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...
Monday, 27 July 2020
Monday, 20 July 2020
Well! Guess who turned up at Stormy's funeral? Stormy! yes, he wandered in half-way through the cage fighter's dismal reading of Stop All the Clocks, and asked whose funeral it was.
'Yours,' I said. 'Oh wait...'
Turns out the bones that were found inside the wicker man *weren't his after all*. SO WHOSE ARE THEY?
The problem is, we don't have 'police' or 'coroners' or 'procurators fiscal' hereabouts. No. We attend to everything ourselves. If you recall (and if you don't, it doesn't much matter), we solve many of our local difficulties by simply chucking them 'over the top', i.e. off the cliffs and on to the jagged rocks and boiling seas below. Where often-times (excuse the egregious use of 'often-times') there can be found a hungry Orca, with jaws a-gape, bored out of its mind, and only too pleased to snap up a juicy morsel. We also hold an annual vote to decide who is the year's 'most unpopular' person, and whoever it is gets dead-legged on a midnight clifftop ramble, and hey presto! it's a happier, simpler world hereabouts.
'But you were seen climbing up the wicker man,' said the T-G.
'Maybe I was, T-G. But I climbed back down again. It wasn't that hard. I roped myself up and everything, I'm not TOTALLY thick. I went up to have a look for the clipper that was due to sail past on its way from Portugal to Massachusetts with a holdful of best Madeira. I thought I'd get a better view from the head, and so I did. I waved my storm lantern and guided it nicely on to the reef, where it foundered perfectly. Since then me and the rats have been shifting the Madeira from the clipper to the Tunnels. We could've done with a hand by the way.'
'We thought you were a goner Stormy. We thought we'd never sup another pint of Purple Peril again,' said Geoffrey.
'And I thought I'd never get another gig again,' said Tuppence. 'When are you opening up?'
'I've got the social distancing worked out and I've extended the bar area outside by rigging up a few yards of tarpaulin. We should be on for Friday night, given a following wind. I've got ten gallon drums of hand sanitiser and - '
'Never mind all that!' snapped the T-G. 'What about the crew of the foundered clipper? I take it you didn't allow them to drown?'
'And what about us?' growled Stormy's relatives. 'We ain't turned up here for nuffink. We thort there'd at least be a funeral tea with 'am sandwiches and a bottle or two of stout. Plus the reading of the Will of course, leading to us probably inheriting the Puff Inn and selling it on to a property developer and then going on a fancy holiday with the proceeds and being set for life. Not that we were expecting anything or had thought it all through on the way here or that. We're just saying.'
Next time - everyone goes to a socially-distanced 'welcome back' night at the Puff Inn. Including Stormy's relatives and the crew from the foundered clipper. Tuppence powers up the Moog and does a selection of E.L.P. classics before someone cuts the electric cable and causes a power outage. There is a massive fight in the darkness caused by a shortage of cheese and onion crisps and general over-ingestion of alcoholic comestibles. Nobody knows who is hitting who and nobody much cares. Meanwhile, the unidentified pile of burnt bones still lie in what was supposed to be Stormy's coffin...
'Yours,' I said. 'Oh wait...'
Turns out the bones that were found inside the wicker man *weren't his after all*. SO WHOSE ARE THEY?
The problem is, we don't have 'police' or 'coroners' or 'procurators fiscal' hereabouts. No. We attend to everything ourselves. If you recall (and if you don't, it doesn't much matter), we solve many of our local difficulties by simply chucking them 'over the top', i.e. off the cliffs and on to the jagged rocks and boiling seas below. Where often-times (excuse the egregious use of 'often-times') there can be found a hungry Orca, with jaws a-gape, bored out of its mind, and only too pleased to snap up a juicy morsel. We also hold an annual vote to decide who is the year's 'most unpopular' person, and whoever it is gets dead-legged on a midnight clifftop ramble, and hey presto! it's a happier, simpler world hereabouts.
'But you were seen climbing up the wicker man,' said the T-G.
'Maybe I was, T-G. But I climbed back down again. It wasn't that hard. I roped myself up and everything, I'm not TOTALLY thick. I went up to have a look for the clipper that was due to sail past on its way from Portugal to Massachusetts with a holdful of best Madeira. I thought I'd get a better view from the head, and so I did. I waved my storm lantern and guided it nicely on to the reef, where it foundered perfectly. Since then me and the rats have been shifting the Madeira from the clipper to the Tunnels. We could've done with a hand by the way.'
'We thought you were a goner Stormy. We thought we'd never sup another pint of Purple Peril again,' said Geoffrey.
'And I thought I'd never get another gig again,' said Tuppence. 'When are you opening up?'
'I've got the social distancing worked out and I've extended the bar area outside by rigging up a few yards of tarpaulin. We should be on for Friday night, given a following wind. I've got ten gallon drums of hand sanitiser and - '
'Never mind all that!' snapped the T-G. 'What about the crew of the foundered clipper? I take it you didn't allow them to drown?'
'And what about us?' growled Stormy's relatives. 'We ain't turned up here for nuffink. We thort there'd at least be a funeral tea with 'am sandwiches and a bottle or two of stout. Plus the reading of the Will of course, leading to us probably inheriting the Puff Inn and selling it on to a property developer and then going on a fancy holiday with the proceeds and being set for life. Not that we were expecting anything or had thought it all through on the way here or that. We're just saying.'
Next time - everyone goes to a socially-distanced 'welcome back' night at the Puff Inn. Including Stormy's relatives and the crew from the foundered clipper. Tuppence powers up the Moog and does a selection of E.L.P. classics before someone cuts the electric cable and causes a power outage. There is a massive fight in the darkness caused by a shortage of cheese and onion crisps and general over-ingestion of alcoholic comestibles. Nobody knows who is hitting who and nobody much cares. Meanwhile, the unidentified pile of burnt bones still lie in what was supposed to be Stormy's coffin...
Sunday, 12 July 2020
Wednesday, 8 July 2020
'Stormy was a racist and a transphobe,' declared Tuppence, nailing a poster stating the same to the door of the Puff Inn. 'I'm glad he's cancelled.'
'He's not 'cancelled',' said the T-G,' He's dead. You set fire to him, remember? He was inside the wicker man when you burned it down.'
'Oh dear how sad what a shame never mind.'
'That's a terrible thing to say Tuppence,' said the T-G. 'In fact, you should be careful. You might be done for 'hate speech'.'
'Not to mention, murder,' I added. 'Although it doesn't sound like you're especially worried about such niceties.'
'The world's a better, kinder place without his sort,' replied Tuppence, twirling his hammer. 'He was spiritually and morally and intellectually dead anyway. The physical death was just a technicality. And an inevitable one, given his incredible moral turpitude. All for the best, that's what I say. And so will anyone else who matters.'
'I wonder what his family will say to that. Aren't they people who matter?'
'Stormy doesn't have a family. Does he?'
'He does actually. Or rather, he did, poor bloke. Stormy Junior is a cage fighter in Vegas and his ex-wife is a Thai kick boxing champion. His sister (formerly brother) is a retired Olympic weightlifter and built like a brick outdoor convenience-style facility. Her hobbies include knuckledusting and biting the heads off live chickens. They're all arriving for the funeral tomorrow and they're staying in Val's campervan - they would have stayed in the yurt had you restrained yourself from burning that to a crisp last evening. You really need to stop all this wanton destruction Tuppence. It won't end well.'
'It will! I'm only destroying anything offensive.'
'But not everyone finds it offensive Tuppence. And must you resort to murder? Can't you live and let live?'
'No. Besides, I think you'll find Stormy's death was an accident. Not murder. How was I to know he was inside the wicker man when I set it alight?'
'You can't prove that you didn't know Tuppence,' said the T-G.
'I wonder what he was doing in there?' mused Geoffrey. 'He must have had a reason for climbing inside.'
'Perhaps he was looking for something.'
'Or, perhaps he was hiding something.'
'Never mind all that,' I said. ' Here we all are standing outside the Puff Inn, scene of many a night of wanton revelry, and it's SHUT. Not merely 'coronavirus shut' - it's shut because the landlord is no more. He is an ex-landlord. An ex-everything. Soon to be pushing up the daisies. Who's going to run it? Who's going to serve us our socially-distanced Purple Perils and salty snax? Who's going to book you in for gigs Tuppence - you and your dreadful prog band? Nobody else would pay you to play, I'll guarantee you that.'
'Oh bore off. You three need to educate yourselves. Read some books and I don't mean the Beano summer special!' snarled Tuppence.
'You can start lecturing us about books when you're not in danger of being arrested for murder Tuppence. Are you going to turn yourself in?'
'Certainly not.'
Next time - Stormy's funeral brings his relatives, and they aren't happy with what they're told about his 'accidental' demise. They are determined to find out the truth. Tuppence is forced to hide out in the Tunnels and as all the korned beef, snax and Madeira which are usually kept therein were consumed during lockdown he must survive on rations lowered down to him by rope till he can be smuggled out to a place of safety. Or, until the relatives leave...
'He's not 'cancelled',' said the T-G,' He's dead. You set fire to him, remember? He was inside the wicker man when you burned it down.'
'Oh dear how sad what a shame never mind.'
'That's a terrible thing to say Tuppence,' said the T-G. 'In fact, you should be careful. You might be done for 'hate speech'.'
'Not to mention, murder,' I added. 'Although it doesn't sound like you're especially worried about such niceties.'
'The world's a better, kinder place without his sort,' replied Tuppence, twirling his hammer. 'He was spiritually and morally and intellectually dead anyway. The physical death was just a technicality. And an inevitable one, given his incredible moral turpitude. All for the best, that's what I say. And so will anyone else who matters.'
'I wonder what his family will say to that. Aren't they people who matter?'
'Stormy doesn't have a family. Does he?'
'He does actually. Or rather, he did, poor bloke. Stormy Junior is a cage fighter in Vegas and his ex-wife is a Thai kick boxing champion. His sister (formerly brother) is a retired Olympic weightlifter and built like a brick outdoor convenience-style facility. Her hobbies include knuckledusting and biting the heads off live chickens. They're all arriving for the funeral tomorrow and they're staying in Val's campervan - they would have stayed in the yurt had you restrained yourself from burning that to a crisp last evening. You really need to stop all this wanton destruction Tuppence. It won't end well.'
'It will! I'm only destroying anything offensive.'
'But not everyone finds it offensive Tuppence. And must you resort to murder? Can't you live and let live?'
'No. Besides, I think you'll find Stormy's death was an accident. Not murder. How was I to know he was inside the wicker man when I set it alight?'
'You can't prove that you didn't know Tuppence,' said the T-G.
'I wonder what he was doing in there?' mused Geoffrey. 'He must have had a reason for climbing inside.'
'Perhaps he was looking for something.'
'Or, perhaps he was hiding something.'
'Never mind all that,' I said. ' Here we all are standing outside the Puff Inn, scene of many a night of wanton revelry, and it's SHUT. Not merely 'coronavirus shut' - it's shut because the landlord is no more. He is an ex-landlord. An ex-everything. Soon to be pushing up the daisies. Who's going to run it? Who's going to serve us our socially-distanced Purple Perils and salty snax? Who's going to book you in for gigs Tuppence - you and your dreadful prog band? Nobody else would pay you to play, I'll guarantee you that.'
'Oh bore off. You three need to educate yourselves. Read some books and I don't mean the Beano summer special!' snarled Tuppence.
'You can start lecturing us about books when you're not in danger of being arrested for murder Tuppence. Are you going to turn yourself in?'
'Certainly not.'
Next time - Stormy's funeral brings his relatives, and they aren't happy with what they're told about his 'accidental' demise. They are determined to find out the truth. Tuppence is forced to hide out in the Tunnels and as all the korned beef, snax and Madeira which are usually kept therein were consumed during lockdown he must survive on rations lowered down to him by rope till he can be smuggled out to a place of safety. Or, until the relatives leave...
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