Bedwetters and Brainless Oafs

'Dark skies over yonder, Unkle Funkle.  Hoist the main-brace and crank up the -'
'Thar she blows!  The Great Whale of the West!'
'That's not the Great Whale of the West, you blind fool. That's Mrs T-G, sunbathing on the Fulmars' decking.'
It was half past ten on a Tuesday morning, and already Tuppence was raving.  His Unkle Funkle obsession was well out of hand.
He'd stormed in at eight, demanding rum, and wearing a patch over his left eye and a fake 'peg leg'.  Receiving the reply that we hadn't got rum, we'd only Madeira, and precious little of that due to 'austerity cuts', he'd stormed out again till ten, spitting over his shoulder as he went, and cursing horribly.
'Best ignored,' I said to Geoffrey, 'Like most things in life these days.'
 We then had our usual 'triple bacon' sandwich, accompanied by five cups of tea and an argument about pigs, and why it was OK to eat them and cows, but not OK to eat sheep or horses.
'It's because we don't know any pigs personally,' explained Geoffrey, wiping some red sauce from his snowy white breast feathers.  'I'd never eat a sheep, because I know one, i.e. YOU, personally.  Just as you'd never eat a gull, because you know one, i.e. ME, personally.'
'True.  We don't know any cows - oh!  Except Mr Spockfingers.  But he was a Highland cow and perhaps - '
'PerHAPS you should enlarge your circle of acquaintances,' snapped Tuppence, who by then had reappeared.
'And perhaps YOU should keep a civil tongue in your head and lay off the rum.'
'Why on earth should I listen to a pair of old bores like you?  You're not experts in anything.  You've no moral fibre.  You're fat and lazy. You're failures in every possible respect.'
Geoffrey began to sob.  I knew Tuppence had hit a nerve; Geoffrey lacks my capacity for denial.
'It's true Tuppy!  We ARE fail - '
I interrupted, shaking my head and gesturing for him to be silent.  'Easy to criticise from the dizzy heights of youth Tuppence. What are you an expert in, then, other than catapults, bed-wetting, and raspberry chews?'
'I was not criticising, merely suggesting.  You brainless pair of oafs.'
'Well!  Unkle Funkle must be turning in his grave.  He'd be shocked to his marrow if he heard your cheek.'
'Two problems with that last statement Uncle Tuppy.'
'Oh really?  Do pray continue.  I'm all agog.'  I yawned in a faux-theatrical manner.
'I fully intend to continue.  If you'd stop interrupting and yawning in that pathetic faux-theatrical manner.   Firstly, Unkle Funkle was unshockable.  Secondly, he was stone deaf, so even if he had been shockable, which as I've already said he was not, he could not have heard you. Or indeed me.  Thirdly - '
'TWO problems you said.  Now it's three all of a sudden...'
'Is it?  Oh.  I can only count to two.  Being young and all that.  Anyway - as I was saying - '
'Oh DO hurry up.  I've sausages to fry.'
'All right.  Thirdly - he's not dead.  Ergo, he is incapable of turning in his grave.'
'WHAAAATT???????'

more later.

Here's a link to my Amazon page and more Tall Tales

Name this tune in one

#Err...#......got it yet?

Here's a clue. It's nothing out of the "hit parade". Hit parades for the last twenty nine years actually. There you go.

Here's a two and a three. #Err...err....errrrr........#

Prize is, as ever, a year's supply of pork scratchings made from real pig, but this time instead of all the bristles being removed by my own gnarled arthritic fingers, the pigs were waxed. Much simpler.

Pinky favoured the vajazzle so mind your fillings.

Kriss-mass-time, etc.

"Kriss-mass-tahm, don' let the belzend..kriss-mass-tahm, don' let the belzend..."

Spockfingers is giving it plenty welly this morning. We had a marathon festive lock-in at the Puff Inn last night, and I don't mind telling you I feel like death warmed up...might tell you all about it later...

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.

The Mind Muck Removal Kit

God almighty! what a night.
After some debate Geoffrey and I decided to attend both "functions" i.e. despite the sub zero temperatures we sat on some rusty old sun loungers on the Fulmars decking and watched X Factor on their 62" telly through their panoramic French window style doors, warmed by their patio heaters and our tartan knee rugs.
We'd brought some crisps and a flask of purple peril and plenty of black bogey to keep us going.
UnFORtunately, there was a bit of a drama when Simon Cowell smiled suddenly just as the cameras were zooming in for a close up. The resulting glare from his teeth ricocheted off the cliffs opposite the Fulmars, setting off a terrible din - a sort of clattering, rumbling noise.
Apsley and Cherry heard nothing due to their octuple glazing, but pretty soon we heard the tippetty tap of the Tupfinder general's cane rattling off the ice as he hurried along the cliff tops towards the source of the sound.
"It's Tuppence! he's up to his old tricks again!" he shouted. "Ive been keeping watch as usual, and now I'm off to intervene!"
With difficulty we heaved ourselves off our sun loungers and headed after the T-G. Geoffrey was still in bits after watching Mary cry at the end of "Memories".
"She sang it for her dead mother, Tuppy!" he sniffled as we hurried along the cliffs.
"Oh shut up Geoffrey and stop talking such a load of old cock. Dead mother nothing. She was just thinking about how she'd feel if she had to go back to working in Speedispend - and I can't say I blame her."
"Oh you're so hard hearted Tuppy. Can't you...oh!"
Geoffrey halted suddenly as the clattering, rumbling, sucking noise grew louder and louder.
We were nearing the source.
"Be careful lads. Look!" said the T-G, beckoning with his pistol. (we had caught up with him).
We found ourselves at the mouth of a gigantic cave. Inside, illuminated by an arc light powered by rats on several bicycles, was a chair. Sitting on the chair, was a female sheep with what looked like a metal colander on her head with some tubing coming out of it and going in to a bucket (see diagram above). Behind the chair stood Tuppence, directing a solar-style panel.
What had happened was this.
The glare from Simon Cowell's teeth, magnified by the Fulmars' octuple glazing, had ricocheted off the solar panel, which in turn set off the "Mindmuck Removal Device, or "kit"".
He was testing it on the poor ewe.
"Oh, she's got a very clear conscience," said Tuppence. "How tiresome. No muck to remove, at all. We need to find another victim to experiment on. Aha! Visitors! Perfect!"
Oh no. He had spotted us...
"We're armed," said the T-G.
"Yes, I can see that you've got a pistol ASUSUAL," smirked Tuppence, "but ASUSUAL it's half-cocked, just like you. Mwah ha ha!"
And with that evil guffaw, he yanked a lever in the wall and a giant net dropped down on top of us. In a trice we were whizzing through the air, suspended above a bottomless pit of fire...
More tomorrow...

Spockfingers warms up for a gig

'#...black is black

Ah wunt mah baybee back...

'S grey is grey

Der ner ner ner ner...MOOO!#'

"Oh do bog off Spockfingers!" I was becoming a little tetchy after hearing Spockfingers' umpteenth rendition of Black is Black.

"Don't be so uncharitable Tuppy. After all, it is in a good cause."

"What is?"

"The fundraising gig, tonite at 7pm at the Puff Inn. Spockfingers is doing a fundraiser to raise funds for ...erm...something or other. Don't tell me you'd forgotten?"

"Forgotten? Hardly! I didn't get the chance! Nobody thought to inform me. Now I'm going in a massive huff and you can all sod off."

"For God's sake Tuppy. Take one of your special pills and pull yourself together. Here - " Geoffrey seized the medical chest and threw it open " - take several. Take them all!"

"Well! if THAT'S the way you're feeling..."

"It is. I'm pig sick of you and your huffs Tuppy. I want to be able to sit down this evening in front of Apsley and Cherry's 62" telly and watch X factor and enjoy myself. Even though Wagner's out. I don't want you ruining it with an atmosphere."

"WHIT ABOOT MAH FUCKIN' FUNDRAZER?" demanded Spockfingers, front legs on hips.

"Oh, my! Language! a bit of decorum, please, if you don't mind and all that."

"AH DINNAE FUCKIN' CARE ABOOT THAT. FUCK THE LOT O' YEZ. IF YER NO CUMMIN TAE MAH FUCKIN' FUNDRAZER YEZ CAN A' DAE YIN."

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances and I quickly put my huff on the back burner as Spockfingers began drumming one of his feet in rather a tense manner.

"Erm..what are you raising funds for, Spockfingers? what's the cause?"

"COZ? COZ?? the coz is sick kiddies in erm...Africa. Aye. That's richt. Sick kiddies in Africa. They're awfy needy an' that. Yez cannae deny them your dosh you stingey bastards. Sick kiddies in Africa. Noo kin yez?"

"Hmmm..."

X factor down at the Fulmars' place, sitting outside on their decking eating crisps with the super-powered patio heaters blasting away full-tilt, or a dodgy fundrazer down at the Puff Inn, featuring Spockfingers and his dreadful, nightmarish screeching, off key voice.

We'll see how we feel nearer the time...

Free at last

Well that's me safe and well back at the Outcrop. I'm sitting in my favourite chair by a roaring driftwood fire and I'm settling down with my fifth mug of madeira and a multi pack of salty snax.
Geoffrey's got sausage rolls in for our dinners so all's right with the world.
How did I escape? well - the smell of frying fruit pudding wafting under my nostrils made me desperate so I breathed in as hard as I could, expanding my chest and stretching the gaffer tape to snapping point - when suddenly -
"What the frigging heck's going on here then?" a familiar voice boomed. "I'll be having some of that. ALL of it actually. IF you don't mind."
It was none other than Mr Spockfingers. He seized the frying pan from the Grim Reaper and wolfed the lot in a oner.
"Hey! what about me?" I cried. "I'm starving!"
"All in good time," said Spockfingers. "I'm just waiting for..."
"Never mind him. What about ME?" crooned the Reaper, brandishing his scythe.
"AND me!" whined Wilson in the nasty whingey voice he uses when he's not in full control.
"...nature to take its course," continued Spockfingers.
"Oh NO!" we all screamed, as Spockfingers let rip with one of his "specials". And if you want to know about the damage THAT can do - please have a search through previous posts.
At any rate it's an ill wind as they say - the Reaper and the Ghastly Wilson fled for their lives, and I managed to place some Vick's under my nose and high-tail it back to the Outcrop.
And here I am. Later on Geoffrey and I will be heading off to the Puff Inn for the usual Friday lock-in. I can only hope that Tuppence isn't doing another of his "gigs".

Sausages

"Sausages," groaned a small voice from the corner (mine).
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)

Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)

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.....

A Miracle - the Coracle has been found

Word arrived via Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse - Geoffrey's cousin and his civil partner) that the coracle was spotted, aground, in some "godforsaken hell-hole" as they put it none too politely. Joy! we could swear that we saw it being chopped up by the blades of a Calmac ferry just last week. Somehow, it managed to escape, or reconstitute itself. Geoffrey and I are off in a mo to try to retrieve it before the wreckers get it.

By the way - readers might be wondering - and I can't blame anyone who isn't - what happened to young Sir Erchie McPheasant-Blaster's newspaper, featuring yours truly and the full unexpurgated story as to how I got wedged in the crack then blasted free by a humungous, forensically-aimed anal emission from Spockfingers. Well, so am I...but wonder no more, because just recently, Geoffrey admitted that he has heard titters coming from the direction of just about everywhere Hereabouts, along with the words "crack" and "wedged". I'm sure it won't be too long before a well-wisher pushes a copy of the abominable thing through our letterbox. Probably under cover of darkness - not that it gets dark at the moment, Hereabouts. I'm going to stay up late, and watch.

A reader asks

A reader complains that I've been leaving too many "loose ends" recently, and wants to know the following.
a) what happened after Tuppence fired his pistol indoors? did the Rocky Outcrop collapse after all? Answer - No! (yawn - of course it didn't - it's seen FAR worse calamities. And, even if it HAD collapsed, we could reconstruct it in no time - as we did last year when it got blown up.)
As for Tuppence, he effed off to the tunnels again afterwards, to hatch some ghastly plan with the rats. We'll probably hear more of that, later.
b) what happened to Spockfingers after he got wedged in the window of the Rocky Outcrop - did he unwedge himself, or is he still there waiting to lose weight like YOU did Tuppy, when you were wedged in the crack? Answer - NO - of course he's not still there. He managed to unwedge himself in the usual manner, aided by a liberal application of some fat we found in one of our cooking implements.

1980s songs that drive you over the edge

Spockfingers has been giving it laldy at the Puff Inn most nights recently. It must be the Spring air or something. Unfortunately he got hold of a 1980s songbook as part of a Speedispend special offer/from off some minging skip somewhere, and his top three are as follows (brace yourselves and have a bucket handy):

"Take My Breath Away" by Berlin
"Power of Love" by Jennifer Rush
"Lady in Red" by Chris de Burgh

It's driving everyone nuts - to the extent that people are running willy nilly towards the cliff edge in order to escape the ghastly racket. Consequently, the cliffs have started to crumble and "snap off" - we're at risk of disappearing into the sea...

Something Must be Done (but what?)

Blimey. This place is getting out of hand. (I'm back at the Outcrop, by the way - successfully unwedged by a powerful blast from Spockfingers rear end. "We fed him cabbage again, Tuppy," said Geoffrey, excitedly. "It always does the trick." Well, cabbage has to be good for something, I suppose.)
Anyway - the appalling Sir Erchie has been prancing about the place willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave, poking his nose into all sorts. As a matter of fact, we had a VERY distasteful conversation earlier, right on our very doorstep.
"What's this about pylons and a ditch?" he asked, taking out his biro and spiral notebook. "Sounds like a juicy tale. (Not!!)" he smirked up his sleeve. Yes, it is possible to do that, but it's very rude.
"Bog off," I said. "Anyway, it's a trench, not a ditch."
"Have you seen it lately?" he asked, needled by my tone."It's packed full of old bits of rubbish. It's just a dump. It's an environmental hazard. The Council will have to sort it out. Whoever's responsible will get an enormous fine."
"But..." I gasped.
"What idiot's been dumping rubbish in the trench? It's supposed to keep the pylons away!" snapped the T-G, who had just arrived on the scene for his mid-morning snifter.
Geoffrey and I glancced at each other quickly.
"Er...must have been...someone else..." murmured Geoffrey, shamefacedly.
"Yes. Exactly," I said briskly, "Someone else with no moral scruples, unlike us. Anyone for a snifter? Crack open the madeira, Geoffrey, for pity's sake. It's gone half ten."

Chic and Phemie return from Africa

By the way - Geoffrey informed me on a recent fly past that the Swallows are back - it's always good to see Chic and Phemie. Unfortunately nobody remembered to air their chalet before their arrival so they're a bit upset/in a huff.
Geoffrey also informs me that to try and make it up to them the Fulmars are hosting a BBQ in honour of their return, this weekend, weather permitting - not that the weather matters much at the Fulmars, what with their patio heaters, decking etc. Here's hoping I drop a few pounds before....
Oh! a solution has just presented itself, in the form of Spockfingers. Readers will recall how he helped me escape from the belly of the beast last summer, by allowing me to set light to one of his incredibly powerful anal emissions. I can see him at the centre of the crowd on the cliff top. he's turning round. Oh dear. I'd better brace my-S-E-E-E-E-E-E-L-L-........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Dose of the Narks

Well, Stormy had his usual lock-in on Friday and we all ended up three sheets to the wind. Spockfingers was there, giving it laldy at the karaoke machine. It'll be a long time before I'll want to hear "Overnite Sensation" again, I can tell you. Not to mention Black Box's "Ride on Time". At least, that's what I THINK it was called.
Anyone remember the T-G's idea about the trench? well, after Stormy finally called time, we all thought it would be a good time to start digging it. But after about five minutes hacking away at the heather-clad peat, we all ran out of energy. So we now have a kind of shallow ditch running east/west across the moor.
Remember Dave and Valerie Nark? the eco-warriors who lived in the yurt up at the tourist car park last summer? well, they've been away on an extended eco-friendly holiday somewhere hot 'n' horrible in Central America, but now they're back - and they are in a right friggin' state about the ditch.
"You're digging up priceless peat reserves. You're releasing immeasurable amounts of carbon into the atmosphere, and killing the planet," Dave raved, as he tied the chin strap of his Peruvian hat tighter under his chin, to keep out the north easterly whipping across the Bay.
Who knew? not us, obviously.
"Yeah? wot are U going to do about it?" said Spockfingers, belligerently.
Geoffrey and I decided to take a gentler approach, and have invited them round for one of our "special teas" later this week...

we escape!

Geoffrey just had a brainwave. He began to sing, softly at first, James Grant's Winter, and I joined in. We began to sing more and more loudly. As our voices reached a crescendo, the checkout operator's jaw dropped in amazement as all of a sudden, Spockfingers charged full pelt and singing at the top of his lungs, out of the Speedispend entrance and barged into the gallows, demolishing it completely. We ripped the bags from our heads, flung the nooses aside, jumped on Spockfingers back and galloped off into the gathering dusk...

extraordinary rendition (of a song, not us)

"TRA LA LA LA, TRALALA LALA WINTE-E-E-R..." Yes, it's Spockfingers. We've been in the Speedispend queue for, er, about 24 hours now and we've barely moved an inch. To make matters worse, Spockfingers turned up with a massive trolley and an iPod, and barged along the aisles singing along to James Grant's Winter. Seasonal, I'll give him that. And it's not that Geoffrey and I don't like the song - it's Spockfingers rendition that is, well, "extraordinary". Whip him off to Cuba via Prestwick, and leave him there, somebody, please.

hit record, yeh...er...no

Right - quick update. We finally staggered out of the lock-in yesterday afternoon and made it back to the Outcrop, followed by Spockfingers towing his jukebox and singing along to The Raspberries "Overnite Sensation". If I hear another Power Pop song in the foreseeable, I'll leap off the cliffs myself and join Wilson swimming desperately around in the Bay, being chased by Baby Orca. Yes - we finally managed to shoehorn Wilson into the straitjacket and strapped him on to Titus' back - from whence he was well and truly bucked off the cliffs. Readers will remember that the straitjacket was stretchy with velcro fastenings, so it was easy (sadly) for Wilson to free himself and start doing a creditable backstroke. Well, let's face it he's had plenty practice (see previous posts)
Everyone's relieved to have Wilson and his horrible jabs out of the way, for a while at least. If only he wasn't such a control freak - after all, it isn't very nice for us to have to throw or buck people off the cliffs, and we only do it if absolutely necessary/unavoidable. Geoffrey has just interrupted me to tell me I'm being very po-faced. But isn't there a place for po-facery, from time to time? "No," Geoffrey decrees. Now that his feathers have grown back, and he's recovered from his accidental compulsory detention in the Old Asylum, there's no stopping him. Mind you, it's great to see him back to his usual.
We think we're going to give our livers a break this weekend and avoid the usual lock in at the Puff Inn. NOT that we've paid the remotest attention to any of Wilson's cheerless advice. Far from it. We're going to put our feet up and watch X factor - looks like we'll be having a house guest, in the form of Spockfingers, so doubtless he'll provide us with his views on the contestants. Already we're liking Joe, and wondering if the straitjacket would stretch to containing both twins? they'd make one heck of a splash in the Bay...