A Row about Toilet Paper

'I could really murder a fishfinger sandwich.  A doubler with plenty salad cream and red sauce.  But we don't have any, and is it worth risking getting the virus to go out and get them?  I wonder...'
'People are bastards.'  My nephew Tuppence interrupted me as he attempted to throw his leg over the arm of the shabby leather armchair in which he lounged.
Isn't that a strange expression though?  To 'throw one's leg over the arm of a chair'.  Accurate if one can unbuckle and remove one's prosthetic leg (wooden, or Long John Silver-style 'peg', were I forced to choose) and chuck it over the arm of one's chair with (or indeed without) reckless abandon, perhaps smashing a glass-fronted bookcase or knocking over a vase in so doing.  Otherwise, it's a bit weird.
Tuppence doesn't have a prosthetic leg. And, because his legs are very short, his effort at 'throwing one over' failed, and failed abysmally.  He sat forward and put his head in his hands.
'Some people are best avoided Tuppence, we all know that.'
'They've bought up all the toilet roll and eggs in Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.   There isn't a carton of milk to be found either and there's no pasta.  Don't even mention hand sanitiser.  They've stripped the place bare. Bastards.'
'We don't need any of these things Tuppence.  Stop worrying.  We're doing a raid on the tunnels tonight under cover of darkness and we're going to get a few crates of tinned ham, some baccy and a couple of barrels of Madeira.  That'll keep us going till the virus disappears.'
'What about the toilet roll and hand sanitiser?'
'Since when did we wipe our bottoms?  We're sheep Tuppence, in case you'd forgotten.  We just do it where we stand. And as for hand sanitiser, the only thing to do with that is distill the alcohol out of it and drink it with a nice slug of methylated spirits.'
'Val Nark's been making her own organic hand sanitiser and flogging it online.  She says since there aren't any guests in the yurt and the airbnb she has to earn a crust somehow.'
'What's it made of?  surely she hasn't wasted anything alcoholic.'
'Nettles steeped in her and Dave's wee then sieved through tights.  Dave has a Youtube channel where he posts his otter vids and that and he posted one of her making the hand sanitiser. It's had thousands of views.   He gets advertising revenue off it.'
'Advertising revenue!  That's munny talk Tuppence, and munny talk is dirty talk.  Which we never indulge in.'
'In which we never indulge Uncle Tuppy.'
'Correct.  I know times are tough but we won't stoop to munny-making.  Thieving is the way forward Tuppence.  And tonight's the night.  Fetch the balaclavas and the night vision goggles.  I'll stoke the fire up so people will think we're in. '
'You're on your own Uncle.  I refuse to join in with your selfish, individualistic and frankly criminal behaviour. It's not just us that needs stuff.  It's the old.  The sick.  The vulnerable.  And by the way - since I started going out with Alexa, I've started wiping my bottom.  With toilet paper.  So there.'
'I'M old sick and vulnerable, and as long as there's breath in my body I'll go out on the rob and sod anyone else except me and Geoffrey.  You wipe your bottom as much as you like Tuppence.  I've got better things to do.'

next time - Tuppence makes a charity single

How Come We Aren't Dead?

'We've been in this cave for nigh on a year,' sighed the T-G,' with nothing to eat but a packet of ginger crunch creams and nothing to drink but random drops of condensation dripping randomly from the roof.'
'We should be dead,' said Geoffrey. 'How come we aren't?  How come we aren't T-G?  Tuppy?  How come we aren't?   TUPPY!  TUPPY!  Stay with me man!  We're losing him T-G - we're losing him!  He's slipping into unconsciousness again!  TUPPY!  Stay with me!  Look at me Tuppy!  Look at me!' and he slapped me round the face with the shredded plastic remnants of the ginger crunch creams wrapper.
'Oh who cares,' I replied, opening one eye.  Everything felt warm and fuzzy.  Outside, the sea washed gently against the rocks below. I settled deeper into my yellow hi-viz jacket and did up the Velcro neck flap in preparation for yet another comfortable afternoon's torpor.
'YOU LOT ARE DEAD,' a scornful voice bellowed over the ear-splitting roar of a powerful outboard motor. As it circled rapidly past the cave entrance and hove to we were drenched by a spray of icy sea water, and I spluttered into unwanted wakefulness.   'BRAIN DEAD! A-HAHAHAHA!'
It was Tuppence of course.
He wheeled the boat cave-side and deftly threw the painter over a jutting rock.  Peering through narrowed eyes I could just decipher the name of the boat in the gleam of the low afternoon sun - 'The Young Brexiteer'.
'Crikey Tuppence - you haven't changed your mind about Brexit have you?'
'No Uncle Tuppy I haven't. You unspeakable old fool.  How could you have even imagined in your wildest, most Madeira-addled, most senile and gammon-like imaginings and that, that I - I - of all people - would change my mind about Brexit?'
'Then - '
'This isn't my boat.  It belongs to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar.  They rent it out to supplement Apsley's pension and get spends. Cherry's a WASPI you see so she doesn't get anything till she's sixty six. They've got a camper van they rent out as well and they're Airbnbing their shed. A lady from Bulgaria does the cleaning and change-overs on a zero hour contract.  They let her stay in the shed when they've not got guests and they take the money off her wages. Obviously they don't let her use the actual beds or the cooker and hot water or that. When they do have guests she gets a bit of tarpaulin and hunkers down in the woods.  Apsley says she likes it, she's only seventy one and enjoys the fresh air.'
'So they've got quite the business going on,' mused the T-G. 'We've missed it all what with being stuck in here for a year.'
'You've no idea.  Loads has happened.  The Narks' yurt burnt down.  Val was doing an ear-candling session and the candle fell out while she was at the toilet because it was faulty. The candle that is. That's what they're telling everyone anyway.  Dave's building a new yurt from coppiced willow wands and hand-loomed jute and that while they wait for the insurance claim to be processed.'
'We can get the gossip later,' I said,  'Have you come to rescue us or what?  After all it was you who abandoned us here and left us for dead in potato sacks.  What's the story now Tuppence? Why the change of heart?  And where's Alexa?'
'In the boat.'
'No she isn't,' I said, peering.  'There's nothing in there but a brace of pistols, a bandolier, a length of rope, a portable toilet, a mysterious square package wrapped in oilcloth, a Genesis CD and an empty Pringles tube.  What have you done with her, Tuppence?'
'Nothing I tell you!  Nothing! anyway aren't you going to ask about Mrs T-G, T-G?  After all she is your wife.'
'No Tuppence.  As you know only too well she threw me out of Tupfinder Towers when I told her I'd voted Brexit, and chased me off the premises with a blazing pitchfork.  I don't expect I'll ever see her again.  Or taste her black sausage rolls.  And stop changing the subject - a very poor attempt at deflection, by the way.  What have you done with your so-called girlfriend?'
'Like I said last year, Alexa isn't my so-called 'girl'friend.  Alexa's like me - she doesn't believe in boring, old-fashioned binary distinctions and she likes her politics like she likes her music- relentlessly progressive.  No, she's not in the boat T-G. But she was.  She's got a zero hours contract Overthere at Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, stacking shelves for whatever the under-25's minimum wage is. I dropped her off for her shift just before I came here.  She's hoping the money'll help her through her next term at uni. cos she doesn't have parents, you see. No bank of mum and dad for her.  At least I've got you three for support.  In theory, anyway. '
'That sounds awful.  I almost feel sorry for her.'
'You lot are so privileged. You don't know what sorry even means.  You've never worked a day in your lives. You've never had to think about uni fees and generation rent. You just hide away from reality in your strange little world, smoking your pipes and swigging Madeira thinking nothing's ever going to happen to rattle your cages.'
'Rattle our cages?  We've only been stranded in this cave for a year thanks to you!  I've nearly run out of baccy and I'm gasping on a pint of Madeira and a fish-finger sandwich.'
'Fools!  Have you learned nothing from your isolation?'

Next time - we return to the Rocky Outcrop only to find the entire place in lock-down following the outbreak of a horrendous 'pandemic'.  We're forced to return to the smugglers' Tunnels under cover of darkness to steal korned bif and toilet paper.    You couldn't make it up!

The One-eyed Fiery Demon of Thoth

Well! turns out that I was quite right not to have been 'following The News', because from what I've just been told, it's too bloody depressing for words. As I thought! More on that later.
After we'd roped ourselves up, we hauled ourselves out of the tunnel and up the vertical cliff face, inch by painful inch, following a rough ladder of rusting iron nails driven deep into the rock by some long-dead smuggler, and into a tunnel further up, inch by even more painful inch.  Once inside,  the T-G took out his tinder box and lit a cheering fire and proceeded to boil some water in a tin can so that we could wash our blisters and have a hot toddy using 100% proof whiskey from his hip flask.
'Hot toddies and blister-washes all round!' he boomed, his voice echoing round the cave (all the Tunnels are really caves - a few are man-made extensions of caves, but none are what you might describe as 'wholly unnatural'.  Just in case you were wondering.  As readers from long ago will recall, I know a fair bit about the Tunnels, because Geoffrey and I basically existed for years on tins of korn bif, salty snax and other choice items stolen - not my idea of stealing, but never mind, I haven't time to argue - from smuggled goods stashed by gangs of rats in said Tunnels.  But I digress.)
Once the three of us were settled by the fire the T-G helped us to another snifter from his hip flask and began his story.  The leaping flames reflected off the metallic strips on our hi-viz yellow jackets, making quite the show.
'Never take them off!' he warned, when Geoffrey complained his was chafing. 'Never mind why. I'll explain later.  Now about The News,' he began...
'T-G', I interrupted,' Sorry but before you start on about The News - what is that curious engraving on your hip flask?  It reminds me of something.  Something rather awful that I think I saw in a terrible nightmare...'
'It's the one-eyed Fiery Demon of Thoth, Tuppy.  Considered in olden times to be a harbinger of certain, violent, imminent and agonising death, preceded by a spell of raving insanity.  Mrs T-G gave it to me in my Yuletide stocking last...Yule. Lovely, isn't it?  I do like the way the eye glints in the firelight.  You'd almost think it was blinking, sort of coming to life. There is an old folk legend, probably nonsense of course, that maintains the Demon will one day be awakened in a cavern by a fire thrice lit.  Whatever that might mean. If you're really interested, I have a book on Demonology back in Tupfinder Towers library, which has a chapter on the Demon of Thoth and its various possible incarnations.   Anyway - back to The News...'
'Biscuit, anyone?  I've just found a packet of ginger crunch creams under this rock,' said Geoffrey.

more later

more here

I woke up with the familiar sound of the incoming tide washing relentlessly against the rocks and the smell of musty potatoes in my nostrils.  I struggled to free my hands which were secured behind me but it was no use.  I kicked my legs but could barely move them an inch as they too were tied.  My back was against a wall of rock and I could feel a length of chain digging into my spine.
'Help!'  I quavered.  'I'm hog-tied in the tunnels with a potato sack over my head and the tide's coming in!'
'So am I!' cried Geoffrey.
'Never fear Tuppy.'  Suddenly a bright gap appeared, and a pair of nail scissors flashed in the evening sun.  The potato sack fell to my shoulders and I breathed clean, must-free air for the first time in - well, I wasn't sure how long because I couldn't remember anything after receiving the 'thud' on the back of my neck.
I blinked a few times and looked around me.  Someone wearing a yellow 'hi-viz' jacket was sawing away at the potato sack next to me with the nail scissors.  For a panic-stricken moment I thought it was Tuppence in his yellow oilskin, or heaven forfend, Alexa, but no - from the cloven feet and the sword-stick I could tell it was the Tupfinder General.
'Just as well I had Mrs T-G's nail scissors on me,' he said as he freed Geoffrey. 'I'd forgotten they were in my waistcoat pocket.  I must have popped them in there after I trimmed my eyebrows this morning.  If I hadn't had them I'd have had to use the business end of the sword stick and it's blunt.  I'd have been sawing away for ages.  We'd better get out of here before they get back.'
'They?'
'Tuppence and Alexa of course.  They want all us oldies out of the way.  It isn't only you two, and it isn't only them.  Can you both walk?'
'I can fly,' said Geoffrey.
'Of course.  All right - you fly over to the next tunnel and see if it's empty.  We'll follow along.  Fly back and let us know if anyone's there and if so we'll try Plan B.'
'What's Plan B?  and why must we go to the next tunnel along?  why can't you take us to Tupfinder Towers?'
'For goodness sake Tuppy.  Don't you know anything?  Don't you follow The News?  Don't you read the People's Bugle?'
'No.  I don't like News.  Unless it concerns me directly, and hardly anything ever does, thank goodness.'
'Well, I'll -'
'The next tunnels full of huge boxes T-G,' gasped Geoffrey, who had just flown back in. 'I couldn't read the labels in the dim light so I don't know what's in them.'
'I do,' said the T-G grimly,' It's stockpiled medication and probably other stuff as well. We must be right next to Dr Wilson's cached supplies.  Were there any - creatures in there?  anything - living?'
'I didn't see anything.  But I couldn't be sure. Because of all the boxes I couldn't see right to the back and it was awfully dark.  I was frightened T-G. I don't mind telling you.  It just didn't feel right and there was a funny smell, sort of like -'
'Like marzipan?' said the T-G.
'Yes!'
'Hmm.  Well, I think it'd better be Plan B after all.  Just in case.'  The Tupfinder General threw me a yellow 'hi viz' jacket and a length of stout rope.  'Put that on and tie the rope to your waist Tuppy.  We're going to have to climb.  I'll tell you all about The News when we get there.'
'Where's there?'
'Just shut up and do as I say.'
'Charmed I'm sure!  What do you make of that Geoffrey?  he's telling me to shut up!  did you ever hear the like!'
'He's right Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, struggling into his own little yellow jacket, 'Have you forgotten that we were bumped on the head by your own awful nephew just last night and hogtied with potato sacks over our heads?   Get a move on and tie that rope round.  We've got to get out of here before they come back.'

more later
  

Not so fast, coffin-dodgers

'Not so fast, coffin-dodgers.  Put those night vision goggles down and listen up. Me and Alexa are taking control from now on.  Now move.'
Tuppence (yes, for it was he, surprise surprise) stood outside with legs braced, just visible through a vast cloud of blueberry-scented vape-steam. He  waved a pistol in the direction of the hole in the wall.
'But - '
'No buts.  Shift your fat lazy butts and start walking.'
'But wh - '
'Any more of that and I'll shoot.  I mean it Uncle Tuppy and Uncle Geoffrey.  Alexa says - '
'Who's Alexa?'  I managed to ask.
'Alexa is my partner.  I would say she's my girlfriend but I'm not sure which gender she is.  And it's none of my business so I'm not even going to ask.  And neither are you.  All you need to know is, she plays bass in my new band, the one I want to tour German unis with, she's woke, and she's deeply resentful about brek-sit.  Even more than I am.'
'But you're calling her 'she' Tuppence. Surely that means that she is a she and therefore IS your girlfriend?'  I backed towards the fireplace, where I hoped to reach the poker and with any luck the button that operated the trap-door in the floor which led to the tunnels.
'I don't know and I don't care Uncle Tuppy. Anyway, we're prepared to accept that you two are much too old and thick to have made a considered and informed decision about brek-sit and therefore instead of killing you outright we've decided to simply lock you up somewhere secure until you die a natural death.  Remember when you were a prisoner in the Chateau d'If Uncle Tuppy? (please see e-books and/or Seapenguin paperback for details)  It'll be just like that except you won't ever get out.  It's for your own good and that.  You know as well as I do that you've no understanding of modern life and you're only in the way.  You'll be chained to the wall but on the plus side you'll have basic rations, a straw mattress and a bucket to do the toilet in.  Twice a day the tide will come in and you can have a bit of a wash in the icy seawater.  It'll probably do you a world of good, sort of like a health spa.'
I groped behind me as I inched towards the fireplace.  The lethal cold steel of the poker was almost within my grasp when  suddenly there was a blinding flash, I felt a 'thud' on the back of my neck, everything went black and all I could smell was musty potatoes.

more later

Death Brek-sit

The territory

I was enjoying a fully-cooked Brek-sit of bacon, Cumberland sausage, black pudding, fruit pudding, scrambled egg and fried bread and looking forward to washing it down with a pint of tea followed by a finisher of thickly-buttered toast and marmalade when Geoffrey flew in through the hole in the wall, feathers shedding everywhere as he caught a wing on the rusty nail on which hung the roughly-painted sign 'PRIVIT'.
'Tuppence wants us to die Tuppy,' he gasped.
'So what's new?'  I finished the last piece of egg and dabbed my mouth with the embroidered napkin left to me by my great aunt Agatha in her will.  Stitched into the napkin and only visible by the light of a waxing gibbous Moon was a secret code detailing the whereabouts of - but that's another story. 'Stop sweating and have some Brek-sit. There's another coil of Cumberland sausage in the larder.  Fire it on the fire.'
'No he really means it this time.  There's no time for Cumberland sausage Tuppy - unless I eat it raw, which I don't quite fancy.  We have to move, and move fast. He says if we hurry up and die he can travel all over the E.U. without beastly tariffs and stuff.  He wants to take his new band on a tour of German colleges and unis because he thinks they'll have an appetite for prog and he can't make any arrangements until he knows for sure what's going to happen.  He says we're ruining his life, it's all our fault because we're old and bigoted and it's high time we weren't around.  Tuppy - he's homicidal.  Even more so than usual.'
'I see. Where is he at the moment?'
'Do you mean, where is he in terms of his views on Brek-sit or where is he in actual, physical form?'
'Stop dithering Geoffrey.  We can't afford to waste any time.'
'He's firing his pistols at targets with our faces on, out on the moors.  So far, he hasn't missed.  Val Nark said it was healthy because he was getting fresh air and exercise as well as flushing all the aggression out of his system in a harmless-style manner but I bumped into Dr Wilson as he was stockpiling diabetes medication in one of the tunnels and he said he was behind Tuppence all the way and it was only a matter of time before we got our just desserts and the country could return to normal. '
'Great.  Start packing Geoffrey.  I'll fetch the coracle and the medical chest.  It's time we were on the move.'
'Where to?'
'We must destroy the Irish back-stop.  Forever! Before it's too late.'
'What is the Irish back-stop?'
'I don't know.  But it's our only hope.'
'It is?'
'Stop asking me things.  And don't forget the mustard plasters, the night vision goggles, the frogmen's suits, the diving bell and the full-face balaclava helmets.'

more later

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Seapenguin-Kate-Smart/dp/1520678762/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1547901599&sr=8-1&keywords=seapenguin

Scrapper Blackwell - Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out

Lord of the Rings [1978] - One to Rule Them All

Bert Jansch - Black Waterside

JACK KEROUAC on THE STEVE ALLEN SHOW with Steve Allen 1959

Warren Zevon - My Shits Fucked Up

I've written a piece for The Bugle called 'Why everything nowadays is basically just a load of old pants, and not in the least like it used to be in the old days when everything was always so much better in every conceivable way'.
I'm now writing a follow-up piece called 'Why everything nowadays is so much better in every conceivable way than it was in the old days, when everything was not in the least like it is now and basically just a load of old pants.'
They haven't accepted it or anything.  In fact, I haven't even sent it away.  In fact,  I haven't even written any of it yet, and probably never will.

Cheese.  Remember when cheese tasted like cheese?
No, me neither.

Am I invisible or am I a vampire?

Why is Tuppence averse to work?  Why are you, you might well ask, and who are you to criticise, since you never do a hand's turn.  Well, I can answer that one.  It's different for me, because I'm Older, and life was different Back Then. I never had to work.  In fact, we took a pride in not working, back then.  We diddled along, as best we could, living on supplies stolen from the Tunnels and stuff Geoffrey found in the bins at the tourist car park.  We asked for nothing and we took nothing, except what we needed plus a bit extra just in case.  Of course as you know,  the tourist car park has in recent years been transformed by Val and Dave Nark into an eco-friendly holiday park with yurts and 'pods' all ready with welcome packs filled with Val's hedgerow jams, nettle gin and the like. Forty pounds per person per night and that's in low season, thank you very much. I wouldn't pay that for a rat-infested glorified tent with a 'green' toilet, but lycra-clad, wet-suited, kayaking, paddle-boarding fools with a penchant for quinoa do.  The bins are now lidded and labelled for recycling by the way.  Any spare food goes for composting.  Not that there is anything - nothing that appeals to us, at any rate.  Nothing worth nicking.
No, what we need is a good old Wallace Arnold bus tour.  Overfed pensioners who can't finish their crisps and chuck half-empty packets out the window, along with cheese and pickle sandwiches, cocktail sausages, Chelsea Buns and Empire biscuits.  Discarded Chelsea buns would enable us to make an attempt at a five a day,  not that we care about such things, with their half-dozen raisins and the glace cherry on top.
Anyway - why is Tuppence averse to work?  Answer - he isn't, not in my book.  Tuppence works very hard at the things he likes to do, for example playing in his band and firing his pistols at random strangers. What's wrong with that?  Leaving aside the exploitation aspect, why should he have to clean toilets for three pounds fifty an hour, when he doesn't like it?
I challenged Val Nark about this the other day but she just barged past me as if I didn't exist. Perhaps I don't.  I'm actually starting to wonder.  They do say you become invisible when you reach a certain age.  At least that's what Mrs Tupfinder-general wrote in a letter to Polly, the 'Bugle' problem page agony aunt last week.  Am I invisible or am I a vampire, she asked. Because I can't see myself in the mirror.  Is it me, Polly - am I yet another victim of 'male gaze syndrome'?

more on this later.

Next time - 'Polly' turns out to be none other than Bert Vickers, moonlighting taxi driver and part-time journo, who learned writing in prison.

Donnie McPhartney and his secret black pudding ingredient (part one)

'I can't see the Dorty Bizzums making it big.  That's what Donnie McPhartney told me anyway, as he piped black pudding mixture into genuine organic casings.'
Tuppence was distraught.  He'd been all the way to Inverness, on a high after our Hogmanay triumph (more on that later)  hoping to get more'gigs', and Donnie McPhartney was the very man to see, so he'd heard.
'Wherever did you hear such a thing?'
'Someone said something at the Puff Inn after our Hogmanay gig.  I can't remember who - it was late on.'
'But Donnie McPhartney's a butcher.  He's renowned for his black puddings, but...'
'That doesn't preclude him being a booker and promoter and talent scout as well. He bought Eve Graham a vodka at the Station Hotel in 1978 - and that was when she was big.  He's a good fellow to keep on the right side of.'
'But he doesn't think much of the Dorty Bizzums.'
'No.'
'He hasn't seen us perform though.' I didn't like to say 'play'.  'So how can he know?'
'He said he has a nose for talent. He says he can smell success before he sees it. And I just smelled of cheese and onion crisps, plasticine, and someone else's stale tobacco. That would be yours Uncle Tuppy but I never said anything.   I did say that we might add in comb and paper, and whistling, and maybe rubbing the rims of several wine glasses with differing levels of fluid in, to make ourselves more current, but he just shrugged and continued filling his black pudding casings.'
'For goodness sake.  You'd think he'd have someone to do that for him.  After all, it's a well-established business.'
'You mean like a modern-style apprentice, like I was, at £3.50 an hour?'
'Well...'
'The thing is, he likes to do it all himself.  The black pudding contains a secret ingredient, you see, that makes people develop not just a taste for it, but a craving.  They get physically and psychologically addicted, very quickly.  It's like crack cocaine.'
'And he doesn't want anyone to find out what the ingredient is.  Well I'm not surprised.  It sounds like it's probably illegal.'
'Nothing wrong with that Uncle Tuppy.  And I suspect you're right.'


next time - after a top-level meeting back at the Outcrop, we decide to go to Inverness to find out what exactly Donnie McPhartney is putting in his black puddings.