We save baby Orca from a terrible fate

"But I've not got fingers!"
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."

A reader complains - again

A regular reader whose name I won't reveal - as all readers will know, confidentiality re. readers' identities is KEY on this blog - oh, all right then, it's Peter Edant, or P.Edant if I really have to spell it out - writes in to complain that there is a spelling error in a previous post.
Apparently, I spelled "tin" wrongly. I can only apologise for my appalling incompetence and inability to spell even a three letter word correctly.
I also regularly mis-spell "hazard" and "corned beef" - so there, Peter! Now bog off before I introduce you to one of the less savoury inhabitants Hereabouts!
Any other complaints?
(all comments are welcomed and complaints WILL be acted upon - wun way or anuvver)

In the Bay

"Put your back into it Geoffrey! you can't expect me to do all the work."

"I've got a splinter. I can only row with the one wing."

"For heaven's sake! no wonder we're going round in ci-i-i-ir-r-r-rc-c-c-cles!"

A reader asks...

A reader (Axle Snailbotom, if you must know) has emailed in, demanding to know where he can obtain Tincture of Mattesson weight gain micksture, super hi strenf, as mentioned in a previous blog post.
He also requests that I spell his name correctly, viz. with ONE "t".
Well Axle, the micksture is highly combustible and constitutes such a serious helf 'n' safety hazrd that it is not actually available in the shops/Speedispend - as I'm sure you knew.
However - should you care to micks your own - this is how it's done.
Take one large helping of own choice processed meat. Boil it up in a pan - NOT aluminium - with some lard and a splash of plain water - until you are left with a brown layer of sludge at the bottom. Syphon this into a glass jar or bottle, top up with methylated spirit, and cork securely. Leave for three minutes (approx) then neck it. Oh - perhaps best to open a window first.
Let us know how you get on.
(PLEASE NOTE - THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - IT'S JUST A JOKE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)

The Giant Phag - an unexpected twist

"I spot an opportunity, Geoffrey. Get the coracle down from the attic. Is it caulked?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Caulked. Oh, never mind. Take that old korn bif tine in case we have to bale. And don't forget the medicine chest."
"Oh yes. I better make sure there's some Vick's in it, in case we catch a chill. It's a bit parky out there in the Bay."
"Yes, we can heat it up with some ribena on the primus - FOR FRIG'S sake! Vick's? What do we need with that when we've got every opiate known to man?"
"Opiates are no use for colds, Tuppy. There's nothing like Vick's for a chill."
"Oh well, if you feel you must. I don't suppose it takes up much room."
"That reminds me Tuppy. Why was the toadstool not allowed into the party?"
"Because there wasn't MUSHROOM inside. For pity's sake, let's get on with this. The nights are drawing in already."
"Yes. but wasn't he - Tuppy! Wasn't he -"
"WHAT?!"
"A FUN-GHI! a FUN - ghi! so, it's a shame he didn't get in!"
At this point, I sigh heavily, open the medicine chest and carefully select a vial of hi strenf tincture of laudanum. Just to numb the pain.
We WERE on our way to the Bay - what with the bed sheet landing on the bonce of Baby Orca, we thought we'd take the opportunity to inform him of Tuppence's nefarious plan to turn him into fishfingers. We MIGHT get there some time before next Christmas...

The Giant Phag (continued and ongoing)

"Right Tuppy - you hold on to that end and I'll pin this one down with a rock. Then we can start piling in the filling."
"Righty oh."
We started making the world's largest phag this afternoon, and it wasn't easy. It was blowing a gale Hereabouts, and we found it impossible to keep the wrapping on the ground.
"Oh, let's pack this in for a game of soldiers," I said, letting go of my end. With that, a gust of wind caught the "wrapping" or king-size bed sheet we'd obtained from Mrs T-G's linen kist, and off it flew over the cliffs and out into the Bay - where it landed four-square on the coupon of - well, you know the rest. At least he's not been harpooned yet.
To be continued...

The Phantom phag nicker

"Oh come on. Give me my phags back. I'm gasping."
That's what we heard in the small hours as we gazed up at the toweriest tower of Tupfinder Towers.
Suddenly a plume of smoke and a fountain of orangey red sparks lit up the moonless sky. A lone figure stood leaning over the edge of the tower, silhouetted against the inferno. We heard him cry,"You rotten swine. Have a heart. Twenty Rothman's and a disposable lighter, and make it snappy. Or I won't be answerable."
A second figure caught our eye as it scurried down the ivy-clad walls.
"Hee hee hee!" it sniggered evilly.
What was going on? well, the T-G's had a guest staying in one of his upper rooms. The ones with the bars on the windows and the reinforced doors. Apparently, he's been there for quite some time. Like, his entire life. It's a cousin of Mrs T-G, who happens to have rather unfortunate maniacal tendencies. Seemingly, if he's let loose, he creates mayhem with an axe.
The only thing that keeps him sane is his phag habit - and now, someone has nicked his supply.
"I daren't go near him," quavered the T-G. "Not while he's in this state."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was most out of character. the T-G is usually someone we can turn to in a crisis.
"We'll have to administer a tranquilliser. We'll need to use the blow-pipe of course."
Of course.
"I've got one..."
"In the vitrine. Yes. But that means..."
"Going into the tower itself..."
"Yes, but surely..."
"He'll be safely locked in the upper room? I wouldn't be so sure..."
"Can we not just chuck him some phags?"
"I'm afraid it's gone beyond that now. The thing is, he's already reached such a stage of withdrawal that the strength of phag required would be beyond our wildest imaginings. It's simply not something that would be obtainable, in the normal way."
"Nothing's beyond OUR wildest imaginings. Maybe we could make him a special phag. A giant, superstrength one? Home-made?"
"Maybe..."

Sausages

"Sausages," groaned a small voice from the corner (mine).
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)

Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)

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?"