Is Life Worth Living?

"Geoffrey?"

"Yes?"

"Pour us a snifter and chuck us the baccy will you? It's gone ten."

"OK. Wait till I get off the bog first."

"JUST HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!!!" interrupted a familiar voice. None other than the Ghastly Dr. Wilson. Covered in seaweed and stinking of sewage as usual. (why is this? I cannot be arsed explaining, but it's All There in previous posts....) Sticking his head in the window without so much as would you mind or a by your leave.

"Oh for -"

"What the Kentucky Fried Chicken are YOU doing here o Ghastly one? Lovely to see you and all that," lied Geoffrey, as he carefully replaced the lav seat and forced a smile.

"I'm here to save you two utter wastes of space from yourselves. Don't have that drink. Put that baccy down. Pop the kettle on and make some hot water instead. Don't have that bacon and egg sandwich. Rather, have a plate of cracked bulgar wheat with a splash of miso, raw garlic and a steamed macadamia nut. If you stick with that regime through the week you can treat yourselves to some Barleycup and an organic sultana each on weekends. Maybe a carob bar. Mind and go for all these cancer tests as well. And don't forget your five a day. Or your compulsory forty five minutes of aerobic exercise."

"Will we live to a ripe old age then Doctor - if we do all that you say?"

"Well you'll avoid the sanctions."

"Sanctions?"

"If you don't adhere to current medical thinking, we'll shoot you. Simple as. You've no right to be alive and taking up space on the planet if you can't take a few simple steps to protect your own health."

"What about pleasure? Cutting loose? Letting go occasionally?"

"Some might take issue but personally I see nothing wrong with having a prune instead of a sultana at Christmas. Surely you can't complain about that! Look at me! I'm a picture of health. Okay, I'm bald, I've got a bad leg, a paunch, piles, hammer toes, gout, halitosis, gingivitis, and chronic flatulence but otherwise I'm the best specimen you're likely to see round here."

"But you're only 27."

"And your point is?"

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances, then nodded.

"Do you have the gun on you now? for doing the shooting part."

"Oh no! a-hahaha! I have other people to do that - nurses, for example. They get £28 a head plus an hour's annual leave. No - I'm a doctor - my role is to cure, never to kill."


No gun, eh? We were safe enough. It was time to unleash the Wheechie Net.

"Press the lever please Geoffrey."

WHEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly the Ghastly Wilson was bundled into a sturdy net and wheeched or "drawn" upwards and sidie-ways by hi-powered rope attachments towards the handy catapult which we have installed beside the house for just such eventualities.

"PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEyoinnnnnnnnGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!" catapult twangs.

"SPLAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" The Ghastly Wilson is launched bay-wards, where the ever-hungry, snapping jaws of the orca await.

"Nom nom nom.................."

"Heh heh heh. Bye bye Wilson! What were you saying about cracked bulgar wheat?"

Treble brandies all round.

More sing-a-longs in the sea

We've only spent the entire night in an open frigging life raft.

"Come on chaps. We must keep our spirits up," urged the T-G, rubbing his hands together.

"Oh I'd love to keep my frigging spirits up. I'd kill for a brandy."

"No need for that kind of attitude Tuppy. We have to work with what we've got. We're all intelligent creatures - well, kind of. Think of Captain Scott."

"He died of starvation."

"And possibly of the cold, and scurvy as well. But that's NOT going to happen to us," he replied firmly. "Look at Spockfingers. He's an example to us all."

Yes, Spockfingers was still there, swimming around the boat.

"Ah'm running oot o' fuel lads," he gasped. "Youz'll huff tae let me intae the boat. Ah cannae stay afloat. Ah cannae tak' much more o' this."

And he plonked his front hooves on the edge of the life raft, making it dip alarmingly.

"No Spockfingers! You'll sink us!" we shouted.

"Poke him with an oar T-G," I begged. "Get rid of him. Shoot him if you have to. He'll take us all down with him."

Spockfingers glared at me balefully. "Duly noted ye yeller wee get. Duly noted. Ah'll get ma revenge yoo mark ma wurds. Noo let me suggest an alternative. Let's all hae anuther wee sing-sang an' ah'll gulp doon lotsa air while ah'm daein' that, and try tae manyoufaktyure sum mare wind. Mebbes ah'll manyoufaktyure enuff tae power us hame. Noo whatsit tae be?"

"How about Row Row Row your Boat," suggested Geoffrey.

"NO!" we all replied. "That's far too twee. Let's go for Sweet Child in Time by Deep Purple."

"Okay doke," said Spockfingers, wriggling his shoulders. "Ah jist gang mare or less strait intae the climax."

"SWEET CHAHLD IN TAH-AH-M
YOO'LL SEE THE LAH-AH-T

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."

His falsetto echoed ear-splittingly round the Bay.

"For heaven's sake, " said the T-G as we all exchanged worried glances. "He's going to do us a damage screaming like that. We'd better try something tamer and hope that he joins in. Anybody got any ideas?"

"I rather like Daughter of Darkness by Tom Jones," suggested Geoffrey shyly. "I'll start it off."

"AH'LL start it aff," Spockfingers interrupted. "Heer we ging."

#" Dodder of dah-ahrkniss

Stay oot o' mah life mah life

You nicked ma chips an' you et the flamin' lot

Yoo dodder of dah-ah-rkniss..."

"Oh that's not right," scoffed the T-G. "It goes like THIS. #Woman, I can remember a woman... warm were her...#"

"Is that Mrs T-G you're singing about T-G," Geoffrey butted in eagerly. "Is she a woman? can I meet her? I've not met one before you see, and I'd love to."

"Geoffrey!" I frowned."I've warned you about this type of thing before. You can't have truck with women."

"Why can't I have truck with women Tuppy?"

"I explained all that already."

"No you didn't. I don't understand, at all."

"You're getting uppitty now Geoffrey."

"Oh I don't know why I'm even sitting here freezing my nuts off and being bossed around and sneered at! After all, I'm a gull, and I've got wings. BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

And with that, Geoffrey flew high into the lowering grey sky, and headed who knows where.

Meanwhile, back on the boat...

"Ye've goat room fur wan mare noo ah see."

Frigging hell.

A Tom Jones sing-a-long in the sea

Well here we are waiting to be rescued. Apsley said he's sending for help - god only knows how long that will take. Meanwhile to keep our spirits up we're having a wee sing-a-long.

#"Well sheez all yood ever wan' sheez god stahl sheez god grace sheez a winner"# I began, clicking my fingers and standing up in the liferaft.

"Stop it Tuppy!" commanded the T-G. "You'll capsize us. Sit the frig DOWN. Besides, you're doing it all wrong. It goes like THIS.

(he coughed)

#Well sheez all yood evva wan' sheez the kahnd yood lahk to flaunt an' take to DINner#"

"NO NO NO NO NO!" boomed a voice from nearby. "YOU'VE got it wrong an' all."

"Who the frig's that?" I muttered. "Oh my God. It's Spockfingers. He must have..."

"Yes! I've survived the blast and here I am large as life and twice as nasty. You lot are pants at Tom Jones. Here's how it SHOULD be sung." Spockfingers approached the boat at an impressive rate of knots. Apparently, he was still passing wind, and it was acting like a kind of crude but highly effective and convenient form of jet propulsion, enabling him to not only stay afloat but to travel about in the water at will. He began to circle the boat, singing as only he can sing (see post about me and Spockfingers in the belly of the beast, to find out just how powerful his voice is...)

#"Well sheez all yood evva wan' sheez the kahnd o' burd they'd lahk tae flaunt an' tak' fur CHI-ips

Sheez the kahnd o' burd whit likes her plaice

sheez got salt sheez got broon soss...

Sheez a winner..."#

"Frigging hell. Make him shut up, someone."

#" Shee kin tak' whit ah dish oot an' that's no eezy

She's fine an' breezy...

Her feet R cheezy..."#

"Oh - an' by the way - yooz lot didnae contribute SHIT fur the sick and poorly weans in Africa. Yeez are a bunch o' stingy bastards. Ah'll deal wi yooz la'er. Noo piss aff an' let em feenish ma sang.

#Oh she et ma fish an chips an' removed ma orange pips

Sheez a lady...

wo wo wo

She's...#"

I think that's QUITE enuff of that jist fur the noo. I'll go and shampoo my sporran now.

KER-B-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you heard. KER - B-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What happened was this.
Readers will recall that on Saturday Geoffrey and I were invited to Spockfingers fundrazing gig for awfy needy sick wee kiddies in Africa. We ended up watching X Factor first, and look where that got us.
Caught in a net, dangling hundreds of feet above a fiery pit, awaiting our turn at the Mindmuck removal device.
Anyway. Back to KER-B-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!
There we were, swinging above the flames at the end of our tethers and at each other's throats, when suddenly...
"WHAT ABOOT MA FUCKIN FUNDRAZER YE STINGY GETS? WHIT ABOOT THON WEE SICK AN AWFY NEEDY KIDDIES IN AFRICA? GET YER WALLETS OOT RICHT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
And with that, Mr Spockfingers turned round and let rip with one of his special hi-octane cabbage-fuelled anal emissions. Regular readers will know what THAT'S like. (Irregular readers will have to click on the post label below, to find out more. )
The concentrated jet of methane collided with a swift updraught of flame from the fiery pit and the result was an almighty explosion.
Still tied in the net, we were blown clear out of the cave and far out into the Bay.
"I can't swim! I can't swim!" I burbled, flailing.
"Never fear, Tuppy," soothed the Tupfinder-General, calmly treading water. "I've got an inflatable life raft. Just hang on a jiffy till I pull the toggle. It's caught in my...ouch!"
"Hurry up! I'm sinking!" I spluttered. Geoffrey lifted my head with his wing as the T-G struggled to inflate the raft.
"Just as well I did junior life saving at the baths," he said proudly.
POP!!!!!!!!!! WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"There we go," said the T-G, heaving himself into the life raft. "Stop whingeing Tuppy. You've no moral fibre at all, have you?"
"It's all very well for you two. You're not handicapped by wool."
Geoffrey chortled. "I'd like to see your face if anyone else said wool was a "handicap!"
"Never mind that now. Where's the medical chest? I could do with a good whiff or two of sal volatile and a couple of opium tabloids to get me through the afternoon without going completely insane."
"For heaven's sake Tuppy! We'll have to get sculling. We'll have to get home before dark, and there isn't much time. You'll have to put your back into it I'm afraid. We can't afford slackers. If you can't manage, I'm sorry but we'll have no option but to shove you overboard. We're all in this together you know."
"Oh. I didn't realise Nick Clegg had joined us." I glanced around in an exaggerated comic kind of manner.
"H-E-E-E-L-L-O-O-O-O-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" A voice boomed out from atop the nine hundred foot cliffs just to our right.
It was Apsley Fulmar, using a megaphone.
"Hang O-O-O-O-N! We're going to rescue Y-O-O-O-U!"
But how?
more later.

We save baby Orca from a terrible fate

"But I've not got fingers!"
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."

In the Bay

"Put your back into it Geoffrey! you can't expect me to do all the work."

"I've got a splinter. I can only row with the one wing."

"For heaven's sake! no wonder we're going round in ci-i-i-ir-r-r-rc-c-c-cles!"

The Giant Phag - an unexpected twist

"I spot an opportunity, Geoffrey. Get the coracle down from the attic. Is it caulked?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Caulked. Oh, never mind. Take that old korn bif tine in case we have to bale. And don't forget the medicine chest."
"Oh yes. I better make sure there's some Vick's in it, in case we catch a chill. It's a bit parky out there in the Bay."
"Yes, we can heat it up with some ribena on the primus - FOR FRIG'S sake! Vick's? What do we need with that when we've got every opiate known to man?"
"Opiates are no use for colds, Tuppy. There's nothing like Vick's for a chill."
"Oh well, if you feel you must. I don't suppose it takes up much room."
"That reminds me Tuppy. Why was the toadstool not allowed into the party?"
"Because there wasn't MUSHROOM inside. For pity's sake, let's get on with this. The nights are drawing in already."
"Yes. but wasn't he - Tuppy! Wasn't he -"
"WHAT?!"
"A FUN-GHI! a FUN - ghi! so, it's a shame he didn't get in!"
At this point, I sigh heavily, open the medicine chest and carefully select a vial of hi strenf tincture of laudanum. Just to numb the pain.
We WERE on our way to the Bay - what with the bed sheet landing on the bonce of Baby Orca, we thought we'd take the opportunity to inform him of Tuppence's nefarious plan to turn him into fishfingers. We MIGHT get there some time before next Christmas...

I embarrass myself, and the medical chest runs low

...c-c-c-c-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-f-f-f-f-s-s-s-s!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
In my excitement over winning the rice pudding challenge, I forgot myself, and toppled backwards over the cliffs.
I'm SO annoyed with myself. I've spent most of my life here on the Outcrop, and even when I've over-indulged down at the Puff Inn, I'm so well aware of the dangers that I've never embarrassed myself like this. (Especially since I've pushed a few others Over the Top myself. Or so the tittle tattlers would have you believe. But that's all documented in previous posts.)
Fortunately, Ranald and Sandy Wand'ring Albatrosse were flying lower than usual, in search of some cave or other which they were scheduled to refurbish. They swooped underneath me and attempted to push me back up to the top of the cliff. However...
"Ow! For pity's sake, Tuppy! not being rude or anything, but how much do you weigh, exactly?"
"Let's not get into specifics, Ranald. This isn't doing my back any good. I'll simply have to let him go."
"No, don't! don't!" I cried, glancing down to the Bay, where a very familiar fin was circling ominously.
"Well help us out here Tuppy! do some work!"
And with that they heaved me as close to the clifftop as they could manage. I seized hold of a tuft of grass with my teeth (thank goodness they are my own) while the T-G gripped my fore legs and pulled me up.
"Blimey, that was close. I thought we'd have to get the winch," sniggered Tuppence, who had been watching the whole proceedings with folded arms.
Ranald and Sandy collapsed on the grass beside me, demanding hot stones and a Swedish massage.
"Swedish massage? Hereabouts? Hardly. The best we can do is some embrocation. I think there's some left in the medical chest..."
"No Tuppy. You drank it last Saturday after the madeira ran out, remember? to wash down your Ginster?"
"Oh yes. Fetch the medical chest, anyway Geoffrey! I feel a bit bilious..."
"Tuppy - I'm sorry to say this, but the medical chest is running low. We're out of mostly everything. Sal volatile. Opium. Morphine. Junior Aspirin. Rennies. Senokot. Japps. The lot. We'll have to go over to Speedispend and stock up. Do they still do opium tabloids in a multipack?"

Spot the rice pudding skin

No, you can't see it at the moment. It's currently submerged, after landing four-square on the coupon of none other than baby Orca - and long-standing readers will know what THAT means. If you're not a long-standing reader - here's the basics - I ended up - ages ago - being eaten up by a killer whale (Baby Orca's mum). How did I survive? well, I got swilled down the gullet and into the belly of the beast by a wave of seawater. I sat on her molars (or something) till someone else came along - our friend Mr Spockfingers (look - this is all TRUE! if you don't believe me, click on a few old post labels. Honestly) Mr Spockfingers managed to pass wind with sufficient gusto for me to set light to it and blast a humungous hole in the side of the whale (oops, sorry! but it was her or me). But I'm rambling now - and in any case, this is all documented in previous posts - if you can find them (I can't).

Yes, the vendetta remains very much alive. BO didn't like being slapped in the face by the skin of a rice pudding. Not one bit. He's after me now. Again. I'll just have to ensure I don't slip off the cl-i-i-i-i-i-i-ffs.....

The rice pudding business

I'm presently in training for my "blowing skin off rice pudding" challenge. It isn't going to be easy - Cherry Fulmar's had one baking at gas mark 4 for three days now, and the smell of boiled milk is dreadful. I'm dreading it - the skin will be like shoe leather.
I was hoping they'd just produce a tin of Ambrosia and fire it under the grill for a few minutes (even then I'd be struggling), but no - they've gone the whole hog and have made the thing from scratch with real "pudding rice".
I'm never going to manage to blow the skin off something of that calibre, so I'm racking my brains trying to think up a way to cheat.
Geoffrey foolishly suggested I go swimming underwater in the Bay, to strengthen my lungs.
He's been reading Frank Sinatra's biography. Seemingly, Ol' Blue Eyes used to do that in order to improve his "phrasing".
"Why don't you try it, Tuppy?"
"Don't be stupid Geoffrey. Singing My Way is one thing - blowing the skin off a rice pudding is quite another. Me and the Bay don't get on - as you well know. Unless I'm in the coracle - and even then I have to be careful. It would be sheer folly to go swimming. Aren't you remembering Baby Orca and his vendetta? I don't want to dice with death thank you very much - I've got quite enough of that going on with this rice pudding business. And what about my wool? It would pull me under in a trice."
"You could get a wetsuit."
"Bog off Geoffrey. Put the kettle on and fetch me a Ginster's. You're getting right on my nerves. I need to concentrate on a PLAN..."

nasty accident in the bay

Goodness, what a weekend we've had. Geoffrey and I battled our way along to the Puff Inn - and through a Force 9 gale might I add. No joke when you've got a nine hundred foot drop on your lee side and a list to port. (or something like that anyway).
Of course we were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the "stranger in our midst", but we all overindulged in the Purple Peril and after a while it didn't seem to matter quite as much that some narcissistic nutter had taken it upon himself to treat us like some sort of experiment for nothing short of his own unhealthy edification.
"Let him film us!" I remember shouting, standing on a table and brandishing a brimming pewter mugful of Stormy's finest. "What do we care? We've nothing to hide!"
Everyone applauded loudly and showed their approval by blowing up empty crisp bags and bursting them.
Naturally Stormy had his usual Friday lock-in and everything's pretty much a blank after that.
Next day, we were wending our way back along the cliffs after a "heart starter", and looking forward to a slap up breakfast, when we spotted what looked like a bundle of brightly coloured lycra rags, drifting in the bay below.
"Oh dear. How dreadfully, dreadfully sad," we said insincerely. "Looks like the "stranger" came a cropper in the gale last night. Dearie, dearie me."
Was he blown off the cliffs in the gale? Possibly - after all, it was a bad one. OR, was he "assisted" on his watery way, by "someone" setting an electrified trip wire in front of his tent? we'll never know for sure, and I couldn't possibly comment.
HOWEVER- sighted swimming round and round the bay in a very smug manner and looking rather full up, was baby orca. Coincidence? hardly. Let's just say, strictly between ourselves, that after a lengthy feud (see previous posts as to why I had to blast my way out of his mother's belly - twice - thus leading to aforesaid lengthy feud) baby orca and I have reached an "arrangement" viz. I keep him "fed", and he leaves me alone.
No, it isn't nice, I know. But needs must. Obviously Geoffrey and the T-G know nothing of this. They'd never permit such appalling behaviour. I feel dreadful about keeping secrets from dear old Geoffrey, but I want the nightmares to stop - it was awful closing my eyes at night and seeing him there, those enormous teeth, the huge dorsal fin, the snapping jaws, the beady little eye seeking, always seeking his prey - ME!!! I know it's wrong of me to even contemplate throwing living beings over the top in order to save myself, but honestly I can't think what on earth else to do. Oh well.
Besides, I probably won't have to contribute to his diet for the foreseeable, because something tells me he won't be going short of food for quite some while. Tuppence has been spotted setting up a wrecking light along the cliffs. He's up to his old tricks again, back in the tunnels, with the rats. No good can come of this, at all....