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...

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".

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.

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...)

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!!!

A Dose of the Narks

Well, Stormy had his usual lock-in on Friday and we all ended up three sheets to the wind. Spockfingers was there, giving it laldy at the karaoke machine. It'll be a long time before I'll want to hear "Overnite Sensation" again, I can tell you. Not to mention Black Box's "Ride on Time". At least, that's what I THINK it was called.
Anyone remember the T-G's idea about the trench? well, after Stormy finally called time, we all thought it would be a good time to start digging it. But after about five minutes hacking away at the heather-clad peat, we all ran out of energy. So we now have a kind of shallow ditch running east/west across the moor.
Remember Dave and Valerie Nark? the eco-warriors who lived in the yurt up at the tourist car park last summer? well, they've been away on an extended eco-friendly holiday somewhere hot 'n' horrible in Central America, but now they're back - and they are in a right friggin' state about the ditch.
"You're digging up priceless peat reserves. You're releasing immeasurable amounts of carbon into the atmosphere, and killing the planet," Dave raved, as he tied the chin strap of his Peruvian hat tighter under his chin, to keep out the north easterly whipping across the Bay.
Who knew? not us, obviously.
"Yeah? wot are U going to do about it?" said Spockfingers, belligerently.
Geoffrey and I decided to take a gentler approach, and have invited them round for one of our "special teas" later this week...

our breakfast

Geoffrey's sandwich is the top one, garnished with red sauce (he's still on the healthy eating thing), and mine is the lower one, garnished with brown. Either is good, to be honest, and just the very dab after a night at Stormy's lock-in. More of that later, plus more on the wind farm/soul extractor meeting.

o the road is deep and wide...

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

blimey - medical chest disaster

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

spockfingers plunges off the cliff....

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

nasty accident in the bay

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

smell a rat

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