We Attempt to Make a Bucking/Frigging Coracle

Bucking or frigging, take your frigging pick. (You can guess which is MY fave?!!)
Yes, 'scuse the language, but you'll understand why I'm just a bit tetchy when you learn that Geoffrey and I have been busy trying to make another coracle, ours having been torn to pieces by the propellor of a Calmac ferry last week, somewhere in the Minch - as readers will of course remember.
It isn't easy, finding willow wands, never mind weaving them into a coracle. We managed it, but I'm still picking out splinters.
"Why do you need a coracle, uncle Tuppy? why not have a modern boat - something made out of plastic, or fibre glass?" Tuppence sneered.
"If you have to ask, there's no point explaining," said Geoffrey.
"Don't get priggish with ME, Geoffrey," Tuppence retorted. Else I'll tell Erchie McPheasant-Blaster ALL about your exploits at the Fulmars' BBQ at the weekend."
"Since when did you get so uppity, calling Geoffrey Geoffrey, and not UNCLE Geoffrey?" I said, springing to Geoffrey's defence.
"Ever since I got THIS," said Tuppence, waving a digital camera in a horribly triumphant fashion. "And anyway - he's not my uncle. I've known that for YEARS."

False Frigging Alarm

What a frigging liberty. For frig's sake. As the photo below shows only too well, the craft spotted by Ranald and Sandy was defo. NOT the frigging coracle. As if! no - what they spotted is a rusting old hulk, whereas our coracle was beautifully woven out of willow wands, following the traditional method used by monks.
We'll just have to make another one. Sigh. That's if we can find any frigging willow trees.
BTW - we're off round the Fulmars' shortly, for one of Apsley and Cherry's famous BBQs. The medical chest is well-stocked-up with Bisodal etc., just in case - they do say that charcoal is very good for the digestion but there are limits...and I do hope that Apsley won't be parading around starkers beneath that horrible plastic apron with the hilarious (not) naked fulmar on the front, waving his fish slice before all and sundry.

A Miracle - the Coracle has been found

Word arrived via Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse - Geoffrey's cousin and his civil partner) that the coracle was spotted, aground, in some "godforsaken hell-hole" as they put it none too politely. Joy! we could swear that we saw it being chopped up by the blades of a Calmac ferry just last week. Somehow, it managed to escape, or reconstitute itself. Geoffrey and I are off in a mo to try to retrieve it before the wreckers get it.

By the way - readers might be wondering - and I can't blame anyone who isn't - what happened to young Sir Erchie McPheasant-Blaster's newspaper, featuring yours truly and the full unexpurgated story as to how I got wedged in the crack then blasted free by a humungous, forensically-aimed anal emission from Spockfingers. Well, so am I...but wonder no more, because just recently, Geoffrey admitted that he has heard titters coming from the direction of just about everywhere Hereabouts, along with the words "crack" and "wedged". I'm sure it won't be too long before a well-wisher pushes a copy of the abominable thing through our letterbox. Probably under cover of darkness - not that it gets dark at the moment, Hereabouts. I'm going to stay up late, and watch.

The Alexander Brothers pioneer plastic surgery shock

A slight but vital correction to our previous reference to Tom and Jack Alexander doing a gig at the Hadron Collider. As it goes, they are doing a gig ON the Hadron Collider - the brave chaps are singing and playing the accordion, perched atop the thingy that careers along the thingy really fast/at a rate of some considerable knots.
Why? well, word has it that as well as performing for munny, they are attempting some sort of pioneering, high tech, non-invasive plastic surgery method - following the theory that the enormous "rush of wind" experienced as they career along the Collider will act as a wrinkle-smoothing agent, forcing any loose skin nape-of-neckwards with such force that it will/should "stick". It can then be tied into a knot and left there to turn black and "drop off" in its own time, covered conveniently in the interim by a trendy longish hairdo. Stormy Petrel has connections in showbiz circles, and he tells us that this is so.

Solstice Insanity

In one of his poems (can't remember which, off-hand) Sorley MacLean describes Nietzsche as a "lying braggart". Discuss.
On second thoughts - don't bother. Blimey, it's hot. My brain is over-heating.

We Must Find the Alexander Brothers

"Where is it? Where is the anti-matter?" Tuppence raved, thrashing his head from side to side.
It was no use. Geoffrey and I had administered doses of sal volatile that would have floored a horse (and we should know - we tried it on Titus) and he was still running a temperature to rival the solar wind. Which, as most folk know, is so hot that the sun's gravity cannot hold on to it. Actually, it's the sun's corona which is the hot bit, and the winds...anyway, I'm digressing.
"You must find Tom and Jack! ask them what it was like, to stare into the abyss - to stare at anti-matter, mano a mano, and survive! find them! find the Alexander Brothers!" And he fell back on to his pillows, exhausted.
Yikes. I think I read somewhere they're due to do a gig at the Hadron Collider.

The Death of Prog

"Whatever happened to prog?" Tuppence shrilled for the umpteenth time, as he lay slumped in the corner, exhausted after his five nite run at the Puff Inn performing The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth" on his moog. "Nobody gives a toss any more about Tull, or Yes, or Egg."
"You can say that again," muttered Geoffrey, who had long since lost patience.
"Look, Tuppence," I interjected. "What more do you want? You've just had a five nite run at the Puff Inn, with an audience of at least three each nite, and five on weekends. That's pretty good, for Hereabouts. The Alexander Brothers had an audience of minus twenty five last year. Think on. Think how THEY must have felt, faced with an audience of anti-matter."
"I know, I know. Tom and Jack got sucked into a black hole. I've heard it all before. But I want something different. I want the Big Time. I want the Skye Gathering Hall. I want the Birnam Institute! I want the Gig in Blairgowrie!"
Geoffrey and I shook our heads sadly and exchanged glances. "Fetch the medicine chest, Geoffrey. Before it's too late."

Rick Wakeman Rocks!

Least, that's what Tuppence screamed as he powered up the moog last Friday evening and began belting out the first few bars of "The Six Wives of Henry VIII". Can't remember much after that. Probably just as well.

Biscuit of the week - Fox's Ginger Crinkles

Yes, here it is again - our popular biscuit of the week feature! This week's chosen biscuit is the Fox's Ginger Crinkle. It WAS going to be the Fox's Ginger Crunch Cream, which we picked out on Friday - however, due to over-ingestion of meth 'o' pops over the weekend, we forgot and ate them all before we took the photo.
In our opinions, the Crunch Cream is a superior biscuit. We like the cream filling. But a Crinkle will do in a crisis.
Health and Safety warning - this biscuit MUST be dunked, otherwise teeth may be broken. It's pretty freakin' hard.
Plus - it's kind of syrupy and really sticks to your teeth, so a large quantity of tea is required, in order to rinse it off. Be especially wary, if, like us, you have false teeth - you can end up with them glued together for some considerable time. I'm saying no more (because I can't).

Tuppence's fleece

BTW u2 can buy a fleece like Tuppence's - here! let's all get beige and look the same!!!

The rats drag a moog into the Puff Inn

It doesn't say anything on the blackboard due to the rain having washed it off, but Tuppence is playing a gig at the Puff Inn tonite. I saw the rats dragging in the moog earlier, along with a couple of crates of salty snax 'n' stuff, plus a vatload of absinthe flavrd meth 'o'pops and a couple of stomach pumps. Geoffrey and me are already in the Q - see u Munday!!!

By the Way

In case you're wondering - Tuppence swam back to shore. He's still on his health and fitness drive, and was determined to show off his prowess.
"For pity's sake," we shouted, as he prepared to jump overboard just as the "Hebridean Princess" bore down upon the coracle, "Don't be foolish, Tuppence. Nobody could care less about your prowess."
But our words were drowned out by the ear-splitting honking of the boat's fog horn, and the horrified screams of the passengers as the coracle was sucked into the wake and chopped into a million pieces by the whirling propellors.
He returned late last night, none the worse and unbearably full of himself. And amazingly, his wool was bone dry.
"See, uncle Tuppy? I'm in terrific shape. A quick five mile swim in the icy waters of the Minch is just the ticket. Dr Wilson..." (at this point, Geoffrey and I sighed loudly, and spat into the fire)"...Dr Wilson has started up compulsory body pumping classes, followed by a glass of black carrot juice, colonic irrigation and a ten mile hi-energy jog along the cliffs. I'm all for it. Besides, he sez anyone who doesn't take part, will..."
At this juncture, a familiar face, or rather, hooded head, appeared at the open window. It was the freakin' Reaper - again.
"Why bother with all that rubbish? You might as well relax, put your feet up and eat chips. After all, you're all going to die anyway!" and he laughed his horrible, hollow, echoing laugh as he glided off.
"I think a quick snifter's in order," I murmured, reaching for the madeira. "By the way, Tuppence - why isn't your wool soaking wet, after your five mile swim? it's not acrylic, by any chance?" I sniggered in an unpleasant, snide kind of way.
"Don't snigger like that," scolded Geoffrey. "You're lowering yourself to his standards. There's absolutely no need. Besides, you're right. It IS acrylic. Look!"
Tuppence was unzipping his "wool" which, it turns out, is actually an acrylic fleece-style zip-up jacket. Beneath that, he was wearing a "dry suit" and a jet-propelled life jacket.
"You didn't think I'd go out in that holey old coracle unprepared, did you, uncle Tuppy?"

Disaster

What a disaster. Me and Geoffrey ended up going slightly "off piste" due to "someone" stopping rowing (he blames me, but he's completely wrong - as usual!! he nodded off due to the "intense heat"/over-ingestion of madeira (we'd found a loose barrel floating in the Bay, and tied it on to the painter), but he'll never admit it. Of course, I would NEVER let HIM down by doing such a thing.) and us ending up going round in circles.
Upshot was, we ended up "Overthere" for pity's sake, and barged into the path of an oncoming Calmac ferry. We were then dragged on board by the scruffs of our necks by the over-zealous crew - to prevent us being sucked into the propellors, apparently.
Once on board, we hoped for a triple brandy snifter AT LEAST, but instead we were offered a strange brew which they referred to as "koffy" - the most disgusting concoction I have EVER tasted. It was "served" in a cardboard-style cup, and came spurting out of a "Jackson"-style boiler/machine, and tasted like...well, what I would imagine (not that I want to) whatever revolting sludge lurks at the arse end of the Fulmar's septic tank. Regular passengers are charged the princely sum of £1.55 for it! (£ = munny BTW)
Anyway - after the utter indignity of being placed in the hold as "livestock", we managed to jump ship and make our way back to the Rocky Outcrop, where we are now sitting toasting out feet by a roaring driftwood fire and sipping mugs of boiling madeira (not actually boiling as such - we wouldn't want to boil off the alcohol - quite the reverse...)

Geoffrey poses for the camera

Here's Geoffrey, in a favourite pose during a stop-off on our coracle trip.

We Dust Off the Coracle (again)

"Come on, Uncle Tuppy! get some of that fat off!"
It was Tuppence, shouting in the window at some ungodly hour. He threw open the curtain - releasing a cloud of moths as he did so - and clambered in.
"What was that? Speak up uncle Tuppy!"
I cleared my throat and decided not to repeat it. After all, why risk a serious "doing" when you don't have to?
"We're only on our fourth cup of tea, for pity's sake Tuppence!" complained Geoffrey.
Anyway - the upshot of it all is that the three of us have dragged the old coracle out of the attic and we're off for a scull round the Bay.
I can only hope that the weather remains calm, and that Baby Orca is still somewhere off the Orkneys...