we escape!

Geoffrey just had a brainwave. He began to sing, softly at first, James Grant's Winter, and I joined in. We began to sing more and more loudly. As our voices reached a crescendo, the checkout operator's jaw dropped in amazement as all of a sudden, Spockfingers charged full pelt and singing at the top of his lungs, out of the Speedispend entrance and barged into the gallows, demolishing it completely. We ripped the bags from our heads, flung the nooses aside, jumped on Spockfingers back and galloped off into the gathering dusk...

on the gallows

Geoffrey and I are in a terrible state. Strung up on a gallows, to be precise, with sacks over our heads, awaiting execution. (how am I managing to write this then? don't ask.)
Why are we on the scaffold? well, when we finally reached the checkout, the assistant or "attendant" demanded, "Gorra Kloobkahd?" alternating with "Gorra Kashkahd?", to which we rather naively replied "no".
The assistant then bellowed into her tannoy, "Security to checkout 16,000000 please!" and we were whisked outside, via a side entrance, to aforementioned gallows - which are, by the way, festooned with twinkling fairy lights. Someone in a blue and red chequered uniform and wearing a Santa hat dangled tinsel-bedecked nooses in front of us and said "sign up for Kash n 'Kloobkahd's now, or else!"
What can we do?

extraordinary rendition (of a song, not us)

"TRA LA LA LA, TRALALA LALA WINTE-E-E-R..." Yes, it's Spockfingers. We've been in the Speedispend queue for, er, about 24 hours now and we've barely moved an inch. To make matters worse, Spockfingers turned up with a massive trolley and an iPod, and barged along the aisles singing along to James Grant's Winter. Seasonal, I'll give him that. And it's not that Geoffrey and I don't like the song - it's Spockfingers rendition that is, well, "extraordinary". Whip him off to Cuba via Prestwick, and leave him there, somebody, please.

"plastic" surgery

Well, we escaped from the whirlpool - only to be sucked up by the Speedispend vortex and whisked off to the Hypermarket and compulsory health screening centre, where we were coldly informed that we are both "morbidly obese"!
After that riveting bit of info., which is hardly news to either of us, we were whisked up in the air again and dumped at the end of a very long checkout queue, behind a massive trolley-load of groceries which, we explained to the faceless customer service assistant, we have no means of paying for.
"Sign for Kashkard!" it intoned in a grating metallic voice, as it handed us both a form with print so tiny we could barely see it never mind read it. "Sign for Kashkard!"

two passing minke whales discuss actors and films

Geoffrey and I were caught in a whirlpool for a few hours, and as we strove to escape, we overheard two minke whales discussing their favourite actors.
Number one, they agreed, had to be William Shatner, swiftly followed by Brian Dennehy. Reason being - it doesn't matter which parts they play, or what film or show they're in, they're always the same. "We lo-o-o-o-o-ve them", they sang to each other.
The result of that discussion being a foregone conclusion, they moved on to discuss films. One couldn't abide films set in Africa or South America, whereas t'other declared himself a big fan of The Wild Geese, starring, as we all know only too well I'm afraid, a host of fab actors such as Richard Burton, Roger Moore and Richard Harris (mind you, I have to admit that his specs in The Wild Geese are, as and in themselves, worth watching.) And what about Gold! again starring Roger Moore? Brill, they both finally decided.
Whales' worst film of all time - The Cassandra Crossing (starring Richard Harris).
Favourite line of all time? "Broadsword calling Danny Boy. This is Broadsword calling Danny Boy. Come in Danny Boy."

the debt-bringer

Blimey we've had a strange few days. As soon as Geoffrey finished waterproofing and "caulking" (as I believe those familiar with such goings on call it) the coracle, we put on our wellies and sou' westers and set off in a dreadful storm the other afternoon, just as sun was setting.
Rather than boringly pushing off from the rocks in the Bay below, as we normally would, we decided to try a new, exciting type of launch. We enlisted help from our neighbours, the T-G and Apsley and Cherry. Then Geoffrey and I sat in the coracle and waited for a suitably powerful gust of wind; when one arrived, our helpers pushed us in a windward direction, i.e. Over The Top - and off we flew, sailing out and over the Bay, carried by the storm in the general direction of Over There.
Anyway - we were heading for Cuba, so we were hoping that the wind would carry us in a westerly direction, for some considerable distance. If that occurred, and with any luck, we reckoned we'd definitely overshoot Over There, thus avoiding all the concomitent ghastlinesses such as the Speedispend Hypermarket and compulsory health screening centre, and so forth. But as it happened the wind shifted direction and forced us northwards. We now find ourselves just to the north west of Over There, and on course for Greenland rather than Cuba. Oh dear. To make matters worse, we seem to be just within range of the Speedispend magnet-style Xmas shopping victim detector and grab radar, (known as "the debt-bringer")so we are having to scull for our lives just to stay in the same place - if we give up for a second, we'll be sucked into the terrible vortex that is Speedispend. We can even hear the tinny blare of Xmas carols and pop tunes being played incessantly like some sort of ghastly medieval noise torture...
"Keep sculling, Geoffrey! for pity's sake keep sculling!"

Cuban Heels

Geoffrey and I are heading for Cuba. Anything to get away from this cold, wet, germ-ridden hell-hole. (And that's just our livingroom by the way.)
Yes, the long winter evenings are proving even more of a trial than usual this year, so we're off to the land of cigars and sunshine.
We'll have to use the coracle, of course, as we have to cross the Atlantic in order to get there. However, that's nothing to the likes of us. We'll head off on a cloudless, starry night, and set our course by the Dog Star. (is that the right one? don't suppose it matters much.) Geoffrey's been busy waterproofing with a tin of black gluey tar-like stuff, and we've strapped a length of Willesden canvas over some withy wands to form a cabin-type structure, so I'm sure we'll be fine.
I'm writing a list of comestibles at the moment. Geoffrey's developed a bizarre liking for honey sandwiches, so I dare say we'll have to find room for a few of those. As for me, I'm happy with handy, portable items such as tins and packets.
We'll take the old soup ladle so we can bail if need be, but the coracle's very robust and I hardly think we'll have any trouble...

boredom

Geoffrey and I are still recovering from the dreaded lurgy. We're not sure if we've had "swine-style flu", or just bog-standard, or just "bad colds". Either way, we've barely moved from the fireside for about a week. But we must be getting better because we've started to get bored. Readers will know that we don't have a telly or even a wireless. We do know about these things, and how people fill their time staring at other people capering around in little boxes blaring away in a corner of the room - or as Apsley and Cherry have theirs, nailed foursquare to the wall. But we can't enjoy such pleasures as we don't have leccy.
No. We have to entertain ourselves, the old-fashioned way. Sometimes we might take the old volume of Tennyson or Browning from the mantelshelf and read aloud to one another. Sometimes we might have a game of whist - although not often as that tends to get Geoffrey awfully worked up. He's a terrible loser. Sometimes we might whittle away at a piece of driftwood, fashioning some mythical creature from the bare wood. (actually, no, we've never done that.)
Mostly we just sit and chat aimlessly while enjoying our pipes and madeira, and wait contentedly for the odd visitor to arrive. And that's precisely what we've been doing for the past week. So why on earth are we bored? I wouldn't go so far as to say we're bored out of our minds, or bored rigid, it's more..well, I don't know...
"We're fed up, Tuppy!" declares Geoffrey, bursting willy nilly into my train of thought without a care in the world or a by your leave. "Let's plan a holiday!"
"But where should we go?"
"How about a health spa?"
"Don't be ridiculous Geoffrey! your mind must have been affected by the flu. Snap out of it, please!" Health spas indeed!
But he's got a point. They say a change is as good as a rest. Perhaps it's time for us to get the old coracle out and head across the seas again - although I don't think I could face the Flannan Isles so soon after the last fiasco...(see previous posts)

lurgified

Geoffrey and I have flu, so we are currently swathed in tartan rugs, smoking our pipes and sipping boiling hot madeira toddies out of pint sized pewter mugs beside a roaring fire. Readers will know that that is how we spend ninetey per cent of our time, anyway. Nevertheless, we'd like some sympathy - for example, where is Wilson when he is ...well, I can't bring myself to say NEEDED, but as we are feeling generally ghastly and have genuine death's door-style illnesses, some medical so-called expertise MIGHT come in handy. But no. Razor Bill has been delivering leaflets, under pain of death, which advise sufferers to use "self help remedies", such as staying indoors and drinking plenty fluids. "Take your chances" it says, smugly. "After all, it's your own faults for not taking the jab when offered."
Offered? Readers will know that Wilson was firing needles into people's backsides willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave - to the extent that it put me in mind of the English archers raining arrows at Agincourt.
I don't regret leaching the vaccine out of my behind with the bread poultice ( see previous posts). No, not a bit. Neither do I regret conspiring to have Wilson bucked off into the Bay, where I believe he is still just managing to evade the clutches of baby Orca (last time I looked).
People will wonder what became of the bread poultice, with which I leached out the vaccine from my behind, and which then lodged itself on Elizabeth T-G's bonce. And they won't be hugely surprised to learn that we ate it, toasted, with butter and marmalade, for our breakfast yesterday morning.
One benefit of having flu - Spockfingers isn't with us any more - he took off with his juke box, declaring that he didn't want to catch "the lurgy". I think he watched X factor at The Old Rectory, on Apsley and Cherry's 62 inch telly, possibly with a pineapple on his head.

hit record, yeh...er...no

Right - quick update. We finally staggered out of the lock-in yesterday afternoon and made it back to the Outcrop, followed by Spockfingers towing his jukebox and singing along to The Raspberries "Overnite Sensation". If I hear another Power Pop song in the foreseeable, I'll leap off the cliffs myself and join Wilson swimming desperately around in the Bay, being chased by Baby Orca. Yes - we finally managed to shoehorn Wilson into the straitjacket and strapped him on to Titus' back - from whence he was well and truly bucked off the cliffs. Readers will remember that the straitjacket was stretchy with velcro fastenings, so it was easy (sadly) for Wilson to free himself and start doing a creditable backstroke. Well, let's face it he's had plenty practice (see previous posts)
Everyone's relieved to have Wilson and his horrible jabs out of the way, for a while at least. If only he wasn't such a control freak - after all, it isn't very nice for us to have to throw or buck people off the cliffs, and we only do it if absolutely necessary/unavoidable. Geoffrey has just interrupted me to tell me I'm being very po-faced. But isn't there a place for po-facery, from time to time? "No," Geoffrey decrees. Now that his feathers have grown back, and he's recovered from his accidental compulsory detention in the Old Asylum, there's no stopping him. Mind you, it's great to see him back to his usual.
We think we're going to give our livers a break this weekend and avoid the usual lock in at the Puff Inn. NOT that we've paid the remotest attention to any of Wilson's cheerless advice. Far from it. We're going to put our feet up and watch X factor - looks like we'll be having a house guest, in the form of Spockfingers, so doubtless he'll provide us with his views on the contestants. Already we're liking Joe, and wondering if the straitjacket would stretch to containing both twins? they'd make one heck of a splash in the Bay...

o the road is deep and wide...

OMG! it's Wednesday and I'm STILL locked in to the Friday lock-in at the Puff Inn. Yesterday evening Spockfingers barged his way in complete with juke box, which he lugged behind him on a "wheelie"basket nicked from Somerfield - soon to be Co-op. Luckily he also brought some marked down fruit loaf, a jar of marmalade and a packet of trifle sponges which he found in the skip at the back, and just as well too, as we ran out of salty snax on Monday morning, and were surviving only on the calories gleaned from alcohol - and we all know what problems THAT can cause. Or do we? but that's another story.
Readers might know that Spockfingers is renowned for his amazing singing voice, but that it CAN get a bit much at times - which he now realises, hence the juke box.
Records available to play on said juke box include:
Hickory Holler's Tramp, by OC Smith
This is the Captain of Your Ship, by Reperata and the Delrons
I'm Gonna Run Away from Yoo-ooo-ooo by Tammi Lynn
Me and You and a Dog Named Boo, by Lobo(tomy)
Patches by Clarence Carter.
Doubtless all stolen from Jimmy Young's record collection - more will follow, I'm sure...

Friday lock-in continues

Oh dear. I'm afraid the poultice landed foursquare on the bonce of Mrs T-G. Regular readers will remember (or they might not) that Mrs T-G (Tupfinder general) is rarely seen in public. In fact, never.
When he stopped by for a snifter last week, the T-G had hinted that "Elizabeth" as he calls her, had put on a bit of weight lately, and had been advised by the ghastly Wilson to "lose some of the beef" - or else. Wilson mimed a cutting motion at his throat, as he said "or else". So, I can only assume that the unfortunate woman was in fear for her life and had set out on a desperate "health and fitness" walk, furtively creeping along the cliffs under cover of darkness. That'll teach her to pay attention to Wilson and his ilk.
Anyway, one side effect is that the poultice had retained sufficient heat to leach some of the fat cells out of her body ("Why did it not do the same for me? I asked Geoffrey, plaintively. "It would take more than a bread poultice to make a dent in YOUR waistline, Tuppy!" he replied, jokingly. At least, I THINK he was joking...)
ANYWAY - this latest atrocity from Wilson has strengthened our resolve and we are "making plans" as I write. In fact, I'm writing this in the Puff Inn - the Friday lock-in continues...

bread poultice

Bliss! thanks to the hasty application of a boiling hot bread poultice the "vaccine" has been leached out of my behind/bloodstream. Geoffrey valiantly offered to suck the noxious subtsance out, snake venom-style, but unfortunately his beak is hardly suited to such a task.
After it had done its work, I flung the poultice out of the window, and it landed with a loud slapping noise on the bonce of some passerby or other, I'm not sure exactly who...

blimey - medical chest disaster

I don't know if it's age, the time of year, clocks going back (or is it forwards?) but I seem to have lost me thread i.e. am going what I believe psychiatrists call "doo-freakin'-lally". Quickstyle.
I reached for the sal volatile earlier today, as it usually helps at such times, but was devastated to find that the bottle which has been my saviour on so many occasions (see previous posts, if you want to know exactly HOW many occasions - but be warned - you may be some time) contained nowt but a weak, namby-pamby mixture of synthetic eucalyptus and menthol. A quick whisk through the other items in our recently re-stocked medical chest (see previous posts - recent ones this time so it shouldn't take too long) revealed a horrifying sight. No morphia. No "equipment", viz. needles and syringes. No mustard plasters. To cap it all the emergency strait jacket (sometimes required for guests) has been replaced with one made of "stretchee" lycra-mix and has velcro fastenings.
And who has so defiled our box of medical basics? the ghastly Wilson, of course! a vile little label was stuck inside the lid, informing us that previous contents constituted a red alert-style health and safety hazard, and that henceforth we would be "allowed" only junior aspirin and elastoplast, plus of course the wishy washy eucalyptus and the rubbish straitjacket. What's the point of having a straitjacket that you can get out of in a trice? we used the old one to restrain the occasional houseguest - for their own good of course, but more importantly, for our entertainment!
We suspect that Wilson has purloined the old straitjacket so that he can restrain passersby willy nilly and without a by your leave,while he fires needlesful of swine flu "untested on anything remotely sentient, but totally safe" vaccine into their unsuspecting backsides.
Fortunately, the T-G has a replacement "genuine" one, which he is prepared to lend us as we assist Titus in his efforts to "unseat" Wilson (see previous post). Hopefully we will be able to preempt his vaccination mania before too many of us lose our sanities. We expect mission to be accomplished by tomorrow tea-time at the latest. That will leave the evening free for the usual Friday lock-in at the Puff Inn.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! too late!!!!!!!!!!a large needle and syringe has just lodged itself dart-like in my behind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

we discuss how best to murder the ghastly Wilson

"Well, I'm not really into murder these days," said Titus, when we'd related the ghastly tale of how Geoffrey was incarcerated in the Old Asylum. Minus MY part in the matter, of course.
"Can't you make an exception? stretch a point given the circumstances? old chums and all that?" we pleaded.
Titus pursed his lips. "Hmmm. Well, I'll think about it. But there mustn't be any comeback, you know."
"No, of course not Titus! we won't breathe a word. And we'd be awfully grateful," I gushed eagerly.
"Awfully," Geoffrey echoed faintly. He's still not quite his usual self - and who can blame him? mind you, his feathers are growing back wonderfully thanks to Titus' mysterious ointment.
"If you could see your way clear to...well, bucking him off again? that would be wonderful," I suggested.
"I'm not sure about THAT," said Titus. "After all, he's psychopathic, not stupid. I can't see him agreeing to sit on my back after what happened last time." (see previous posts, for an account of what happened last time)
"No Titus. That's not what I had in mind at all. I was thinking more along the lines of sneaking up behind him, and giving a swift kick to, well, his behind, from behind? perhaps on a dark and stormy evening...along the cliffs... if you follow..."
"I DO, Tuppy! I DO! leave it to me. But say nothing to anyone! I don't want to have to go into hiding again."
"Consider our lips well and truly sealed, Titus..."