The Solstice Strangers...........

"GAUDETE GAUDETE KRISTOOS IST NAH-TOOS...."

As we approached the blazing inferno that was Tupfnder Towers, we could see a circle of people dressed in white, wearing crowns of mistletoe and ivy, all swinging their arms and singing at the tops of their voices.

"Tuppy, who ARE these people?" said Geoffrey anxiously, fumbling in his new khaki, combat-style bumbag (an early Yuletide gift from his distant aunt Jemima) for his brass telescope.

"They're Strangers Geoffrey."

"Yes they are Tuppy," said Geoffrey, screwing up one eye and peering through his telescope, "They look like they're from Overthere.  I remember the fat one with the ring in her nose from the check-out when we were Overthere three years ago (see e-books for MUCH more  detail), on our epic search for the oracle in the coracle.  And I'm sure that one with the pink hair and the tattoo on her neck is the nurse from the compulsory health screening centre."
"That's called body art," I corrected absently, "A completely different thing to the tattoos of whales and sailing ships and "MOTHER" to which we're accustomed.  I read about it in Bad Trip Advisor."  I was appalled.  We don't like Strangers round here, with their fancy different ways.  We're inbred, and we like to keep it that way.

"Will we have to - " Geoffrey hesitated.

"I'm afraid so, Geoffrey," I said shortly, "We've little option.  We'll have to send them Over the Top, just like we did the last lot.  Come on.   Let's get back to the Outcrop and think of a plan."

Meanwhile, as the jets of water from the Bay did their work, clouds of steam rose high above the dully-glowing embers of Tupfinder Towers,  and the muffled voices of helpers running to and fro with buckets of this and that faded behind us in the mid-winter twilight.

"Shouldn't we stay and help, Tuppy?  It seems wrong not to. After all, the T-G and Mrs T-G are our dearest friends."
"No Geoffrey. Lots of things seem wrong, but they aren't really when you sit down and think about it.  It's all under control now.  No point in wasting our energies."
And I hastened along the homeward track, trying to blot out the mental image of the contents of my pipe smouldering away in the waste paper basket in the library of Tupfinnder Towers....

AMAZON PAGE

I'm spinning in the Void and Geoffrey's stuck on Saturn's Ring - but which one?

It's not nice on the moon.  It's cold and there's nothing to eat.  I thought the Moon was made of cheese - it's not.  It's solid rock.  It's even harder than one of Granny Sooker's Rock Buns - and that's Hard.
I'm all alone and there's no-one to moan to, except myself.  Oh for my tartan knee rug and a hot steaming mug of Madeira partaken in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  Maybe a few packets of Doritos and a pipeful of - oh what's the point if I'm all alone.  Where oh where is Geoffrey?
"GEOFFREY!!!" I shrieked, into the ghastly void.
There was no response.  Of course there wasn't.  I was all alone on the dark side of the Moon, spinning like an unlighted lamp in the chilling blackness of the -
"TUPPY!  It's me - Geoffrey - I'm Over Here!"
"Over WHERE?"  I choked back my sobs and sat up.  Geoffrey's voice echoed as if from a great distance. 
"I'm stuck on Saturn's ring.  I've been here for ages and I can't get the frig off.  My wings were welded shut by the G Force when we got sneezed out of Kevin Bacon's nose. Do something Tuppy. I'm frightened."
Saturn's ring? But surely Saturn has more than one ring? I remembered that from one All Hallow's Eve, when the Tupfinder General gave us one of his unforgettable mind-expansion lectures instead of allowing us out guising. "You're just doing it for the sweets Tuppy. Besides, there's an upper age limit for guising and you passed it eons ago. "
"Who says?" I argued.  But I knew he was right. Hereabouts, if you grow taller than the fourth branch of the third rowan tree on the right as you head north south north on the clifftop path, you can no longer "Guise".  In fact, you can no longer do quite a few things, but that's another story. 
"Which ring are you stuck on, Geoffrey?" I shouted, knowing full well that it was pointless to ask because even if we could identify the ring, I had no means of getting there.

More later...............

Still suspended in a net, over a fiery pit

Yeah, we're still here, and I don't mind saying that it's getting a tad uncomfortable.
The three of us - Geoffrey, me, and the Tupfinder General, are crammed in here together and once we get out we're going to have shocking criss cross net imprints on our backs. Mind you that's the least of our worries while we're still stuck up here like a right bag of lemons.
Everyone's nerves are strained to the limit.
"Get your foot out of my face, Tuppy," asked the T-G through gritted teeth. "I'm asking you nicely this time. Next time might well be a different matter."
"Oh you'd be no fun at Twister. You're sounding about an eight on the tension scale T-G," I snickered rather unpleasantly, not moving my foot an inch.
"Make that a ten,"he growled, and I heard a distinct "click" as he released the safety catch on his pistol.
"Now now chaps. Let's not start turning on each other like a pack of wolves just because we're trapped in a net above a fiery pit with no apparent means of escape. Let's all try to keep our sanities shall we."
*Oh stop being so flaming sanctimonious Geoffrey. If I want to lose my mind I'll flaming well - "
KER-B-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
more later.

Enough dullness - back to the Outcrop

Right I'm fed up so it's back to business as frigging usual.

Me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire last evening, puffing on our Meerschaums and working our way through a barrel of madeira, when suddenly the door burst open and in came Razor Bill, clutching a telegram.

"I think it's bad news!" he blurted, before throwing himself exhausted on the couch and fanning himself with a copy of the Speedispend Christmas catalogue.

"Open it then, Tuppy," said the T-G in his serious voice.

"We've to start paying rent!" I said shakily, after reading the awful news.

"Rent! what's that?" asked Geoffrey.

"And council tax," I added.

"But why? and who to, exactly?"

"What for, you mean," said the T-G. "This isn't on, lads. Not on at all. We'll have to take action. Where's me pistol?"

"Can we not have a bacon sandwich first," I asked in an outraged voice. "Surely..."

"Stop thinking about your stomach for one second, Tuppy. There are more important things afoot. Grab a packet of smokey bacon crisps and let's get cracking."

Quote of the week

Geoffrey and I found this in a skip outside the T-G's residence, yesterday afternoon. I'd like to say that our eyes just happened to fall upon it, willy nilly, as we were passing, but no - I'm afraid we were short of readies (not that we use "normal munny") and we were running low on crisps. Usually, in such circs., we would nick some from the Puff Inn cellars, or Geoffrey might rake the bins at the tourist car park. However, on this occasion, we decided to check out the T-G's skip. Reason? we'd heard via Razor Bill that Mrs T-G had been to a "Bums 'n' Tums" evening last Wednesday night, and had been so horrified at the state/size of her "Bum 'n' Tum" compared to the others there, that she rushed home in a right old state to Tupfinder Towers, and immediately emptied all fatty foods 'n' snax from all of her cupboards. There was so much, that the lid of their wheelie bin wouldn't close and the T-G had to arrange a skip.

Cue me and Geoffrey. We couldn't care less about our bums 'n' tums.

"But it was only recently that you got stuck in the crack, " queried Geoffrey, as we stuffed a bin liner with crisps and packets of pies. "Shouldn't you..well...be cutting down a bit?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply," I sniffed. How dare he betray me like that?

"I'm only thinking of your health," he ventured, noticing my hardening expression.

"Well don't flaming bother," I snapped. "Else you'll have to start thinking about your...here, what's this?"

And I picked up the book pictured above - Elizabeth Goudge's The Middle Window.

It fell open at page 54. "People talked a lot about the death of the body and the life of the spirit but what did they know about it? What did anyone know? Men laughed and talked and ate and drank inside a little lighted house of life and outside was a great windy darkness that stretched they knew not where and held they knew not what," I read.

"Indeed," boomed a familiar voice. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

"For pity's sake. can't you give us a break for five minutes? And don't you ever wear anything other than that ghastly black hooded cloak?"

It was the frigging Grim frigging Reaper, lurking about in his usual cheery manner.

"I find it covers up the "Bum 'n' Tum" very nicely if I'm having a fat day," he growled, twirling his scythe. "Plus, I never need to concern myself with "bad hair" days, either. Job done. Maybe YOU should get yourself one, Tuppy."

Geoffrey's back to normal

Geoffrey's back to normal, thank frig. The partial soul extraction "wore off" - although I'm tending to the view that it may well not have happened in the first place. A soul extractor? what a load of codswallop...oops - the Tupfinder General has just tapped on the door so better throw the old tartan knee rug over this lot for a sec. till I see what he wants.
Three hours later...the T-G was all apologetic about the "accident" with the soul extractor, saying that his sleeve must have caught on a handle, or something, and he brought a plateful of sausage rolls to make up for it. Fine by me. I'd swap my immortal soul for a fresh Tower Bakery sausage roll, any day.
He's still wittering on about the trench.
"We could get Titus and Spockfingers to do the heavy labouring, Tuppy."
"Oh yes. Asked them about it, have you?"
"Er, no."
"Hmmph. I shouldn't waste your breath. They aren't into manual labour. especially Spockfingers."
"It might help them shift a few pounds. Heaven knows they could do with it."
"Are you saying I'm fat? or are my ears needing cleaned out?" Spockfingers' dulcet tones bellowed through the half-opened window. (well, it IS spring-time)
"Probably both," replied the T-G rather acidly.
"How very dare you! I'm big-boned! Just you wait there one minute..." and there was a loud splintering sound as Spockfingers attempted to heave himself through the window-frame.
"See what I mean," I whispered as the T-G put on his cape ready for a quick exit.

Geoffrey has his soul partially extracted.

Blimey. What a week it's been. It all started with the planned meeting at Tupfinder Towers, to discuss ways of sabotaging the new road which is being built across the moors, to transport the wind farm turbines to goodness only knows where along the cliffs. The Tupfinder side-tracked things by insisting we first have a shot of his new soul extractor machine, and once he got the thing fired up there was no stopping him.
Luckily one of the poo foo valves over-heated and only a partial extraction/capturing of the essence was possible. And at first, there seemed no way of telling who it was that had been affected.
However, once the machine had cooled down and the meeting was convened, all became clear.
Mrs T-G came in with a platter of sausage rolls, and I'm sorry to say Geoffrey devoured the lot willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Due to the machine going off "half cock", his face had not been turned to stone, as such, but his expression definitely was "stoney". Not to mention his personality. He actually became quite aggressive if anyone (i.e. me) so much as sniffed a sausage roll. He even told me to "bog off", which I will not forget in a hurry I can tell you.
Currently the soul extractor does not have a reverse gear, but the Tupfinder feels confident he will remedy that soon.
I hope so. This carry on is doing my nerves no good at all. Geoffrey's snapping at me for the least thing - slippers not warm enough, tea not brewed to his liking, knee rug not positioned in exactly the right way. He's driving me up the flaming wall.
re. new road prevention solutions by the way - only idea that emerged from what - apart from Geoffrey's antics - was a VERY dull meeting was from the Tupfinder - he suggested digging a very large trench along the boundary of "Hereabouts", into which any alien/unwanted machinery would topple. I think that's a very poor idea. For one thing, who's to do the digging of this massive hole? I've got a dicky knee, and Geoffrey's got a "glass back". No, we'll have to think "outside the box"...

the Tupfinder General reveals a new invention

"But why is the face twisted in that horrible, repulsive way?" whispered Geoffrey. "And is it REALLY the ghastly Wilson?"
"Yes!" boomed the T-G, as he opened the vast oaken, iron-clad door, releasing a cloud of smoke from his pipe and the wonderful aroma of a freshly opened packet of sausage rolls. "Yes!" he continued. "It IS Wilson. Captured in stone. Just shows you what can happen when the wind changes."
"But it's not really him, surely? after all, we only saw him the other day. Surely it's just his...er...likeness? not his real head?" quavered Geoffrey.
"It's his soul, Goeffrey," replied the T-G, proudly. " An exact likeness, as you put it, of his inner essence. I've got a machine that does it. I call it the soul extractor. Made it myself out of bits and pieces. Come on in and I'll give you a shot on it before we get down to business."
"Great!" we chorused. I heard two muffled "clicks" as Tuppence removed the safety catch on his pistols.

dreadful wind farm shock

What a terrible, terrible shock. Just as Geoffrey and I were tucking into our second round of double sausage and brown sauce sandwiches, and pouring ourselves another mugful of hot madeira, Razor Bill arrived with the day's post.
"Bad news, Tuppy old son," said Bill, sitting down heavily in our spare armchair, which promptly collapsed underneath him (and he's not even slightly obese - never mind morbidly, unlike myself - but that's another story). "Everyone's getting one of these." And he handed me a long brown envelope.
Inside, there was a letter, informing me that a "road" is to be built across the moors, in order to "service" the building of a "wind farm" on the cliffs.
"Well, there's plenty of wind round here. In more ways than one," I mused. "But I don't like the sound of this, at all."
"It's to do with green energy targets, Tuppy. You know the obesity targets Wilson keeps banging on about?"
"Don't remind me. We're all much too fat and lazy, and we've all to eat five veg. a day, not including red sauce, or we get sent to the hulks?"
"Yes. But this is much, much worse. It could mean the end of the Outcrop, as we know it."
"Oh no! Something must be done!"
"Yes. The Tupfinder's arranged a top-level meeting at the Towers, tonight, at the witching hour. Be there. Mrs T-G is doing sausage rolls."

solstice seige

"Quick Geoffrey! pile more stuff on the fire!" I urged, as the chanting hordes drew ever nearer. Yes, they were back, attired in their cowled robe-style things, padding closer and closer in that relentless manner that sinister cowled figures always have.
Just as Geoffrey was about to smash up my chair for firewood (we'd long since run out of driftwood), a tall horseman in a pointy black hat charged through the hordes, scattering them to the four winds. "Begone!" he shouted, brandishing a blazing torch. And they were.
Who was this brave horseman? none other than the Tupfinder General, of course, mounted on Titus.
Soon we were ushering them into comfy chairs by the fire and pouring them mugfuls of madeira (watered down a bit, of course - visitors are all very well but we don't want to leave ourselves short). Both declined a whiff of sal volatile, by the way. All the more for us.
"Who were those cowled hordes?" I quavered. "Minions, sent from the bowels of hell?"
"If you'd taken time to look, instead of panicking, Tuppy, you'd have seen that the so-called cowled hordes were merely your neighbours, out a-wassailing, dressed up in identical hooded puffa coats - which happen to be on special at Speedispend. They're BOGOFs. We've all got one. Look!"
And he whipped open his black cape to reveal exactly that.
"I don't put the hood up, because of my hat," he added, patting said pointy item. "And speaking of bowels of hell - where's that bowel cancer testing kit? throw another chair on the fire and let's all have a go!"

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.

return of B.O.

You won't believe the week I've had. Or where I am. I'm back in the belly of the frigging beast! What happened is this. In my last post I described how Nippy Grimshaw floated off the cliff edge and over the sea, due to his sandwich boards being caught by a gust of wind.
We thought little of it until Geoffrey pointed out that there was an orca in the bay - none other than B.O. - Baby Orca - readers will recall - see previous posts if not - that B.O. arrived here some months back seeking revenge for the death of his mother, which he blamed on ME. Wrongly! (okay, I lit the match, but, as readers may also recall, it was really none other than mr spockfingers who caused the explosion inside the orca's cavernous belly - in which I was incarcerated - ergo, spockfingers is the true culprit.)
Anyway, I tried to press the point with B.O. - Spockfingers is presently in a clinic, recovering from the stresses of performing in BGT, and is not due back till tomorrow, so I didn't feel in the least bad about putting all the blame on him - via a megaphone, but with no effect - if anything he become more enraged and began breaching and snapping his massive jaws and blowing spouts of water up in the air in a most aggressive and alarming fashion.
Meanwhile poor Nippy was slowly heading downwards, the sandwich boards having lost their "lift". Geoffrey decided that we had to help him. Naturally I was horrified, but he said that he'd never speak to me again unless I helped too. So, I'd no choice but to get the old coracle out of the attic and drag it down to the shore, and sail off, taking the Tupfinder's brace of pistols with us, to fend off the orca.
Need I say more? We were swallowed up in a trice, and here we frigging are, sitting on his back molars and bored out of our skulls. Do we have a plan? of course! it is this: next time the orca opens his gob - which shouldn't be long - Geoffrey will fly out and get help. I trust Geoffrey implicitly - I know he won't let me down...

dead flying pig source of horrible pong

We found the source of the horrible pong - there was a dead pig behind the oven. Geoffrey says that his cousin Ranald (Ranald Wand'ring Albatrosse) has seen pigs flying about willy nilly all over the shop, and we can only think that one of them passed away and plummeted to earth, via our holey roof, and landed behind our oven, whilst we were in Weatherfield visiting our friends in Coronation Street. When I say "passed away", there is a bullet hole in the pig's skull. The only guns Hereabouts belong to the Tupfinder general - and of course Tuppence stole the Tupfinder's old service revolver from the vitrine some while back ( see previous posts)
The Tupfinder still has a brace of pistols, but I can't really see him firing them at pigs. We can only hope that Tuppence does not come looking for his "bag". Well, if he does, he will get more than he bargained for (I say bravely). We've dug a deadfall outside the front door, just in case.
He won't be expecting that! neither will anyone else, of course - which could be a problem...

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.

moog-generator-Fulmar's-cable-style problem

Well, we haven't quite solved the "moog-cable-Fulmar's generator" problem, but almost. I suppose this is what some might say is the "cup-half-full-cup-half-empty" paradigm - but not me. I don't like these "either or" things. I'm more a "shades of grey" person. Tuppence always despised me for it and used to tell me that I'm criminally lacking in moral fibre. I suppose he could be right, but moral fibre-style decision-making seems to require such a lot of brain effort, and frankly I can't be bothered. Perhaps some people know immediately what's right or wrong, but not me. I'd rather blow with the prevailing wind. It can lead me into some difficult, perhaps morally compromising situations, but I can generally winkle my way out of them by flattery, bribery, cheating and/or fibbing. Why not! After all I've had lots of practice! and it's done me no harm! Mind you I was voted "least popular" in the solstice poll last year (see previous posts) and have been ostracised by the local community on several occasions...perhaps people are trying to tell me something? but personally, I believe that the poll results say more about the harsh and judgmental nature of those voting rather than those voted for or against i.e. me...anyway, personally I think the "truth" is pretty elastic in nature. Why make life harder by sticking to it, specially when no-one really knows what it is. Least of all me.
Anyway I'm rambling too much. Back to the moog problem. Apsley managed to track down the tape recorder, and managed to neutralise it by snipping through the tape with a pair of nail scissors. The cable connecting it to the Fulmar's generator was unfortunately concreted in to the cave wall, and the recorder was jammed right up against said wall, also concreted in, so it wasn't possible to cut the cable as we'd planned. We're going to have to go back tonight with some gelignite to blow the thing off. It's the only possible solution. The Tupfinder's got "jelly", fuses, the lot, so it shouldn't be a problem...

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.

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.