Turkish Teeth

 

Apologies for the total dearth of posts at the moment.  I had a complete blank writing-wise for a few weeks - experience tells me not to force it, it only comes out even worse than the usual un-forced stuff - and then a nasty bout of covid.   If only Dave Nark had been around with his covid marshal cattle prod, hazmat suit and hi viz jacket.   

But he wasn't.  He was elsewhere.  And by elsewhere,  I mean he was testing out one of Val's new-fangled 'death pods'.  Yes, she finally cracked it.  Guests can now say their final goodbyes to the Earthly plane in an eco-friendly green energy-style camping-cum-death pod,  comforted by a hand-made nettle fibre welcome basket filled with last minute artisan-style comestibles and self care items like deadly nightshade tea and gravel flapjax, hemlock toothpaste, arsenic body butter and strychnine shampoo.

'I really can't go these gravel flapjax,' Dave muttered.  'Not even if I dunk them in the deadly nightshade tea.  Val knows full well that I killed the nerves in my teeth playing the jawharp when I was busking my way across Europe back in the day and they all turned black.  I can manage a digestive if I have to but that's it. Oh well.  Someone else will have to test the death pod and its comestibles.  I'm off for a walk.'

NEXT TIME Dave reads a news article about 'Turkish teeth' and thinks he might busk his way across Europe again to get some.

Dave's Third Eye has a serious word with Dave

*Dave's third eye is speaking*   Dave - you must face reality.  Val has clearly gone completely insane.  Not only that - she's homicidal.  To use a possibly off-putting but descriptive technical term, Dave, your wife is a homicidal maniac.   This is a highly dangerous situation. You must deal with it.   I'm sorry to have to say this but this whole thing is so stressful I'll be throbbing painfully until you do, I might even get to the glowing, spontaneous combustion stage and that won't be pleasant for either of us.  

*Dave is speaking*   I wonder if I should contact Dr Wilson to get her a psychiatric referral and/or some kind of psychotropic industrial strength tranks.  Val's more of a St John's Wort type of person but I think we're probably past that stage.  Even if I added in some Evening Primrose...I mean I'm raving myself now.  Let's be honest she needs either high grade meds or locking up in a secure facility.  Probably both.  I wonder if it's menopause-related.  Goes without saying that I daren't mention that in front of Val.  

*Dave's third eye is speaking*  yes that's women's talk Dave and we never go there.  No, you have to think of the public safety aspects now.  She's concocting lethal potions in order to bump people off, and telling everyone it's a good thing.  She's saying it's over 55s only, and that it's voluntary, but she isn't going to stop there is she.  She's a seasoned killer now Dave, she's got a taste for it and she's asked you to join in.  Two words Dave.  Premeditated murder. Another two -  Saughton prison.   Need I say more?

*Dave is speaking* no, you needn't.   However,  you might give me some pointers as to what to actually do about it.   Do I call the police, psychiatric services or what?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* I'm afraid it's 'or what' Dave. 

*Dave is speaking* what do you mean?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* well, how did Val put it. Let me think...wield the cushion over the vital area, or something...

Next time- Dave fetches a cushion to wield over Val's vital area...then realises that he's about to do the very thing to Val that she asked him to do to the victims sorry guests, and which he refused to do through an excess (some might say) of principle or squeamishness...his third eye starts to throb violently and threatens to spontaneously combust due to the stress of it all...

Val's Lethal Income Generation Scheme becomes compulsory

 'Dave and Val have got a new income generation scheme.   I'm telling you two because you're in the zone age-wise and you might be interested.'  Tuppence emptied the last crumbs of a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch into his mouth and belched loudly. 'Meaning that you're both old.'

'That's not funny Tuppence.  As if we hadn't already heard about the holistic wellness self euthanasia care yurt.  We won't be getting involved with that, thank you.'

'I'm not surprised.  As well as being old you're fat unhealthy and selfish into the bargain.  You're breathing air and taking up space a young person could be using.  You're eating food of a very unhealthy stripe and not taking any responsibility for yourselves.  Your social attitudes are prehistoric and your time on the planet is up. You need to acknowledge that before she comes and gets you.'

'Comes and gets us?  I thought it was voluntary?'

'It WAS.... but now Val's got a pair of running shoes, a crossbow, tranquilliser darts and a van with blacked out windows.  Government issue. She doesn't need victims sorry guests to pay her because she's getting commission for each over 55 she manages to euthanase, with or without their permission.'

'How absolutely ghastly.  Geoffrey, fetch the shotgun.  We may need to defend ourselves.'

Next time....Dave's third eye starts to throb and he has a crisis of conscience....

The Killing Yurt

 'Dave we've got our first guest in the holistic voluntary self euthanasia care space and I've just realised we've got two big problems.  Man up please.'

'You mean the killing yurt.'  murmured Dave, who had his back to Val as he replaced the battery in his trail cam.

'Number one - they've got a needle phobia and they don't like tea, you're going to have to inject them Dave because I won't have time,  I'm all booked up with hot stoning clients this morning.'

'WHAT?  No I'm sorry Val.  There's another word for euthanasia, and it's murder.  I'm not doing it and neither should you.'

'But they've signed the disclaimer Dave.  It's totally fine.'

'What does the disclaimer actually say Val?'

'It says they're over 55, they want to end their earthly journey now, and if anything should go wrong, e.g. coma, paralysis and/or mental incapacity or whatever, they're sane at the point of signing therefore they accept that they're 100% responsible for anything that happens and they won't sue.  Plus, I've extended my professional liability insurance that I use for my hot stoning to cover wellness self-euthanasing.  We're totally covered Dave.  Now get on with it, we don't want a negative review on Trip Advisor.  Not that they'll be around to write one but...'

'What's the second problem?'

'Well, you know how I said they paid half up front half on completion?'

'Yes...'

'I just realised that if there is a 'completion', then they'll have ended their earthly journey and won't be able to pay the remainder.'

'How terrible.  Well, maybe you should just scrap the whole thing Val and stick to the hot stoning and the ear candling.'

'Perhaps Dave but what do we do with the guest that's already here?  They're ready to depart this world and eager for us to assist.'

'Just give them their deposit back Val, and offer them one of my wildlife safaris.  I've repaired the holes in the kayak and I can take them round the loch, there's a pair of grebes nesting in the reed beds.  We might even see an otter. That's sure to bring back the will to live. OW!

Dave winced as Val smacked him in the third eye with a hot stone.

The Holistic Voluntary Wellness Self Euthanasia Care Space

 'I wonder if I can somehow remove my third eye', thought Dave.  'I don't think I can cope with being in a permanent state of enlightenment.  I feel I need some Valium or something.  Something to bring me down...'

'Dave!  What are you doing out there!  Get those logs chopped right now,  the mobile sauna needs topping up, my hot stones are going cold and I've run out of kindling.   And haven't you dug out the composting toilet yet, it smells disgusting.  Guests are complaining.'  

'OK Val.'  Forget about the Valium, thought Dave, pulling on his Wellingtons.  And as for the composting toilet - the clue is in the name.  It's a composting toilet, therefore, it smells disgusting.  You wanted the bloody thing.  I tried to warn you but would you listen?  No.  Because you never listen. There was no point in trying to explain this to Val.  There was no point in trying to explain anything to Val.  

Later...in Dave and Val's cottage, over some goji berry tea...

'Dave I've got an idea I need to discuss with you.  Nettle flapjack?'  Val proffered a handwoven willow basket filled with lumpy brown-ish rectangles. 'They're three months old but they're totally fine if you dunk them.'

'No thanks Val.  I'm still full after the roadkill soup you made for lunch,'  said Dave warily.  He only got offered flapjacks if Val wanted him to do something.  And it was always something bad.

'That's OK, they were left over from a guest's welcome pack. Why do people never eat them? So ungrateful.  They probably expect Twixes or something.  Anyway,  what I wanted to tell you, I mean ask you...I mean tell you....or discuss or whatever...I'm converting one of the yurts into our own mini Switzerland Dave!  I'm getting a grant from the Scottish government, as long as I rewild the back field, fit solar panels and an air-sourced heat pump and ante up three grand.   It's going to be a holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space.  Where people who fulfil certain important criteria can either indulge themselves by self-euthanasing via an injection of a holistic cocktail of lethal wellness drugs I carefully distill from locally eco-foraged fungi and toxic plants, or ingest it in the form of a pleasant herbal-style tea.  Which obviously would take longer to take effect but would be ideal for anyone with a needle phobia.  I might even throw in a Toblerone.'   

'What are the criteria?'

'Oh, they'd have to be over a certain age.  Let's say, 55?  Just plucking that out of the air but it sounds about right.  And, they'd have to pay a fee, obviously.  Half up front,  half on completion.  I'd take Paypal, cash, debit and credit cards but not Klarna.'

'You've clearly thought this through Val.  Leaving the legality of it aside for a minute - how would you - or we - dispose of the - how shall I put it - remains?'

'Bury them in the back field, Dave.  The one that I'm rewilding and planting up with yellow rattle and stuff.  Where they would compost down into the soil and become a useful part of the ecosystem instead of taking up space on an already overcrowded planet.  That's where you come in.  You've got a pick and a couple of decent shovels, haven't you?'

'And what if - heaven forbid - someone attempts but fails to 'complete'?'

'No worries at all, they have two options which they pre-select on the disclaimer form prior to arrival.  They're either left in a permanent coma-style vegetative state - mentally alert, yet physically completely paralysed, or vice versa, depending on the proportion of specially foraged herbs to fungi used in the solution - or, for an additional fee, finished off, let me put it that way.'

'Finished off?  How?'

'Dave you're fully capable of wielding one of my home made crocheted nettle fibre cushions over the vital area.'

'The vital area.  You mean the face don't you.  Good grief Val.  When we got married I knew you were a strong-minded woman but I didn't expect this.'

Next time - Val discloses that her mother is coming to stay for an indefinite period.  Dave perks up as he wonders if she might be the first candidate for the holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space...

Dave considers monetising his third eye

 'I'm not deploying my third eye for shit!' snapped Dave. 'How dare you even ask me that.  It's for metaphysical purposes ONLY, plus seeing in the dark.  Which is great because I'll never need to use night vision goggles again.  It'll be much easier when I'm out setting the wildlife cam looking for pine martens and owls and stuff.'

'Burglars.  Rats.  Cockroaches.  You could start renting it out to paranoid property owners Dave.  It could be a side hustle,'  sniggered Geoffrey.

'Pervs,' suggested Tuppence.  'Doggers.  Not that I'd know anything about it but a third eye that can see in the dark would be fairly handy in those circumstances.  You could rent it out by the hour. Heh heh.'

Dave shook his head and strode off.  I'm not even going to bother explaining to these moronic twits that my third eye cannot be removed, therefore it cannot be rented out, he thought.  My services as the possessor of a third eye however are a different matter, and I suppose I could put an ad on Gumtree regarding charging a small fee for doing night security patrols round people's property.  Mind you, that would be pretty boring, and a bit of a waste of the eye, and besides don't paranoid property owners have dogs already?  A crazed XL bully would surely be a better bet.  And in any case, money's not everything and I'd far rather be by the river scouting for otters than giving people who don't appreciate the profundity of it, the benefit of my third eye in exchange for a few quid.  I'll think it over.  Oh and I definitely won't mention it to Val, because she'll one hundred per cent want me to do it.  Her nettle jams aren't selling well, what a surprise, and she's had some bad reviews on Tripadvisor about the cleanliness of the yurts so she's freaking out about losing business and maintaining income generation.  By which she means me getting a regular job, instead of just punting my otter vids on Youtube.  Luckily she doesn't even know about the eye yet.  Hopefully it'll stay that way.

No,  I think I already know, within myself, that commercialising the eye would be wrong.  I received it as a gift from the glittering eye in the sweat cottage, as a means of, or tool for, elevating my psyche if you like and developing my relationship with my higher, better, self.  I can't just rent it out for cash.  I feel that something bad would definitely happen if I did that.

Next time - Dave uses his third eye to try to resolve some stuff that's been buzzing around his brain...

Why are human beings so far apart, even if they're in the same room?  Can't we all get along?  Why does my heart hurt, and will it always be that way?  Why do I have to earn munny in order to live - why isn't everything free?  Why did humans invent munny anyway? Are globalists going to abolish it and make us all slaves?  Why on earth did I marry Val, and am I stuck with her forever...I'm hungry, I wish I had some sausages...even a Twix...

Frog in the whole

Literally a toad in a hole

 'It's because it would be too sickly without it,' explained Dave.

'Yes but it seems so jarring,' said Tuppence.

'That's the whole point,' said Dave, patiently. 'You need the contrast. The flowing melodic bits and then the jarring bits.   The counterpoint if you like.  It's like happiness and sadness, the darkness and the light.  Sweet and sour or whatever.  You can't appreciate the one without the other.  You have to bear in mind, as well, Tuppence, that it was the 1960s and most of these people were out of their minds on a cocktail of drugs. They weren't rational.   That accounts for a lot.  Mind you, being rational isn't everything.  Far from it actually.  When I was in the sweat cottage I...'

Tuppence got up to his feet hurriedly.

'Well I think my tea's probably ready.  I'd better be off Dave, it's toad in the hole, my fave.  Thanks for the chat about Thunderclap Newman's greatest hit.'

Dave stroked his beard thoughtfully, leaned back in his rocking chair and closed his eyes.  'Let the...for argument's sake... toad...as it were...see the...hole?  But why a 'toad'?  Why limit yourself to one amphibian?  Is it in fact, as it were...a frog, or perhaps a newt, even a great crested one?  or another type of amphibian altogether?  But let us say, to prevent us totally busting our brains, 'frog'.  In the 'whole'?  But in the 'whole' what?  Or 'hole'?  But what type of 'hole'?  A black hole, perchance?  And why?  But we never ever do know why, do we.  That's one thing I know for certain. I'll need to give this some serious thought.'

The Glittering Eyes

 Returning to the point at which Dave arrived at a cottage and a pair of glittering eyes were peering at him through the letterbox.

Dave spent some time in that cottage.  The glittering eyes fired a tranquilliser dart through the letterbox, paralysing Dave then dragging him inside where he lay on a threadbare settee for who knows how long.

Visions came and went.  Feverish dreams of times gone by, times yet to come, past errors of judgment made, future betrayals small and large.  Val's face quickly faded from memory.  This felt like a relief, but he struggled with guilt.  After all, she was his wife, for better and for worse...what kind of man would he be, if he didn't honour his marriage vows?  Not to mention, remember what his wife actually looked like.  And yet...didn't he have a higher duty - to himself?  To fulfil his God-given destiny - which, if he was honest, he might well prefer to involve only nice cups of tea, perhaps some carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, a new pair of bins, and lots of otters and not to include Val's domineering and stultifying presence.  Dave thrashed around on the settee, sweating in the stuffy, hot cottage as the glittering eyes piled yet more coal on the fire.

'Fossil fuels!  Val would have a fit...but then, who cares...what Val..thinks....aaarggh.  I'm not coping.  What kind of man am I,  if I can't cope?   Oh really who cares.'

He was given food and drink and generally looked after by the glittering eyes as his mental agonies continued. Why, he never knew, but he sensed this had happened before, to other lost travellers on the moor.

When he eventually 'came to', he found a bowl of peppermint-scented cool fresh water and a clean(-ish) cloth on a small table next to the settee.  He dabbed his face and took a couple of deep breaths.  The door behind him was open wide and he could feel the bracing air of the moor.  It was time to leave.

He stood up and caught his reflection in the oak mirror above the fireplace - which was now cold, and filled with daffodils - 'WHAT THE...?'  

'I'm sure I usually only have two eyes.  Now I seem to have three!'  he patted his forehead carefully, and felt nothing.  But a third eye was clearly visible, between and just above his usual two, when he looked at his reflection.  Could there be a warp in the glass?  he thought of course not - surely not one that looked exactly like a human eye.  

'Well, perhaps I'm seeing things.  With a spare eye that wouldn't be surprising lol.  If it's really there and I'm not hallucinating again who knows, it might come in useful.  I'll set off and see what happens.  Expect the worst and hope for the best.  That's what dad always used to say, and look where that got him.  COPD and crippled with arthritis at 65 after a lifetime of working in heavy industry and 55 years of Capstan full strength.  He was lucky to make it that far I suppose.  At least he never had to worry about having an extra eye lol.'

Dave inhaled deeply as he stood in the cottage doorway and looked at the thin path that wound over the moor towards the sea, where he knew for sure there would be otters.   He was ready to move on...

Next time - Dave wonders if his entire life has been a hallucination as his third eye comes into its own -  but he doesn't have time to think about that as he finds that there is a considerable demand for its services, back at the Rocky Outcrop.

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?

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...

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.

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...

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.

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

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

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.

 

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

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

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

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...