Yuletide Greetings to all

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

Yuletide cheer (not)

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

solstice seige

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

moaning and chanting hordes surround the Outcrop

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

solstice terror approaches

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

we escape!

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

on the gallows

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

extraordinary rendition (of a song, not us)

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

"plastic" surgery

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

two passing minke whales discuss actors and films

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