Turkish Teeth

 

Apologies for the total dearth of posts at the moment.  I had a complete blank writing-wise for a few weeks - experience tells me not to force it, it only comes out even worse than the usual un-forced stuff - and then a nasty bout of covid.   If only Dave Nark had been around with his covid marshal cattle prod, hazmat suit and hi viz jacket.   

But he wasn't.  He was elsewhere.  And by elsewhere,  I mean he was testing out one of Val's new-fangled 'death pods'.  Yes, she finally cracked it.  Guests can now say their final goodbyes to the Earthly plane in an eco-friendly green energy-style camping-cum-death pod,  comforted by a hand-made nettle fibre welcome basket filled with last minute artisan-style comestibles and self care items like deadly nightshade tea and gravel flapjax, hemlock toothpaste, arsenic body butter and strychnine shampoo.

'I really can't go these gravel flapjax,' Dave muttered.  'Not even if I dunk them in the deadly nightshade tea.  Val knows full well that I killed the nerves in my teeth playing the jawharp when I was busking my way across Europe back in the day and they all turned black.  I can manage a digestive if I have to but that's it. Oh well.  Someone else will have to test the death pod and its comestibles.  I'm off for a walk.'

NEXT TIME Dave reads a news article about 'Turkish teeth' and thinks he might busk his way across Europe again to get some.

Dave's Third Eye has a serious word with Dave

*Dave's third eye is speaking*   Dave - you must face reality.  Val has clearly gone completely insane.  Not only that - she's homicidal.  To use a possibly off-putting but descriptive technical term, Dave, your wife is a homicidal maniac.   This is a highly dangerous situation. You must deal with it.   I'm sorry to have to say this but this whole thing is so stressful I'll be throbbing painfully until you do, I might even get to the glowing, spontaneous combustion stage and that won't be pleasant for either of us.  

*Dave is speaking*   I wonder if I should contact Dr Wilson to get her a psychiatric referral and/or some kind of psychotropic industrial strength tranks.  Val's more of a St John's Wort type of person but I think we're probably past that stage.  Even if I added in some Evening Primrose...I mean I'm raving myself now.  Let's be honest she needs either high grade meds or locking up in a secure facility.  Probably both.  I wonder if it's menopause-related.  Goes without saying that I daren't mention that in front of Val.  

*Dave's third eye is speaking*  yes that's women's talk Dave and we never go there.  No, you have to think of the public safety aspects now.  She's concocting lethal potions in order to bump people off, and telling everyone it's a good thing.  She's saying it's over 55s only, and that it's voluntary, but she isn't going to stop there is she.  She's a seasoned killer now Dave, she's got a taste for it and she's asked you to join in.  Two words Dave.  Premeditated murder. Another two -  Saughton prison.   Need I say more?

*Dave is speaking* no, you needn't.   However,  you might give me some pointers as to what to actually do about it.   Do I call the police, psychiatric services or what?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* I'm afraid it's 'or what' Dave. 

*Dave is speaking* what do you mean?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* well, how did Val put it. Let me think...wield the cushion over the vital area, or something...

Next time- Dave fetches a cushion to wield over Val's vital area...then realises that he's about to do the very thing to Val that she asked him to do to the victims sorry guests, and which he refused to do through an excess (some might say) of principle or squeamishness...his third eye starts to throb violently and threatens to spontaneously combust due to the stress of it all...

Val's Lethal Income Generation Scheme becomes compulsory

 'Dave and Val have got a new income generation scheme.   I'm telling you two because you're in the zone age-wise and you might be interested.'  Tuppence emptied the last crumbs of a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch into his mouth and belched loudly. 'Meaning that you're both old.'

'That's not funny Tuppence.  As if we hadn't already heard about the holistic wellness self euthanasia care yurt.  We won't be getting involved with that, thank you.'

'I'm not surprised.  As well as being old you're fat unhealthy and selfish into the bargain.  You're breathing air and taking up space a young person could be using.  You're eating food of a very unhealthy stripe and not taking any responsibility for yourselves.  Your social attitudes are prehistoric and your time on the planet is up. You need to acknowledge that before she comes and gets you.'

'Comes and gets us?  I thought it was voluntary?'

'It WAS.... but now Val's got a pair of running shoes, a crossbow, tranquilliser darts and a van with blacked out windows.  Government issue. She doesn't need victims sorry guests to pay her because she's getting commission for each over 55 she manages to euthanase, with or without their permission.'

'How absolutely ghastly.  Geoffrey, fetch the shotgun.  We may need to defend ourselves.'

Next time....Dave's third eye starts to throb and he has a crisis of conscience....

The Killing Yurt

 'Dave we've got our first guest in the holistic voluntary self euthanasia care space and I've just realised we've got two big problems.  Man up please.'

'You mean the killing yurt.'  murmured Dave, who had his back to Val as he replaced the battery in his trail cam.

'Number one - they've got a needle phobia and they don't like tea, you're going to have to inject them Dave because I won't have time,  I'm all booked up with hot stoning clients this morning.'

'WHAT?  No I'm sorry Val.  There's another word for euthanasia, and it's murder.  I'm not doing it and neither should you.'

'But they've signed the disclaimer Dave.  It's totally fine.'

'What does the disclaimer actually say Val?'

'It says they're over 55, they want to end their earthly journey now, and if anything should go wrong, e.g. coma, paralysis and/or mental incapacity or whatever, they're sane at the point of signing therefore they accept that they're 100% responsible for anything that happens and they won't sue.  Plus, I've extended my professional liability insurance that I use for my hot stoning to cover wellness self-euthanasing.  We're totally covered Dave.  Now get on with it, we don't want a negative review on Trip Advisor.  Not that they'll be around to write one but...'

'What's the second problem?'

'Well, you know how I said they paid half up front half on completion?'

'Yes...'

'I just realised that if there is a 'completion', then they'll have ended their earthly journey and won't be able to pay the remainder.'

'How terrible.  Well, maybe you should just scrap the whole thing Val and stick to the hot stoning and the ear candling.'

'Perhaps Dave but what do we do with the guest that's already here?  They're ready to depart this world and eager for us to assist.'

'Just give them their deposit back Val, and offer them one of my wildlife safaris.  I've repaired the holes in the kayak and I can take them round the loch, there's a pair of grebes nesting in the reed beds.  We might even see an otter. That's sure to bring back the will to live. OW!

Dave winced as Val smacked him in the third eye with a hot stone.

The Holistic Voluntary Wellness Self Euthanasia Care Space

 'I wonder if I can somehow remove my third eye', thought Dave.  'I don't think I can cope with being in a permanent state of enlightenment.  I feel I need some Valium or something.  Something to bring me down...'

'Dave!  What are you doing out there!  Get those logs chopped right now,  the mobile sauna needs topping up, my hot stones are going cold and I've run out of kindling.   And haven't you dug out the composting toilet yet, it smells disgusting.  Guests are complaining.'  

'OK Val.'  Forget about the Valium, thought Dave, pulling on his Wellingtons.  And as for the composting toilet - the clue is in the name.  It's a composting toilet, therefore, it smells disgusting.  You wanted the bloody thing.  I tried to warn you but would you listen?  No.  Because you never listen. There was no point in trying to explain this to Val.  There was no point in trying to explain anything to Val.  

Later...in Dave and Val's cottage, over some goji berry tea...

'Dave I've got an idea I need to discuss with you.  Nettle flapjack?'  Val proffered a handwoven willow basket filled with lumpy brown-ish rectangles. 'They're three months old but they're totally fine if you dunk them.'

'No thanks Val.  I'm still full after the roadkill soup you made for lunch,'  said Dave warily.  He only got offered flapjacks if Val wanted him to do something.  And it was always something bad.

'That's OK, they were left over from a guest's welcome pack. Why do people never eat them? So ungrateful.  They probably expect Twixes or something.  Anyway,  what I wanted to tell you, I mean ask you...I mean tell you....or discuss or whatever...I'm converting one of the yurts into our own mini Switzerland Dave!  I'm getting a grant from the Scottish government, as long as I rewild the back field, fit solar panels and an air-sourced heat pump and ante up three grand.   It's going to be a holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space.  Where people who fulfil certain important criteria can either indulge themselves by self-euthanasing via an injection of a holistic cocktail of lethal wellness drugs I carefully distill from locally eco-foraged fungi and toxic plants, or ingest it in the form of a pleasant herbal-style tea.  Which obviously would take longer to take effect but would be ideal for anyone with a needle phobia.  I might even throw in a Toblerone.'   

'What are the criteria?'

'Oh, they'd have to be over a certain age.  Let's say, 55?  Just plucking that out of the air but it sounds about right.  And, they'd have to pay a fee, obviously.  Half up front,  half on completion.  I'd take Paypal, cash, debit and credit cards but not Klarna.'

'You've clearly thought this through Val.  Leaving the legality of it aside for a minute - how would you - or we - dispose of the - how shall I put it - remains?'

'Bury them in the back field, Dave.  The one that I'm rewilding and planting up with yellow rattle and stuff.  Where they would compost down into the soil and become a useful part of the ecosystem instead of taking up space on an already overcrowded planet.  That's where you come in.  You've got a pick and a couple of decent shovels, haven't you?'

'And what if - heaven forbid - someone attempts but fails to 'complete'?'

'No worries at all, they have two options which they pre-select on the disclaimer form prior to arrival.  They're either left in a permanent coma-style vegetative state - mentally alert, yet physically completely paralysed, or vice versa, depending on the proportion of specially foraged herbs to fungi used in the solution - or, for an additional fee, finished off, let me put it that way.'

'Finished off?  How?'

'Dave you're fully capable of wielding one of my home made crocheted nettle fibre cushions over the vital area.'

'The vital area.  You mean the face don't you.  Good grief Val.  When we got married I knew you were a strong-minded woman but I didn't expect this.'

Next time - Val discloses that her mother is coming to stay for an indefinite period.  Dave perks up as he wonders if she might be the first candidate for the holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space...

Dave considers monetising his third eye

 'I'm not deploying my third eye for shit!' snapped Dave. 'How dare you even ask me that.  It's for metaphysical purposes ONLY, plus seeing in the dark.  Which is great because I'll never need to use night vision goggles again.  It'll be much easier when I'm out setting the wildlife cam looking for pine martens and owls and stuff.'

'Burglars.  Rats.  Cockroaches.  You could start renting it out to paranoid property owners Dave.  It could be a side hustle,'  sniggered Geoffrey.

'Pervs,' suggested Tuppence.  'Doggers.  Not that I'd know anything about it but a third eye that can see in the dark would be fairly handy in those circumstances.  You could rent it out by the hour. Heh heh.'

Dave shook his head and strode off.  I'm not even going to bother explaining to these moronic twits that my third eye cannot be removed, therefore it cannot be rented out, he thought.  My services as the possessor of a third eye however are a different matter, and I suppose I could put an ad on Gumtree regarding charging a small fee for doing night security patrols round people's property.  Mind you, that would be pretty boring, and a bit of a waste of the eye, and besides don't paranoid property owners have dogs already?  A crazed XL bully would surely be a better bet.  And in any case, money's not everything and I'd far rather be by the river scouting for otters than giving people who don't appreciate the profundity of it, the benefit of my third eye in exchange for a few quid.  I'll think it over.  Oh and I definitely won't mention it to Val, because she'll one hundred per cent want me to do it.  Her nettle jams aren't selling well, what a surprise, and she's had some bad reviews on Tripadvisor about the cleanliness of the yurts so she's freaking out about losing business and maintaining income generation.  By which she means me getting a regular job, instead of just punting my otter vids on Youtube.  Luckily she doesn't even know about the eye yet.  Hopefully it'll stay that way.

No,  I think I already know, within myself, that commercialising the eye would be wrong.  I received it as a gift from the glittering eye in the sweat cottage, as a means of, or tool for, elevating my psyche if you like and developing my relationship with my higher, better, self.  I can't just rent it out for cash.  I feel that something bad would definitely happen if I did that.

Next time - Dave uses his third eye to try to resolve some stuff that's been buzzing around his brain...

Why are human beings so far apart, even if they're in the same room?  Can't we all get along?  Why does my heart hurt, and will it always be that way?  Why do I have to earn munny in order to live - why isn't everything free?  Why did humans invent munny anyway? Are globalists going to abolish it and make us all slaves?  Why on earth did I marry Val, and am I stuck with her forever...I'm hungry, I wish I had some sausages...even a Twix...

The Glittering Eyes

 Returning to the point at which Dave arrived at a cottage and a pair of glittering eyes were peering at him through the letterbox.

Dave spent some time in that cottage.  The glittering eyes fired a tranquilliser dart through the letterbox, paralysing Dave then dragging him inside where he lay on a threadbare settee for who knows how long.

Visions came and went.  Feverish dreams of times gone by, times yet to come, past errors of judgment made, future betrayals small and large.  Val's face quickly faded from memory.  This felt like a relief, but he struggled with guilt.  After all, she was his wife, for better and for worse...what kind of man would he be, if he didn't honour his marriage vows?  Not to mention, remember what his wife actually looked like.  And yet...didn't he have a higher duty - to himself?  To fulfil his God-given destiny - which, if he was honest, he might well prefer to involve only nice cups of tea, perhaps some carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, a new pair of bins, and lots of otters and not to include Val's domineering and stultifying presence.  Dave thrashed around on the settee, sweating in the stuffy, hot cottage as the glittering eyes piled yet more coal on the fire.

'Fossil fuels!  Val would have a fit...but then, who cares...what Val..thinks....aaarggh.  I'm not coping.  What kind of man am I,  if I can't cope?   Oh really who cares.'

He was given food and drink and generally looked after by the glittering eyes as his mental agonies continued. Why, he never knew, but he sensed this had happened before, to other lost travellers on the moor.

When he eventually 'came to', he found a bowl of peppermint-scented cool fresh water and a clean(-ish) cloth on a small table next to the settee.  He dabbed his face and took a couple of deep breaths.  The door behind him was open wide and he could feel the bracing air of the moor.  It was time to leave.

He stood up and caught his reflection in the oak mirror above the fireplace - which was now cold, and filled with daffodils - 'WHAT THE...?'  

'I'm sure I usually only have two eyes.  Now I seem to have three!'  he patted his forehead carefully, and felt nothing.  But a third eye was clearly visible, between and just above his usual two, when he looked at his reflection.  Could there be a warp in the glass?  he thought of course not - surely not one that looked exactly like a human eye.  

'Well, perhaps I'm seeing things.  With a spare eye that wouldn't be surprising lol.  If it's really there and I'm not hallucinating again who knows, it might come in useful.  I'll set off and see what happens.  Expect the worst and hope for the best.  That's what dad always used to say, and look where that got him.  COPD and crippled with arthritis at 65 after a lifetime of working in heavy industry and 55 years of Capstan full strength.  He was lucky to make it that far I suppose.  At least he never had to worry about having an extra eye lol.'

Dave inhaled deeply as he stood in the cottage doorway and looked at the thin path that wound over the moor towards the sea, where he knew for sure there would be otters.   He was ready to move on...

Next time - Dave wonders if his entire life has been a hallucination as his third eye comes into its own -  but he doesn't have time to think about that as he finds that there is a considerable demand for its services, back at the Rocky Outcrop.

Plans for a Hate Crime Dobbing in Centre and Two for One Brazilian Butt Lifts

 

 'We're going to drive new traffic to our yurt business by making it a dobbing in centre for hate crimes.  So Val says.  She says anyone promoting hate deserves everything they get and she's prepared to catch them herself,  lock them into her therapy yurt and chain them to the massage table till the coppers arrive.  She's even bought a hi-viz jacket and a cattle prod.  But I don't feel right about it,' said Dave. 'I don't want to grass anyone up.  When I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Indeed,' said the T-G,  'It has the potential to be catastrophic in terms of local community cohesion.  Neighbour pitted against neighbour and so forth.'

'Val says it's great publicity for our business.  It'll make us seem current.  She says we need to move with the times and diversify.  She's making a sign for it right now from locally-foraged shells and sea glass with 'HATE CRIME REPORTING CENTRE' on it in seaweed fronds.  And she's made nettle scones with H A T E on the top.  People can buy a set of four and have HATE nestled right there in an eco-cellophaned nettle-fibre refillable basket. They can then literally consume HATE and expel it via the customary orifice, thereby destroying it.  She's also going to throw in two for one Brazilian butt lifts for anyone reporting a hate crime cos she's just completed an online course in how to do the liquid injection ones.  I get what she means but I just don't feel comfortable.'  Dave fiddled anxiously with a fingerless glove. 'Especially with an open-ended concept-style thing like hate.  It's not a word I even like to say to be honest.  It's kind of strong.  You know when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'What is a hate crime?'  I interrupted.

'Not sure,' said Dave. 'But when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'It sounds like something best not to get involved with,' said the T-G loudly, poking at a pot hole with his sword stick. We were out for a walk by the tourist car park, assessing the local infrastructure in view of his plans to open Tupfinder Towers to the public.  'In my experience as the local magistrate-style person-in-charge type thing,  evidence, proof, impartiality and a sound knowledge of how the law applies are crucial when administering justice.  This rubbish sounds like it was made up on the back of a fag packet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' I said, my voice fading and echoing as I fell into a super-deep pothole.

'As I was saying,  when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ve....He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeeeeee.'

next time - Dave finally manages to tell us what exactly occurred in the sweat cottage, and Val remains determined to forge ahead with her plans.  

** for readers outwith Scotland, who may be puzzled by the above -  we have a new Hate Crime law here.  Hate crimes can now be reported at specially designated hate crime reporting centres, including a mushroom farm and a sex shop.  I'm not making this up.

Dodgy Brazilian butt lifts have also been in the news.  

What a strange world we live in...

Val's internal interminable monologue as she no bakes no bake gravel flapjacks

 So before the Cancer Research UK 29 day yoga challenge started, we left Dave pondering - well, pondering all kinds of things out on the moors.

I expect he was having a mid-life crisis-style-event.  Or not.  Because I don't believe in mid-life crises, myself.  Staring old age in the face as I am I've gone through enough 'crises' to know they don't just occur in 'mid-life'.  There's nothing special about mid-life, that requires a crisis of its own.  They happen all the time, depending on circumstances.  Twenty five or sixty.  Age makes little difference.  Sure, you learn a bit as you go through life. Menopause?  Nah, bollocks to that.  Likewise the andropause.  But you forget a lot also.  Although, if I understand Hegelian dialectic correctly (laughter) nothing is ever really 'forgotten'.  It's merely subsumed into the whole, creating the being we are forever in the process of becoming.  Hegel would lose the 'forever'.   

But I digress.

Back at the yurts,  Val was not baking her specialty -  'no bake' hardcore smashed gravel flapjacks.  Her fifth batch that day.  She was breathing heavily and muttering to herself as she smashed gravel with a large mallet and mixed it with golden syrup and rolled oats before pressing the mixture into a tray lined with clingfilm and refrigerating it overnight (full recipe not available, sorry).

'I know Dave's testosterone levels have plummeted.  Plummeted from, let's be honest, a very low base, to the infinitesimal.  He's not the man I thought I married.  Or is he.  Perhaps I was just stupid.  Blinded by his facility with a trailcam and his knowledge of all things otter.  I wonder if I should DIVORCE him!'  Val smashed the mallet extra hard as she said 'DIVORCE'.  A fragment of gravel flew ceiling-wards and clattered into the uplighter.  'Or perhaps he's experiencing the andropause.  Maybe I should cut him some slack.  Or perhaps NOT!'  Val's mallet hit the dwindling pile of gravel again and the hand-crafted kitchen table - hand-crafted by Dave, from local sustainable sources - i.e. the small stand of coppiced oak behind the yurts - shuddered.  Val paused, as she remembered Dave diligently sanding planks of oak and whittling the table legs out in the shed on cold winter evenings with only a small brazier and his fingerless gloves to keep him warm.

'Perhaps Dave's not so bad.  Perhaps it is the andropause and he just needs some more hot stoning, and an ear candling session to rev him up a bit. And a double strength boiling goji berry oil colonic irrigation is always a good answer no matter the question.  Mind you,  Dave's been going through the andropause ever since I met him thirty years ago.  Never mind.   If he ever returns from the moors I'll make a new man of him.'  

Val threw her mallet into the air and caught it deftly, before pressing the final flap jack mixture into its tin tray and popping it into the refrigerator.

more later - when Dave returns from the moors in a spiritually enlightened state, loses his bobble hat and gets a surprising job offer...

Dave Nark has an existential crisis

'Does Santa wear a full wig, or is it a ring of white hair attached to his hat to make it look like a wig? What does he do for the rest of the year, what does he think about?  Does he garden at all?'  Dave Nark muttered as he paced back and forth in front of the row of composting toilets behind the yurts as the snow began to fall.  He was wearing khaki-coloured fingerless gloves and biting his nails. 

'I can't go on like this,' he thought. 'What am I doing with my life?  I'm 59 years old and the world has passed me by.  Or is it the other way round?  Am I really happy with Val?  Or am I just making do - settling, as they say.  I think I know the answer to that one.  Oh dear.  But it's not just that.  The wildlife vids are just not cutting it.  I'm losing my touch.  Everyone's tik tokking now.  My vids are old hat.  Nobody's interested in otters.  They want killer whales and breaching humpbacks.  I have to up my game or move on.  Basically that's it, isn't it.  Up my game or move on.  Move on into the fucking grave.'

'DAVE!'  screeched Val from inside the healing yurt.  'Don't forget that you've kindling to chop, logs to bring in and the woodburner to clean when you've done digging out the toilets.  And you can make me a cup of goji berry tea while you're at it.  Properly mind!  I want the water freshly boiled not flat and under-oxygenated like the last time.   I'm worn out hot-stoning.'

Dave stopped pacing for a moment.   He rubbed his long nose in a thoughtful manner and removed a drop of moisture with the back of his fingerless glove. 

'DAVE!'

'DAVE ARE YOU LISTENING!'

'DAVE!'

And then he started pacing again, only in a different direction.  Rather than pacing back and forth in front of the toilets (which he hadn't dug out by the way), he narrowed his eyes, adjusted his bobble hat and headed behind them - towards the moors...

next time - Dave has an odd encounter in a sweat lodge

Keep Going until you Can't

 

'Keep going until you can't,' said the T-G, pausing by the open flap door of Val Nark's Holistic Vaxing Yurt to pack some Black Bogey into his Meerschaum pipe (with its bowl fashioned into the shape of the Transantarctic Mountains).  'That's my motto these days, Santa.  For what it's worth.  Which is probably quite a bit, coming from me.  Why do yourself down - that's another of my mottos.'   And he gave a wink and a thumbs up as he moved on.

Santa was 'proning' on Val Nark's portable massage table with five 'hot stones' on his back.  His red jacket and hat lay folded on a yoga mat on the floor beside him.   Val's ear candling kit sat tidily on a low stool, ready for use.  A sixth 'hot stone' - a large chunk of granite, salvaged from a ruined croft up on the moors - sat sizzling on top of the log burner in the centre of the yurt.

'Thanks,' he replied stoically. 'Unfortunately I think I've reached the 'can't' part.'

'How are we getting on Santa?' Val bustled in. 'Ready for your ear candling?  Oh - I think you could manage another hot stone on that dodgy 13th lumbar vertebra.  Here you go!'

Val reached over to the log burner and picked up the stone with a large pair of iron tongs.  'It's been on there all day -  must be super hot.'  She dropped it quickly on Santa's lower back.  'Which is the whole point and I'm sure it'll do you a power of good.  Take the pain and always be positive!  That's my motto!'

'OWYA BANDIT!' Santa bellowed, as the burning stone made contact.  The massage table buckled in the middle at its vulnerable folding point, depositing Santa in a red and white heap on the floor on top of six hot stones and the ear candling kit.  

He pulled a Sharpie out from behind his ear and wrote on the back of his hand 

KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU CAN'T

WHY DO YOURSELF DOWN

TAKE THE PAIN AND ALWAYS BE POSITIVE

Next time - Santa returns to the North Pole/Greenland/somewhere cold and nurses himself back to health, ready for next Christmas

Christmas Dread

 

We were sitting round the fire again.  Well, there isn't much else to do at this time of year.  It's dark at half past two, rainy, sleety, horrible.  Best to tuck a tartan knee rug round, light your pipe, pour yourself a mighty slug of something extremely mind-numbingly powerful and chuck another piece of driftwood on the fire.  Maybe find a decent book to read before slipping into a coma.

But I need to go out to work, you say.  I can't buy baccy and drink and knee rugs when I've no money.  And I have no answer to that.   I realise how fortunate we are Hereabouts, with easy access to smuggled goods and lots of driftwood lying about.  

'I hate this time of year,' said Dave. 'I just want it to be Spring again.'

'Don't wish your life away Dave.  It won't be Spring for four months.'

'Three.'

'Four.  I don't count March as a Spring month, it's too brown and cold.'

'What's everyone doing at Christmas anyway,' asked Dave. 'We've got Val's mother coming to stay.  I've got to say I'm totally fucking dreading it.  She's a joyless old bat with a seriously bossy streak.'

'Commiserations Dave.  You're always welcome round here if you need to escape.  We won't be doing much.  Cracking open a tin of corned beef and sticking a sprig of holly in it.'

'Good to know.  I will need to escape, thank you guys. Val's bad enough but her mother's a million times worse.  She says I don't do the hoovering and washing up properly, I've to up my game and start rinsing the plates first before washing them in soapy water then rinse them again after.   She's always on my back to take the bins out and stuff.'

'Hoovering and washing up?' said Tuppence, aghast.  'Rinsing plates?  Dave, you've got to man up! Next she'll have you cleaning the toilet and making the tea for heaven's sake.'

'I know.  She's only staying for a few days but after she's gone there's always sort of a hangover effect on Val.  It's like she becomes infected by her mother's horrible personality and she starts on at me in a similar manner.  Like I can never do anything right at the best of times but it's even more so after her mother's been.   Oh well.  I'm in for a rough Festive but at least I've still got my wildlife vids.  Glass half full guys.  Or is it empty.  I'm never sure.  Anyway, thanks for listening.'  He dabbed his nose with the end of his sleeve and sighed heavily.

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances.  We both knew what the other was thinking. 

We knew what it was like to have a rough Christmas and we weren't about to see a mate go through similar, if it could be avoided. 

We were going to give Dave the best Christmas ever.  

Next time - we make plans for Dave's best ever Christmas, starting with cracking open two tins of corned beef instead of one

Bad Gigs

The wind howled in the chimney and the rain battered against the window-panes like a hail of buckshot. We were all - all being me,  Geoffrey,  Dave Nark, Tuppence and Alexa - sitting round the fire, chatting about old times, as you do on nights like that.    I was not feeling all that terrific so was covertly chewing on an opium tabloid just to take the edge off.  Others were enjoying a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit.  Dave Nark was rolling himself a cigarette.   Val doesn't allow him to smoke unless it's organic herbs so he comes round to ours to do it. 

'What's the worst gig you've ever been to Alexa?'  asked Tuppence.

'It was that night you played the Puff Inn and your Uncle Tuppy dropped his pint on the keyboard of your Moog and the electrics exploded and set the place on fire razing it to the ground.   We were all evacuated on to the moors and it was dark and freezing and I'd left my jacket behind and I was desperate for the toilet but I didn't want to go outside because there were too many people about.  I'm surprised you even had to ask.'

'Oh yes!  All those stolen barrels of 100% proof brandy in Stormy's cellar went up like nitro-glycerine and flames shot out of the hole-end of the tunnels at the cliffs.  It was quite a dramatic display.  But to me,  you see, that was a great end to a gig.  You're never going to get that again.'

Dave lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.  'I had some cracking gigs when I was the drummer with the Minds,' he began.

'More tea, anyone?' Geoffrey glanced at me in a significant manner.  We didn't want Dave starting up about gigs with the Minds.  It never ended well.  He'd end up morose and ranting about Jim Kerr again.

'We're not talking about cracking gigs tonight Dave, OK?  We're talking about bad ones.  I have to say Bo Diddley was pretty crap.  He arrived on stage five hours late.  The support band played their set three times over and everyone was very drunk.  Someone was sick into their shoes right in front of me.'

'What about Jack Bruce?' said Geoffrey. 'That was epically bad.  We tried to get out but we couldn't manage to open the door.  We thought we were locked in but thankfully it was only stiff.  We escaped and went for chips.  We needed the sustenance after that nightmare.'

'Dr John though Geoffrey.  Remember?' I enthused.  'He was okay but the people dancing right in front of us waving their arms in a faux-artistic manner ruined the whole experience.'

'I hate artistic people,' said Tuppence.  'They're always annoying.'

'That's because you're a Nazi Tuppence,' said Dave. 'Don't bother to deny it, we all know.  Personally,  I like artists.  I like to think I'm kind of an artist myself, with my wildlife vids.'

'Your wildlife vids are brilliant Dave,' said Alexa, patting Dave's knee.  Dave blushed and looked pleased.  Geoffrey and I exchanged looks.  'Brilliant' was going it a bit strong.  Grey and fuzzy with strange unidentifiable sasquatch-like creatures roaming around in the dark with glaring eyes was more like it.   But we wouldn't offend Dave by saying so.   

Next time - Dave gets confused about Alexa patting his knee.  Could she really be interested in an older man?  or, was she just after a cleaning job in the yurts?  It didn't occur to him that neither might be the case.

 

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

Hell on the Toilet

'I think I'm turning into one of these people who can't eat salad.  It just makes the next day hell on the toilet.  I just can't seem to wipe myself clean at all, even with Andrex Washlets, it just goes on and on.  And on.  You won't know about these things yet dear,  you're much too young.  You've got it all in front of you!  or should I say, behind!'  Mrs T-G grinned, and her false teeth 'bridge' fell out, revealing a solitary brown tooth to which it had been attached with a piece of chewing gum.  'Oops.   Do help yourself to a black sausage roll and here's some of my special squash.'  

Mrs T-G poured some of the plopping, steaming green liquid into a cracked ceramic mug, with 'World's Best Dad' emblazoned on the side.   The mug split open and the squash splashed onto the wooden floor, immediately burning a hole in it.

'Oh.  Well, it was a charity shop mug so no great loss.   I'll fetch you another.'  Mrs T-G clomped towards the spiral staircase.  She turned at the first step, and said,' Perhaps the squash is a bit on the strong side.  Perhaps I should add some more fluids.  Toad milk might help with the acidity.  I think I have some in the pantry.'

Alexa returned swiftly to the telescope. 'Well?' she asked, silently, as the star appeared.  'Do I help Mrs T-G with her beastly Kantian paradigm, and drink her beastly toad milk, or do I do more cleaning for Val beastly Nark?  Or should I just run away perhaps. I don't want to be a slave to money till I die. I don't think I even want to go to uni.   There has to be a better way to live, that doesn't involve entering a nunnery or some ghastly sandals and wholegrain communal living type situation.  I can't face a lifetime of wage slavery.  I just can't.'

The star twinkled sympathetically.

'I think you're the only one I can talk to and you're not even a person.  You're a star and you're so far away you might not even exist any more.  You might only be a ray of light.  Life is so lonely sometimes.'

Next time - Alexa's boyfriend Tuppence has too much to drink and declares that he was once in the SAS, but nobody believes him.  And Alexa has some major decisions to make.

Alexa consults the telescopic oracle

 Alexa peered into the eyepiece.   A bright star twinkled at her from somewhere deep in the vast Magellanic Cloud.

'Wow this is awesome.   I feel like my entire body is going to be sucked right through the telescope towards the star eyeball first but it's prob'ly only my immortal soul or whatever.   It kind of makes two weeks in Lanzarote seem very tame and pointless,' she thought.  'I wonder if I should bin my Onlyfans career...I don't like to admit it but I don't like it...wait is that star getting brighter?  Yes it is...OK so this is kind of a celestial two blinks for yes, one blink for no kind of deal, which is totally fine.  So, should I just not do Onlyfans?  I'd never admit it out loud but it doesn't feel right.  Imagine if Mr Stevens the dairy produce manager at Speedispend saw me.   Or even the Tupfinder General!  I can't bear the thought of that.  Yes  I  think I should just bin it.'

The star twinkled even more brightly and seemed to dance a little.

'But if I bin it,  I'd have to do even more hours as a cleaner.  And I don't think I could hack that.'

The star faded disapprovingly.

'Or perhaps I could...'

The star brightened a little.

'Should I...?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

The star vanished.

Someone heavy-footed was climbing the spiral staircase.  The door creaked open and Mrs Tupfinder General appeared carrying a tray of steaming black sausage rolls and a large jug of murky, bilious green liquid which plopped and bubbled and seemed to be producing some type of noxious gas.

'I thought you might like a refreshment.  Consulting the telescope can be draining.  By the way Alexa,  I happen to be looking for someone to help me with some written work I'm doing.  It's a monograph on the Kantian hermeneutic paradigm and its irruption through the symbolic order and I need someone who can work a computer and basically type the bastard out for me.  Val Nark says you're quite reliable for a young person.   Not that I pay any attention to what she says but I was wondering if you might be available?  I will pay real cash money.'

Alexa stared at the blank spot where the star had been.  'Well?' she asked, silently and in trepidation...

Next time - Alexa and Mrs T-G engage in discussions about mirrors and the authentic self - plus, why the star cannot cope with Mrs T-G, and why cheese footballs are only ever available at Christmas time except at Home Bargains.

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

The Vaxing Yurt

 

Fortified by large helpings of sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes we sat uncomfortably on the Morocco ottoman by the mullioned window and awaited further thoughts from the T-G.  

'Would you look at the nick of that roaster with the cattle prod in the hi viz jacket - who is it Geoffrey - I can't tell what with the mask, the safety goggles and the balaclava helmet.'  I rubbed at a diamond-shaped pane of glass with a corner of my plaid scarf and peered at the grassy knoll far below, where a tall, rangy figure stood waving his arms and gesturing with a cattle prod towards a newly-erected yurt.

'Of course you can.  It's Dave Nark.  Who else would it be?  He's rounding up stragglers who won't take the vax.  People won't go into the yurt now because they're saying they've seen others go in and never come out.  That's why he's using the cattle prod.'

'Cripes.  Can't we nobble him?'

'I'm sure that's not beyond our wit and skill Tuppy.  But we'll need to be careful.  Oh - settle down.  The T-G's on the starting blocks again.'

We moved towards the roaring fire and sat gingerly on the fender seat.  The T-G sat on his customary leather armchair beside us with his long sea-booted legs stretched before him, a Meerschaum pipe gripped between his teeth.

'Is there at the core of Man such a limitless darkness that can never be apprehended by the human mind?' he began.

'You know Val Nark's selling heat logs made from compressed sawdust,' said Geoffrey, sotto voce.  'They're meant to burn quite well and are much more eco-friendly than normal logs.  Perhaps the T-G...'

'Don't be stupid Geoffrey.  They wouldn't do on a fire this size.  You need proper logs three feet long to fill this fireplace, not Chad Valley rubbish.'

'Well I was only saying.'

'Fine, but don't bother next time.  Did you bring the hip flask?'

'N-nooo,  I left it on the - '

'Oh for pity's sake.'  I needed that hip flask, and I needed it badly.

'We are the void.  We are blackness.  We are the manifestation of the type of evil that results from sheer ignorance - our actions driven by wilful blindness to our own faults and a vainglorious belief in our superiority as a species.  At best, we are egregiously foolish, at worst, deliberately wicked.  Or is it the other way round.  I'm not sure.  Anyway,  in short, we should never be allowed out on our own.  None of us!'  The silverware on the oak monastery table rattled as the T-G thumped his sword stick on the floor.

Many floors below there was an unearthly scream as Dave Nark cattle-prodded another quivering victim into the vaxing yurt.

'We're going to have to do something aren't we Tuppy.  How I hate it when things get to this stage.'

'Afraid so Geoffrey,'  I said, stifling a sausagey belch.  'Fetch the blunderbuss and limber up.'

more later

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

'Dust into dust,' murmured the T-G, who was sitting in a vast green leather armchair sipping a glass of absinthe toasting his toes in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  His bare feet rested on a brass fire dog while a pair of multi-coloured stripey toe-socks dangled from the mantlepiece.  The blunderbuss, with which he'd blasted us out of our previous situation (see previous post), was propped by the mullioned window alongside a pair of sea-boots and high-powered infra red binoculars. 

There was a loud creak as the heavy oak door was shoved open by a muscular fore-arm.  Mrs T-G bustled in carrying a plate of black sausage rolls (her specialty) and placed them on the oak monastery table which stretched across much of the room.

We were in the 'Tower Room' of Tupfinder Towers,  enjoying the hospitality of the T-Gs.  

'You'll need to sweep that chimney T-G,' reminded Mrs T-G,' We don't want it going up again like before.  And you won't be doing your chilblains any good with your feet right in front of the fire like that by the way.'

'Yes yes dear,' soothed the T-G., staring into the dancing flames.

'I'm only saying,' she sniffed as she left the room.

Mrs T-G never socialised with visitors, or indeed anyone.  In fact, she was rarely seen, even inside her own home.  She liked sitting in the large kitchen by the range, polishing copper pans and preparing the pastry and fillings for her famed black sausage rolls.  Nobody knew what she thought about while she sat there all alone ruminating with her tin of Brasso and her yellow dusters.   And I'm sorry to say it,  but nobody cared.  

'She's always been like that,' the T-G would say when badgered by Val Nark, who was convinced Mrs T-G was menopausal and would benefit from an ear-candling session.  'She's a lone wolf.  She doesn't want friends, or indeed ear-candling.'

'Dust into dust,' he murmured again, topping up his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

'What do you mean, T-G?'  I asked.  Geoffrey fluffed his feathers and leaned in closer.

'The human race is over.  Grieve for it now, while you can.  The great days, the great battles, the great days of wisdom are fading into the dark.  The ancient yew by the chapel has watched the rise and fall of Man over many centuries.  And it will watch its End.  Humanity, despite the best efforts of a few, is finished.'    

'Does this mean that Evil has finally won?' asked Geoffrey. 'Is that what you're saying, T-G?'

'Are we the few?' I wondered silently,' And is it worth struggling on?  Is there ANY hope?'

The pale light of the rising Moon shone through the mullioned window and reflected on the polished oak monastery table as the T-G topped up his glass of absinthe.

more later

 '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