'Van Morrison is a fat old anti-vaxing bigoted brexiteering fat old gammony old fat bigotty anti-vaxer who has no insight into his own white old fat bigoted antivaxing privilege,' declared Tuppence, smashing my original vinyl copy of 'Veedon Fleece' off the mantlepiece and into a thousand pieces. 'Did I mention him being old fat and bigoted? Much like you and Uncle Geoffrey. Now for Astral Weeks.' He reached into the wire 'LP' rack which I'd bought in Woolworth's in 1971 and now was buckling beneath the weight of late 60s West Coast sounds, 70s prog, plus Van Morrison and a few random items purchased when under the influence and in a weak-minded state, best left to the imagination.
'Oh for goodness sake Tuppence. If you must destroy them can't you melt them over a soup bowl and re-purpose them into ashtrays or something? This is carnage. Wanton carnage.'
'You see this is typical of you Uncle Tuppy. Ashtrays? Who do you think smokes these days, besides you and Van Morrison and probably Eric Clapton? I've told you before to educate yourself, read something intellectually stimulating that will shine a light into your cholesterol-addled old brains - and I don't mean the People's Friend or the Daily Record.'
'We just use the Daily Record for toilet paper when we have visitors. We cut it into squares and hang it on a nail by the lav. We don't actually read it,' said Geoffrey. 'Same with the People's Friend. We just get old copies from the bin in the tourist car park. About once a year or thereabouts, when a bus party's been through. Sometimes they throw cakes out of the windows. I got a whole cherry bakewell once.'
'I read them when I think I'm going to be on the toilet for a while, if you know what I mean', I said. 'I used to quite enjoy Coleen Nolan's problem page. I don't think she does that any more though.'
'Oh yes that was good,' enthused Geoffrey. ' I do like Coleen. She's so down to earth. You could imagine sitting down with her for a nice cup of our usual poison, couldn't you Tuppy?'
'Let's cut to the chase. When are you two going to join the 21st century?' lectured Tuppence.' No don't answer that, cos I already know. NEVER, that's when. So, for the good of the planet someone needs to round you up along with Van and Eric and shove you down a mineshaft. I don't like to sound specific or anything but I know just the one.' Smashing 'Astral Weeks' off the mantlepiece he brandished one of the shards and gestured towards the door. 'Out you go. Go on. Never mind the medical chest and the corned beef sandwiches. Just get moving. You know I'm armed to the teeth with a brace of loaded pistols and a bandolier of ammo, as always.'
'Can I take my baccy pouch?' I asked meekly, while staring at Geoffrey who was still perched, aghast, on the end of the sideboard. 'FLY GEOFFREY - FLY!!' I screeched.
Geoffrey can of course fly, because as any regular reader will know, he is a seagull. I, on the other hand, cannot, as I am a sheep heavily laden down with wool. I don't regard this as a disability, although some might encourage me to do so.
'Oh - oh right - of course,' said Geoffrey, fluttering. 'I'd better take my glasses, if only I could find them...'
'They're on your head,' I hissed,' Now fly - and fetch HELP - preferably the T-G with his blunderbuss.'
More later
