Frog in the whole

Literally a toad in a hole

 'It's because it would be too sickly without it,' explained Dave.

'Yes but it seems so jarring,' said Tuppence.

'That's the whole point,' said Dave, patiently. 'You need the contrast. The flowing melodic bits and then the jarring bits.   The counterpoint if you like.  It's like happiness and sadness, the darkness and the light.  Sweet and sour or whatever.  You can't appreciate the one without the other.  You have to bear in mind, as well, Tuppence, that it was the 1960s and most of these people were out of their minds on a cocktail of drugs. They weren't rational.   That accounts for a lot.  Mind you, being rational isn't everything.  Far from it actually.  When I was in the sweat cottage I...'

Tuppence got up to his feet hurriedly.

'Well I think my tea's probably ready.  I'd better be off Dave, it's toad in the hole, my fave.  Thanks for the chat about Thunderclap Newman's greatest hit.'

Dave stroked his beard thoughtfully, leaned back in his rocking chair and closed his eyes.  'Let the...for argument's sake... toad...as it were...see the...hole?  But why a 'toad'?  Why limit yourself to one amphibian?  Is it in fact, as it were...a frog, or perhaps a newt, even a great crested one?  or another type of amphibian altogether?  But let us say, to prevent us totally busting our brains, 'frog'.  In the 'whole'?  But in the 'whole' what?  Or 'hole'?  But what type of 'hole'?  A black hole, perchance?  And why?  But we never ever do know why, do we.  That's one thing I know for certain. I'll need to give this some serious thought.'

Glancing blows, a blood-stained map, and a Potential High-end Tourist Destination

A gloomy lochan with an island in the middle 

A map.  Or is it?

 

'You're WHAT?'  I gasped, dropping my pipe (unlit, but stuffed with baccy) on to the threadbare Aubusson fireside rug.  I knew it was an Aubusson because there was a faded yellowing note pinned to the wall beneath the fireside bell pull saying 'mind the Aubusson' in spidery handwriting with a downwards-pointing arrow.   It was Saturday afternoon and we were 'taking tea' with the T-G and his good lady wife at Tupfinder Towers.  Or not so good, depending on your point of view.  But the least said about that, the better.

For now, at any rate.

'We're Opening to the Public,' repeated the T-G, glancing at me.  'What's wrong with that?  Tupfinder Towers is a historic building, with Scottish history crammed into its every nook and its every dusty cranny.   Each spider's web tells a story.  We've every potential to become a high-end tourist destination.'

'You've been talking to Val Nark, haven't you.'  I glanced back at him.  And that wasn't a question.  Val was on a mission to transform our homely neglected backwater into a money-spinner using the powers of Instagram, Facebook and her own-made nettle jam.  Regardless of potholes, hairpin bends and a general lack of appropriate infrastructure.  

I glanced at the Aubusson as I spread my third scone with a thick layer of butter and an even thicker layer of Val's jam, which, despite its resemblance to mud was perfectly edible once you got used to the stinginess.  Several mysterious brownish stains marred the rug's original faded, threadbare pattern.  

'What's the pattern on your rug, T-G? Looks like a map of some sort.  Beneath the brown stains.'

'Yes,  I believe it is a map. Or it might be just a brown stain under more brown stains.  Who knows. I can't remember.  The Old Tup might've...' he glanced up at the large gloomy oil painting depicting a red-faced, tartan-bedecked gent sporting a periwig and posing beside a gloomy lochan with an island in the middle of it that hung beside the fireplace.   'They're not blood or anything like that.  Well, they might be.  Anyway it's too fragile to clean, even if one were inclined...'

The T-G stared at Mrs T-G momentarily, then sighed and poked the ashes of the fire with his swordstick. 

'I can't do everything!' snapped Mrs T-G. 

'No no no Mildred.  Of course not.  And nobody's asking you to.  You have logs to chop,  gutters to clear, ditches to dig, laundry to mangle, toilets to muck out, pheasants to pluck and rabbits to skin.  Not to mention keeping your moustache under control and crafting your delicious black sausage rolls and pickled worms. You can't be beating the carpets as well.  At least, not every day.  More tea, anyone?'

I glanced at the oak mantlepiece,  where a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dull brasswork of an ancient sextant.  I glanced again at the 'map'.  The more I looked at it the more I was sure I'd seen it somewhere before.  I glanced at Geoffrey, who was glancing at me and then at the map in a significant manner.  He shook his head, and glanced away.

'If you're opening to the public,  then - and I hate to say this - you're probably going to have to get some staff in.   You might even have to pay them T-G.'

The swordstick clattered to the oak floorboards. 'S-s-staff?  P-p-pay them?  Oh well I hardly think...'

'Times have changed T-G.  You're going to have to change with them and employ folk and pay them Real Cash Munny - I know it sounds dreadful but it seems that nobody works for free these days.  We hear all the news from Tuppence when he comes round for his tea.'

More later.

next time...the T-G forges ahead with his plan - or is it Val's - to open Tupfinder Towers to the public. Geoffrey and I discuss the 'map'.   Tuppence comes round for his tea, and we hear more horrifying tales of modern life...

Musical Memories

 'Nobody wants to know about the Canterbury school of prog Tuppence.   It's like from the dark ages,' said Val Nark,  shaking the dregs of a goji berry and chia seed smoothie on to an 'own-made' gravel flapjack. 'You don't seem to realise your terrible taste in music is why your band-mates abandoned you. Well, partly, anyway.  I'm sure your awful personality and penchant for random shootings didn't help.  Life moves on.   You need to up your game.'

'Oh really.  Any ideas?'

'Maybe move into the 90s or something.  What about doing some covers of the Verve or the Stone Roses?'

'I thought maybe Simple Minds?'

'The Minds were shit!' spluttered Val.  Shards of gravel flapjack ricocheted off the window of Val's eco-cafe. 'For pity's sake.  They were the 1980s anyway.  Which was all totally shit.   You really have no musical knowledge whatsoever.'

'They were indeed shit,' said Dave, as he fried a plant-based burger on the compressed-wood-dust-fired stove.  'And I should know.  I was their first drummer, till I left through mutual agreement.  Just before they got their recording contract.'

'You got fired then.'

'No.  It was through mutual agreement, like I said.  They said I was great but just not a good fit for them at that time.  I'd be better off moving on and looking for something else that showed my talents off to the full.'

'Fired.'

'No. They said they didn't actually need a drummer at that time and I'd only be bored with nothing to do.'

'Fired.'

'No.  They said I was perfect for the band and a great drummer,  only not right now with them kind of thing.  It was all good,  I was fine with it.  I was totally thrilled for them when they started having massive chart success.  Ow!'  Dave burned his fingers flipping the burger and adding a slice of vegan cheese-style topping.  'Shit.  That's the finger I use to press 'record' when I'm doing my wildlife vids.'

'Let's face it they were a shower of bastards Dave,' said Val briskly.  'Dark days.  But we moved on, didn't we? We coped.  We thrived!  I picked you up out of the gutter, and forced you to face the world again.  And here we are!  Living the good life on a croft-style place in Scotland, renting out yurts and selling eco-goods and putting wildlife vids online and stuff.   If Jim Kerr ever turns up,  he'll get the doing of his life.'

Next time - Jim Kerr turns up and gets the doing of his life

Questionable Time at Tupfinder Towers

 

the T-G

'CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP'.

Tuppence thumped on the two feet thick, iron-studded oak door with his fists.

'CRUMP CRUMP - ugh.  I'm knackered.'

'No wonder.  You've been banging on that door for ten minutes.  Maybe if you stopped shouting CRUMP CRUMP at the same time as banging it wouldn't be so tiring though.'

'That's easy for you to say standing there eating - what is it?  It looks like wood.'

'It's one of Val's gravel flapjacks.  Want some?'

'No.'

'How will they ever hear us,' said Alexa.  'Look at the size of the place.'

Above them, vanishing into the clouds, loomed a towering ivy-covered Tower - the only remaining Tower at Tupfinder Towers.  The other three collapsed so long ago that nobody could remember when or why - not even the Tupfinder General, or Mrs Tupfinder General, with a combined age of nine hundred and forty two.  Piles of abandoned rubble indicated their previous location.

'Yes.  Stuff this.'  Tuppence whipped out his pistol and began shooting.  Bullets whistled through the air and lodged themselves into the centuries-old oak making barely a dent.  A few ricocheted off the iron studs and flew who knew where, only a few random screams indicating that they had landed 'somewhere'.

CREEEEEEEAAAAAAAKKKKKKKK

The door swung open slowly, and a shotgun barrel waved them inside.

'A bit of target practice never did anyone any harm,' roared the T-G. 'Come inside.'

They asked what had happened to the other three towers.

'Perhaps the Old Tup might have known,' mused the Tupfinder, waving an arm at a dusty oil painting depicting someone almost identical in appearance to the Tupfinder General, except with white hair, cross-eyes and a kilt.  Oh and only the one cloven hoof.  'He lived to a decent age.  Four thousand and fifty I think it was.  Anyway.  Perhaps you'd like to visit Mrs T-G's laboratory.  Where she makes her black sausage rolls.  No?  Then perhaps we can go to the observatory on the upper floor and you can have a shot of my inter-galactic supra-space-time-dimension telescope.  It's so pleasing to have young visitors for a change'.  He continued ushering Tuppence and Alexa up the vast staircase. 

'Come along,' he beckoned,  his cloven hooves clip-clopping on the wooden floor as he made his way  briskly along a narrow book-lined corridor with an even narrower spiral staircase at the far end. 

'Why do you have cloven hooves T-G,' asked Alexa. 'I'm quite envious it's a strong look.'

'Like long noses, they run in the family,' he replied. 'Here we are.'

He opened a door at the top of the spiral staircase revealing a room evidently at the top of the Tower.  A large telescope occupied much of the space.  He pressed a lever and a humming sound filled the room

The telescope began to rotate.

'This is a special telescope.  It can be used in the usual way, to look at the stars and such-like, but you can also ask it questions.  For example, you, young lady, are wondering whether now is the right time to quit your job as a cleaner, and if Onlyfans is going to provide you with a sufficient revenue stream to see you through uni and maybe have a couple of weeks in Lanzarote.'

'H-how did you know that?'  

The T-G smiled mysteriously.  'I have certain powerful listening devices set up in various locations.  It's part of my supervisory role as Tupfinder General.   Anyway - gaze into the eyepiece and focus your mind on your question...'

Next time - Alexa gazes questioningly into the eyepiece and focuses her mind on her question...Tuppence questions the legality of the Tupfinder General's questionable 'listening devices'....

Oldness

 'You know what Val Nark's so vain', said Alexa.   'I heard her talking to herself in the mirror before I smashed it.   She's totally jealous of Mrs T-G. it's so random, they're both ancient so why would they even care.'

'Dunno,' replied Tuppence. 'You never know with old people. They kind of want things both ways.  One minute my uncles are demanding comfy seats and help lifting their shopping bags and the next they're annoyed because I keep telling them they might as well go to Switzerland cos they're past it.  But age is still no excuse for them having problematic attitudes and ignoring current tech.  I'm going over to Tupfinder Towers to ask the T-G. about some other stuff now.  Want to come along?'

'Sure.  Is he sort of like an oracle?  Because I want to quit my job but I don't know if it's the right time,  I need some advice from a sage or something.  I'm not earning enough from Onlyfans and - oops!'  Alexa glanced quickly at Tuppence,  who was gritting his teeth and staring determinedly at the horizon. 

Next time - Tuppence and Alexa enter the strange world of Tupfinder Towers

Mirror Mirror...

 

The upper field

Val Nark peered at herself in the artisan-crafted mirror, framed with locally-sourced driftwood and dried seaweed fronds.

'Mirror, mirror, on the wall.  Who is the fairest between me and Mrs T-G? I know we're both  d'un age certain, or whatever - but come on.  It must be me and not that hideous old bat.'

Enter the cleaner, an empath, wearing rubber-soled Skechers and holding a bottle of glass cleaner and a blue microfibre cloth.  It is Alexa,  Tuppence's on-off off-on on-off girlfriend.  

'I'm not being judgmental or anything, I'm sure she's a very nice person and all...' babbled Val, unaware, 'and I do feel really bad for being so appearance-obsessed and superficial, but honestly she has a complexion like corned beef, no discernable neck, a black moustache, liver spots and a torso the size, shape and texture of a large sack of potatoes.  She lives off black sausage rolls and crisps and I've seen her swigging cheap gin and smoking cheroots while lurking in the ha ha.   At least I think they were cheroots.  They might have been spliffs.   In fact they probably were, now I think about it.  If I were married to that old devil the Tupfinder General  I'd require more than spliffs, I'd need weapons-grade opiates just to cope with the knowledge that I'd wantonly destroyed my own life.    Anyway where was I.  Oh yes. I bung on a bit of jojoba oil,  I do the old pelvic floors, I breakfast on goji berry tea and my own-baked gravel flapjacks.  I think if it came to it most people would say that I am definitely the more well-preserved.   Or at least I deserve to be.  I...'

Alexa coughed gently, unfolded the blue microfibre cloth, and set the glass spray to 'stun'.

'Alexa!  you evil little creep!'

'It's my Skechers.  They're silent.  I can't help that.  Perhaps I should wear a bell round my neck.'

'Or you could just say hello when you come in, like a normal person. But you aren't normal, are you dear?  You're a CLEANER.  So I don't suppose you understand about the social niceties, like not eavesdropping.  Give the car park Portaloo a really good scrub today by the way.  We don't want any more complaints on Tripadvisor.  The yurt's fully booked and Dave says there are wild campers in the upper field. He caught them in his wildlife cam shitting in the gorse bushes.  If they'd only keep to that there wouldn't be a problem but no, they have to go all civilised and use the fucking Portaloo...'

'This is very tedious,' thought Alexa, squirting glass cleaner on the mirror. 'That Dave is a total arsehole.  I don't know which one's worse, him with his wildlife vids or Val with her nettle underpants.  Still, they're paying my wages and it's getting me through uni.  This and Onlyfans.'

'Did you just use a chemical spray on my artisan-crafted mirror, you troglodyte?' shrieked Val. 

'SKREEEEEEEEEEEK.......SHATTER.......................SPLINTER..................SKREEEEEEEEEK'

'Sorry....'

Next time...Tuppence re-launches his band via the power of the internet, gets no interest whatsoever, and also finds out about Alexa's Onlyfans revenue stream. Unsure how he feels about it all except that it isn't anything good he turns to his uncles Tuppy and Geoffrey for moral guidance....a lengthy, pointless, philosophical deconstruction over Madeira and pipes of baccy follows.

Geoffrey is a Psychopath

 'So now on top of stealing from them you're having a go at people who donate to foodbanks.  You pair are so horrible I can't even.'

'You can't even WHAT?' sneered Geoffrey, scraping his spoon round the inside of the tin to get the last vestiges of custard.  'We haven't said a word.'

'You've said that people who donate to foodbanks are donating crappy stuff.  You're basically calling them stingey and mean.  People who have almost nothing themselves,  yet still find the money for a tin of custard for a stranger in need.  And you two are slagging them off. '

'Did we say that?  Did you actually HEAR us say that?  Or is this just your unconscious bias rearing its head again to reveal you as the sanctimonious little Peter Pan-style twerp that we are apparently condemned to put up with for all eternity.'

'That's gaslighting Uncle Geoffrey.  But I'm pretty sure you didn't do it deliberately.  You're definitely too stupid to know how to gaslight.  So you must've done it unconsciously - or, unwittingly, more like, what with you being totally and utterly witless and all that.  Which makes you  an utter and total psychopath.'

'Well pardon me all over the place.  How old are you now Tuppence?  Thirty two isn't it?  Isn't time you moved on from the sixth year common room student activist stage, into maybe, oh I don't know - a job at Speedispend customer service desk or something?  And while you're here - let me get this off my chest.  You know what really annoys me more than anything about you Tuppence?  Away ahead of some strong competition?  It's your vocal fry. '

'My what?'

'You heard.  Let me tell you right now m'laddo...'

'I'm all ears.'

 'We're living on a rocky outcrop somewhere on the north west Scottish seaboard,' continued Geoffrey, flinging the empty custard tin grandly out of the window, 'Nobody is quite sure where 'somewhere' is exactly,  but we know where it definitely isn't.  And that's the United States of America ten years ago.  The only 'fry' required round here involves eggs and bacon with possibly a slice or two of black pudding, some kidneys and a couple of sausages.   Which reminds me of my original point - how did the foodbank comestibles find their way into the tunnels?  We don't have a foodbank in these parts, so what - or who - on earth brought them here?  And why?'

'Don't you know anything about what goes on round here - except your neighbour's personal business from listening at keyholes?  Of course you don't.  All you two ever think about is yourselves.  Cripes you are self-obsessed.  OK I'll tell you.  If you must know, Stormy Petrel is only opening up a mobile coffee wagon cum hi-end vegan burger van in the tourist car park.  He's going for the green dollar with McCartney sausages, maybe some bulgur wheat salads, hand-cut chips and buckets of coleslaw or whatever.  It means using half the spaces meant for cars so the tourists will have nowhere to park but he reckons that's even greener and better for an eco-micro-business cos they'll have to take the bus, bike it or walk.  He needs as many foodbank comestibles as he can get till he gets it off the ground cos he's skint.  The Puff Inn's on a knife-edge - it hasn't recovered from lockdown yet.  The foodbank stuff came from the donation trolleys in the Speedispend exit lane but it was all a mistake.  Stormy wanted the rats to nick stuff, supposedly to order, in return for a cut of his profits.  He asked for packets of Quorn mince and gluten free buns and ketchup and stuff but they couldn't be arsed hunting round the shop for all that so they took the foodbank's trolleys instead. He'll have to make do.  And now he can't even do that, because you pair have stolen it all.'

'Oh...'

More later

Mrs T-G Prepares for Nuclear War

 'I can't believe we're talking about nuclear war.'  The T-G paused to light his pipe.  A pipe that was fashioned in the shape of a Cruise anti-tank missile. 'Or were we talking about it?  Perhaps I nodded off and had a horrible nightmare.'

'Where did you get the pipe, T-G?'  asked Geoffrey.

'Mrs T-G carved it for me from an old ham bone that she'd boiled up for soup.  Do you like it?'

The smell of ham wafted through the clouds of Black Bogey as the T-G lit up.

'Not sure T-G.  I think I prefer your usual pipe.'  

His usual pipe was fashioned in the shape of the Trans-Antarctic Mountains, with the bowl as Mount Erebus, and it was nestled in a velvet-lined case on the mantlepiece, next to the T-G's skull-shaped tobacco jar and a letter inviting the recipient to have a fourth 'booster' vaccination.

'I see Mrs T-G's getting on with the bunker T-G,'  I peered through the mullioned window and watched a sturdy tweed-skirted figure pausing to wipe the sweat from her eyes as she stood leaning on a shovel waist-deep in a large hole just beyond the ha-ha, many feet below.

'Oh I'm sure, I'm sure,' said the T-G through clouds of tobacco smoke. 'She just needs to dig another ten feet, line it with concrete and put some corrugated iron sheeting over the top.  She'll have it done in no time and then she can get it stocked up with black sausage rolls, blankets, brandy, morphia, laudanum, playing cards, Canasta and the like.  We'll be perfectly safe from any nuclear strike.' 

'Do you think she could manage to tunnel another mile or two and link up with the smuggler's tunnel in the cliffs? Then we could have quick and easy access to supplies, like korn bif and such-like, without having to risk exposure to nuclear radiation or whatever.'

'Oh I'm sure, I'm sure', soothed the T-G.  'Best to wait until later though.  I find these things are best asked in the evening, when Mrs T-G has made our Horlicks and is settled in her housecoat with her curlers in and cold cream on her face.  Just before she chops up some logs for the next day's fire and takes the bins out.'

'What about toilet facilities?' asked Geoffrey. 

'What about them?'

'Well, will there be any?'

'You mistake us for fools Geoffrey.   Naturally, we've thought this all through.  Mrs T-G is hollowing out a separate chamber within the bunker to be used as a lavatory.  Within it there will be a seated facility below which yet another chamber will be hollowed, to contain any waste.  This in turn will be dealt with whenever we can think what to do with it, or when the smell becomes intolerable, whichever happens first.'

'Fantastic T-G.'

'Thank you.   Where is your nephew Tuppence by the way?  I haven't seen him for a while.'

'I'm afraid he's gone off to Ukraine in a Bedford van, ostensibly to play charity fund-raising gigs with his band but really, to steal weapons.'  I glanced at the T-G's pipe.  'He's always wanted an anti-tank missile.'

more later

Fat Smokers

 'You two are anti-vaxers aren't you.  Don't bother denying it.  Even if you weren't my uncle and pretendy uncle I could tell  you were just by looking at you.  You're worse than Van Bore-off-ison and Eric Crapton.'  Tuppence sniggered at his little joke. 'You know what - I bet if Crapton had found his brain cell and gone for his vaccination, he'd have said as he rolled up his sleeve - which would probably have been half rolled up already, as he would most likely have been wearing a 1980s icecream-coloured jacket with turned back sleeves over an Armani cap-sleeved T-shirt - ' and at this point Tuppence doubled over in fits of laughter - ' he'd have said 'will I be able to play the guitar after I've had the jab?'  'Of course' would come the reply, to which Crapton would reply 'oh that's good - cos I can't play it now!'  Ah-hahahaha!!!  Exit Crapton, pursued by a nurse waving a massive syringe full of extra strenf vax.'  Tuppence gasped for air, hiccuped and dabbed his eyes.  'Oh dear.  I've got hiccups now from laughing.'

'Got the time on you Geoffrey?'

'Nope.  But can't we get him to leave?'

'Doubt it.'

Tuppence was in full lecturing mode.  

'Anyhoos - I bet you both go down with the covid and have to get intubated and take up NHS beds and everything.  Especially you Uncle Tuppy, what with you being a fat smoker and all.  I bet you'll be on the TV news, crying into your oxygen mask and saying how sorry you are that you didn't take the vax.'

'Bore off Tuppence.  It's all over now, bar the shouting and the vast barren economic wasteland.  Maybe we can have a whip round for Stormy so he can open the Puff Inn again.  It's all boarded up and Stormy's living with his sister Gale on the cliffs.  It must be awful for him - he's spent all his savings and she's like Joyce Grenfell on crack, all cold showers, jolly hockeysticks and boiled cabbage.   We need to help him out.'

'Well I could offer to do a fundraising gig with my band and put out one of our charity singles but from a moral standpoint I don't think I should,' said Tuppence.  'After all Stormy was at that anti-vax protest at the tourist car park with all the nazis and old people driving trucks.  I couldn't possibly associate myself with him.  He deserves all he gets quite frankly.  Including the covid.'

'Dearie me Tuppence.  That's an awful thing to say.'

'No it isn't.  If he dies of covid it'll be all his own doing.'  Tuppence removed the pistol from his belt and twirled it in expert fashion. '  And if he doesn't die of covid,  I might finish him off myself.'

'Can we have our tea now?  haven't you somewhere to be Tuppence - like an online meeting or a virtual disco or something?'

'Yes I do as it happens.  I have to meet Alexa at the gender neutral toilets behind the tourist car park.  We've been hired by the government to watch out for truckers, steal their wallets and shoot anyone who feeds them.'

IN OTHER NEWS - WORLD WAR 3 IS BREWING and vaxxing and anti-vaxxing is so last year.  They aren't even talking about 'boosters' any more.   How quickly the world moves on.

 

Tuppence has a Meltdown

 'Van Morrison is a fat old anti-vaxing bigoted brexiteering fat old gammony old fat bigotty anti-vaxer who has no insight into his own white old fat bigoted antivaxing privilege,' declared Tuppence, smashing my original vinyl copy of 'Veedon Fleece' off the mantlepiece and into a thousand pieces. 'Did I mention him being old fat and bigoted?  Much like you and Uncle Geoffrey.  Now for Astral Weeks.'  He reached into the wire 'LP' rack which I'd bought in Woolworth's in 1971 and now was buckling beneath the weight of late 60s West Coast sounds, 70s prog, plus Van Morrison and a few random items purchased when under the influence and in a weak-minded state, best left to the imagination. 

'Oh for goodness sake Tuppence.  If you must destroy them can't you melt them over a soup bowl and re-purpose them into ashtrays or something?  This is carnage.  Wanton carnage.'

'You see this is typical of you Uncle Tuppy.  Ashtrays?  Who do you think smokes these days, besides you and Van Morrison and probably Eric Clapton?  I've told you before to educate yourself,  read something intellectually stimulating that will shine a light into your cholesterol-addled old brains - and I don't mean the People's Friend or the Daily Record.'

'We just use the Daily Record for toilet paper when we have visitors.  We cut it into squares and hang it on a nail by the lav.  We don't actually read it,' said Geoffrey. 'Same with the People's Friend.  We just get old copies from the bin in the tourist car park.  About once a year or thereabouts, when a bus party's been through.  Sometimes they throw cakes out of the windows. I got a whole cherry bakewell once.'

'I read them when I think I'm going to be on the toilet for a while, if you know what I mean', I said.  'I used to quite enjoy Coleen Nolan's problem page.  I don't think she does that any more though.'

'Oh yes that was good,' enthused Geoffrey. ' I do like Coleen.  She's so down to earth.  You could imagine sitting down with her for a nice cup of our usual poison, couldn't you Tuppy?'

'Let's cut to the chase.  When are you two going to join the 21st century?' lectured Tuppence.' No don't answer that, cos I already know.  NEVER, that's when.  So, for the good of the planet someone needs to round you up along with Van and Eric and shove you down a mineshaft.  I don't like to sound specific or anything but I know just the one.'  Smashing 'Astral Weeks' off the mantlepiece he brandished one of the shards and gestured towards the door. 'Out you go.  Go on.  Never mind the medical chest and the corned beef sandwiches.  Just get moving.  You know I'm armed to the teeth with a brace of loaded pistols and a bandolier of ammo, as always.'

'Can I take my baccy pouch?' I asked meekly, while staring at Geoffrey who was still perched, aghast, on the end of the sideboard. 'FLY GEOFFREY - FLY!!' I screeched.

Geoffrey can of course fly,  because as any regular reader will know, he is a seagull.  I, on the other hand, cannot, as I am a sheep heavily laden down with wool.  I don't regard this as a disability, although some might encourage me to do so.

'Oh - oh right - of course,'  said Geoffrey, fluttering. 'I'd better take my glasses, if only I could find them...'

'They're on your head,' I hissed,' Now fly - and fetch HELP - preferably the T-G with his blunderbuss.'

More later

Dave Nark - covid marshal

 Tuppence staggered in at dawn this morning and threw himself on the sofa.

'Thank fizz you've got a hole in the wall for a front door uncle Tuppy cos I'd never have managed a proper door handle,' he wheezed, pulling the tartan knee rug over himself as he curled into a foetal position.

'Thank fizz?  are we in an Enid Blyton story Tuppence?  next you'll be wanting lashings of ginger beer, treacle tart and heaps of cook's special plum cake.'

'I wouldn't say no.'

'Where've you been all night anyway?  And why wouldn't you manage a door handle?  You look awful.'  I kicked a fresh log on to the smouldering embers and wafted yesterday's 'Bugle' in front of it to get a flame.  

'Don't ask.  Well, do.  I don't mind talking about it.  I've binned Alexa.'

'Really.'

'Well all right, she binned me.  There, I said it.  Are you happy now?  She only got off with Alvin, the frozen foods manager at Speedispend's pre-lockdown completely non-socially-distanced street party last night while I was providing the musical entertainment with my band.  You'd think she'd want to stick with ME, the mercurial, brooding, Byronic musical genius, the undoubted future STAR of the 2030 Jools Holland Hootenanny - but no, off she went with fizzing Alvin and his frozen fizzing fish-style fingers.   I was in the middle of a fantastic rendition of Egg's classic from 1970, 'The Song of McGillicudie the Pusillanimous' when I saw them openly flouting the social distancing guidelines together.   It totally put me off my half hour moog solo, to the extent that I fell backwards off my organ stool, getting my fingers trapped in a tightening coil of the electric cable as I did so, and toppled the entire amplifier stack as I yanked at the cable in the - ultimately successful - struggle to free myself.  Nobody helped.  Not even the rats.  I was utterly humiliated and I've been wandering the moors ever since.  My fingers are still swollen - look.'

'You'd better have a mug of hot Madeira and get off to your bed then.  I'm sure everything will seem better after a bit of kip. What's that noise?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

'Somebody's thumping the wall with a big fizzing stick!'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

A lump of plaster fell off the ceiling.

'Hey just a  - '

'OPEN UP.  THIS IS YOUR LOCAL COVID MARSHAL. WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE BRAZENLY FLOUTING THE COVID LAWS.'

'That's Dave Nark's voice!  What the fizz is going on Dave?'  I poked my head through the hole in the wall and peered at him.  He was sporting a yellow hi-viz jacket and a peaked cap, and was carrying a clip board and a mobile telephone.

'That's Sir to you if you don't mind.   I'm here to put you all under house arrest for not adhering to the new covid rules.'

Turns out that Dave's Youtube vids weren't bringing in enough dosh to keep him and Val in teabags never mind anything else, and so he applied - successfully, weirdly enough - for a job as Covid Marshal at the princely sum of £8.72 an hour.

'At least I've got my pride!' said Dave.

'Really,' I replied. 'You'd better come in and have a cup of hot Madeira to keep the cold out.  That rain's dripping off your cap and right down the back of your hi-viz jacket.  Before you know it you'll have a sniffle and have to self-isolate for fourteen days.'

'But you're a separate household.  We're not a bubble.  We cannot - I cannot - I cannot - '

'You don't understand the rules, do you Dave.  Never mind - nor does anyone else.  Just come in and take the weight off for half an hour.'

'Oh what the fizz.  Don't mind if I do.  I'll just scan the horizon with my hi-powered binoculars - the ones I usually use for watching wildlife for my Youtube vids - to see if any potential grasses are watching.'

NEXT TIME - a potential grass WAS watching, and we are forced to track them down and 'correct' them in the customary manner.  Dave sees the error of his ways and packs in the job as covid marshal, leaving a vacuum that only Nature - or some venal jobsworth - could fill...

 'Is there going to be another lockdown?' asked Geoffrey, breathlessly.  'Is the social distancing and handwashing and stuff working? What about the test and trace system?'

'Stop getting over-excited and get those fish fingers grilled,' I replied, packing my pipe with Black Bogey.

'No it's just that we might have to start stockpiling again.  Toilet paper and that.'

'I thought we went through all that already (see previous posts)?  We don't NEED toilet paper.'

'I know WE don't need it, but what if we have visitors?'

'If there's a lockdown we won't have visitors Geoffrey.  But if you feel THAT badly about it, nip down to the tunnels after lunch and see if you can find a pack or two of Izal.  And pick up a barrel of best Madeira while you're there, we definitely don't want to run out of that.'

'Wilco.  Val Nark's coming over later, she's got a petition for us to sign.  It's about the Gaelic signage.'

'Wot?'

'The Gaelic signage.  Someone's been going about with a tin of blue paint, erasing all the English signs so nobody knows where they're going.'

'And?'

'Val wants the remaining Gaelic signage to be replaced by pictograms - that way, nobody will feel left out and everyone will be able to understand - or 'unnerstaun' - the signs and therefore won't get lost.'

'I see.  Well, I daresay we can have a look at it and if my inky footprint will help then she's welcome to it.  We can't have folk stumbling around lost hereabouts - the cliffs are far too dangerous, as well we know (see posts passim) Does she still have folk self-isolating in the yurt?'

'Yes, still the same ones.  Nobody's seen them for six weeks - Val leaves quinoa and wholegrains and such-like by the flap and they pull it under using the end of a walking stick, and push out their rubbish when they're finished, using a toxic waste bin which Val then flings over the cliffs - it's a good system.  I think she's put Dave on the furlough scheme, he never does much anyway except film otters and post his vids on the internet.'

'That runs out in October though.  What's he going to do then?'

'He's applied for a job as a covid tester.  And, coincidentally, so has Tuppence.'

'What does that involve?'

'Well, I gather you get masked up and stick cotton buds up people's noses and test them for covid using a test-tube and some sort of 'liquid' covid-detector-serum. If they turn black and shrivel in the fresh air you've got it, and they fling you in a dungeon, or something.'

'They won't get anywhere near my nostrils with their cotton buds I'll tell you that for nothing.  They can stick 'em where the sun don't shine and it isn't up their nose.'

more on this later

'I hate you lot.  You're old stupid fascists with no idea about anything and I'm going to cancel you all.'

 'Why are your ideas, needs and wishes more important than ours, Tuppence?' 

'They aren't,' said the T-G.  'He just doesn't understand the need for compromise.  Or that older, more experienced minds generally know best.'

'I understand that you lot have lived longer than I have,' said Tuppence, ' but that doesn't mean that you know any better.  Look at the state of you!'

'What do you mean?'  I paused as I reached for the baccy jar.

'You live in a tumbledown shack with a hole in the wall for a door.  You survive on stolen food, not to mention drink. You've not got a brass ha'penny to your name.  You've never travelled beyond your immediate environment. And I'm not even going to mention your toilet habits.  You've never even been to uni, for god's sake!'

'We went 'Overthere', remember?  About ten years ago? (see books for details of the trip) And we went to Flannan Isle. You were there too Tuppence.  Don't say we never took you anywhere.'

'You never took me anywhere.  I went places in order to rescue you.  You lot couldn't handle yourselves!  It was me who learned how to shoot a pistol, and use a crossbow.  Not to mention, captain a submarine and fly a plane.'(again, please see books for details of these exploits)

'I've been to 'uni',' said Geoffrey quietly.

'Oh what.  The 'university of life' I suppose? All that means is, you're old and too thick to have gone to proper uni! You lot are pathetic right wing fascist nutjobs who don't even know what privilege means, you're so thick and uneducated.  Read some books!  and I don't mean the Beano annual because THAT'S fascist too.'

'I really HAVE been to uni,' said the T-G. 'I attended the university of Holstein Carlsberg Saxe-coburg Gotha in 1846, and after finishing my degree, I did a further research degree on the lethality of curare poison when applied to small wooden darts and fired through multiple bamboo pipes and its possible use in wiping out the world's excess population.'

'Cripes!  You really ARE a fascist T-G!' shrieked Tuppence, spilling his Vimto.

'I don't subscribe to any political creed,' T-G replied, packing his pipe with Black Bogey. 'I think it was Nietzsche who said, I am not my book.  In my case, I am not my research paper.'

to be continued

'

'Stormy was a racist and a transphobe,' declared Tuppence, nailing a poster stating the same to the door of the Puff Inn.  'I'm glad he's cancelled.'
'He's not 'cancelled',' said the T-G,' He's dead.  You set fire to him, remember?  He was inside the wicker man when you burned it down.'
'Oh dear how sad what a shame never mind.'
'That's a terrible thing to say Tuppence,' said the T-G. 'In fact, you should be careful.  You might be done for 'hate speech'.'
'Not to mention, murder,' I added. 'Although it doesn't sound like you're especially worried about such niceties.'
'The world's a better, kinder place without his sort,' replied Tuppence, twirling his hammer. 'He was spiritually and morally and intellectually dead anyway.  The physical death was just a technicality.  And an inevitable one, given his incredible moral turpitude.  All for the best, that's what I say.  And so will anyone else who matters.'
'I wonder what his family will say to that.  Aren't they people who matter?'
'Stormy doesn't have a family.  Does he?'
'He does actually.  Or rather, he did,  poor bloke.  Stormy Junior is a cage fighter in Vegas and his ex-wife is a Thai kick boxing champion.  His sister (formerly brother) is a retired Olympic weightlifter and built like a brick outdoor convenience-style facility. Her hobbies include knuckledusting and biting the heads off live chickens.  They're all arriving for the funeral tomorrow and they're staying in Val's campervan - they would have stayed in the yurt had you restrained yourself from burning that to a crisp last evening.  You really need to stop all this wanton destruction Tuppence.  It won't end well.'
'It will! I'm only destroying anything offensive.'
'But not everyone finds it offensive Tuppence.  And must you resort to murder? Can't you live and let live?'
'No.  Besides,  I think you'll find Stormy's death was an accident. Not murder.  How was I to know he was inside the wicker man when I set it alight?'
'You can't prove that you didn't know Tuppence,' said the T-G.
'I wonder what he was doing in there?' mused Geoffrey.  'He must have had a reason for climbing inside.'
'Perhaps he was looking for something.'
'Or, perhaps he was hiding something.'
'Never mind all that,' I said. ' Here we all are standing outside the Puff Inn, scene of many a night of wanton revelry, and it's SHUT.  Not merely 'coronavirus shut' - it's shut because the landlord is no more.  He is an ex-landlord.  An ex-everything.  Soon to be pushing up the daisies.  Who's going to run it?  Who's going to serve us our socially-distanced Purple Perils and salty snax?  Who's going to book you in for gigs Tuppence - you and your dreadful prog band?  Nobody else would pay you to play,  I'll guarantee you that.'
'Oh bore off.  You three need to educate yourselves.  Read some books and I don't mean the Beano summer special!' snarled Tuppence.
'You can start lecturing us about books when you're not in danger of being arrested for murder Tuppence.  Are you going to turn yourself in?'
'Certainly not.'


Next time - Stormy's funeral brings his relatives, and they aren't happy with what they're told about his 'accidental' demise.  They are determined to find out the truth.  Tuppence is forced to hide out in the Tunnels and as all the korned beef, snax and Madeira which are usually kept therein were consumed during lockdown he must survive on rations lowered down to him by rope till he can be smuggled out to a place of safety. Or, until the relatives leave...

Tuppence came in last night in an agitated state.
'I'm in an agitated state Uncle Tuppy,' he said, wringing his hands. 'Where's the chainsaw?'
'We don't have one.' I tipped an extra dose of laudanum into my tea.  Lord knows I need it these days.
'Well an axe then.  An axe will do.  Anything with a blade.  And ropes.  A block and tackle.  Matches.  Petrol!  Tinder!'
'Usually you manage fine with your brace of pistols Tuppence.  What's all this for?'
'I want to tear down the wicker man. Destroy it, and push it into the sea, to perish on the rocks below.'
'Not the wicker man that Val and Dave Nark have just finished carefully fashioning from locally sourced willow wands, and placed on the headland to attract tourists!'
'Yes!  it's a representation of their two-legged tyranny over the neighbourhood Uncle Tuppy.  A grotesque symbol of the dominion held by the two-legged haves over the four-legged have nots. Dave and Val are money-grubbing capitalists of the first water, trying to slip under the radar camouflaged as green sustainable living type people.  They're nothing short of fascists Uncle Tuppy and I want to saw the legs off their statue and burn it to the ground.  Burn it I say!'
'Why don't you saw Dave and Val's legs off and burn them to the ground?'
'Because I would get done for murder Uncle Tuppy.  Someone would dob me in.'
'Well it is true not much gets past the old Tupfinder General with his infrared spyglass.  But I don't think he'd ever dob you in.  Never mind - we can think about that later.   Why not sit down and have your tea before you rush into anything. It's double egg and chips with bread and butter and plenty brown sauce.  Once we've eaten I'll dig out the balaclavas and rubber soled shoes and we can both head noiselessly over to the cliffs.  I'll help you burn the bastard down.  I can't stand Val Nark.'

next time - Tuppence manages to set fire to the wicker man using a tinder box, some empty crisp packets and a bottle of methylated spirit, and the resulting flames attract a passing coronavirus-infested cruise ship that has failed to find a port that will allow them to land.  More on that later. 

Lockdown Continues...

Paranoia and sheer existential terror levels aside, life hereabouts continues much as it did before lockdown.  That is, we don't do very much and we don't want to do very much.  When I say 'we', I mean 'I', because nobody else is around right now.  And I should say 'I' because I don't much care for incontinent usage of the Royal 'we'. 
I filled the tartan shopping trolley with provisions from the Tunnels last night, as planned.  It's hard work dragging it home over the moors all by myself and the balaclava doesn't help.  If Geoffrey and the T-G are still hors de combat I might try to rig up some sort of motor and attach it to the trolley for next time.  And I'll certainly need one of those lamp-style things that you tie round your head, because despite knowing the moors like the back of my non-existent hands, I kept falling into peat hags.  How I'll square that with not being spotted by some random noseyparker with nightvision goggles, I haven't yet figured out.  I could also use a bigger trolley; there are several boxes of crisps down in the Tunnels at the moment - smokey bacon flavour, roast chicken, and sizzling steak - and I'd like to nab a few before they disappear.  It's just a matter of time until the Rats get them.  They would have been destined for the Puff Inn only it's shut at the moment due to the lockdown.  Preparation is everything, as someone very smug but probably annoyingly correct once said.
Tuppence hasn't returned yet from his shopping expedition to Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.  I hope - oh no.  He's back.
'Uncle Tuppy!  I've got toilet paper!   Reams of it!'  he struggled through the hole in the wall clutching a multipack of Speedispend 'own brand'.
'I don't care Tuppence.  As I told you before, we don't actually need it.  We're sheep.  We do it where we stand.  We don't have to wipe our bottoms.'
'And as I told YOU Uncle, I've started wiping mine, and what's more I'm going to be using a proper TOYLET and not doing it where I stand any more.  Alexa says - '
'-' I opened my mouth to say that Alexa was a supercilious prig, and to remind him that in any case there are no such things as 'proper TOYLETS' hereabouts, and then I remembered that Tuppence is only a youngster, and that it would be wrong to be cruel and churlish just because I'm older and know so much better due to my mature, super-developed brain, with an intellect honed to a fine edge over a lifetime's practice arguing with Geoffrey and the T-G about the comparative merits of crisps and the finer points of tiddlywinks.  So instead I said, 'Did you get any Hobnobs?'
'Only the plain kind.  There weren't any chocolate left.'
'This is a disaster.'
'Don't be ridiculous Uncle.  You're overweight and you know you're at risk of the sugar diabetes.  Val Nark says - '
'Oh for the love of crisps.'
'No hear me out.  Val says if your waist measures more than thirty four inches you're a walking time bomb.'
'I think mine's thirty two.  Last time I checked.'
'When was that Uncle?  Nineteen fifty three?  Luckily I have a digital measuring tape and all I need to do is point it at the relevant area and HOLY SHIT!'
'Yes?'
'The digital measuring tape just went into the red zone then burst into flames.  It wasn't able to cope with your vast waistline.  Uncle Tuppy, you must take immediate action.'
'A-a-action?'
'Yes,' said Tuppence firmly. 'Val Nark is doing virtual fitness sessions via Skype.  Dave's adapted their bikes and mounted them on stands and they're renting them out during the lockdown to people who are self-isolating or can't be arsed going out.  I'm going to get you one and you can take part in Val's sessions.  You're stronger than you know Uncle T.!'

next time - the comparative merits of composting TOYLETS versus the flushing kind versus doing it where you stand.  Also - Tuppence and his prog friends finally release his charity single.

Val Lecktures us about self-isolation.

Having sneaked out to the Tunnels last night under cover of darkness to fetch - or 'rob', as some nitpickers might have it - some essential supplies, viz., three dozen tins of smuggled meat (various types), four pounds of baccy (Black Bogey), and two barrels best Madeira, which I had to drag home over the moors all by myself in my wheeled tartan shopping trolley,  I'm a bit tired today.  Tuppence went Overthere again to do another shop at Speedispend but I'm not sure it's a wise move.  I gave him my copper diving helmet to help with the social distancing and I only hope he returns with several boxes of high-quality fish fingers and some decent biscuits.  I don't know where Geoffrey is.  The T-G is sleeping 'rough' somewhere, still being persona non grata at Tupfinder Towers after voting 'brexit'.  I miss them.  Going on the rob isn't half as much fun on your own.
 I fancied a tinned meat sandwich for lunch but I couldn't find the tin opener so I just had a slice of plain bread with red sauce on.   I'm involuntarily self-isolating, I keep thinking I'm ill and Everything's Awful.  To top it all, Val Nark is, right now, giving a leckture on self-isolation, and broadcasting it to all and sundry via loudspeaker from her campervan, which Dave is driving slowly round the area wearing his bobble hat and a gas mask.
'This campervan is covered with electrified barbed wire.  Do not approach.  Repeat, do not approach.
Om mane padme hum.  This is a public service announcement and it's for your own good, not that you lot'd know the difference.  Stay indoors.  You must keep your immune systems healthy so do star jumps and mindfulness and don't drink alcohol.  Anyone needing food, paint a cross on your door and I'll push a Ryvita through your letterbox.  Don't come within fifty yards of me and we'll all get through this.  My own-made hand sanitiser is available to purchase mail order at fifty pounds a squirt.  Plus P&P.  Om mane *massive screeching feedback noise* padme hum.'

Next time - Tuppence and his band reveal their charity single.

A Row about Toilet Paper

'I could really murder a fishfinger sandwich.  A doubler with plenty salad cream and red sauce.  But we don't have any, and is it worth risking getting the virus to go out and get them?  I wonder...'
'People are bastards.'  My nephew Tuppence interrupted me as he attempted to throw his leg over the arm of the shabby leather armchair in which he lounged.
Isn't that a strange expression though?  To 'throw one's leg over the arm of a chair'.  Accurate if one can unbuckle and remove one's prosthetic leg (wooden, or Long John Silver-style 'peg', were I forced to choose) and chuck it over the arm of one's chair with (or indeed without) reckless abandon, perhaps smashing a glass-fronted bookcase or knocking over a vase in so doing.  Otherwise, it's a bit weird.
Tuppence doesn't have a prosthetic leg. And, because his legs are very short, his effort at 'throwing one over' failed, and failed abysmally.  He sat forward and put his head in his hands.
'Some people are best avoided Tuppence, we all know that.'
'They've bought up all the toilet roll and eggs in Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.   There isn't a carton of milk to be found either and there's no pasta.  Don't even mention hand sanitiser.  They've stripped the place bare. Bastards.'
'We don't need any of these things Tuppence.  Stop worrying.  We're doing a raid on the tunnels tonight under cover of darkness and we're going to get a few crates of tinned ham, some baccy and a couple of barrels of Madeira.  That'll keep us going till the virus disappears.'
'What about the toilet roll and hand sanitiser?'
'Since when did we wipe our bottoms?  We're sheep Tuppence, in case you'd forgotten.  We just do it where we stand. And as for hand sanitiser, the only thing to do with that is distill the alcohol out of it and drink it with a nice slug of methylated spirits.'
'Val Nark's been making her own organic hand sanitiser and flogging it online.  She says since there aren't any guests in the yurt and the airbnb she has to earn a crust somehow.'
'What's it made of?  surely she hasn't wasted anything alcoholic.'
'Nettles steeped in her and Dave's wee then sieved through tights.  Dave has a Youtube channel where he posts his otter vids and that and he posted one of her making the hand sanitiser. It's had thousands of views.   He gets advertising revenue off it.'
'Advertising revenue!  That's munny talk Tuppence, and munny talk is dirty talk.  Which we never indulge in.'
'In which we never indulge Uncle Tuppy.'
'Correct.  I know times are tough but we won't stoop to munny-making.  Thieving is the way forward Tuppence.  And tonight's the night.  Fetch the balaclavas and the night vision goggles.  I'll stoke the fire up so people will think we're in. '
'You're on your own Uncle.  I refuse to join in with your selfish, individualistic and frankly criminal behaviour. It's not just us that needs stuff.  It's the old.  The sick.  The vulnerable.  And by the way - since I started going out with Alexa, I've started wiping my bottom.  With toilet paper.  So there.'
'I'M old sick and vulnerable, and as long as there's breath in my body I'll go out on the rob and sod anyone else except me and Geoffrey.  You wipe your bottom as much as you like Tuppence.  I've got better things to do.'

next time - Tuppence makes a charity single

How Come We Aren't Dead?

'We've been in this cave for nigh on a year,' sighed the T-G,' with nothing to eat but a packet of ginger crunch creams and nothing to drink but random drops of condensation dripping randomly from the roof.'
'We should be dead,' said Geoffrey. 'How come we aren't?  How come we aren't T-G?  Tuppy?  How come we aren't?   TUPPY!  TUPPY!  Stay with me man!  We're losing him T-G - we're losing him!  He's slipping into unconsciousness again!  TUPPY!  Stay with me!  Look at me Tuppy!  Look at me!' and he slapped me round the face with the shredded plastic remnants of the ginger crunch creams wrapper.
'Oh who cares,' I replied, opening one eye.  Everything felt warm and fuzzy.  Outside, the sea washed gently against the rocks below. I settled deeper into my yellow hi-viz jacket and did up the Velcro neck flap in preparation for yet another comfortable afternoon's torpor.
'YOU LOT ARE DEAD,' a scornful voice bellowed over the ear-splitting roar of a powerful outboard motor. As it circled rapidly past the cave entrance and hove to we were drenched by a spray of icy sea water, and I spluttered into unwanted wakefulness.   'BRAIN DEAD! A-HAHAHAHA!'
It was Tuppence of course.
He wheeled the boat cave-side and deftly threw the painter over a jutting rock.  Peering through narrowed eyes I could just decipher the name of the boat in the gleam of the low afternoon sun - 'The Young Brexiteer'.
'Crikey Tuppence - you haven't changed your mind about Brexit have you?'
'No Uncle Tuppy I haven't. You unspeakable old fool.  How could you have even imagined in your wildest, most Madeira-addled, most senile and gammon-like imaginings and that, that I - I - of all people - would change my mind about Brexit?'
'Then - '
'This isn't my boat.  It belongs to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar.  They rent it out to supplement Apsley's pension and get spends. Cherry's a WASPI you see so she doesn't get anything till she's sixty six. They've got a camper van they rent out as well and they're Airbnbing their shed. A lady from Bulgaria does the cleaning and change-overs on a zero hour contract.  They let her stay in the shed when they've not got guests and they take the money off her wages. Obviously they don't let her use the actual beds or the cooker and hot water or that. When they do have guests she gets a bit of tarpaulin and hunkers down in the woods.  Apsley says she likes it, she's only seventy one and enjoys the fresh air.'
'So they've got quite the business going on,' mused the T-G. 'We've missed it all what with being stuck in here for a year.'
'You've no idea.  Loads has happened.  The Narks' yurt burnt down.  Val was doing an ear-candling session and the candle fell out while she was at the toilet because it was faulty. The candle that is. That's what they're telling everyone anyway.  Dave's building a new yurt from coppiced willow wands and hand-loomed jute and that while they wait for the insurance claim to be processed.'
'We can get the gossip later,' I said,  'Have you come to rescue us or what?  After all it was you who abandoned us here and left us for dead in potato sacks.  What's the story now Tuppence? Why the change of heart?  And where's Alexa?'
'In the boat.'
'No she isn't,' I said, peering.  'There's nothing in there but a brace of pistols, a bandolier, a length of rope, a portable toilet, a mysterious square package wrapped in oilcloth, a Genesis CD and an empty Pringles tube.  What have you done with her, Tuppence?'
'Nothing I tell you!  Nothing! anyway aren't you going to ask about Mrs T-G, T-G?  After all she is your wife.'
'No Tuppence.  As you know only too well she threw me out of Tupfinder Towers when I told her I'd voted Brexit, and chased me off the premises with a blazing pitchfork.  I don't expect I'll ever see her again.  Or taste her black sausage rolls.  And stop changing the subject - a very poor attempt at deflection, by the way.  What have you done with your so-called girlfriend?'
'Like I said last year, Alexa isn't my so-called 'girl'friend.  Alexa's like me - she doesn't believe in boring, old-fashioned binary distinctions and she likes her politics like she likes her music- relentlessly progressive.  No, she's not in the boat T-G. But she was.  She's got a zero hours contract Overthere at Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, stacking shelves for whatever the under-25's minimum wage is. I dropped her off for her shift just before I came here.  She's hoping the money'll help her through her next term at uni. cos she doesn't have parents, you see. No bank of mum and dad for her.  At least I've got you three for support.  In theory, anyway. '
'That sounds awful.  I almost feel sorry for her.'
'You lot are so privileged. You don't know what sorry even means.  You've never worked a day in your lives. You've never had to think about uni fees and generation rent. You just hide away from reality in your strange little world, smoking your pipes and swigging Madeira thinking nothing's ever going to happen to rattle your cages.'
'Rattle our cages?  We've only been stranded in this cave for a year thanks to you!  I've nearly run out of baccy and I'm gasping on a pint of Madeira and a fish-finger sandwich.'
'Fools!  Have you learned nothing from your isolation?'

Next time - we return to the Rocky Outcrop only to find the entire place in lock-down following the outbreak of a horrendous 'pandemic'.  We're forced to return to the smugglers' Tunnels under cover of darkness to steal korned bif and toilet paper.    You couldn't make it up!

The One-eyed Fiery Demon of Thoth

Well! turns out that I was quite right not to have been 'following The News', because from what I've just been told, it's too bloody depressing for words. As I thought! More on that later.
After we'd roped ourselves up, we hauled ourselves out of the tunnel and up the vertical cliff face, inch by painful inch, following a rough ladder of rusting iron nails driven deep into the rock by some long-dead smuggler, and into a tunnel further up, inch by even more painful inch.  Once inside,  the T-G took out his tinder box and lit a cheering fire and proceeded to boil some water in a tin can so that we could wash our blisters and have a hot toddy using 100% proof whiskey from his hip flask.
'Hot toddies and blister-washes all round!' he boomed, his voice echoing round the cave (all the Tunnels are really caves - a few are man-made extensions of caves, but none are what you might describe as 'wholly unnatural'.  Just in case you were wondering.  As readers from long ago will recall, I know a fair bit about the Tunnels, because Geoffrey and I basically existed for years on tins of korn bif, salty snax and other choice items stolen - not my idea of stealing, but never mind, I haven't time to argue - from smuggled goods stashed by gangs of rats in said Tunnels.  But I digress.)
Once the three of us were settled by the fire the T-G helped us to another snifter from his hip flask and began his story.  The leaping flames reflected off the metallic strips on our hi-viz yellow jackets, making quite the show.
'Never take them off!' he warned, when Geoffrey complained his was chafing. 'Never mind why. I'll explain later.  Now about The News,' he began...
'T-G', I interrupted,' Sorry but before you start on about The News - what is that curious engraving on your hip flask?  It reminds me of something.  Something rather awful that I think I saw in a terrible nightmare...'
'It's the one-eyed Fiery Demon of Thoth, Tuppy.  Considered in olden times to be a harbinger of certain, violent, imminent and agonising death, preceded by a spell of raving insanity.  Mrs T-G gave it to me in my Yuletide stocking last...Yule. Lovely, isn't it?  I do like the way the eye glints in the firelight.  You'd almost think it was blinking, sort of coming to life. There is an old folk legend, probably nonsense of course, that maintains the Demon will one day be awakened in a cavern by a fire thrice lit.  Whatever that might mean. If you're really interested, I have a book on Demonology back in Tupfinder Towers library, which has a chapter on the Demon of Thoth and its various possible incarnations.   Anyway - back to The News...'
'Biscuit, anyone?  I've just found a packet of ginger crunch creams under this rock,' said Geoffrey.

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