the T-G looks down his nose at Geoffrey's writing

"For pity's sake," said the T-G in a shocked, hushed voice,"You'll have to send him to night classes. Is he alright in the, you know, head?"
"Of course he is!" I snapped, loyally. "He just can't spell."
"It's not just the spelling. It's the handwriting," he added in a disgusted tone.
"That's hardly his fault. Geoffrey doesn't have hands," I explained.
"Oh, of course," said the T-G. "I'd forgotten. I suppose he does alright for someone with webbed feet."
"Is Mrs T-G much of a writer?" I asked innocently, taking exception to his sneering manner. Any mention of Mrs T-G makes him jump and look guilty. "And isn't she wondering where you are at 1.30 in the morning? Not that it's any of my business."
"Ahem," he coughed," I think I'll just..."
His face had turned a ghastly and rather alarming shade of beige.
"Oh, forget it, T-G. Let's not fall out. Have another glass of madeira."
After all, I couldn't have him conking out on me.

letters from geoffrey

Well, it's taken me all week to work my way through Geoffrey's letters. I'd no idea he was such a prolific writer.
"dere tupie
heer i am just of the gulf of mecksicko. we must of hit a thermal or sumfing as this is pritty darn far from owr yewsyewal neck of teh woodz. anyways itz 2 hot for me, i don' much lyke it heer, i wont to cum hoam and am missing u very much
yure frend 4 ever
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie
well heer i am just off teh azoars, itz been pritty stormy and we've bin buffitted abowt sumfing awful.
hopa to c u soon
yure frend
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie well heer i am just off teh caost of madeera, we are wurkin owr way up toowords yoor good self and will geh hoam iventyewally.
hoap 2 c u sune
yure frend
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie
well heer i am just off the coast of sellafeeld pwr station my fethers hav turnt a funnie color
see u sune it wont be long now
yure frend
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie
I sorry I stoppt off in jura to c my cuzzins staid longer than i expekted
had a luvly tyme
yure frend
geoffrey

xxx

dere tupie
sorry i stoppt off in mull to c more cuzzins
wiff u sune
yure frend geoffrey xxx

boomerang effect

Fortunately, Spockfingers has a cousin on "the other side" who suffers equally from wind, and when I emerged via a water spout just off some cliffs on the Tasmanian coastline, he or she "let rip" and down I went once again, back through the hole from whence I came. I gave Doug McClure a wave as I sped past.
The searing heat of the earth's core ruptured the ropes which bound me to the trolley (yes, ropes) and when I bobbed to the surface in the Bay I found myself well and truly "off my trolley" and able to leg it for shore.
I can't swim very well, but circumstances being as they were, I managed to make it, and at quite a speedy rate. It helped that I kept seeing a large black fin looming into my line of vision.
My wool was absolutely sodden by the time I got to shore, and it was with great difficulty that I managed to clamber up the winding cliffside path back to the Rocky Outcrop.
I was met at the door by Razor Bill, who was delivering the post.
"Where on earth have you been, Tuppy?"
"Australia," I replied proudly, seizing a bundle of letters. All from Geoffrey! I'm just drying my wool off by a roaring driftwood fire, and calming my nerves with a glass of madeira, and then I'll settle down to have a good read.

an unexpected trip

"Woh-woh-wo-wo-woh-woh-woh-woaoaoah!" As I continued to bob about in the Bay - still ON my trolley, worse luck - I could hear Spockfingers dulcet tones echoing across the mirror-like water from the direction of the Puff Inn. Clearly he'd been indulging in a bar lunch, and most likely one of Stormy's bean and vegetable Hotpots, as after regaling anyone within a 25 mile range with his version of "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" he positioned his backside directly towards the Bay and began to pass wind in the most frightful fashion. This powerful outpouring of gas began to disrupt the water and before I could say Burt frigging Bacharach I was caught up in the most terrifying whirlpool.
The vortex thus created drove me and my trolley through the earth's crust and we are now powering our way down through layers of molten magma (and stuff) towards the earth's core! I think I just saw Doug McClure, wearing chaps and a rather grubby stetson! Ooo-er! whatever next?
(By the way - if you're wondering why Stormy has started providing bean and vegetable hotpots, instead of his usual crisps 'n' salty snax, you'll have to wait, cos I don't yet know, myself.)

Kwak meets a rather nasty end

Well, how would YOU feel, strapped to a trolley with a bright light shining right in your coupon and a masked figure "bearing down on you" clutching a loaded glass syringe? 'specially if you knew full well that the masked figure was a stark staring maniac, backed up by his best pal and so-called medical colleague, another even more stark-staring maniac, clutching a smoking test-tube filled with a noxious potion which stank of over-cooked sprouts.
Blimey. Anyway - just as Kwak was saying "Let's commence the experiment, Heston", and depressing the plunger (not to mention me), I heard an enormous roaring and splashing sound from the Bay. (readers will recall that we are presently in a CAVE, overlooking the bay, following my header over the cliffs - do keep up!) It was none other than my nemesis, Baby Orca - only on this occasion, due to his antics in the Bay, he turned out to be my salvation.
Kwak jumped in fright in response to the noise, caught his sleeve on the edge of the trolley and sent me hurtling out of the cave and towards the bay. Still strapped to the trolley, of course. As I made my rapid exit, one of my feet caught the lip of the caudron and sent its contents a-spillin' and a-swillin' on to the floor of the cave.
I flew Bay-wards, accompanied by the sound of shrieks and screams
"Aaaaagh!! Heston - the potion - it's acid, and it's eating away at my...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggghh!!!!!!!!"
As for me, I'm bobbing about in the bay on the trolley. I do hope to be "off my trolley" very shortly, and high-tailing it for shore, as it can't be long before Baby Orca notices me.
I'm still reeling from the revelation that the Ghastly Wilson has a first name, and that it's Heston. Ooo-er.

A pretty bad end to a night out

Well, I'm afraid I disgraced myself on Friday night and went a bit over the top at Stormy's usual lock-in. As a rule, as readers will know, Geoffrey and I go along together. But as Geoffrey is "away", I ventured along by myself. Oh dear. After a vat-load of the Purple Peril I became loud and over-familiar with other customers, not to mention sickening everyone with repeated renditions of The Raspberries "Overnite Sensation", and had to be forcibly "ejected".
I then ended up going "over the top" in a way that regular readers will know only too well. I took a massive header over the cliffs as I staggered blindly along the path homewards towards the Rocky Outcrop. I was knocked out cold, and when I came to my senses I realised to my horror that I was in a cave, with the contents of a bucket of icy water dripping down my face in a most unpleasant manner. Above me, a dentist's-style lamp shone relentlessly into my eyes, and I became aware that all four of my legs were strapped down to a hospital-style trolley.
As I squinted into the gloom, I discerned two white-coated figures stirring a cauldron of a noxious-smelling liquid.
"Ah! he's awake!" remarked the ghastly Wilson (who else?).
"How marvellous. Now we can get started on him," replied the other. Yes, it was his partner in criminal medicine, Dr Kwak.
"Aaaargh!" I spluttered, as Kwak aproached, holding a large wad of cottonwool and an enormous glass syringe.

Letters from a Lost Gull

Yes, and I MEAN lost. His final words to me were "I'll text" - but I think he must have realised that as I don't have a mobile, it would be pointless.

Today a letter arrived via Razor Bill, scrawled in Geoffrey's unmistakable "hand" (or "webbed foot").

Dere Tupie,

As u allreddy no, I floo north with sum gese recntly, but thay floo so kwik I koodint kepe up, so I stoppt and had a wee rest - here (se foto) I met up with sum nu frends and am having a luvly tyme.

hopping this finds u well, as I am

luv your good frend alwayz,

Geoffrey.

The T-G - who has been visiting a lot more often since Geoffrey's departure - glanced over my shoulder as I read.

"Hmmm. Is Geoffrey's second name Chaucer by any chance?" then guffawed so loudly I thought he'd burst a blood vessel.

"Not to my knowledge," I snapped, glaring at him. How dare he be snide about my best friend's spelling idiosinkrassies? "And by the way - how's Mrs T-G these days?"

That hit the mark, and he slunk off, mortified.

an old mind-number

"God almighty! if I have another game of cribbage I'm going to top meself," whinged the T-G.
"I know the feeling. So why the friggity frig are we playing it for the umpteenth time?"
"I'm trying to keep you from drowning your sorrows with too much madeira. Not to mention the Other Thing."
"You can't mean the Purple Peril? I'd forgotten about that! Thanks for reminding me, T-G! Think I'll shake myself up a koktale right this very second!"

Geoffrey leaves us

Spring's in the air - today two skeins of geese flew past, heading northwards, and I'm sad to say that Geoffrey went with them.

"Wanderlust. Overheating of the blood," said the T-G. "Happens at this time of year. He'll be back."
"I'll text!" shouted Geoffrey over his shoulder, as he soared skywards.
I look forward to hearing how he fares in the icy realms...bet it isn't long before he hankers for our cosy fire and a steaming mug of madeira - speaking of which...

wilson hits the skids and is replaced by kwak

"Ring out the old, ring in the new!"
"For pity's sake, Geoffrey! We've been and done the New Year. It's the first of frigging February!" I snapped.
"Soz, Tuppy."
Soz? what the heck does THAT mean? I can probably guess, but blimey - what's the world coming to? answers on a...oh, never mind.
Regular readers will sense that there is something amiss with dear old Geoffrey. He's pretty darn far from his usual sanguine self. The T-G suspects that trying to work out how to play two-handed cribbage might have over-taxed his (soz to say it, but rather small) brain. Geoffrey received a cribbage set from Sanity Claws at Yule, and spent hours obsessively poring over the rules. I hate to even allow this thought loose, but things are so bad that he MIGHT have to (gulp) arrange a so-called consultation with our new so-called medic, Dr Kwak.
Yes, the ghastly Wilson has a rival. A quack called Kwak is in our midst, doing his worst to test and screen us for every ailment known to man, just so's he can keep himself in luxury on a six figure salary. Not that we're jealous! no! not a bit of envy here - it's way beneath folk like us, with impeccable moral fibre/hygiene. Geoffrey and I are absolutely incapable of feeling anything so crass. No, we're quite content to live in our rundown hovel with its quaint leaks and draughts, which are SO character...oh, forget it.
Anyway - re. Wilson - turns out he has a terrible morphine habit (no surprise to US Hereabouts, but "the authorities" were quite unaware, till "someone" (no, not us - again, we're FAR too morally hygienic) grassed him up. Question is - who was it? do we care? not particularly, but it does give us something to mull over while we try to figure out the cribbage thing...

Stay warm, stay safe - STAY IN!!!!

Need I say more? Here we are, surrounded by icy trackless wastes and no end in sight. Temperatures refusing to rise much above minus freakin' ten. Piles of frozen snow heaped up depressingly on every corner. Everything underfoot seemingly sheet ice and impossible to walk on. The "sun" or what passes for such, crawling along the horizon as if it's suffering from a bad hangover or even a dose of - dare I say it and risk another needle attack by the ghastly Wilson - swine flu.

But there's good news on the health front!! smokers who quit have an 80% higher chance of developing type 2 diabetes. Higher than whom? non-smokers, apparently, according to some insane, shrieking woman on the 24 hour news channel (accessed by us when we're brave enough to totter along the glassy death trap-style path to Apsley and Cherry's heated patio). But it stands to reason that if you DON'T quit, then you must remain at an 80% less chance of developing it, than if you DID? ergo, same as a non-smoker?

Whatever. Pass me the Black Bogey, Geoffrey and let's have another smoke ring blowing contest.

Happy New Year!!!

A very happy new year to all our readers! Geoffrey and I celebrated in traditional style with a sing song round the fire, and a lock-in at the Puff Inn, during which we imbibed our usual, plus. Plus what? well, I'll go so far as to say we had to rig up an impromptu stomach pump using an old bicycle pump and some plastic tubing that had been washed up on the shore at some point. When I say "we" rigged it up, I should really say "they", as said pump was applied in no uncertain manner to MY innards. Very undignified and I'm sure I would have been FINE without it. Geoffrey and I are still barely on speaking terms. I hate an atmosphere, despite what Geoffrey says about me creating them willy nilly. I can't think WHAT he means??
Our plans for the New Year are VERY exciting. We aim to defy medical science and make names for ourselves by changing our diet - or rather, modifying it. yes!! for the next six months we are going to subsist on meat products ONLY. No pineapple kubes. No beef, chicken or smoky bacon flavour krisps or salty snax. Prawn koktale flavr are a moot point at present. No wheat (rolls, bread, biscuits, cake etc.) or any other grain.
We aim to explore the full ramifications of eating a diet composed of processed meat, and processed meat ALONE. Watch this space for what I am certain will be eye-watering news. Speaking of which - I have to complete my bowel cancer test before the sell-by. Something (common sense, perchance?) tells me I'd better get it done BEFORE we proceed further along the processed meat route...

Yuletide Greetings to all

A Merry Yuletide to all our readers - relax, crack open another barrel of Duke of Malmsey's finest, put your feet up by a blazing driftwood fire, and contemplate the mysteries of life while munching on a plate of hi-fat salty snax and counting your blessings.
If you've got any, of course. Is life a blessing, or a curse? as the sun crawls slowly along the horizon, and the snow and ice increase their grip, Geoffrey and I delve into the murky depths of our brains, and attempt to figure this one out...
Oh - by the way - the blazing Yule log thundered past, merely scraping the snow off the weather side of the Outcrop, and plunged harmlessly off the cliffs.
"Is it a sign, Geoffrey? an omen for the coming year? a Christmas miracle, perhaps?" I mused, as the sparks rose high in the night sky.
"Oh dear Tuppy. You're going soft. Time for the hi-strenf medication, I think! fetch the medical chest, quick!"
See you next year...

Yuletide cheer (not)

How wrong can you get it? very considerably, actually. The puffa jacket-wearing hordes were indeed our neighbours, bearing gifts. Gifts of BOGOF puffa jackets, I'm guessing - though I can't say for sure, as I'm not allowed to open my parcel till Christmas Day - or "Yule Morn" as we call it Hereabouts. Geoffrey has rigged up an electric fence style enclosure, in which our garishly packaged gifts sit side by side like a right pair of lemons. Or should I say, satsumas, pointlessly studded with cloves, to resemble something akin to Desperate Dan's testicles? not that we ever eat "fruit" (as I believe it's called?), but from leaflets stuffed through our letterbox relentlessly and without so much as a by your leave, we DO know that it exists and is important to some, as part of a so-called balanced diet.
Hark! I hear a rumbling noise, and it's getting louder and louder (yes, it IS my stomach - I feel a Lorne and brown sauce roll coming on) but there's something else as well.....
a blazing Yule log is rolling down the hill - and it's heading for...AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

solstice seige

"Quick Geoffrey! pile more stuff on the fire!" I urged, as the chanting hordes drew ever nearer. Yes, they were back, attired in their cowled robe-style things, padding closer and closer in that relentless manner that sinister cowled figures always have.
Just as Geoffrey was about to smash up my chair for firewood (we'd long since run out of driftwood), a tall horseman in a pointy black hat charged through the hordes, scattering them to the four winds. "Begone!" he shouted, brandishing a blazing torch. And they were.
Who was this brave horseman? none other than the Tupfinder General, of course, mounted on Titus.
Soon we were ushering them into comfy chairs by the fire and pouring them mugfuls of madeira (watered down a bit, of course - visitors are all very well but we don't want to leave ourselves short). Both declined a whiff of sal volatile, by the way. All the more for us.
"Who were those cowled hordes?" I quavered. "Minions, sent from the bowels of hell?"
"If you'd taken time to look, instead of panicking, Tuppy, you'd have seen that the so-called cowled hordes were merely your neighbours, out a-wassailing, dressed up in identical hooded puffa coats - which happen to be on special at Speedispend. They're BOGOFs. We've all got one. Look!"
And he whipped open his black cape to reveal exactly that.
"I don't put the hood up, because of my hat," he added, patting said pointy item. "And speaking of bowels of hell - where's that bowel cancer testing kit? throw another chair on the fire and let's all have a go!"