Tuppence reads - Wise Words from Unkle Funkle...

...he of the Wintry Isles circumnavigation fame.  Or notoriety.  Or infamy.  Or nothing at all.  Whatever.

'What are you reading,  Tuppence?'  Imagine him, reading, I thought.  Him!   Of all people!
'Don't you mean 'HE' of all people,  Tuppy?'
Geoffrey was at the mind-reading again.  Tiresome at times*.  'He of all people? Does that sound right to you Geoffrey?'
'Well, it sounds about as right as 'him' of all people.'
'Are you talking about me, you fools?' said Tuppence, glaring at us over his golden pince nez. Not that he needed 'eyewear' of any type.  His vision was perfect, even at night. Convenient for his exploits with the rats (see e-books for details).  The pince nez, therefore, were a mere affectation.  A phase.  Next thing will be tattoos I imagine - ghastly depictions of his fave prog rock stars, such as Rick Wakeman and Mont Campbell of Egg. 'If so, 'he' has got a name.  And I'm  reading Unkle Funkle's Diaries.  I found them wrapped in oilskin in a rusty tartan tin under the stairs, along with a packet of Lipton's tea, three tins of rice pudding and a Kendall Mint Cake wrapper with a use by date of June 3rd, 1920. The tin was labelled 'KLEENING MATERIELS' - that's why you wouldn't have ever opened it.  I only did cos I was bored and looking for - well, anything really.  But preferably cash.  The Diaries are ever so interesting Uncle Tuppy.  I think he went completely insane from time to time, what with the sea water drinking and the unfortunate incident with the albatross and all, but in between bouts of madness he made some useful observations.'
'Oh yes?' said Geoffrey, settling down and fluffing his feathers on his favourite end of the  mantlepiece.
'Such as?'  I said.
'Such as never work for a living, if you can possibly avoid it.  And if you must work, never ever work for someone else as an 'employee'.  Especially not in catering. He wrote that bit while employed as cook on the clipper 'Violet Carson', tacking round the Cape of Good Hope.'
'Well before he found the Wintry Isles then.'
'Yes.  He didn't like working as a cook.  He jumped ship in South Georgia and made a raft from balsa wood and a sail from his erstwhile cook's apron, and steered north, by the stars.  Only he went south, due to the prevailing winds and his getting mixed up with the northern and southern hemispheres and stuff.  And he ended up at the Wintry Isles, with a case of rice pudding, a pound of Lipton's tea and five bars of Kendall Mint Cake to see him through six months of Antarctic darkness.'
'Did he ever regret chucking his job in?'
'No.'

*useful at others

Fancy new-fangled music

Previous post - Dundee band The Creeping Ivies. Primitive garage rock - great stuff.

I'm hoping that Tuppence will listen to it and perhaps "move on" from his ghastly prog rock phase.

He's rebuilt the moog, you know. It crashed over the cliffs after the last debacle at his gig at the Puff Inn, if you remember (probably not, and I can't say I blame you...). But there were some tin cans left over after he constructed the CHeaSe-Buster, and so he decided to weld them together and make another Moog. Sigh.

I think he's on for the Puff Inn again this weekend. Oh dear.

He is.

He is. He's doing one of his so-called "gigs". He found the remains of the moog at the bottom of the cliffs (see previous posts if you're that curious - I can't remember which ones but click on "moog" in the post labels and it might take you there) and managed to reconstruct it, adding some extra poo-foo valves and di-lithium crystals.
God knows what he's going to challenge our eardrums with - some foul "mix" of his own, doubtless involving Rick Wakeman and a cloak somewhere along the line.
"Geoffrey! medical chest! quick-style!"
I'm definitely going to need the laudanum.
Off to the Puff Inn now - might be back sometime tomorrow.

Fire in the freakin' Sky

"Der-ner-ner, der ner ner ner, der der der, der de der," screamed Tuppence at the top of his lungs, while he played air guitar. "Smo-o-o-oke on the wa-a-a-a-ter..."
"Shoot him," whispered Geoffrey. "Put him out of his misery. Not to mention the rest of us."
"Besides," added the T-G sagely,"It's not even proper prog."
Geoffrey and I looked at each other in amazement. "Since when could YOU tell prog from a Ginster's slice?"
"I enjoy a bit of Rick Wakeman from time to time," he said loftily.
"Oh yes. Which bit?" we sniggered.
"FY-ER IN THE SKY..." Tuppence continued, whirling his arms like Pete Townshend.
"I must say though, this acapella version is a bit much. And all the appalling gesticulations. Where's his usual instrument of choice?"
"The moog? Bottom of the Bay with any luck."
"Ginster's slice, anyone?" offered Stormy proferring a plateful (yes, we were in the Puff Inn, and it was the Friday lock-in...)

The Death of Prog

"Whatever happened to prog?" Tuppence shrilled for the umpteenth time, as he lay slumped in the corner, exhausted after his five nite run at the Puff Inn performing The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth" on his moog. "Nobody gives a toss any more about Tull, or Yes, or Egg."
"You can say that again," muttered Geoffrey, who had long since lost patience.
"Look, Tuppence," I interjected. "What more do you want? You've just had a five nite run at the Puff Inn, with an audience of at least three each nite, and five on weekends. That's pretty good, for Hereabouts. The Alexander Brothers had an audience of minus twenty five last year. Think on. Think how THEY must have felt, faced with an audience of anti-matter."
"I know, I know. Tom and Jack got sucked into a black hole. I've heard it all before. But I want something different. I want the Big Time. I want the Skye Gathering Hall. I want the Birnam Institute! I want the Gig in Blairgowrie!"
Geoffrey and I shook our heads sadly and exchanged glances. "Fetch the medicine chest, Geoffrey. Before it's too late."

Rick Wakeman Rocks!

Least, that's what Tuppence screamed as he powered up the moog last Friday evening and began belting out the first few bars of "The Six Wives of Henry VIII". Can't remember much after that. Probably just as well.

slaughterhouse fifty five

Party party party! those were the words which greeted us as we arrived at the newly refurbished Old Rectory last weekend. No, not that weekend just gone past - the one BEFORE.
Yes, it's taken us that long to recover. Apsley and Cherry had really gone to town with a BBQ, patio heaters, outdoor jacuzzi, Dansette record player plugged in to an extension cable, mirror ball and flashing disco lights. Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) were guests of honour, as they redesigned the place of course. They've gone for a "retro" 70s look, very rustic, with dried flowers and gourds everywhere, and really uncomfortable orange moquette furniture. The wallpaper was the same as Jack Regan's in The Sweeney - sort of large, intersecting greenish and cream squares, specially chosen to clash horribly with the orange moquette.
The drinks (purple peril, natch) were served in olde style pint mugs, the ones you don't get any more in pubs (except in the Puff Inn, of course).
The food was to die for (more of that later!) Cherry had excelled herself as usual. Not only did we have our fave korn bif and pineapple chunk kebabs, there were weird things on sticks, jammed into upside down oranges covered with foil, such as sausages (my fave!!) cheese kubes (Hmmm....) pickled onions (better) and maraschino cherries (take them or leave them, personally).
And the guests!! first, the more savoury ones. Me and Geoffrey, of course, The Tupfinder General (Mrs T-G did not appear, as per), Stormy (appeared after closing time with a welcome couple of crates of meths), Razor Bill, and of course Ranald and Sandy. We all wore fancy dress by the way - the theme was 70s, to match the decor. Ranald and Sandy rather boringly wore denims and long wigs, and came as "The Sutherland Brothers" - very disappointing and out of character. Razor Bill wore moon boots (goodness knows where he dug them up from - but more of that later!) and came as David Cassidy - Stormy came as Robert Plant, which we thought doesn't really count as apart from wrinkles he looks pretty much the same regardless of decade - the T-G came as Sherlock Holmes, and nobody had the nerve to tell him he'd got it badly wrong (he thought theme was the 1870s).
I got my wool tightly permed and dyed black, wore blue satin flares, platform soles and a sequinned jacket and came as Billy Ocean. Geoffrey was mortified and almost refused to go to the party at all. In the end, he wore a long white cape and a blond wig, and went as Rick Wakeman.
Now for the UNsavoury guests. True to form, Tuppence arrived mob-handed with his gang of rats, and proceeded to "diss" the entire party, saying the music was "crap" (Apsley's Top of the Pops album 1972 with not the right singers on it, was playing at the time, so maybe he had a point...)and the food inedible (well, I suppose he had a point there too - some of it definitely was...and coming from me, that's saying a lot...) He then plugged in his moog, to Apsley and Cherry's generator, shouting "I'LL give you 70s" and started blasting out the opening bit from Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time.
As the song progressed, and Tuppence's screeching and screaming reached a ghastly crescendo, the generator began to overheat and smoke began to pour from the electric socket.
Before we knew it, a raging fire had started - AGAIN!!!!
more later....

tuppence develops a taste for prog rock

Geoffrey's still recovering from his coma. He insists it was genuine - brought on in part by watching Celebrity Big Brother for more than five consecutive seconds, which we already knew; what we didn't know that was it was also partly brought on by shock, caused by catching a glimpse of Apsley Fulmar's unmentionables.
We managed to find this out by employing a form of regression therapy - which didn't work - the Tupfinder general then produced a vial of truth serum, which he proceeded to inject into poor Geoffrey's brachial artery, despite my protestions.
"Hold him down Tuppy!" he ordered, and cravenly I complied. I'm petrified that Geoffrey will never forgive me, but I'm more petrified of the Tupfinder, and as he says" Better out than in." Though I'm certain that can't be said of Apsley's unmentionables. Or can it? I'm not one to judge.
At any rate, once well and truly under, Geoffrey blurted out the truth - Apsley and Cherry had been watching Celebrity Big Brother whilst lounging on their faux leather recliner settee, attired in their customary matching fleece robes. Apsley had got up from the recliner in rather an ungainly fashion, causing his robe to gape open - that was when Geoffrey saw...well, a rather dreadful sight. As he stood aghast, Apsley went to their kitchen - openplan, faux oak fittings, an Aga, walk-in fridge - and fetched a large bowlful of crisps which he and Cherry proceeded to demolish. That was too much for Geoffrey (see previous posts re. Geoffrey's crisp addiction). He remained transfixed, and that is where Razor Bill found him the following morning - frozen in time, eyes glazed, standing on one leg, beak agape.
Anyway he's much better now.
News from the Puff Inn tells me that Tuppence is having problems - he's currently living high on the hog in the tunnels with the rats, pistol in his belt etc. - likes to think he's their leader (see previous posts) however, he's deluding himself. There's a rebellion afoot. The rats are sick and tired of Tuppence and his arrogant ways and they want him out. More fuel was added to the fire by Tuppence's recent obsession with prog rock - apparently he found an old copy of Rick Wakeman's Six Wives of Henry VIII and has been playing it nonstop on an old stereo system he rigged up.