you saw Dave and Val's legs off and burn them to the ground?'
'Because I would get done for murder Uncle Tuppy.  Someone would dob me in.'
'Well it is true not much gets past the old Tupfinder General with his infrared spyglass.  But I don't think he'd ever dob you in.  Never mind - we can think about that later.   Why not sit down and have your tea before you rush into anything. It's double egg and chips with bread and butter and plenty brown sauce.  Once we've eaten I'll dig out the balaclavas and rubber soled shoes and we can both head noiselessly over to the cliffs.  I'll help you burn the bastard down.  I can't stand Val Nark.'

next time - Tuppence manages to set fire to the wicker man using a tinder box, some empty crisp packets and a bottle of methylated spirit, and the resulting flames attract a passing coronavirus-infested cruise ship that has failed to find a port that will allow them to land.  More on that later. 



Thursday 19 March 2020

A Row about Toilet Paper


'I could really murder a fishfinger sandwich.  A doubler with plenty salad cream and red sauce.  But we don't have any, and is it worth risking getting the virus to go out and get them?  I wonder...'
'People are bastards.'  My nephew Tuppence interrupted me as he attempted to throw his leg over the arm of the shabby leather armchair in which he lounged.
Isn't that a strange expression though?  To 'throw one's leg over the arm of a chair'.  Accurate if one can unbuckle and remove one's prosthetic leg (wooden, or Long John Silver-style 'peg', were I forced to choose) and chuck it over the arm of one's chair with (or indeed without) reckless abandon, perhaps smashing a glass-fronted bookcase or knocking over a vase in so doing.  Otherwise, it's a bit weird.
Tuppence doesn't have a prosthetic leg. And, because his legs are very short, his effort at 'throwing one over' failed, and failed abysmally.  He sat forward and put his head in his hands.
'Some people are best avoided Tuppence, we all know that.'
'They've bought up all the toilet roll and eggs in Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.   There isn't a carton of milk to be found either and there's no pasta.  Don't even mention hand sanitiser.  They've stripped the place bare. Bastards.'
'We don't need any of these things Tuppence.  Stop worrying.  We're doing a raid on the tunnels tonight under cover of darkness and we're going to get a few crates of tinned ham, some baccy and a couple of barrels of Madeira.  That'll keep us going till the virus disappears.'
'What about the toilet roll and hand sanitiser?'
'Since when did we wipe our bottoms?  We're sheep Tuppence, in case you'd forgotten.  We just do it where we stand. And as for hand sanitiser, the only thing to do with that is distill the alcohol out of it and drink it with a nice slug of methylated spirits.'
'Val Nark's been making her own organic hand sanitiser and flogging it online.  She says since there aren't any guests in the yurt and the airbnb she has to earn a crust somehow.'
'What's it made of?  surely she hasn't wasted anything alcoholic.'
'Nettles steeped in her and Dave's wee then sieved through tights.  Dave has a Youtube channel where he posts his otter vids and that and he posted one of her making the hand sanitiser. It's had thousands of views.   He gets advertising revenue off it.'
'Advertising revenue!  That's munny talk Tuppence, and munny talk is dirty talk.  Which we never indulge in.'
'In which we never indulge Uncle Tuppy.'
'Correct.  I know times are tough but we won't stoop to munny-making.  Thieving is the way forward Tuppence.  And tonight's the night.  Fetch the balaclavas and the night vision goggles.  I'll stoke the fire up so people will think we're in. '
'You're on your own Uncle.  I refuse to join in with your selfish, individualistic and frankly criminal behaviour. It's not just us that needs stuff.  It's the old.  The sick.  The vulnerable.  And by the way - since I started going out with Alexa, I've started wiping my bottom.  With toilet paper.  So there.'
'I'M old sick and vulnerable, and as long as there's breath in my body I'll go out on the rob and sod anyone else except me and Geoffrey.  You wipe your bottom as much as you like Tuppence.  I've got better things to do.'

next time - Tuppence makes a charity single


Sunday 15 March 2020

How Come We Aren't Dead?

'We've been in this cave for nigh on a year,' sighed the T-G,' with nothing to eat but a packet of ginger crunch creams and nothing to drink but random drops of condensation dripping randomly from the roof.'
'We should be dead,' said Geoffrey. 'How come we aren't?  How come we aren't T-G?  Tuppy?  How come we aren't?   TUPPY!  TUPPY!  Stay with me man!  We're losing him T-G - we're losing him!  He's slipping into unconsciousness again!  TUPPY!  Stay with me!  Look at me Tuppy!  Look at me!' and he slapped me round the face with the shredded plastic remnants of the ginger crunch creams wrapper.
'Oh who cares,' I replied, opening one eye.  Everything felt warm and fuzzy.  Outside, the sea washed gently against the rocks below. I settled deeper into my yellow hi-viz jacket and did up the Velcro neck flap in preparation for yet another comfortable afternoon's torpor.
'YOU LOT ARE DEAD,' a scornful voice bellowed over the ear-splitting roar of a powerful outboard motor. As it circled rapidly past the cave entrance and hove to we were drenched by a spray of icy sea water, and I spluttered into unwanted wakefulness.   'BRAIN DEAD! A-HAHAHAHA!'
It was Tuppence of course.
He wheeled the boat cave-side and deftly threw the painter over a jutting rock.  Peering through narrowed eyes I could just decipher the name of the boat in the gleam of the low afternoon sun - 'The Young Brexiteer'.
'Crikey Tuppence - you haven't changed your mind about Brexit have you?'
'No Uncle Tuppy I haven't. You unspeakable old fool.  How could you have even imagined in your wildest, most Madeira-addled, most senile and gammon-like imaginings and that, that I - I - of all people - would change my mind about Brexit?'
'Then - '
'This isn't my boat.  It belongs to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar.  They rent it out to supplement Apsley's pension and get spends. Cherry's a WASPI you see so she doesn't get anything till she's sixty six. They've got a camper van they rent out as well and they're Airbnbing their shed. A lady from Bulgaria does the cleaning and change-overs on a zero hour contract.  They let her stay in the shed when they've not got guests and they take the money off her wages. Obviously they don't let her use the actual beds or the cooker and hot water or that. When they do have guests she gets a bit of tarpaulin and hunkers down in the woods.  Apsley says she likes it, she's only seventy one and enjoys the fresh air.'
'So they've got quite the business going on,' mused the T-G. 'We've missed it all what with being stuck in here for a year.'
'You've no idea.  Loads has happened.  The Narks' yurt burnt down.  Val was doing an ear-candling session and the candle fell out while she was at the toilet because it was faulty. The candle that is. That's what they're telling everyone anyway.  Dave's building a new yurt from coppiced willow wands and hand-loomed jute and that while they wait for the insurance claim to be processed.'
'We can get the gossip later,' I said,  'Have you come to rescue us or what?  After all it was you who abandoned us here and left us for dead in potato sacks.  What's the story now Tuppence? Why the change of heart?  And where's Alexa?'
'In the boat.'
'No she isn't,' I said, peering.  'There's nothing in there but a brace of pistols, a bandolier, a length of rope, a portable toilet, a mysterious square package wrapped in oilcloth, a Genesis CD and an empty Pringles tube.  What have you done with her, Tuppence?'
'Nothing I tell you!  Nothing! anyway aren't you going to ask about Mrs T-G, T-G?  After all she is your wife.'
'No Tuppence.  As you know only too well she threw me out of Tupfinder Towers when I told her I'd voted Brexit, and chased me off the premises with a blazing pitchfork.  I don't expect I'll ever see her again.  Or taste her black sausage rolls.  And stop changing the subject - a very poor attempt at deflection, by the way.  What have you done with your so-called girlfriend?'
'Like I said last year, Alexa isn't my so-called 'girl'friend.  Alexa's like me - she doesn't believe in boring, old-fashioned binary distinctions and she likes her politics like she likes her music- relentlessly progressive.  No, she's not in the boat T-G. But she was.  She's got a zero hours contract Overthere at Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, stacking shelves for whatever the under-25's minimum wage is. I dropped her off for her shift just before I came here.  She's hoping the money'll help her through her next term at uni. cos she doesn't have parents, you see. No bank of mum and dad for her.  At least I've got you three for support.  In theory, anyway. '
'That sounds awful.  I almost feel sorry for her.'
'You lot are so privileged. You don't know what sorry even means.  You've never worked a day in your lives. You've never had to think about uni fees and generation rent. You just hide away from reality in your strange little world, smoking your pipes and swigging Madeira thinking nothing's ever going to happen to rattle your cages.'
'Rattle our cages?  We've only been stranded in this cave for a year thanks to you!  I've nearly run out of baccy and I'm gasping on a pint of Madeira and a fish-finger sandwich.'
'Fools!  Have you learned nothing from your isolation?'

Next time - we return to the Rocky Outcrop only to find the entire place in lock-down following the outbreak of a horrendous 'pandemic'.  We're forced to return to the smugglers' Tunnels under cover of darkness to steal korned bif and toilet paper.    You couldn't make it up!



Sunday 31 December 2017

Team Building - The Dorty Bizzums

As well as doing thievery and general evilness instead of modern apprenticeship toilet cleaning, Tuppence has decided to start up a band again.  Anyone who began reading these tales back in 2008 (I know - that's nobody) might remember that Tuppence used to be very into Prog, and enjoyed dressing up as Rick Wakeman and playing his Moog down at the Puff Inn.
He now feels he'd like to be in a band rather than working solo.  Personally, I think this is a terrible idea because he's such a control freak he won't be able to cope.  He's just not a team player, despite the mandatory so-called 'team-building workshop' he attended last month as a modern-style apprentice.  It didn't help, of course, that he and Val Nark were the only people attending.  Dave had a tummy upset on the day, and couldn't manage -  or so he said.
'I learned the principles,' he said afterwards, 'At least that's what Val says. She's going to monitor how I apply theory to practice, and I think starting a band is a great way of doing it.  Not that I care what she thinks or anything.'
'I see.  Who are you going to ask to be in your band?' I asked, thinking to myself that options would be limited given Tuppence's complete lack of friends.
'You and Uncle Geoffrey first of course.  Geoffrey can play triangle and you can be on theremin.  And Val Nark will play drums and sing lead.  I'm on electric piano.'
'Have you asked her yet?'
'No.'
'Do you know if she can play the drums, at all?'
'No.  But it's not that hard, and anyone can sing.  It doesn't matter much anyway.  Prog's about how you feel and think, rather than what you actually play in terms of actual notes and actual keeping in tune or time to a beat or rhythm and that.  It's about vision Uncle Tuppy.  Bleak winter fields and silence and stuff.  It's about philosophy. '
 'I see.  What about your Moog?'
'It blew up several years ago, how on earth could you forget THAT?  Exploded due to excess zeal on my part, during an outdoor performance of ELP's Pictures at an Exhibition. '
'What's Dave saying about all this?'  I asked nervously.
'Dave says he's looking forward to being a valued member of the team, and he might play violin.  We're doing an Auld Year's Nicht concert down at the Puff Inn, Stormy's chuffed to the gutties. He's got triple stocks in of everything - pork scratchings, Scampi Fries, Madeira, Sweetheart Stout, meths, lager even.  Dave says he won't feel right about coming out or anything till his tax return is in. Hopefully he'll manage it, cos we really need the extra depth and texture you only get from the likes of a violin.  And Dave's got loads of experience - he used to be in a folk-rock combo in the late 60s, down in Norfolk.  He even knew someone who auditioned for Fairport.'
The thought of Dave screeching and scraping away on his violin providing 'depth and texture' and capering about the stage in his threadbare home-made 'loon pants' made me feel a bit faint.  I reached for the medicine chest.  'This is madness Tuppence,' I said, rapidly unscrewing a vial of sal volatile and taking a deep sniff, 'Utter madness.  You've arranged a gig at the Puff Inn, and not just any night but TONIGHT  - Auld Year's Nicht, which is New Year's Eve in normal parlance and one of the biggest party nights of the year, if not THE biggest, and one of your band members might not be there, and the other one doesn't know she's supposed to be in the band?  Not to mention me and Geoffrey. We don't even have any instruments.'
'That's right.  What you don't know can't hurt you - that's what you always say isn't it Uncle Tuppy?'
'I do, but - '
'Well then. Fashion a triangle from a couple of coathangers and consider yourself a member of The Dorty Bizzums.  And if Dave doesn't finish his tax return, Geoffrey will be doubling up on violin.'

more later



Monday 18 December 2017

Edge-y


 seapenguin on amazon

'Today I'm gonna kill the bear!' shrilled Tuppence.
'Say it again,' yelled Val Nark.
'TODAY I'M GONNA KILL THE BEAR!' he shrieked.
'And again,' commanded Val, who was sitting cross-legged on a pile of rag rugs she'd brought back from a wildlife slash hiking holiday in Kerala.
'TODAY I'M GONNA KILL THE BEAR!!!'
'Excellent work Tuppence.  Now - at home, unpaid, in your own time mind, because this is training - '
'Is it optional, then?' asked Tuppence.
'No, no, it's mandatory.'
'Then surely - '
'No. Stop interrupting or you'll lose your job.  As I was saying - at home, in your own time, file the end of that plunger into a sharp point.  Weaponise it.  Hone it the way you've been honing your toilet cleaning skills.  You're sending yourself a vital message, remember,  and it could propel you on to a whole different level. YOU ARE IN CONTROL.  YOU CAN DO ANYTHING.  You could even win modern apprentice of the month, Tuppence, as well as being allowed to clean out the Portaloos at the building site all on your own.'
'Wot?' murmured Tuppence.
'Yes!' Val continued blithely, 'Imagine that!   Yes, as well as our thriving (-ish) yurt business, Dave and I now have the cleaning contract for the building site Portaloos.  This will be announced in our newsletter but I'm telling you first because you're the one who'll be doing the cleaning. We'll need a picture of you, of course, a lovely smiley one of you outside the Portaloos clutching your plunger.  You'll be doing one hour extra a week, Fridays, hosing them down.  Dave and I managed to undercut everybody else to win the contract, because we have YOU working for us for £3.50 an hour. You'll have to find a hose yourself mind. And because this is over and above your contracted hours you won't get paid. But remember - '

Later - down in the tunnels.  Tuppence is on his own, sitting on a barrel of Madeira, deep in thought, absently whittling at the end of his plunger with a pen-knife.
'If I got enough of these I could make a deadfall,' he murmured. 'Might come in handy one day...Weaponise, is it. Honed, is it. Finding a hose, is it.  Val clearly doesn't know about my brace of pistols and my bandolier of ammunition, and my habit of writing my initials on walls with uncanny accuracy in a hail of bullets. Neither does she know about my past history of arch-criminal activity and my facility for devising nefarious plans*.  I'm not going to be a modern apprentice toilet cleaner for £3.50 an hour, minus training time, for a moment longer.  No!  I thought I could stick it out till Christmas in order to glean more info. for my own evil purposes, but no, I can figure out other ways to do that.  Enough's enough.'

Next time - Tuppence begins to enact his nefarious plans - and Val Nark rues the day she hired him.

*please see e-books and paperbacks for details

'

Monday 11 December 2017

Hard graft for peanuts

'I explained to Val Nark that I didn't like being a modern apprentice toilet cleaner for £3.50 an hour.  What more can I learn, I said, once I know how to bleach and clean the U-bend?'
'I don't know,' I replied, unable to suppress a hint of pride. 'I've never cleaned a toilet in my life.'
'Val says there's all sorts to know about toilets though,' continued Tuppence. 'Starting with Thomas Crapper and moving right through'Shanks' to Dave Nark's chemical-free portaloo.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Yes.  The 'Nark' is basically an old-fashioned metal incinerator filled with straw or crumpled newspaper, with a seated compartment fitted inside.  Once the straw has reached maximum soil slash urine-saturation-point, or when the smell gets too bad, whichever  happens first, you set fire to it.  And then the whole cycle can start again.  One hundred per cent hygienic, no nasty 'compost pits' to dig, and no cleaning or harsh chemicals involved at any point.'
'Hey flaming presto.'
'Exactly Uncle Tuppy.  Isn't it wonderful?'
'Who knew.  You sound quite keen on the modern apprentice toilet cleaning and I've got to admit I'm disappointed in you, Tuppence.  In fact, I'm not just disappointed, I'm shocked, and I'll have to have a wee lie down.  Nobody in this family has ever, ever done hard graft for peanuts (or indeed anything) and I really think you're letting the side down.'  I folded my arms and glared at him sternly. 'We don't do cleaning and we don't do work.  I told you not to accept Val's modern apprenticeship offer, but would you listen? No you would not, and look where it's got you.  Thinking everything's rosy in the toilet world and accepting a pittance of £3.50 an hour.  Where's your pride Tuppence?  It's not like you've got a mortgage to pay.  You've got a roof over your head haven't you?  Food in your belly? I don't understand why you're even bothering.  You've gone right off piste Tuppence and I don't want to be controlling your life or anything but I don't like it and I have to tell you, it's unlikely to end well.'
'I've got plans Uncle Tuppy. Never fear.' Tuppence winked and tapped the side of his nose. 'And you know that when I do plans, I do 'em big.  There's more than £3.50 an hour and a roll of Andrex to be found in toilets, you mark my words.'
Whatever could he mean?

next time - Tuppence starts his own mobile lavatory cleaning business with a Raleigh pushbike, a plunger, a bottle of bleach (and is denied Universal Credit due to not reaching the low earnings threshold).  All is not what it seems, however.


'