Munny - is it the root of all evil, or what?

Well, it's 10.33, the T-G has arrived for his morning snifter and so it's high time we cracked open the madeira and lit our pipes. Geoffrey and I have been recovering from our recent ordeal in the tunnels, in which the Grim Reaper aided by the Ghastly Dr Wilson attempted to make us part of his "quota". As if.
Anyway, we're none the wiser re. how Tuppence got his digital camera, never mind his "munny".
"But why do people need munny?" mused Geoffrey.
"Nobody needs munny. It's the root of all evil," asserted the T-G, poking the fire with his sword stick. "Take Speedispend for example. You can bet your bottom dollar that's where Tuppence got his camera."
"But we've not got bottom dollars. That's what we're getting at. Should we have? Is munny necessary? Should we be going to Speedispend as well?"
"NO!" shouted the T-G, leaping to his feet and releasing a shower of ash from his pipe. "NEVER darken its doors."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. We already did darken its doors, by accident last summer, when the TTD went awry (I think - anyone keen to read that episode will have to trawl back a bit) and we had a dreadful time.

The Bacon Torture (contnd. - again...)

"Get your laughing gear round THAT," said a muffled voice. It was Mrs T-G, talking from a crouched position in the dumb waiter. (as regular readers will know, Mrs T-G is rarely if ever seen in the flesh - and possibly just as well).
Yes, we managed to escape from the tunnels, thanks to the T-G's pistols, and we're now sitting round the fire in the study at Tupfinder Towers, about to tuck into bacon rolls. At flaming last. We've no idea what happened to Tuppence by the way - but we'll be having top level discussions later on, over steaming mugfuls of madeira...

The Bacon Torture (contnd.)

"Put that frying pan down!" commanded the T-G.
"Yes," I added eagerly, "And get that bread buttered while you're at it. I'm gasping on a bacon sandwich. Any brown sauce?"
"Red for me," said Geoffrey.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Reaper. "Your puny weapons are quite useless against me - I'm dead as a doornail."
"And besides - bacon's for CLOSERS!" chortled the Ghastly Wilson, just as a bullet whistled past his ear.

More on the Bacon Torture

I've digressed a bit but yes, we ARE still in the tunnels having bacon wafted under our noses, and the T-G has just whipped his pistols out. More on that later...

The Bacon Torture

Before we knew where we were, we found ourselves "huckled" towards some ghastly-looking machinery and strapped on.
"Turn the switch!" commanded the Reaper.
We assumed that he meant our exercise machines and braced ourselves accordingly - but no - Wilson was busily stuffing vegetables into three blenders, all going at top speed.
"That's enough!" said the Reaper. "We don't want to lose all the fibre. Now get the tubes in."
As Wilson approached us carrying several lengths of rubber tubing, the Reaper continued.
"You are about to have a healthy mixture of berries, wheatgerm, leafy green vegetables and alfalfa sprouts poured down your throats, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, I will start frying up a bacon sandwich, nice and crispy, which I will then waft under your noses just out of reach. I might even bung on a sausage as well. The resulting mental and physical torture should finish you all off nicely, and I shall make my quota no bother. Goodbye!"
And with that, he turned his back and proceeded to light a gas ring and open a packet of Co-op smoked back.
"I'll just wait till the pan's nice and hot," we heard him murmur to himself as Wilson began pointing the end of the rubber tubing at my throat.
"Just hold it right there!" bellowed the T-G. Somehow, he had managed to twist free of the burly henchmen and had whipped a pair of pistols out of his belt.

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

...none other than the Ghastly Wilson, all togged out in Lycra for pity's sake. And looking very full of himself.
"He's looking very full of himself," whispered Geoffrey.
"And well he might," I muttered. "Look who he's got riding shotgun. In a manner of speaking."
"Blimey!"
Striding around impatiently at the back of the podium was none other than the Grim Reaper himself.
"Come on, come on, get on with it," he hissed, swirling his cape around and creating a terrible draught. "I haven't got all day! I need to make my quota before midnite. Get them on the machines, toot sweet."
"Yes, master," grovelled Wilson. "And I'll start feeding them the health foods, as well. Just to send their systems into shock."

We meet our nemesis (again)

"Ah! welcome!"
Arc lights suddenly dazzled us as we crept along the passageway beneath the old coastguard hut, causing me to drop the picnic hamper I was carrying with a loud thump.
"Mind the flask, Tuppy!" scolded the T-G.
The flask was the least of our worries at that point. We had arrived in an enormous cavern, which appeared to have been transformed into a giant, er, gym.
"What's THAT?" I whispered to Geoffrey.
"I think it might be what they call a running machine."
"A running...machine? How absolutely ghastly!"
Suddenly we were grabbed from behind by two burly creatures in matching trackie bottoms and white vests. They propelled us forwards, until we came face to face with our nemesis. (or one of them - there are a few...) It was...

We hatch a plan

"But how did he get a digital camera, Hereabouts? and how is he, er, plugging it in?" mused the T-G earlier this morning over a reviving post-half-ten snifter.
"I don't even know what a digital camera IS," said Geoffrey.
"Modern technology, Geoffrey. All part of the cut 'n' thrust of daily life, for folks Overthere."
"That's it!" I cried. "He must have been travelling Overthere - to Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Health Screening Centre! he must have got hold of some munny!"
"Great Scott! I think you're right, Tuppy! but how - "
"He must have rigged up another TTD (time travelling device). Either that, or - "
"He's smuggling again."
"Let's all calm down for a moment. Let's think about this rationally," said the T-G, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "After all, it's only natural for a young lad like Tuppence to want all the latest gadgets."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "We never had any gadgets. And look at us."
"Exactly," said the T-G.
"But Tuppence has turned to crime. He's out of control. He's smuggling, and wrecking ships. He's dealing in contraband, and getting - "
"Munny. I know. Besides, he could make all our lives a misery with that flaming camera, sneaking up and taking pictures willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Well, there's only one thing to do now. We'll have to check the tunnels under cover of darkness. I'll bring the pistols, Tuppy, if you and Geoffrey wouldn't mind organising the medical chest, a flask, and a few sandwiches. We'll meet at the witching hour, and take it from there."

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."