gig off

Great news! Razor Bill (postman) stopped by on his rounds for a drop of madeira this morning - never too early - as someone once said "It's five o'clock somewhere" - and gave us the latest from the Puff Inn. Rehearsals for Tuppence's band's Sunday lunchtime gig have not been going too well. There have been horrible scenes. Dr Wilson insisted on playing "pure prog" (no surprise there - he's such a pedant) but Tuppence and the Reaper wanted to play more heavy rock, egged on by Mr Spockfingers, who wanted to start the set with Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time, so he could showcase his vocal range. Wilson stormed out in a terrible huff, which left them without anyone to squeak the glass. And without electrics, that means they only have the biscuit tin lids left.
Anyway it's all gone "tits up" as they say.
And Geoffrey and I couldn't be more pleased. We don't like music. We like Val Doonican.

grim reaper reveals a musical side

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

tuppence waxes musical

Terrible news. Word from the Puff Inn tells me that Tuppence, with his newfound enthusiasm for prog rock, has started a band, with none other than Mr Spockfingers (see previous posts - and photo) as lead singer. They've managed to lay their hands/hooves/whatever, on a Moog synthesizer and a couple of coathangers, and are doing covers of Uriah Heep and Spookytooth. Spockfingers has made himself a cape. One of the rats is banging away on a couple of old biscuit tin lids, and another is rubbing his paw round the rim of a jam jar, making a squeaky sound. Another is on backing vocals.

Apparently, Stormy has offered them a gig at the Puff Inn, next Sunday lunchtime, just to see how they get on. As readers will know, the Fulmars are the only folk with electrics hereabouts, so negotiations are afoot with Apsley and Cherry to see if Tuppence and Spockfingers can plug their moog into their generator. We know only too well that said generator has experienced problems in the past (see previous posts - Geoffrey and I accidentally cut the cable when over-refreshed with the purple peril) I only hope that it can cope with the strain.

Viz a viz the Purple Peril - apparently Stormy wants to bring this delightful koktale back, specially for the occasion. However, health and safety - not that we bother much with that Hereabouts) precludes it. Too many people have gone blind/and/or insane.

newsflash

A bit of good news - B.O. has left the bay, thus relieving me of the dreadful worry of having to go about with a bounty on my head. According to the latest newsflash from the Puff Inn, Tuppence played "The Tull"'s Aqualung album at full volume, down one of the tunnels (see gazetteer). He was merely attempting to maximise the rather tinny sound of his antiquated stereo system, but the rather fortuitous side effect was that as said tunnel ended in one of the massive caves in the cliffs, causing an ear-shattering echo/reverb effect, the Baby Orca was driven from the bay by the appalling din.

tuppence develops a taste for prog rock

Geoffrey's still recovering from his coma. He insists it was genuine - brought on in part by watching Celebrity Big Brother for more than five consecutive seconds, which we already knew; what we didn't know that was it was also partly brought on by shock, caused by catching a glimpse of Apsley Fulmar's unmentionables.
We managed to find this out by employing a form of regression therapy - which didn't work - the Tupfinder general then produced a vial of truth serum, which he proceeded to inject into poor Geoffrey's brachial artery, despite my protestions.
"Hold him down Tuppy!" he ordered, and cravenly I complied. I'm petrified that Geoffrey will never forgive me, but I'm more petrified of the Tupfinder, and as he says" Better out than in." Though I'm certain that can't be said of Apsley's unmentionables. Or can it? I'm not one to judge.
At any rate, once well and truly under, Geoffrey blurted out the truth - Apsley and Cherry had been watching Celebrity Big Brother whilst lounging on their faux leather recliner settee, attired in their customary matching fleece robes. Apsley had got up from the recliner in rather an ungainly fashion, causing his robe to gape open - that was when Geoffrey saw...well, a rather dreadful sight. As he stood aghast, Apsley went to their kitchen - openplan, faux oak fittings, an Aga, walk-in fridge - and fetched a large bowlful of crisps which he and Cherry proceeded to demolish. That was too much for Geoffrey (see previous posts re. Geoffrey's crisp addiction). He remained transfixed, and that is where Razor Bill found him the following morning - frozen in time, eyes glazed, standing on one leg, beak agape.
Anyway he's much better now.
News from the Puff Inn tells me that Tuppence is having problems - he's currently living high on the hog in the tunnels with the rats, pistol in his belt etc. - likes to think he's their leader (see previous posts) however, he's deluding himself. There's a rebellion afoot. The rats are sick and tired of Tuppence and his arrogant ways and they want him out. More fuel was added to the fire by Tuppence's recent obsession with prog rock - apparently he found an old copy of Rick Wakeman's Six Wives of Henry VIII and has been playing it nonstop on an old stereo system he rigged up.

the T-G's war wound plays up

"Why did Mertz and Mawson eat the husky livers if they knew they were poisonous?" I had to ask. It had been troubling me all night.
The T-G sighed heavily. "They DIDN'T know, in those days. It all happened before the Great War. You know. Before I got shot in the Balkans."
I winced. The T-G tends to get tetchy when his old war wound plays up. And that's never a good thing. He's terribly butch, and had a piece of shrapnel, from said war wound, mounted in silver and fitted on the nub of his sword stick, with the words"Ready for Action" engraved along the business end.
"They didn't have vitamins in those days?" I queried. Mind you, I thought, I have precious little of them myself.
"They didn't NEED vitamins. They were a different breed. Tough. Men were men, in those days." The Tupfinder was gazing into the middle distance with a wistful expression. I didn't like to remind him about the vitamin A poisoning, and daren't even breath the word "scurvy". I defo. didn't want to cross the Tupfinder, in his present mood. I imagined he was remembering his first meeting with Mrs T-G, in the field hospital at Scutari.
"That reminds me - I've been wonderin' - what the dickens happened to the other items from my vitrine? the Meerschaum pipe for example? not to mention Scott's last biscuit." (see previous posts)
I coughed nervously, as one does in such situations, and tried to change the subject.
"Another smidgeon of madeira, T-G? Terrible weather we're having."
Just as he reached towards me, glass in hand, Geoffrey sprang up from his pillows and shrieked"Eccles! he's in the canal!" and collapsed, insensible once more.
The T-G eyed him sceptically. "I wonder..." he mused, and lit a small cigar. When the tip was glowing brightly, he held it to Geoffrey's left ear. Before it touched the feathers, Geoffrey was up like a shot, and flying round the ceiling in a panic.
The T-G sat back smugly. "Thought so!"
Geoffrey? feigning illness? whatever next! but why?

the T-G provides an explanation for Geoffrey's coma

"Husky livers."
"What?"
"Husky livers. It's the only explanation. Or polar bear. Or seal." The Tupfinder general sat back on Geoffrey's usual chair by the fire - unlit, as we're out of fire lighters - and gave me the benefit of his thoughts on Geoffrey's condition.
"Where on earth would Geoffrey find a husky or a polar bear, round here? The odd seal, perhaps, but I honestly can't see him eating its liver."
"Well, you did ask. And it's one possible explanation for his raving. Vitamin A poisoning. Like Mertz and Mawson."
"Mertz and Mawson?"
"One of the greatest stories of polar exploration. They survived, after their companion plus all their food went down a crevasse, by killing their huskies and eating their livers. The livers contain toxic doses of Vitamin A - Mertz died, Mawson did not. I can go on, if you like."
"N-n-no, please don't trouble," I said hastily. But he was still in full flow...
"I think I've got Mertz's pinky finger in the vitrine somewhere. The one he bit off."
I put my hands over my ears. "Please!"
The Tupfinder looked taken aback, then we both did as Geoffrey pulled himself up from his pillows and shrieked"Stephanie! don't do it!" the fell into a faint again.
He must have had a fly look at the TV mag after all. Well, that made my mind up! I immediately began folding the pages into kindling for the fire. No more TV mags for him! I'm all but out of sal volatile and this can't go on.

addendum

You won't be surprised to know, that during Geoffrey's coma, I could hear the swishing of you-know-who's scythe drawing ever nearer. As I stood watch by Geoffrey's bedside I was grateful for the Tupfinder general's sturdy presence with his service revolver at the ready. He stood guard by the door, which is a bit ricketty at the best of times - see photo - and shouted "Begone, begone" from time to time, fired the odd shot, and brandished a blazing pitchfork full of hay and stuff. That seemed to do the trick.

Geoffrey in a coma

Dreadful news - I've had a terrible week. On Monday, as I think I mentioned, Geoffrey was out scouring the bins for crisps, in preparation for the Tupfinder's visit. He happened to swoop by the Fulmar's place mid-evening, and his eye fell upon their 62 inch LCD telly - the one we watched at Christmas when we were invited round. Anyway, I was aware that Geoffrey coveted a telly like that - but I'd no idea, not the remotest, how badly it was affecting him and seizing hold of his brain. We haven't got a telly at all, of course, and have to make our own entertainment - and readers will know only too well what nightmarish scenes THAT can lead to - see previous posts if you don't believe me.
What happened is this. Geoffrey could not control himself when passing the Fulmars, and simply had to stop, alight on their decking and watch the telly through the enormous French windows. The programme which was on, was something called "Celebrity Big Brother", and it was so mind-numbingly dull, that Geoffrey fell immediately into a deep coma. And that's where he's stayed, ever since. Razor Bill the postman found him comatose and flat out early the next morning - well, eleven o'clock.
He was taken back here to the Rocky Outcrop, where I've been nursing him round the clock.
Oh! he's coming back to us! I must fetch the medical case.

B.O. becomes less of a threat, and Tuppence sends us a note

No go with Tuppence and the TTD blueprints. We managed to get a message to him via Razor Bill the postman, and we got one back quick as you like, with just the two words written on a piece of torn lavatory paper. Not surprisingly one of them was "off". It was actually quite hard to read, due to it having been written in felt pen and the paper being the posh quilted variety. But we got his drift. Quilted bog roll! Tuppence is clearly doing quite well for himself! whereas Geoffrey and I are enduring the rigours of whatever cheap "value" range we can find. Geoffrey does favour Izal, but honestly, at my age that's not on at all.
So, back to square one with the reaper. We've decided to consult the Tupfinder general about it all. He's bound to have encountered this problem before. We also need his advice about Baby Orca - Tuppence has been revelling in it all and egging him on to ever greater heights of slavering revenge - it's pathetic really. Why can't he let bygones be bygones. Anyway, apparently I was mistaken about the bounty on my head being a real bounty as in bar. However, word from the Puff Inn is that nobody's interested in capturing me and flinging me into the sea to be consumed by B.O., as it's well-known that he - Baby Orca - hasn't got any cash and wouldn't be able to pay out. His mum died broke (in more ways than one - see previous posts), and he just lives from one meal to the next. A bit like me and Geoffrey at the moment, so I've no sympathy.
Obviously, he was counting on yours truly being on the menu before too long, but although I'm "most unpopular" Hereabouts ( see previous posts) it looks like there's not enough money on the table, so nobody can be "arsed" to use one of Tuppence's favourite words, getting mixed up in it all. Specially at this time of year - the weather isn't half "parky" and nobody wants to be scuttling around kidnapping folk unless it's absolutely unavoidable. So, that's one less thing to worry about.
Tonight we've invited the Tupfinder round for madeira and crisps - Geoffrey's scouring the bins as I write - and we hope to come up with a solution re. the Reaper.

we decide to remove Death

Geoffrey and I have decided to play the grim reaper at his own game: we're going to remove him - or she, or it. How to do it? well, of course we discussed murder - a pretty radical solution, because as we all know, or most of us anyway, murder isn't pleasant, or even justifiable, usually, but there's a moral argument here, viz. an eye for an eye. Or a life for many lives, in Mr. G. "thinks he can get away with anything" Reaper's case. Better by far to kill one, and save many.
That's what we concluded after a nightlong discussion. A dilemma which hasn't been resolved quite so tidily is the use of the word "kill". It isn't, well, very nice. It's a bit kind of in your face. A bit of a bald statement. The word "murder" is little better. We hit upon "remove" as a temporary fix - but really, it won't do either, as we don't want to remove him/she/it. Remove implies removal, or shifting, to somewhere else, and we want to get rid of him/she/it altogether.
Anyway, it'll have to do meantime.
So, to the actual nuts and bolts of removal. How to "remove" the Grim Reaper? well, we've seen many a resident from Hereabouts "going over the top" (see previous posts), but we didn't think that would suffice for the Reaper. We defo. wouldn't want to to see him clambering back up over the cliff edge again, probably in a foul temper, and therefore felt that a more stringent solution would be required.
After a badly needed whiff of sal volatile at 5.15am., we had a joint brainwave, viz. capturing him/she/it, possibly in a tungsten net, and "removing" him/she/it via a revamped TTD (time travelling device - see previous posts from ages ago - Tuppence made one from old luncheon meat and korn bif cans)
The only thing is, we're not sure we can lay our hands upon the blueprints for the old TTD, so we might have to track down Tuppence and see if we can bring him on board. But he's so young that he probably isn't bothered one way or t'other about the old G.R. and his constantly whizzing scythe.

cowering in the slipstream of the grim reaper's scythe

I managed to convince Geoffrey that I wasn't trying to bump him off with the chilli heatwave doritos, and after he'd performed his obligatory huff, we settled down with the madeira to continue our conversation.
"Yes, I accept that at our age we need to think about our blood pressure and so forth," I began, "but needs must. We have to enjoy life as well, and if you enjoy a dorito or two, where's the harm?"
"Well I'm cutting them out from now on. I can feel the breeze as the grim reaper's scythe hacks away willy nilly, getting ever closer..."
"For pity's sake, Geoffrey! let's relax and enjoy ourselves...while we still can! oh no! now I'm getting as gloomy as you!"
How on earth could Geoffrey and I snap out of our terrible depression? how could we conquer our fear of death?
These questions gripped us till dawn, when we decided upon an all or nothing solution...

whizzing towards the grave

Geoffrey and I were enjoying a pipe of Black Bogey and a glass of madeira by a crackling fire of driftwood - and the bits left over after we rebuilt the rocky outcrop - when we began reflecting on our years together as best friends.
"Why is it," asked Geoffrey," that as you get older, time goes faster?"
"I know exactly what you mean, Geoffrey. But I don't think it does. I think perhaps it only seems to go faster."
"No, there's more to it than that. Sometimes I feel I'm whizzing towards the grave. And I certainly didn't feel like that when I was young. When I look back and recall my childhood years, it seems like summers were always sunny and lasted for ever. Remember when we used to steal apples from Grandad Tupfinder's orchard, and scull across the bay in your coracle with the sun on our backs? These summer days seemed to last forever. Even the winters were properly snowy, the stars were brighter and it took an age for Christmas to arrive."
"Of course I remember these things, Geoffrey. We're just getting old. There's nothing more to it than sheer nostalgia. No need to get over-sentimental about it."
Geoffrey fluffed up his feathers huffily. "No need to be insulting, either Tuppy. I WAS going to tell you my theory about time, but I shan't bother now."
"I'm sorry Geoffrey. I didn't mean to upset you. I'd love to hear your theory about time. Look, have a packet of crisps. I've got some doritos in the sideboard."
"No, I'm giving up crisps for the new year. They're bad for my blood pressure. Far too salty."
I gasped. Geoffrey, giving up crisps? and worrying about his blood pressure?
"Geoffrey, please. Time is passing so quickly - or seems to be - that we might as well enjoy ourselves while we can. What's this nonsense about crisps? Next you'll be giving up tobacco and madeira!"
"I know, Tuppy. But all this thinking about time has got me in a panic. And I got a bowel cancer testing kit through the post the other day."
"Who on earth sent you that? don't tell me - Tuppence, up to his tricks again, trying to frighten people!"
"No, Tuppy. It's Dr Wilson. He says we've all to get it done, for our own goods."
"For our own goods? What kind of horsecrap is that?" I should have known that Wilson was behind it. I got to my feet and began to pace up and down the room, the peaceful atmosphere shattered. This wouldn't do, at all.
"Come on Geoffrey. Snap out of it. Think about your time theory, not bowel cancer. We've all got to die some time. Let's go out with a bang." And I brandished a pack of Chilli Heatwave flavour doritos.
"N-n-n-no! You're trying to kill me!" Geoffrey stood up and backed away, towards the door.

what an insult

It gets worse and worse. I'm starting to feel paranoid and defensive again, and not without good reason. Readers will remember that I was voted "most unpopular" in the solstice poll - though I managed to survive the resulting solstice seige unscathed - physically unscathed, that is, as it will take aeons for the mental scars to heal, if ever - well, I was only just managing to sleep nights after that debacle, when I was informed that baby orca has put a bounty on my head - as mentioned in my last post. I assumed that "bounty" meant "price" or "reward" i.e. a very large sum of money for my head on a plate. But no. Apparently he really is offering a Bounty, as in bar. I can only hope it's the full double bar, not just the half, and that it's a real Bounty, not the supermarket own brand coconut-style bar. Though if he was offering a multi-pack I might be tempted myself.
I'm now attempting to do a review of the year. It's been fairly eventful. Highlights include: time travelling to "over there"; setting sail in my old coracle; being swallowed up by a whale, and escaping by being belched out; being swallowed up again by same whale, and escaping by blowing whale up by setting light to anal emission from Highland cow; wandering as an outcast through the mist; being locked in the dungeon of the chateau d'If with the man in the iron mask; being attacked in my own home by Dr "I hate him" Wilson and my own nephew, Tuppence; seeeing my own home being blown to smithereens; being voted least popular; and now, I've got a bounty on my head.
On the up side, Geoffrey has been a staunch friend most of the time - although his loyalty was sorely tested after I ate Captain Scott's last biscuit - as has the Tupfinder general, and we have enjoyed the Fulmar's hospitality/BBQs/Xmas fare more often than we deserve, given how much we slag them off behind their backs. I also salvaged my wooly socks and non-slip soled slippers after Tuppence robbed Sanity Claws. So, I must be thankful for small mercies.
Some snowdrops are beginning to raise their little heads in the outcrop garden - what will the coming Springtime bring, and will I last that long?

happy new year (for some)

I believe it's customary to wish everyone a Happy New Year around this time - that's all very well for you lot, and everyone else Hereabouts - going round slapping each other on the back and shaking hands without a care in the world - if only I could wish myself one. I'm currently - as Mr Spockfingers puts it with his usual appalling lack of taste - "keeching myself". (Not literally, but even so, not a good start to the year by any stretch). The reasons were outlined in the previous post, viz. Tuppence amok again, and son of orca's current revenge expedition. The baby orca has been "breaching" in the bay - sticking its head up out of the water, in case you don't know - seeking me out with a very determined and unnerving gleam in its beady little eye. Naturally I've been keeping my head down and staying well away from anything watery.
Apparently, in case he can't catch me himself, baby orca has put a bounty on my head. It's just a matter of time.
Oh - and I should point out that Hereabouts, the new Year starts on December 21st. The calendar year is completely irrelevant, except for keeping up with telly listings etc.