'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!
'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!
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