lurgified

Geoffrey and I have flu, so we are currently swathed in tartan rugs, smoking our pipes and sipping boiling hot madeira toddies out of pint sized pewter mugs beside a roaring fire. Readers will know that that is how we spend ninetey per cent of our time, anyway. Nevertheless, we'd like some sympathy - for example, where is Wilson when he is ...well, I can't bring myself to say NEEDED, but as we are feeling generally ghastly and have genuine death's door-style illnesses, some medical so-called expertise MIGHT come in handy. But no. Razor Bill has been delivering leaflets, under pain of death, which advise sufferers to use "self help remedies", such as staying indoors and drinking plenty fluids. "Take your chances" it says, smugly. "After all, it's your own faults for not taking the jab when offered."
Offered? Readers will know that Wilson was firing needles into people's backsides willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave - to the extent that it put me in mind of the English archers raining arrows at Agincourt.
I don't regret leaching the vaccine out of my behind with the bread poultice ( see previous posts). No, not a bit. Neither do I regret conspiring to have Wilson bucked off into the Bay, where I believe he is still just managing to evade the clutches of baby Orca (last time I looked).
People will wonder what became of the bread poultice, with which I leached out the vaccine from my behind, and which then lodged itself on Elizabeth T-G's bonce. And they won't be hugely surprised to learn that we ate it, toasted, with butter and marmalade, for our breakfast yesterday morning.
One benefit of having flu - Spockfingers isn't with us any more - he took off with his juke box, declaring that he didn't want to catch "the lurgy". I think he watched X factor at The Old Rectory, on Apsley and Cherry's 62 inch telly, possibly with a pineapple on his head.

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...

Friday lock-in continues

Oh dear. I'm afraid the poultice landed foursquare on the bonce of Mrs T-G. Regular readers will remember (or they might not) that Mrs T-G (Tupfinder general) is rarely seen in public. In fact, never.
When he stopped by for a snifter last week, the T-G had hinted that "Elizabeth" as he calls her, had put on a bit of weight lately, and had been advised by the ghastly Wilson to "lose some of the beef" - or else. Wilson mimed a cutting motion at his throat, as he said "or else". So, I can only assume that the unfortunate woman was in fear for her life and had set out on a desperate "health and fitness" walk, furtively creeping along the cliffs under cover of darkness. That'll teach her to pay attention to Wilson and his ilk.
Anyway, one side effect is that the poultice had retained sufficient heat to leach some of the fat cells out of her body ("Why did it not do the same for me? I asked Geoffrey, plaintively. "It would take more than a bread poultice to make a dent in YOUR waistline, Tuppy!" he replied, jokingly. At least, I THINK he was joking...)
ANYWAY - this latest atrocity from Wilson has strengthened our resolve and we are "making plans" as I write. In fact, I'm writing this in the Puff Inn - the Friday lock-in continues...

we discuss how best to murder the ghastly Wilson

"Well, I'm not really into murder these days," said Titus, when we'd related the ghastly tale of how Geoffrey was incarcerated in the Old Asylum. Minus MY part in the matter, of course.
"Can't you make an exception? stretch a point given the circumstances? old chums and all that?" we pleaded.
Titus pursed his lips. "Hmmm. Well, I'll think about it. But there mustn't be any comeback, you know."
"No, of course not Titus! we won't breathe a word. And we'd be awfully grateful," I gushed eagerly.
"Awfully," Geoffrey echoed faintly. He's still not quite his usual self - and who can blame him? mind you, his feathers are growing back wonderfully thanks to Titus' mysterious ointment.
"If you could see your way clear to...well, bucking him off again? that would be wonderful," I suggested.
"I'm not sure about THAT," said Titus. "After all, he's psychopathic, not stupid. I can't see him agreeing to sit on my back after what happened last time." (see previous posts, for an account of what happened last time)
"No Titus. That's not what I had in mind at all. I was thinking more along the lines of sneaking up behind him, and giving a swift kick to, well, his behind, from behind? perhaps on a dark and stormy evening...along the cliffs... if you follow..."
"I DO, Tuppy! I DO! leave it to me. But say nothing to anyone! I don't want to have to go into hiding again."
"Consider our lips well and truly sealed, Titus..."

we receive an offer of help from an unexpected visitor

"But why on earth did you sign the papers?" Geoffrey keeps asking me. He can't seem to move on, at all, and I think it's terribly unhealthy. I know that I made a dreadful mistake, signing his incarceration papers, but can't he put the past behind him? after all, it was last week.

"Perhaps you should go to Specsavers, Tuppy," suggested the T-G, who had stopped by for a chat on his daily patrol of the cliffs. Yes, he's still keeping a weather eye on things - when he feels like it. "Whatever THAT might be."

"Never mind that. I'll buy a pair of reading glasses for three pounds, from the mobile shop. It's due round any minute."

Sure enough, we heard the clippetty clop of hooves on the path and the Speedispend "Direct" van drew up, crammed to the gunnels with all sorts of essential supplies/staff of life-style goods. Clippetty clop, you muse? and well you might, because clippetty cloppetting along, drawing the van AND making a healthy profit selling stuff "off the back", was none other than Titus (the horse who bucked Dr "ghastly" Wilson right off in the summer of 2008 - see posts for details as to how and why).

Once we'd informed Titus of Wilson's latest atrocity, we purchased some ointment for Geoffrey's baldness (never mind Granny Sooker - I've the very dab, said Titus, when he caught sight of him) and stocked up on supplies, viz., one jar Chivers Thick Cut orange marmalade, one Mother's Pride loaf, half a pound of butter, three tins korn bif, two tins spam, half a pound of streaky bacon, porridge oats, potatoes, three packets Dream Topping, two tins froot koktale, one pack butterscotch flavour Angel Delight, half a pound of kola drops, half a pound of soor plooms, one box firelighters and a box of Bluebell matches. Not to mention a complete restock of the medical chest - but I won't go into that now. Other essentials such as tobacco and madeira are still...er...procured... via the Tunnels. And just as well too, as the only alcoholic beverage stocked by Titus is a rather attractively-coloured alcopop (bright pink, bubblegum flavour). Geoffrey was tempted, and I must admit that so was I, but as I reached for a bottle, Titus slammed a hoof down on the counter. "No, Tuppy! you'll regret it."

"But why, Titus? I'm sure..."

"Very low alcohol content, combined with dangerously high levels of sugar. If you switch to bubblegum alcopops now, you'll hit withdrawals within the hour, and probably develop type 2 diabetes. Mark my words. Stick to meths 'n' madeira. After all, it's not as if you pay for it. If you're REALLY looking for something different, though, I've some white cider due to fall off the back of the van before the raised minimum price per unit kicks in."

"N-no thanks, Titus."

"Wise decision. Now what's all this about "ghastly" Wilson? what on earth's he been up to, and how can I help?"

I plan to rescue geoffrey from the old asylum

Well, things have gone from bad to worse over the past week, and who's responsible? Wilson. Yes, the ghastly Wilson has been indulging in a bit of medical control freakery AGAIN.
This time, he's gone too far. Geoffrey was detained, don't ask me why, because I haven't time to explain at the moment, by said ghastly Wilson, under the Mental Health (Scotland) Act, 1960, section 31, without so much as a by your leave. Well, it did require my signature on the papers...but honestly, my eyesight isn't what it was and I simply didn't know what it was that I was signing. I assumed that I was receiving something pleasant like a parcel via Razor Bill (postman) when Wilson thrust the paper under my nose. Little did I know that I was sending Geoffrey to the padded cell, major tranquillisers and a straitjacket.
Wilson said that Geoffrey was suffering from prolonged and repeated bouts of melancholia, not to mention incipient psychosis, and declared him completely and irrevocably insane. And all because Geoffrey insists on having some "down time" once in a while! My usual "treatment" is to leave him be, wrapped in his favourite tartan knee rug and nursing a large mug of hot madeira. If he doesn't seem to be snapping out of it after a bit, I open a packet of Chili Heatwave Doritos and waft it under his nose - that usually does the trick. If not, I take my socks off - but that's a last resort as the fumes affect my sinuses really badly.
But none of these tried and tested home remedies washed with Wilson, who barged into the Outcrop waving a syringe and insisting that Geoffrey required to be taken away from his familiar home environment and locked up in an out of the way cell in a rundown building that could be perfect as a set for a Hammer horror film with total strangers and force fed massive doses of major tranquillisers, for his own good.
Once Geoffrey was whisked away in the horse drawn white van (at first light might I add), I rushed over to Tupfinder Towers to seek counsel from the T-G. I was in a terrible state.
"Help! help!" was all I could manage, waving the carbon copy of Geoffrey's detention certificate.
"Don't worry, Tuppy. I've already seen the van. And I'll think you'll find that Wilson has acted quite illegally. He's living in the past." The Tupfinder General, sporting zip up slippers and a snazzy woollen dressing gown of Tupwatch Tartan, calmly sipped a mug of tea as he spoke, and brushed some toast crumbs from his lap.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing he's used the wrong Mental Health Act. 1960? It no longer applies."
"So we'll have him out of there - wherever "there" is - in no time?"
"Yes, of course we will. Now sit down and have some breakfast before we set off."
A large plateful of bacon, eggs, kidneys, fried bread, sausages, black pudding, mushrooms and tomato appeared as if by magic via "dumb waiter", and I tucked in. I'd need a decent lining on my stomach if I was off to rescue Geoffrey...

what exactly happens, after death?

Last evening, as we sat by our roaring driftwood fire, and chatted aimlessly over a glass of madeira and a pipe or two, Geoffrey and I realised that we had tired of our fave topic, "Is Death Avoidable?", and have taken the logical step of turning to the next rung up so to speak, viz., "Is There Life After Death?", or, "What Exactly Happens, After Death?".
"Does this mean that we've accepted Death as inevitable?" I mused.
"No Tuppy, of course we haven't," replied Geoffrey, refilling his pipe.
"All the same that doesn't mean that we're going to stop eating pies, surely?" I asked, worriedly.
"No. Pies, salty/fatty snax and processed meats will remain a major part of our diets. Have no fear on that front, Tuppy."
"What on earth do you mean then? According to the ghastly Wilson, our diet is killing us. Salt, the silent killer. Kidneys like conkers. Fatty atheromas. Plaques. You name it, we've got it."
"Yes, but who is Wilson, really? what does he really know? all this so-called research that he bangs on about viz a viz our diets could be just a load of old pants, quite frankly. And look at the state of him! So pale and scrawny. And that's him living on seaweed."
"Or so he says, Geoffrey. I've often suspected he might supplement his so-called diet with something else...but more of that later. I agree he does look as if he could do with a good feed."
"Yes and he's SO tense all the time! ranting on about people's mortality and getting worked up."
"Yes. I'm surprised that HE doesn't have a heart attack. He wants to chill out a bit. Anyway enough about Wilson. Get back to the point, please, Geoffrey. You were saying that we haven't given up on the idea that death could be avoidable?"
"Of course we haven't. But we might as well digress for a bit to consider what might happen should death occur - afterwards."
"Oh." I must say my heart sank as I contemplated this ghastliness. All sorts of depressing scenarios flooded my brain. Life without Geoffrey! And never mind that - would there be madeira, and crisps?
"No, Geoffrey, this won't do at all. This is depressing the hell out of me. We'll have to return to sunnier climes, viz., is Death Avoidable. And pass me that plateful of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches while you're at it."

spockfingers returns

Well! you'll never guess what happened just before the poker dice game got underway. Just as Tuppence and Wilson were getting down to serious business, I offered to crack open another bottle of Duke of Malmsey's finest in order to oil the wheels of...the game, or whatever. This was declined by Wilson, who of course is - or claims to be - a very strict teetotaller. I then - out of sheer politeness - offered to make an innocent pot of tea, which he accepted, with the rather churlish caveat "make sure you give the cup a good wash, Tuppy, I don't want swine flu". Unfortunately, I failed to secure the cover of the spout (it's a whistling kettle, of course) and when the kettle reached boiling point, said cover blew off making a noise like a pistol shot and whacked Wilson square in the temple.
He then crashed to the floor like a felled tree, and in a trice Geoffrey flew to the sideboard and retrieved the sal volatile from the medicine chest. After waving it beneath Wilson's nose for a few seconds, he opened his eyes, sat up, and regaled us with several verses of "Spaceman" by well-known pop combo, the Killers.
"Oh oh oh oh, Oh oh oh ohoh..."
"Where did you learn that song?" asked Tuppence.
"I've no earthly clue," replied Wilson, rubbing his temple. "The song which came into my head when I came round, was Chris de Burgh's "A Spaceman Came Travelling", but somehow this other one came out when I started singing."
"FA-A-A-A-B-ulous choice!" a familiar voice bellowed from the doorway. It was none other than Mr Spockfingers, who had stopped off to sing backing with the Killers at T in the Park on his way home from the health farm he was sent to after failing to win Britain's Got Talent (see previous posts please, if you'd like more details....)

we dice with death

Tuppence stopped by last evening. First time we'd seen him properly in ages.
"Crikey you've aged, Uncle Tuppy," he trilled in his callous way."In fact, you look like DEATH!"
I took another sip of madeira, and stared at him sourly. "You might at least say death warmed up."
"Heh heh heh." a horrible snigger emanated from outside the half opened window. Geoffrey flew over.
"Wilson!"
Who else. There he was, clad in black, swinging his scythe without a by your leave or a care in the world.
"Come in, Wilson, why don't you," I suggested in a cold high voice. Geoffrey stared at me in amazement. Wilson had never before crossed our threshold. (for reasons which need no repeating for regular readers)
"Tuppy, old fellow - what on earth are you thinking of?"
I winked. "Yes, come in Wilson! make yourself at home. But leave your scythe at the door, if you please."
Tuppence pricked up his ears. Unlike Geoffrey, he had cottoned on.
"Shall we all have a game of poker dice?" said Tuppence, as Wilson eased himself into the shabby armchair opposite my own - which is usually Geoffrey's favourite. Been to uni and all that, but he's got no manners and not an ounce of sensibility. Geoffrey flew on to the mantelpiece and perched uneasily by the clock.
"Why not?" said Wilson expansively.
"Shake em and bake em," said Tuppence, blowing on his knuckles. Little did Wilson know what he was up against....

enjoy it while it lasts

This morning over breakfast - lorne sandwiches, washed down by lashings of tea, which we ate outside in the warm July sunshine, serenaded by the deep and mournful tolling of a bell, or "death knell", which was rung by the ghastly Wilson, who was sporting a black hood and carrying a scythe, still banging on about us not wearing sunscreen and bellowing "we're all doomed!" - Geoffrey kindly reminded me, in his cheery way, that as we are all to be dead of pig flu by end of August, there is little point in going to the bother of discussing death from other causes, and its avoidability or otherwise, with the Tupfinder. (Little point in wearing sunscreen, either, then). But, we'll just pop up to Tupfinder Towers anyway, and probably have a game of whist or something. The Tupfinder does love a round or two of Russian Roulette, but luckily Tuppence stole his service revolver (see previous posts) some time ago, and as I don't think his muskets and other antique weaponry would be suitable, I think we can safely assume that anything unduly alarming is off the cards. Mrs T.G. doesn't participate in Russian roulette, or indeed in anything much, but does provide the sandwiches, and on past occasions we've heard high pitched girlish-style giggling from behind an arras-style wall hanging type thing, and we deduced that she enjoys company albeit from a distance.
By the way we also suggested to Razor Bill that he return his faulty toilet roll to Somerfield - however, he informed us rather curtly that he "couldn't be arsed".

is death avoidable?

Razor Bill stopped by with the post this morning. Not that we ever get any real post, it's usually just Reader's Digest competitions, Betterware catalogues and address labels and stuff from the PDSA. Not to mention the occasional lump of dog muck. The item we look forward to most of course is the weekly Somerfield specials leaflet, which generally features our fave things, such as crisps, drink, fizzy juice, pies and korn bif.
Bill informed us that he'd treated himself recently to a multi pack of Somerfield own brand LUXURY toilet paper, and was SHOCKED to discover, on opening it, that the perforations were missing! imagine his horror!! not to mention the sheer inconvenience of having to rip it!!! that'll teach him to indulge in unnecessary luxuries.
Geoffrey and I, having used up the supply left by the visitors, have now reverted to our practice of going " au naturel".
The weather's been a bit hot recently so I got Geoffrey to clip my wool. He used the no. 1 setting on our tondeuse set which gives me quite a severe look, but I think I like it, although it does age me a bit. I then went out for a stroll along the cliffs to get a breath of air. On the way I bumped into the ghastly Wilson ( see list of characters if you don't know who he is) who was patrolling the cliffs to check that anyone out and about was wearing sunblock. Wilson demanded to know if I was wearing any - when I said no, of course not, he screamed at me to get back indoors, as in my hairless, fairskinned state, I was a cancer risk, and as such, was liable to give him an awful lot of unnecessary work, and possibly die, at some future date! charming!!
This led to a conversation between me and Geoffrey about death - specifically, is death avoidable? as we sat comfortably by our fireside (fire unlit, due to heatwave, and no tartan knee rugs, either) sipping a glass or two of iced madeira and puffing away on our pipes, after a slap up dinner of Somerfield steak and gravy pies and hash browns, followed by two blueberry muffins apiece, and looking forward to a late supper of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches, we pondered the question. If we did as Wilson demands, and gave up our pies, drink, pipes, and complete lack of exercise, if we never went out in the sun without hats and sunblock, if we never crossed a road, or had a bacon or processed meat sandwich, would we live forever? could death actually be avoided? we're going to ask the Tupfinder what he thinks, tomorrow.

nippy grimshaw

Razor Bill told me this morning that a new person has moved in - someone called Nippy Grimshaw, and he's living in the flat above the Puff Inn. (no, Stormy doesn't live there - he lives in the old broch). A lot of people seem to be coming and going at the moment. The Narks are still at the North Pole, and obviously we're hoping they decide to stay there.
Spockfingers has gone to London for the finals of Britain's Got Talent. The Swallows are around, but we don't see them much as they're very busy due to impending arrival of youngsters. The Tupfinder general is recovering from a touch of swine flu, so has obviously been staying in. The only person we've seen this week is Razor Bill when he delivers the post.
I suppose we did have quite a weekend of it though, so can't complain.
Wilson's still working on a "cure" for swine flu, and as the dead pig behind our oven had rotted sufficiently to allow it to be unwedged, we managed to heave it over the cliffs, where it landed just above the tide line, and Wilson is presently performing a dissection.
We hope to make Nippy's acquaintance later at the Puff Inn.

a pig flu

I'm afraid Dave and Valerie refused our invite to a BBQ at the Fulmars, and furthermore didn't like our "general attitude", which they found slack and degenerate! apparently, we are completely lacking in knowledge of our local ecology never mind that of the "planet" and we need to be "re-brained".
Clearly this won't do - and we aren't taking this lying down, or even "feet up on the sofa" - but more of that later. As regular readers would expect, we are having a top level meeting with the Tupfinder to discuss a riddance plan over a glass or two of madeira. But there is a bit of a problem at the moment - we can't actually get out! Dave and Valerie have decreed that as we are not humanoid like them, we are a massive pig flu threat and we have therefore been quarantined, at the outcrop. (It might also have something to do with the powerful reek of rotting pork emanating from the back of our oven...)Dave's using a surveillance camera to ensure we stay put, and if we don't we're going to be hit with a tranquilliser dart and shipped over to the hulks, and we know what ghastliness happens there, having rescued all these sheep from the jaws of death just last year (see gazetteer for "hulks" and previous posts for the rescue drama)!
The likes of Dave Nark isn't going to get the better of us. He's clearly raving. We're resourceful characters and will be out of here in a trice. Fortunately, we have spades and have started a tunnel - we hope it will link up eventually with one of the many others in the tunnel system in the cliffs (see gazetteer), and we'll be able to escape via the landmark on the cliffs known locally as the "sow's purse" (well it is now, and it will be added to the gazetteer forthwith).
Of course, before we hit on the idea of digging our way out, we were feeling quite "boared" and so we had a game of "backGAMMON" until we got "pig sick" of it. I'm sure Wilson will be working on a "cure" for pig flu but he's bound to make a "pig's ear" of it. It's high time he got the "chop". I've heard the symptoms of pig flu include crackling in the ears. Instructions for taking remedies involve "swilling" down some medicine with a bucket of water....

wilson makes himself unpopular - again

I changed my mind - I won't describe the blast produced by Mr Spockfingers after all. I've decided to err on the side of good taste - as usual. (Also, cannot be "arsed".) Suffice to say, it worked - but there was a ghastly mess to clean up, and can I also say that I won't be able to face cabbage for a very very long time ( not much of a hardship!). Readers will recall that the first plan mooted was to flood the tunnels with raw sewage - and we decided against, due to reasons of mess and concern that our supplies of madeira would be contaminated (unthinkable). Well, the Spockfingers option must have rivalled that unpleasant scenario, and we had to spend hours flushing the caves and tunnels out with buckets of pine scented Flash and hosing down the crates of madeira and korn bif. There's still a bit of a smell actually.
However, I think I can mention without fear of offending anyone much, that my announcement, a couple of posts back, of Cherry Fulmar's forthcoming "happy event" was a bit previous. Turns out that her "bulge" is due to an increasingly severe food addiction, to Fisher & Donaldson fudge doughnuts, scampi flavoured fries and Nik Naks to be precise. The Fisher & Donaldson aspect has already been taken out of her hands, as the local branch has closed down. There isn't another F & S outlet for more than 20 miles. This is a bit of a pain for me and Geoffrey as we too are partial to a fudge doughtnut - or "F.D." - not to mention their steak pies and coffee/chocolate towers. Gloom.
Stormy Petrel of course has a monopoly on scampi fries and Nik Naks, and the prices he charges for buying them over the bar are outrageous quite frankly. Cherry has become so desperate that she has resorted to burglary and is raiding his cellars at night - the poor thing - of course Geoffrey and I would never stoop to that kind of pathetic criminal-style behaviour ( see previous posts for total contradiction)
anyway - as if that wasn't bad enough, the ghastly cave-dwelling doom-merchant Dr Wilson has thought fit to poke his horrible self-righteous nose in and lecture poor Cherry about her spiralling obesity problem and the risk of diabetes, heart disease and stroke. Bad enough that he's been bad-mouthing me and Geoffrey about our fondness for madeira and tobacco. Irritatingly he always proclaims that he's making these pronouncements "for our own goods", but that won't wash. It's obvious he's just worried about having an increase in his own future workload - plus, there is a terrible unholy joy about him whenever he climbs up on his soapbox, which is rather alarming. Really he should be worried about whether or not he's going to get a punch in the face - not that anyone Hereabouts is violent like that, and not that I would personally recommend that very physical type of reaction, especially when Wilson is clearly unhinged.
But I do think that we should consider chucking him over the top ( see gazetteer and previous posts). Titus, the horse, did that last year (see previous posts) if you ask me he did us all a favour - it's just a shame that Wilson scrambled back up again. Another option would be to banish him to the time space anomaly zone. I intend to discuss that fully with Geoffrey and the Tupfinder over a extra large glass or two of madeira this very evening.
Geoffrey and I have decided to help Cherry in the best way we can - by planning a raid ourselves on Stormy's overstocked cellars, and obtaining for her as many cartons of Nik Naks and scampi fries as we can. We're also going to lobby Fisher and Donaldson to see if they will re-open a shop nearby, so we don't all wither away to scrawny shadows like SOME people we could mention, namely Wilson.

mr spockfingers helps out

I had a brainwave on Saturday night. Just as the Tupfinder was sorting through his collection of antique "Boer War"-style fuses, and rooting around in his vitrine for the gelignite, while muttering "I'm sure I had some nitro-glycerine around somewhere..." I suggested another solution to the moog concreted in to the wall problem. I'm certain the Tupfinder knows what he's doing around explosives, but it was all getting a tad out of hand for my comfort.

Anyway, my suggestion was as follows.

a) track down Mr Spockfingers and get him in an obliging mood by asking him to sing a few songs of his own choosing

b) feed him up with copious amounts of beans/stovies/cabbage

c) take a flame thrower (lighter too dangerous - does not allow room for running away) down to the cave with the moog, along with Mr Spockfingers

d) I think I need say no more - you know where I'm going with this. Regular readers will recall my escape from the belly of the whale, after being blasted out with the assistance of Mr Spockfingers and my lighter. (see previous posts)

The Tupfinder general was a bit dubious - also miffed because he felt he was being sidelined by a petomaniac Highland cow - his main criticism being that Spockfingers blast would not have the pinpoint accuracy of his own. He also argued that due to the likely amount of methane produced, there was a severe risk of blowing a hole in the actual ozone layer directly above our heads. Personally I'm not sure about that - I think the methane will neutralise after being set light to. Nevertheless, when out of doors I've taken the precaution of wearing an old beekeeper's outfit which I found in the Tupfinder's secret room, when his back was turned. There was an old bottle of nitro glycerine in one of the pockets - I took the liberty of disposing of it as I thought it rather dangerous - I chucked it "over the top" as is our wont Hereabouts ( see previous posts and gazetteer) There was the most humungous blast as it hit the rocks at the bottom - just below Dr Wilson's cave - how terribly unfortunate!! tee hee!!

anyway - Mr Spockfingers' performed up to his usual standard and the whole thing went off - or up - beautifully. Full account will be given in next post.

we rescue geoffrey

Matters came to a head with Geoffrey and we had to intervene before he killed himself. The Grim Reaper was hovering in the background with a horrible leering grin as we - me, the Tupfinder, Apsley and Cherry - approached. What we did was this. Geoffrey was cycling at a terrific pace, and it would have proved impossible if not dangerous just to seize him in mid-flow, so the Tupfinder found a pole, and shoved it between the spokes of the front wheel - this halted the bike immediately, and Geoffrey was thrown headfirst over the handlebars - we caught him in a blanket and no harm done.
Since then we've been nursing him round the clock. As well as suffering from shock and severe dehydration his breathing is erratic and he's running a high fever. For a ghastly moment or two I feared the worst - i.e. that I'd have to consult Dr Wilson re. Geoffrey's condition - however, the Tupfinder thinks he'll recover in time, so no need for that.
Tuppence is probably attempting to plug his moog into the Fulmar's generator again, but if the silence is anything to go by, he hasn't yet managed it. Hopefully we'll all manage to enjoy a brief respite from the bleeding from our ears.
I know that crisps are probably not the best thing for Geoffrey's health at the moment, but I'm certain that even the sound of a rustling packet will cheer him up, so I'm off to scour the bins at the tourist car park. Embarrassing, but it will be worth it just to see the look on Geoffrey's face.

kill two birds with one stone

Kill two birds with one stone, somebody once said. Well, I don't know about two, but I think I can be fairly certain that ONE bird is sailing pretty close to the wind.
Geoffrey's obsessive anxiety about his waistline has driven him clean out of his mind - well, that's just my opinion, going by his behaviour.
What happened is this. We had a meeting - me, Geoffrey, the Tupfinder general, and the Fulmars - to discuss what to do about Tuppence's persistent draining of the Fulmar's electric system. Not to mention the racket. We decided after some heated argey bargey that flooding the tunnels with raw sewage was not a great idea. For one thing, Wilson still inhabits a cave in the cliffs, and he would be none too pleased if any of the effluent contaminated his living quarters - which it would - especially if I was directing the flow. ( see previous posts re. my hatred of Wilson)
During the discussion I'd noticed that Geoffrey was becoming increasingly agitated and I was amazed when he refused a top up of madeira. He was clearly very out of sorts. Eventually he sprang to his feet and declared "I will kill two birds with one stone" and flew out of the window immediately.
Apsley and Cherry were alarmed, thinking that he was referring to them, but nevertheless flew after him, and reported later that they'd seen him fly into the tunnel entrance at the old coastguard hut - Tuppence's hideout - word later reached us that in what seems to be a desperate attempt to lose weight he's since been cycling hell for leather on one of the rats exercise bikes (previously used to power up the moog at the lunchtime gig at the Puff Inn some weeks ago) and Tuppence has taken advantage and connected it up to the moog. This means that the Fulmars are no longer having their electrics drained, so obviates the raw sewage option, but we are still left with the problem of the racket.
Not to mention Geoffrey's mental and physical health - he's been cycling without a break for days, and the sweat is lashing off him - we're very concerned indeed.

the return of the purple peril

I've had a bit of a head for the past few days, hence no correspondence. Geoffrey's been the same - in fact, he almost lapsed into a coma again. Since Sunday, the two of us have been crouched trembling by the fireside, with tartan knee rugs over our heads, sipping hot madeira. It's all we can cope with.
What happened is this.
We decided to venture over to the Puff Inn, Sunday lunchtime. We were pretty sure Tuppence's gig was off, for reasons described in last two posts, so assumed it would be a case of sitting quietly in the snug with a bottle or two of Stormy's finest madeira and a large bowl of some delicious salty snack mixture. HOWEVER - the ever-resourceful Tuppence, aided by Stormy, who was acting as "road manager" - had managed to rig up a "sound system" and power up the moog at the same time. It worked like this.
Some of the rats, overfond of Stormy's wares, had run up a massive bar tab, and there was no indication that they intended to pay it off anytime soon. Stormy had been worrying about this for some time, but had no means of forcing them to pay up, as they seemed quite oblivious to ordinary threats and coercion. HOWEVER - he noticed that they began to shrink back into the shadows whenever the Reaper appeared. Ergo, Stormy deduced, here was a weapon. Like the rest of us mortals, they too fear the Reaper.
Stormy threatened to use his influence - meaning, that if the Reaper was going to be paid for a gig at the Puff Inn, then technically, Stormy was his employer, and could call himself such - to get the Reaper to move the rats up to the top of his "list", unless they agreed to co-operate with his plan.
Which was as follows. The rats were to obtain a number of exercise cycles, bring them to the Puff Inn, wire them up to the moog, and start cycling for grim death - literally.
And that's exactly what they did. It took a while for them to crank the power up to a usable level, but my goodness, when they did, the sound was amazing - deafening actually. Tuppence began with ELP's Fanfare for the Common Man - he played it with one hoof, and managed to hit all the right notes "but not necessarily in the right order" as someone once said - not my cup of tea, but the rats loved it and it spurred them on to even faster cycling. Someone had to throw cups of water over the wheels to stop them catching fire and the resulting clouds of steam only added to the atmosphere.
Stormy had resurrected the Purple Peril koktale to mark the occasion ( see previous posts for info. re. this lethal meths 'n' madeira concoction) I'm afraid Geoffrey and I succumbed to tempation, hence our current semi-comatose condition.
I don't remember much of what happened next. Obviously we staggered back to the rocky outcrop somehow. Geoffrey put his back out at some stage in the proceedings, we don't know how.
Word from Razor Bill this morning tells me that Spockfingers turned up halfway through Tuppence's act, determined to give his rendition of Sweet Child in Time. There was a terrible shrieking towards the end and all the windows blew in. Then Wilson stormed in, covered in seaweed (see previous posts) in a furious temper, screaming something about them all being utter philistines and that they were besmirching the name of prog. He ripped the electric cable from the exercise bikes and brought the act to a sudden end. Spockfingers offered to crank things up again using his incredible wind power, but it was thought too risky.
Anyway, back to normal now.

grim reaper reveals a musical side

I'd been wondering what had happened to the old grim reaper (see previous posts - quite recent for a change actually) - it seemed a bit unlikely that someone who'd been dispatching people since the dawn of time would be scared off for good by the Tupfinder waving a pitchfork and shouting "Begone, begone."
And unlikely it is. Word from the Puff Inn tells me that he's gone nowhere - he's been lurking around in the shadows like the proverbial bad smell, leaning on his scythe and looking grim without so much as a by your leave. "Waiting..." as he puts it.
What's on his mind? well, apart from the usual, music for one thing. If you can call it that - I wouldn't, but for obvious reasons won't be sharing my views with the Reaper. Anyway, Tuppence has formed a band - supposedly prog rock - and Stormy Petrel has agreed to give them a gig this Sunday lunchtime at the Puff Inn. He isn't taking much of a risk, as it's usually dead in there at that time - will be even deader this Sunday, what with the Reaper playing musical scythe in Tuppence's band. Line up - provisional - seems to be as follows: Tuppence - Moog synthesizer and lead vocals; Mr Spockfingers - backing vocals (??!); Grim Reaper - musical scythe; Dr "I hate him" Wilson - the glass (rubbing a wet finger round the rim to make a humming/squeaking noise); a rat - biscuit tin lids (percussion).
Only problem is, the Moog will need to be plugged in, and as readers will know, the only folk with leccy Hereabouts are Apsley and Cherry Fulmar - and we all know what trouble Geoffrey and I caused when we accidentally cut through their generator cable. (see previous posts - if you can be bothered - it was ages ago)
Anyway, Stormy's working on it.

solstice slump

Geoffrey and I are feeling under the weather at the moment. We think it's probably the annual "solstice slump", so are administering the usual remedies to each other i.e. Fisher and Donaldson steak pies and regular ingestion of Duke of Clarence-style madeira, industrial strength.
The Tupfinder generals are having open house on Boxing Day, so goodness knows who might turn up. Geoffrey and I are going of course - wouldn't miss out on free grub, despite Mrs T-G's sausage rolls leaving a lot to be desired. I think I'll take the muskets the Tupfinder lent me, just in case Tuppence arrives mob-handed. Always best to prepare for the worst.
On Christmas Day we've been invited to a slap up lunch/BBQ at the Fulmars. Again, we won't turn down free food, but we do have doubts as to how our digestions will cope, and are stocking up on bisodal. Menu is to include deep fried turkey and chipolatas with BBQ sos, and Xmas pud. flambeed in meths.
On Christmas Eve, Geoffrey and I plan to have the evening entirely to ourselves, sitting in our customary and beloved shabby armchairs at either side of the fire, at the rocky outcrop. We'll be preparing stockings for each other. Last year, Geoffrey was disgusted with me because I'd bulked out his stocking with some stale monkey nuts and a dried up satsuma - I did get him a Cliff Richard CD as well, and a pair of bed socks - but the monkey nuts and satsuma have rankled and he's not properly forgiven me. So, I have to think of something better this year. It's easy for him - my stocking is for some reason, half the size of his. So, a packet of wotsits and a handful of Quality Street and it's practically full up.
But before then, there is the main event of the year, which is the winter solstice, at which time fires are lit all along the cliffs and everyone makes merry. It's also the time when, traditionally Hereabouts, we throw people we don't like "over the top" (see previous posts). It goes like this. There is a secret ballot, and everyone votes for the person they like least. The Tupfinder general collates the votes. No-one knows who the most disliked person Hereabouts is - sometimes Stormy Petrel opens a book on it, and last year, Dr Wilson was favourite to go, and go he did, though not quite as or when expected - (see previous posts) ANYWAY - the Tupfinder hog-ties whoever the unfortunate person is, and does the deed - i.e. chucks them over the cliffs.
I'm not sure if that is going to happen this year. No-one has mentioned it - at least, not in my presence...I tried to discuss the subject when we were at the Puff Inn recently, but everyone avoided my eye and began talking about something else...what can it mean?