The Monster Munch Crisis

Tuppence has been ill with a mysterious fever ever since we busted him out of gaol.  The symptoms include 'ennui', extreme 'lethargy' and an inability to eat anything other than ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and huge amounts of pickled onion flavour Monster Munch.  He's been tucked up with four hot water bottles and a Lem-sip drip, and bundles of spiral-bound notebooks containing his Gaol Diaries.  He's been entertaining himself and fighting off the 'ennui' by reading them to us as we sit solicitously by his sick-bed.

'Here I am, stuck in gaol.  Or what passes for gaol in this godforsaken place. It's a cave, right at the bottom of the cliffs, with an iron grille across the entrance to prevent my 'egress'.  As if! They obviously don't know me.
Only half an hour ago I was chained to the wall - all four legs, shackled and padlocked together by a gang of sniggering rats.  The very same gang of rats who used to pedal bikes to power up my moog synthesiser during gigs at the Puff Inn, and who cheered me along during numerous nefarious-style adventures (see e-books for details).
Fortunately they're so dense that they failed to guess that I happened to have a miniature Swiss Army knife hidden between my teeth and my cheek.  As soon as they left I manoeuvered its saw attachment to the front of my mouth and in a trice I was free.  The rusty iron crumbled under the fine Swiss-made steel of the saw, and...'

'Oh DO hurry up and get to the bit where we burst through the iron grille with a carefully-calculated charge of gelignite!' Geoffrey interrupted.

'No.  Not until you fetch me some more Monster Munch.  There's only one bag left and if I don't get a constant supply I'm likely to relapse.'

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances.  We had obtained our Monster Munches from Stormy Petrel along at the Puff Inn.  'That's your lot chaps,'  he'd said.  'All I've got left are some dry roasted nuts and some scampi fries.'
'Till when?'  we'd asked,  aghast.
'Till the next lot comes in to the tunnels of course.  You two know where I get my supplies.'

Of course we knew.  We knew only too well....smuggling,  and shipwrecks....and...

'Tuppence might have to make do with Val Nark's sesame snaps and yogurt 'n' goji berry flapjacks till the next high Springs,' gasped Geoffrey,  'And I don't think he'll like it.'

'Who would?'




More on this later...

Tuppence has two 'Diaries' written.  One is his 'When I was Away Having Adventures All on my Own by Myself' diary, and the other is his 'Gaol - and How I Busted Out' diary.
As a matter of fact it was me and Geoffrey who 'busted him out', but I don't like to nitpick so I won't mention that again.  Except when I get around to telling you all about it.

In other news,  Val Nark has written a recipe book, aimed at the 'gourmet vegan' market.  Oddly enough it doesn't mention anything about 'Spring lamb',  multiple bird roasts or any of the other so-called 'free range' meat-related products secreted away at the bottom of the Farm Shop freezer.
Expect to see it for sale on Amazon very soon.

More later.

The Dark and the Deep (Part Two)

Find Part One here (or further down the page if you don't want to click on the link.)

Awful news.  Terrible events.  Tuppence is in gaol (or 'jail' if you must be all 21st century about it).
He's currently 'on remand' but things aren't looking good.
'We're going to have to either fix the jury or nobble the judge,' I said, biting my hooves.
'What?' said Geoffrey, slapping me across the knuckles.
'Ouch.  Pass me the vodka (we're on vodka just now, as that's what Sanity Claws left us at Yule, as he sped violently across the skies in his bean-tin chariot, dropping his load in his usual alarming fashion.  It wasn't what we asked for;  of course it wasn't.  It's NEVER what we ask for.  In all the years I've been writing letters to Sanity Claws, I've never ever got a single thing that I - )'
'TUPPY!  Concentrate!'
'Ooops.  Sorry Geoffrey.  I started to drift.  I'm just so annoyed about the vodka thing.  He knows full well I dislike it and yet That's What He Brought.  Or rather, dropped.'
'Will you please stick to the matter in hand?  Like your nephew's incarceration-style predicament, and your responsibility as his only surviving male relative, to DO something about it?'
'I think I'm finding it too stressful to think about that Geoffrey.  I'm trying to blot it out by dwelling on my resentment about the vodka.'
'Your resentment isn't putting you off drinking it.'
'No indeed.  And why should it?'  I sighed.  I knew that Geoffrey was right.  I'd have to Do Something to help Tuppence.  After all, he's helped me out of several tricky situations in the past (see any of the e-books for details).  And it wasn't as if he'd done anything terribly bad.  He'd only kidnapped the Narks, for the very good reason that they were planning to butcher him to sell in their farm shop in the Spring.  Unfortunately, or not, depending on your point of view - and mine tends towards the latter - he isn't letting on where he's keeping them.  And if he's in gaol, and nobody else knows where they are, they might starve to death.  And that could lead to a charge of murder - or manslaughter, at best.  And murder is a hangin' offence, Hereabouts.  And so is shoplifting, dropping litter, putting your washing out on a Wednesday, eating chips, farting in an enclosed space without opening a window, blowing up empty crisp packets and bursting them, smoking cigarettes At All - to list just a few offences that have suddenly appeared on the (previously empty) Rocky Outcrop Statute Book.  After eons of being extremely mild-mannered and liberal, we've found ourselves Under the Cosh of a highly illiberal regime.  All of a sudden,  we don't mess about.  At least, not in the way we used to.  More of that, later.  In the meantime,  we can't have Tuppence strung up.  .
'There's only one thing we can do,'  I said, standing up and draining my glass, then flinging it into the fireplace. 'We're going to have to bust him out.  Fetch the dustpan and brush Geoffrey and clean up that broken glass from the fireplace, and I'll get the gelignite from under the stairs.  Let's kick some BUTT.'

More later....................
'

It's All Over.....thank goodness.....

Well, that's it over for another year.  The feasting, the merry-making, the false jollity, the hangovers, the upset stomachs, the heartburn, the angst, the self-hatred, the guilt, the disappointment, the loneliness, the boredom,  the ennui, the bad memories,  the regret, the overspending, the falling-comatose-on-the-sofa-at-all-hours-for-no-reason-that-you-can-think-of and so forth.
Not to mention the chucking-people-off-cliffs custom, which as any reader of Sea Penguins Parts One to Five will know, happens with stomach-churning regularity Hereabouts, and most especially at Yule, when the person voted Most Unpopular in the annual Yuletide poll, gets chucked 'over-the-top'.  But more of that later.
Or perhaps not.
Geoffrey and I are well-past-it, of course, in terms of forced jollity merry-making;  plus, we are sufficently self-aware to know that we're known locally as miserable and stingey 'old-git-style-personages', who dislike 'company', so we kept a fairly low profile.  Not entirely, therefore, but largely, through choice.  Tuppence usually turns up for Yuletide luncheon (extra-large sausages, marinated for three days in the cellar in our own absinthe-and-sage micksture, twenty-five apiece, all neatly threaded and roasted on a spit with M &S fish-fingers and windfall russet apples in between, just for the aesthetic appeal - we don't actually eat 'froot' Hereabouts, as regular readers will know).  But he's getting older now, and this year he decided not to join us. Instead, he borrowed my waterproof trousers, my tinderbox, a jar of beef paste, four loaves of bread, three tins of spaghetti hoops and the Tupfinder General's old army tent, and went off to have an adventure Out in the Wilds with some of his so-called friends - more of that later, if he returns.
Geoffrey has been feeling especially paranoid this year due to the current bizarre fetish for 'multiple bird roasts'.  And well he might.  The Narks have jumped on the bandwagon.  Back in November they turned one of their yurts into a 'farm shop' and started taking orders for an organic version, using 'locally-sourced, free-range meat', and stuffed with seaweed and hunza apricots.  They even put a blackboard outside, with prices. Fifty quid a pop,  apparently.  Yet they won't specify which 'locally-sourced' birds are involved.
'As long as it's not me I don't care Tuppy,' he sobbed. 'I don't want to end up in the middle of a Russian doll-style fowl-fest, rolled and frozen in a box with several of my friends. It doesn't bear thinking about.'
'So much for their so-called vegan lifestyle with their herbal tisanes and their aduki bean rissoles.  They've gone for the meat dollar Geoffrey - and that tells you all you need to know.  I'll never sample one of Val's goji berry and raw oat flapjacks again, not even if she gets down on her bended knees and begs.  So help me I won't.'
'I doubt if she'll have the brass neck to make flapjacks now Tuppy.  Not after soiling her hands with multiple bird roasts.'
'I wouldn't be too sure Geoffrey.  It's follow the money with those two.  You'd think butter wouldn't melt what with their Peruvian hats and their rustic hand-knits, but really they've no scruples.  For now the flapjack market has bottomed out, but who knows - in the Spring it could rise again and she'll be flogging them as fast as she can bake 'em. She'd probably start a flapjack sweat-shop if she could.'
'Tuppy.'
'Yes?'
'Brace yourself.  I've heard rumours that she plans to sell....I'm awfully sorry to have to say it, but... Spring lamb...in the Spring,..in her farm shop...there will be a big special promotion on at Easter,  apparently.'  Geoffrey pressed his hankie to his mouth and cried a little.
'Well don't fret Geoffrey, because that won't affect me.  I'm well-past the lamb stage,'  I replied briskly, pulling the tartan knee rug tighter over my arthritic...knees. 'But we should plan ahead and warn Tuppence as soon as he returns.  He's an adolescent now but in her warped eyes he might just qualify as a lamb.  Luckily, he's very resourceful, and handy with his pistols ( see previous e-books for details http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1) , so he should be able to protect himself, if need be.'
'But that's the point Tuppy.  Why should he have to protect himself?  Why should he have to live in fear?  It's not right.'
'Of course it's not right Geoffrey.  Many things in life are not right.  But what can we do?'
'We must think of something Tuppy.  We can't just give in.'
'We'll never give in Geoffrey. But for now let's fortify ourselves with a snack and a nap, and perhaps a mug of that nice French brandy you got me for Yule.  We can think about life's trickier side after.'

More Later....

Meanwhile, please help yourself to Sea Penguins One and Two for free today and tomorrow (27th and 28th) via this link to my Amazon page.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1


'  

World Mental Health Day

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire enjoying a bacon sandwich and a read of The Bugle.
'Anything interesting today,  Geoffrey?'  I wasn't expecting anything beyond Val Nark's health-food cookery column (hedgerow jam last week), letters to the editor written by the usual whingers, and a review of Grudge Match written by my nephew Tuppence.  Grudge Match is his favourite film.  He says it bears several repeat viewings to bring out the subtle nuances and he's written nine different reviews, or 'exegeses' as he calls them.
I thought there might be a few seasonal used items for sale in the small ads., such as fire irons, fleece dressing-gowns and slippers.   Cherry Fulmar tried to sell Apsley (her husband) last week. Clearly there's desperate trouble brewing in the Old Rectory...
But more of that later.
'There's a feature on World Mental Health Day.' Geoffrey was peering through his pince nez.
'How dull.  Move on. What's for sale?  Any sentient beings this week?  Has Val Nark got another vile recipe in?'
'Not this week.  It's her who's written the feature on World Mental Health Day.'
'Really?  Bore me senseless.
'She does therapy and everything.  And it isn't just the hot stones and the sweat yurt.  She does proper talking therapy as well now. She does counselling Tuppy.  It's only forty pounds an hour. I think you should go.'
'Why?  There's nothing wrong with my mental health.'
'That's because you mask everything behind a cloud of self-medication.  The drugs and pipe tobacco and that.  You're numbing yourself Tuppy.  You're not in touch with your inner self.'
'Opium and laudanum and Madeira and whatever else I can lay my hands on, are not drugs.  They're simple comestibles, like bacon and tea.'
'Val says you're an addict.  She says you need locking up for your own safety.  She says you're a fool to yourself Tuppy, and a bad example to Tuppence and the younger generation.'
'But it's Tuppence who supplies me!  Ooops I mean...'
'Aha!  So you've turned into a grass Uncle Tuppy!   I expected as much.  Fortunately,  I'm clever enough to evade capture - plus, I'm prepared for any eventuality.'
It was my nefarious nephew, and 'supplier', Tuppence.  He stood in the doorway armed to the teeth with a brace of pistols and a bandolier.  Behind him stood two rats, glowering and smoking roll-up cigarettes made with brown papers.
'Are those liquorice papers?' I asked. 'I haven't been able to get those for ages.'
'Don't try to distract our attention from your loose lips Uncle Tuppy.  You've let me down and in a Big Way.  AGAIN, might I add.  No wonder I've had to go to Val Nark for regression therapy.  I've learned loads.  Did you know, for example, that that cup of tea that you're holding is a quarter full, not three quarters empty?  Isn't that a marvellous insight?'
'But it's cold, and I don't want it. Besides, I don't give a flying *insert rude word of choice*.  Put the kettle on Geoffrey, and bring the thumbscrews.  I want to know when and why you were discussing my comestible consumption with Val *insert rude word of choice* Nark.'

More on (most of) this later.

Read more about Tuppy, Tuppence,  Geoffrey, and Val Nark here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

Find more of my stuff here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

The Dark Thing in my Bag

"I need you to unleash the Twirly Wirly thing, and I need you to do it now T-G." I had managed to scramble up the ivy, after glimpsing the Dark Thing in my bag and remembering, despite the lingering haze of mutant wasp venom, why I was there, three hundred feet up a wall, in the first frigging place.
"Yes get a move on Uncle Tuppy.  Do stop making like a woolly spider and get into the secret room before we all die of boredom."
I could scarcely believe it!  My nephew Tuppence was already there, leaning out of the mullioned window alongside the Tupfinder General!
I decided to leave the whys and what fors till I was safely off the ivy with both hands free and a clear head;  I had a distinct feeling that I might need to have my wits about me.  I grabbed hold of the end of the shepherd's crook which the Tupfinder was helpfully pointing in my direction, and heaved myself up and over the window ledge.
Unfortunately my hoof caught on a strand of ivy, and as I kicked it free, I knocked out one of the leaded panes of glass in the T-G's mullioned windows.
"Ooops!  Sorry T-G," I gasped, as the shards tinkled and clattered to the ground.
"Tuppy!  Have a care, for pity's sake!  That glass is original 12th century Venetian, lifted from the Doge's Palace by my ancestor Mad Finlay.  Besides, it's draughty enough in here.  Mrs T-G will have a fit - especially when she finds out it's you that did it.  She's still fuming about the French Diary episode (see previous posts)"
"Sorry T-G.  I can plug the hole with my old hanky.  That'll stop the draught at any rate."  As I stuffed my large pocket handkerchief (embroidered with the letter "T") into the broken pane, I glanced downwards and saw the ghastly Kiltie Twins staring up at me and pointing.  Another figure, bulky, and wearing a rough Harris tweed two-piece, was heading towards them,  carrying what looked like a shotgun slung across her ample shoulders, and a  tray of black sausage rolls.
It was Mrs T-G.

more later

A Tight One on Titan, and the Perils of Moon-o-centricity

Who knew?
Geoffrey and I are in the same section of the solar system after all.  Not only that - we're on the same ring!
It only goes to show that you can't make assumptions about where you really are in life. For example, I assumed that because I was on a Moon that it was THE Moon.  Our familiar companion on silent, frosty midnights.  A pale, slender sickle, a silvery gleam, a reminder of darkness on an indigo summer evening.  A sudden light as the wind blows the clouds away in an equinoctial gale, and ships toil across a stormy sea.
How wrong could I be?
No. I'm on Saturn's largest moon, Titan.  Not to be outdone, Geoffrey's also on a moon of Saturn. Or rather, a "moonlet".  He's not on a ring, after all.
Or rather I was, and he was. We've been rescued, and are now - well, more of that later.
"Saturn's rings are made of dust particles and gas Uncle Tuppy.  I read it in the Tupfinder General's Giant Book of Useful Knowledge, which he lent me when I was recovering from my latest dose of 'flu," said Tuppence as he circled me in his space rocket. "You can't possibly sit on them.  You'd fall through."
"Tuppence!  But how did you know we were here?"
"The Tupfinder General happened to be watching for smugglers through his hi-powered telescope at the exact moment you were sneezed out of Kevin Bacon's nose. He saw you as you were blasted into the stratosphere, out of the Earth's atmosphere and indeed orbit.  He said the screaming was terrible and he'll never forget it. After a quick cup of tea, a pipeful of Black Bogey, a brief snooze, a read of the paper and a plate of korn bif sandwiches to revive himself, he flew into action and sent word to me via the heliograph to fire up my rocket toot sweet and head for Saturn with a knee rug and a flask of Madeira.  And here I am!"
"Never mind all that. Do you have the medical chest?" I asked urgently, as my nephew "looped the loop" and fired a salvo from the Bren gun he had fitted to the front of the rocket.
"Ha ha ha!" he laughed, as the "moonlet" on which Geoffrey had been perched was blown to smithereens. "That's for me to know and you to wonder!"
"Nooooo!" I wailed, as Geoffrey plummeted Saturn-wards.
"Why isn't he flying uncle Tuppy?" cried Tuppence, coming to his senses.
"His wings were welded shut by the G force when we were blasted out of Kevin's nose," I snapped.  "I'm surprised the Tupfinder General failed to inform you of that part.  Do something, Tuppence!"
Luckily Geoffrey's wings fluttered into life just in time, and he landed beside me on Titan.  Tuppence threw us a line and, using a mechanical winch, he hauled me on board.
"Good grief Uncle Tuppy.  Even without your fleece you weigh, well, a bit much actually. I haven't allowed for that in my calculations."
"What calculations?" I demanded.
"My time-space continuum calculations.  Essential to our safe return.  We could run out of fuel before we reach home due to the excess weight.  Sorry Uncle Tuppy.  Sheep overboard!"
And with that, a trap door flipped opened beneath me and I dropped into the bottomless pit of Space.
Well, nearly.  Just as the trap door snapped shut I managed to grab hold of the outside handle, and here I still am - clinging on for dear life as Tuppence steers for home.  He keeps looping the loop in an effort to get rid of me but to no avail.  I can hear the engine struggling a bit and I know that I'm threatening the lives of my companions, but I don't care.  All I want is to get home and put my feet up in front of a blazing fire with a massive mug of steaming Madeira and quite possibly a couple of opium tabloids to take the edge off after this humungous ordeal.
Geoffrey's peering at me anxiously from the tiny triangular window - he's just written - "HANG ON TUPY" on the steamed-up glass.

More later.......

(If you like the Tuppy & Geoffrey stories, there are many more in e-book form which you can find here on my Amazon page via this link)

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Tuppence eats kippers and reads Foucault

"Uncle Tuppy uncle Tuppy!"

"WHAT???"  I tried and failed to rip open a boil-in-the-bag kipper without burning my fingers and sploshing kipper juice all down myself.

"What paths have brought us to the point where we are "at fault" with respect to our own sex? And how have we come to be a civilisation so peculiar as to tell itself that, through an abuse of power which has not ended, it has long sinned against sex?"

"I'm sure I don't know Tuppence. I'll put the kettle on and have a wee think about that for a minute." Hell's teeth, I thought. If this is what teaching someone to read aged thirty five does you can keep it. I'd assumed he'd stick to Swallows and Amazons till he was at least forty.

"This is brilliant uncle Tuppy! I'm expanding my brain by eating kippers and reading Foucault's "The History of Sexuality" and you know what the best part is?"

"No..."

"I'm only half way through volume one! there's another two to go!"

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.

Muckfast Abbey

(first off - apologies for the brown thing at the RH side of the bottle - there's something stuck in my scanner)

...there we were, suspended in a net, hundreds of feet above a fiery pit.
Far below, we saw thousands of rats scurrying around with lengths of tubing, attaching them to bubbling, smoking test tubes.
"What's going on?" we gasped in unison.
"Welcome to Muckfast Abbey," shrilled Tuppence, removing a pistol from his belt and twirling it in a devil-may-care fashion.
"He's only extracting Mindmuck and distilling into a rather lethal tonic wine!" whispered the T-G.
"I heard that!" snapped Tuppence, giving the net a shove with a pointy stick and making us swing out further over the fiery pit. "Yes. I'm making Muckfast, and it will be available in a range of flavours in Speedispend hypermarket and compulsory screening centre for Christmas. For example - Greed, Jealousy, Spite, Envy (that's a bit like Chartreuse), Bile, Hatred, Lust (not that that applies to you lot), Foot-picking, and Arse-scratching. There will be more. And for that, I need more source material."
Tuppence lifted a megaphone to his lips. "Lower the net! get them into position, then begin the MindMuck Removal procedure IMMEDIATELY!"
"Oo-er Tuppy," quavered Geofrey. "Hadn't we better ought to DO something?"
"Anyone got a pair of scissors," I asked feverishly. "Maybe we could cut our way out of the net."
"Don't be stupid Tuppy. We'd only plummet into the fiery pit. We'll have to think of something else."
more tomorrow.

The Mind Muck Removal Kit

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

He is.

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

Oh dear oh dear - I haven't got a soul

When I finally emerged from the kitchen, I was confronted by an awful sight.

Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.

Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.

"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"

Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.

Or perhaps that was me.

"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."

I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.

"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."

To be continued...

Bacon sandwich, anyone?

It was a wet and windy night and me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire back at the Outcrop.
"Wonder where B.O. is now?" I mused, packing some Black Bogey into the Meerschaum.
"I'm sure he won't be too far away. Here - have my Swan Vestas. Those disposable lighters are useless," said the T-G.
"Awful if he got turned into fish fingers," said Geoffrey.
"Meat fingers, actually," said Peter Edant, pushing up the sash window and sticking his oar in.
"I suppose you better come in before we all expire from the cold, Edant. But do try to control your more boring propensities," I said.
"Oooh! get you uncle Tuppy! Porpensities!" it was Tuppence - sticking his oar in as well. They both clambered in the window.
"PROpensities, actually," murmured Edant.
"Tuppence! what on earth are you doing here?"
"Yes! You see? You can't get rid of me so easily. I was wearing a life preserver, remember!"
We all exchanged glances.
"You don't still want to harpoon baby Orca and turn him into fish fingers, I hope?"
"Of course I do! think of it - we'd have our own food supply right through the winter and beyond, and that's AFTER we've sold the bulk of it to Speedispend and made our fortunes!"
"But that's WRONG, Tuppence."
"In what respect?" frowned my nephew.
"Killing your fellow creatures, and eating them. Let me explain why," began the T-G.
"Okay - I can see this is going to take a while so I'll just put a few sausage rolls in the oven and make up some ham sandwiches to keep us going..."
They all stared at me.
"Well? oh - I see. Well, let me remind you that I was key to the release of the lactating ewes from the Hulks in summer 2008. Remember?" ( see previous posts)
"That's all very well Tuppy. But you only did that because they were sheep like yourself. What about other animals? You don't seem to bother so much about pigs and cows."
I rushed into the kitchen in a huff and didn't come out for four days...

We save baby Orca from a terrible fate

"But I've not got fingers!"
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."

I sense the return of my mental powers

"Geoffrey."
"Yes?"
"I've calmed down a bit now."
"Good. Did the raw opium help?"
"Yes. And the brandy, the madeira, the absinthe pastilles, the Piriton and the extra strength junior aspirin. Thanks Geoffrey. I sense the return of my mental powers."
"And?"
"Well - "
Just then, a familiar voice trilled,"Hiya uncle Tuppy! any chance of a cup of tea?"
And in strolled Tuppence, muskets stuck in belt as per usual.
"I've got a munny-making scheme that just might interest you..."
"Well? spit it out," I snapped. "Though I can assure you that munny doesn't interst US in the least."
"So you say, uncle Tuppy. But it interests ME - and besides, I think ALL our interests just might coincide on this occasion. IF I may be so bold."
"Oh, no doubt you will," I muttered sourly. "Get on with it."
"Listen up then."
Turns out Tuppence and the rats hatched a plan to kill baby Orca, and process his meat "for sale"!!
"How utterly ghastly!"said Geoffrey.
I had to agree. Nobody is more scared of baby Orca and his terrible mood swings than I am. But to commit cold-blooded murder? Never.
"Think of all the fish fingers we could make out of him!" beamed Tuppence, leaning forward eagerly in his seat. "We could flog them to Speedispend! We'd make a frigging fortune!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was going MUCH too far. But how could we stop him?
We'd have to think of ANOTHER plan. That's TWO now. Blimey.
"Medical chest, Goeffrey! Quick!"

I've built a laser gun

Right. I've built a laser gun, following Tuppence's old blueprint for his TTD. I managed to find a load of tin cans in the bin up at the tourist car park and I fashioned them into a pointy thing with a mirror attachment and magnifying glass at the business end - I simply used Geoffrey's shaving mirror.

If my calculations are correct, I reckon that if I face west at sunset, I think the power generated by the dying rays of the sun magnified via the mirror/magnifying glass combo should be sufficient to remove that dratted skin from off of that rice pudding.

I can conceal the whole thing (I think) beneath a cape, and so everyone will think I've actually blown it off.

Then I can collect my winnings and get on with my life.

Anyway I'm setting it up for tomorrow evening - I like a bit of drama. I can't wait to see everyone's faces.

Wishbone Ash?

"Er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er doombiddy doombiddy er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er..."
"Will you stop that racket, PLEEEEZE!"
We're all in an air guitar frenzy here - and as with everything, it all gets a bit much at times. Especially when you're recovering from an almighty three day sesh at the Puff Inn, as we are.
But not as far as Tuppence is concerned. No. I'm afraid to say that my intrepid nephew is hellbent on getting a real guitar. (His moog ended up in the Bay after exploding and bursting into a ball of fire during his umpteenth rendition of Nut Rocker.)
"I want a change, uncle Tuppy! I'm sick of the moog!"
"Phew," we sighed. "At last."
"I want something else - something screechier..."
"Screechier than a moog?"
"Yes. I want a Gibson flying V. Like that guy from Wishbone Ash. And nothing's going to stop me."