Aloysius/Axle Snailbottom tries to frighten us - and fails

Axle Snailbottom persists in flinging abuse at us, and threatening legal action, albeit from what he assumes is a safe distance.
He might be living in la-la land but he forgets that we still have live grenades up on the roof - and a very powerful catapult. La la land is nothing to us.
Think on, Axle. Think on.

Breaking news - fish finger battle over

Well, it's over.
The Tupfinder General found some old grenades in his vitrine in the upper room - the one in the ivy-covered tower, where I found Scott's last biscuit (and ate it - oops! - see old posts if you want the full, shameful account). We sent a warning message to St John via the heliograph, and were all set to launch them from the catapult on the roof, when a reply flashed across from the Hillock.
"OKAY OKAY," it read. "NO KEECH ON FINGERS. BBQ SAUCE. PLEEZE NO FIRE GRENADES."
Well it LOOKED like keech, and it sure smelled like it. But, apparently, it's been Barbeque sauce all along. We don't know which brand as yet (not planning on getting any in the foreseeable).
So that's plan one out of the way. Now all we have to do, is work on plan two - how to prevent Tuppence murdering Baby Orca and turning him into "fish" fingers. I think I'll start by pointing out that a killer whale isn't a fish. But, I don't think that will stop him...
Large snifters all round.

The Fish-finger battle, contnd...

"This is ridiculous," said Razor Bill, ducking. "I'm only trying to deliver the post, and I'm being pelted with frozen fish fingers, covered mark you, in a noxious substance. It's hardly fair. I've got dogs and all sorts to contend with. I can do without THIS, as well."
He was quite right, of course. Steps needed to be taken. So, last night, Geoffrey and I headed round to Tupfinder Towers for a top level meeting with the Tupfinder General. After all, due to the pong, we were going to become persona non grata (even more so than normal) before too long.
"Here," said the T-G as we arrived. "Take this, for pity's sake." And he handed us a can of Febreze before quickly rushing indoors.
Obediently, we sprayed ourselves with Febreze "Caribbean Sunset" and waited for it to work.
"That's worse!" said the T-G through the letterbox. "Oh, never mind. Come in anyway. I'll just put a peg on my nose. The old ways are usually best. Mrs T-G can give the place a mop down with Zoflora once you're gone."
Once indoors, we sat round a blazing log fire, sipping glasses of brandy, mulling over the fish finger situation.
"Why bother?" said Geoffrey. "Surely the whole thing is self-limiting. After all, he's bound to run out of fingers before long."
"That's not the point," snapped the T-G. "You can't let St John get away with this. He's a newcomer to the area, and already he's throwing his weight about like he owns the place. It's completely unacceptable."
"It's not his weight I'm worried about," I said.
"I'm not surprised," said the T-G, getting up from his chair and pacing around the room. "Because let's face it - he MIGHT run out of fingers. But he's hardly going to run out of the other."
He crossed over to an oak door next to the ivy-framed leaded window. (Ivy which I shinned up, last summer - but that's another story...)
"Let's have a look in the Tower," he said, unbolting the door. "I MIGHT have something helpful in the vitrine..."

Two words St. John - Lady frigging Grange - that's all I'm saying

St John (that's Aloysius St John von Pierce Bladder to you) has upped the ante. He's rigged up a crossbow on a hillock "over yonder" and started firing frozen fish fingers at us. That would be fine - save us obtaining our own - but, they seem to be smeared with a noxious substance, which we can't quite...

"It's keech," smirked Tuppence.

"It might be brown sauce," said Geoffrey hopefully.

"Keech." repeated Tuppence smugly. "I can smell it."

"All right!" I snapped. "But you don't have to look so pleased about it. Fetch the tarpaulin Geoffrey, and shut all the windows. If they come down the chimney, we'll just have to hope they burn up fast. Get some pegs as well. For our noses."

You see? St John has been behaving outrageously. Way beyond what is acceptable Hereabouts - even after a Friday lock-in.

So we're moving quickly vis a vis our Plan.

Two words St John - St. Kilda, and Lady frigging Grange. And WE'VE got a coracle. Okay that's more than two but -

Think on.

I sense the return of my mental powers

"Geoffrey."
"Yes?"
"I've calmed down a bit now."
"Good. Did the raw opium help?"
"Yes. And the brandy, the madeira, the absinthe pastilles, the Piriton and the extra strength junior aspirin. Thanks Geoffrey. I sense the return of my mental powers."
"And?"
"Well - "
Just then, a familiar voice trilled,"Hiya uncle Tuppy! any chance of a cup of tea?"
And in strolled Tuppence, muskets stuck in belt as per usual.
"I've got a munny-making scheme that just might interest you..."
"Well? spit it out," I snapped. "Though I can assure you that munny doesn't interst US in the least."
"So you say, uncle Tuppy. But it interests ME - and besides, I think ALL our interests just might coincide on this occasion. IF I may be so bold."
"Oh, no doubt you will," I muttered sourly. "Get on with it."
"Listen up then."
Turns out Tuppence and the rats hatched a plan to kill baby Orca, and process his meat "for sale"!!
"How utterly ghastly!"said Geoffrey.
I had to agree. Nobody is more scared of baby Orca and his terrible mood swings than I am. But to commit cold-blooded murder? Never.
"Think of all the fish fingers we could make out of him!" beamed Tuppence, leaning forward eagerly in his seat. "We could flog them to Speedispend! We'd make a frigging fortune!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was going MUCH too far. But how could we stop him?
We'd have to think of ANOTHER plan. That's TWO now. Blimey.
"Medical chest, Goeffrey! Quick!"

Medical extras

Great news! turns out that Tuppence and his gang of rats are doing a nice line in "medical extras" down in the tunnels, and we're fully stocked up now. So, we don't have to go to Speedispend. Thank goodness - after our last experience.
No, we don't want to be strung up on the gallows again, or be tested for bowel cancer while we're waiting at the checkout, thank you very much.

I embarrass myself, and the medical chest runs low

...c-c-c-c-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-f-f-f-f-s-s-s-s!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
In my excitement over winning the rice pudding challenge, I forgot myself, and toppled backwards over the cliffs.
I'm SO annoyed with myself. I've spent most of my life here on the Outcrop, and even when I've over-indulged down at the Puff Inn, I'm so well aware of the dangers that I've never embarrassed myself like this. (Especially since I've pushed a few others Over the Top myself. Or so the tittle tattlers would have you believe. But that's all documented in previous posts.)
Fortunately, Ranald and Sandy Wand'ring Albatrosse were flying lower than usual, in search of some cave or other which they were scheduled to refurbish. They swooped underneath me and attempted to push me back up to the top of the cliff. However...
"Ow! For pity's sake, Tuppy! not being rude or anything, but how much do you weigh, exactly?"
"Let's not get into specifics, Ranald. This isn't doing my back any good. I'll simply have to let him go."
"No, don't! don't!" I cried, glancing down to the Bay, where a very familiar fin was circling ominously.
"Well help us out here Tuppy! do some work!"
And with that they heaved me as close to the clifftop as they could manage. I seized hold of a tuft of grass with my teeth (thank goodness they are my own) while the T-G gripped my fore legs and pulled me up.
"Blimey, that was close. I thought we'd have to get the winch," sniggered Tuppence, who had been watching the whole proceedings with folded arms.
Ranald and Sandy collapsed on the grass beside me, demanding hot stones and a Swedish massage.
"Swedish massage? Hereabouts? Hardly. The best we can do is some embrocation. I think there's some left in the medical chest..."
"No Tuppy. You drank it last Saturday after the madeira ran out, remember? to wash down your Ginster?"
"Oh yes. Fetch the medical chest, anyway Geoffrey! I feel a bit bilious..."
"Tuppy - I'm sorry to say this, but the medical chest is running low. We're out of mostly everything. Sal volatile. Opium. Morphine. Junior Aspirin. Rennies. Senokot. Japps. The lot. We'll have to go over to Speedispend and stock up. Do they still do opium tabloids in a multipack?"

Spot the rice pudding skin

No, you can't see it at the moment. It's currently submerged, after landing four-square on the coupon of none other than baby Orca - and long-standing readers will know what THAT means. If you're not a long-standing reader - here's the basics - I ended up - ages ago - being eaten up by a killer whale (Baby Orca's mum). How did I survive? well, I got swilled down the gullet and into the belly of the beast by a wave of seawater. I sat on her molars (or something) till someone else came along - our friend Mr Spockfingers (look - this is all TRUE! if you don't believe me, click on a few old post labels. Honestly) Mr Spockfingers managed to pass wind with sufficient gusto for me to set light to it and blast a humungous hole in the side of the whale (oops, sorry! but it was her or me). But I'm rambling now - and in any case, this is all documented in previous posts - if you can find them (I can't).

Yes, the vendetta remains very much alive. BO didn't like being slapped in the face by the skin of a rice pudding. Not one bit. He's after me now. Again. I'll just have to ensure I don't slip off the cl-i-i-i-i-i-i-ffs.....

More arrant nonsense

"All right Geoffrey, you can let go of the strings now. The cape's in position, the laser's fired up and I'm all set to go."
"Hurry, Tuppy. You'll have to turn round so's the dying rays of the sun...oh - it's disappeared..."
"What do we do now? the laser gun won't operate if there's no sun."
"SHHHHHHH! not so loud..."
What the heck is this all about you ask (if you haven't read the blog for a few days)? Well, we were up on the clifftops last Friday evening, trying to harvest the final rays of the sun so that I could laser the skin off a rice pudding (while pretending to blow it off. Difficult. DO keep up.)
Fortunately, at the very moment the sun sank behind a cloud, and then behind the horizon,, Apsley Fulmar lit his gas BBQ and de luxe patio heater combo, and like greased lightning I spun round, caught the glow from the BBQ in the mirror/magnifying glass attachment, and fired up the laser. It was all over in seconds - I blasted the skin right off the pudding in a oner, and it sailed out over the cliffs and into the Bay - where it landed full-square on the coupon of none other than...but you'll have to wait till next blog post to find out. Bet you can't wait?
Meantime - all those who bet on me made loads of money, and those of little or no faith, lost their shirts.

The laser gun (contnd.)

In order to get the laser gun in full working order, while at the same time remaining fully concealed, I had to enlist some help.
"The sun's about to go down, Geoffrey. Hurry. Get the cape on while the rays are still strong."
"All right Tuppy. I'm doing my best."
"Here - I'll do it," said the T-G barging his way in. "You're all fingers and thumbs."
"I don't HAVE fingers and thumbs," sulked Geoffrey.
"Yes, T-G," I said, "You should know that. And Geoffrey's terribly sensitive about it, as you well know."
"For goodness sake!" snapped the T-G,"Let's get this sodding thing on before it gets dark. I've got money on you Tuppy - that laser beam better work!"

I've built a laser gun

Right. I've built a laser gun, following Tuppence's old blueprint for his TTD. I managed to find a load of tin cans in the bin up at the tourist car park and I fashioned them into a pointy thing with a mirror attachment and magnifying glass at the business end - I simply used Geoffrey's shaving mirror.

If my calculations are correct, I reckon that if I face west at sunset, I think the power generated by the dying rays of the sun magnified via the mirror/magnifying glass combo should be sufficient to remove that dratted skin from off of that rice pudding.

I can conceal the whole thing (I think) beneath a cape, and so everyone will think I've actually blown it off.

Then I can collect my winnings and get on with my life.

Anyway I'm setting it up for tomorrow evening - I like a bit of drama. I can't wait to see everyone's faces.

I'll huff, an' I'll puff...

...an' I'll B-L-O-O-O-O-O-O-W the skin off your rice pudding..."
That's the plan anyhow - Stormy's opened a book on whether I'll manage it, down at the Puff Inn. The pudding's still in the oven so the skin will be welded on like tarmac to a pothole but hey, I'm up for a challenge.
I'll have to cheat though. Possibly using some sort of hidden laser...anyone got any ideas?

The rice pudding business

I'm presently in training for my "blowing skin off rice pudding" challenge. It isn't going to be easy - Cherry Fulmar's had one baking at gas mark 4 for three days now, and the smell of boiled milk is dreadful. I'm dreading it - the skin will be like shoe leather.
I was hoping they'd just produce a tin of Ambrosia and fire it under the grill for a few minutes (even then I'd be struggling), but no - they've gone the whole hog and have made the thing from scratch with real "pudding rice".
I'm never going to manage to blow the skin off something of that calibre, so I'm racking my brains trying to think up a way to cheat.
Geoffrey foolishly suggested I go swimming underwater in the Bay, to strengthen my lungs.
He's been reading Frank Sinatra's biography. Seemingly, Ol' Blue Eyes used to do that in order to improve his "phrasing".
"Why don't you try it, Tuppy?"
"Don't be stupid Geoffrey. Singing My Way is one thing - blowing the skin off a rice pudding is quite another. Me and the Bay don't get on - as you well know. Unless I'm in the coracle - and even then I have to be careful. It would be sheer folly to go swimming. Aren't you remembering Baby Orca and his vendetta? I don't want to dice with death thank you very much - I've got quite enough of that going on with this rice pudding business. And what about my wool? It would pull me under in a trice."
"You could get a wetsuit."
"Bog off Geoffrey. Put the kettle on and fetch me a Ginster's. You're getting right on my nerves. I need to concentrate on a PLAN..."

Death - is it avoidable?

(I know - I've done this before. A few times. But hey. Always worth another visit.)

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire discussing the ways of the world, while the rain battered the tiny windows of the Outcrop.
"Another madeira, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, rising to his feet.
"Why not," I replied, proffering my mug. "Another pint or two should keep out the chill on this fine July morning. And fire on the lorne - I'm gasping on my breakfast."
"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Geoffrey, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "After all..."
"Not you as well!" I spluttered. This was too much.
"Well, diet and exercise, Tuppy. Very important if you want to keep your health."
"You've been brainwashed, Geoffrey. You've gone over to the dark side. I thought you had more fortitude. Well, let me tell you this. If the Grim Reaper wants to meet up with me, mano a mano, for a square go anytime - bring it on."
"Square sausage more like."
"Are you implying that I couldn't take on Death?"
"Yes. I'm not being rude or anything, Tuppy, but you couldn't blow the skin off a rice pudding in your current condition."
"Alright. If you want to be like that, fair dos. All I'll say is this - bring me that rice pudding, and watch me blow its skin off. Just watch me do it. And now I'm going in a massive huff."

Wishbone Ash?

"Er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er doombiddy doombiddy er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er..."
"Will you stop that racket, PLEEEEZE!"
We're all in an air guitar frenzy here - and as with everything, it all gets a bit much at times. Especially when you're recovering from an almighty three day sesh at the Puff Inn, as we are.
But not as far as Tuppence is concerned. No. I'm afraid to say that my intrepid nephew is hellbent on getting a real guitar. (His moog ended up in the Bay after exploding and bursting into a ball of fire during his umpteenth rendition of Nut Rocker.)
"I want a change, uncle Tuppy! I'm sick of the moog!"
"Phew," we sighed. "At last."
"I want something else - something screechier..."
"Screechier than a moog?"
"Yes. I want a Gibson flying V. Like that guy from Wishbone Ash. And nothing's going to stop me."