'Stormy was a racist and a transphobe,' declared Tuppence, nailing a poster stating the same to the door of the Puff Inn.  'I'm glad he's cancelled.'
'He's not 'cancelled',' said the T-G,' He's dead.  You set fire to him, remember?  He was inside the wicker man when you burned it down.'
'Oh dear how sad what a shame never mind.'
'That's a terrible thing to say Tuppence,' said the T-G. 'In fact, you should be careful.  You might be done for 'hate speech'.'
'Not to mention, murder,' I added. 'Although it doesn't sound like you're especially worried about such niceties.'
'The world's a better, kinder place without his sort,' replied Tuppence, twirling his hammer. 'He was spiritually and morally and intellectually dead anyway.  The physical death was just a technicality.  And an inevitable one, given his incredible moral turpitude.  All for the best, that's what I say.  And so will anyone else who matters.'
'I wonder what his family will say to that.  Aren't they people who matter?'
'Stormy doesn't have a family.  Does he?'
'He does actually.  Or rather, he did,  poor bloke.  Stormy Junior is a cage fighter in Vegas and his ex-wife is a Thai kick boxing champion.  His sister (formerly brother) is a retired Olympic weightlifter and built like a brick outdoor convenience-style facility. Her hobbies include knuckledusting and biting the heads off live chickens.  They're all arriving for the funeral tomorrow and they're staying in Val's campervan - they would have stayed in the yurt had you restrained yourself from burning that to a crisp last evening.  You really need to stop all this wanton destruction Tuppence.  It won't end well.'
'It will! I'm only destroying anything offensive.'
'But not everyone finds it offensive Tuppence.  And must you resort to murder? Can't you live and let live?'
'No.  Besides,  I think you'll find Stormy's death was an accident. Not murder.  How was I to know he was inside the wicker man when I set it alight?'
'You can't prove that you didn't know Tuppence,' said the T-G.
'I wonder what he was doing in there?' mused Geoffrey.  'He must have had a reason for climbing inside.'
'Perhaps he was looking for something.'
'Or, perhaps he was hiding something.'
'Never mind all that,' I said. ' Here we all are standing outside the Puff Inn, scene of many a night of wanton revelry, and it's SHUT.  Not merely 'coronavirus shut' - it's shut because the landlord is no more.  He is an ex-landlord.  An ex-everything.  Soon to be pushing up the daisies.  Who's going to run it?  Who's going to serve us our socially-distanced Purple Perils and salty snax?  Who's going to book you in for gigs Tuppence - you and your dreadful prog band?  Nobody else would pay you to play,  I'll guarantee you that.'
'Oh bore off.  You three need to educate yourselves.  Read some books and I don't mean the Beano summer special!' snarled Tuppence.
'You can start lecturing us about books when you're not in danger of being arrested for murder Tuppence.  Are you going to turn yourself in?'
'Certainly not.'


Next time - Stormy's funeral brings his relatives, and they aren't happy with what they're told about his 'accidental' demise.  They are determined to find out the truth.  Tuppence is forced to hide out in the Tunnels and as all the korned beef, snax and Madeira which are usually kept therein were consumed during lockdown he must survive on rations lowered down to him by rope till he can be smuggled out to a place of safety. Or, until the relatives leave...

Well, we went out to the headland last evening as planned and we burned the wicker man to the ground.  All that's left now is a pile of wood ash, some blackened chicken wire - and some bones.  More on those later.  I sat at a safe distance, sipping a triple strenf absinthe and laudanum koktale and crunching my way through a packet of 'Kalms' while Tuppence danced naked beside the leaping flames.
I needed the Kalms because as we made our way across the moor towards the headland Tuppence began to wonder whether the wicker man was cis or trans.  'If he's trans I won't burn him Uncle Tuppy.  He'll be a fantastic representation of liberation from the hegemony of the binary sexual economy.'
'Even though you said before that he's a vile and disgusting representation of capitalism and binary-legged hegemony?'
'Yes.'
'How will you know if he's trans though?  It's a very basic figure with no defining characteristics other than two arms and two legs.  And a head.'

'I'll know.'

As it turned out,  he didn't know.  If I'm honest, I don't think he cared - or at least, he cared more about setting the huge thing ablaze.  

As the vast knees crumbled into ash and the torso fell forwards over the cliffs, tumbling onto the rocks below in a dense orange cloud of sparks and wood smoke and leaving two stumpy, smouldering 'feet',  Tuppence cried, 'So passes the tyrannic age of the binary-legged money-grubbers!  Look upon your work ye mighty and despair!' 

'Don't you mean 'my works' ye mighty?'  I pulled a copy of Palgrave's Golden Treasury from my bumbag and leafed through it.  

'Oh who cares about such details now Uncle Tuppy.  We're free!'

'How does burning a wicker man make us free?'

'It just does.  For one thing, it gets the anger out of your system when you destroy things.'

'What about Val and Dave Nark's floundering tourism business?  What about the yurt?  What about Val's ear candling?'

'You can't do social distancing and ear candling.  Everyone knows that.  Val and Dave will just have to diversify.  Anyway I really enjoyed the conflagration Uncle Tuppy.  I'm sure lots of other people did who were watching, as well.  I was surprised to hear the blood-curdling screaming noise it made as it burned - I wonder if we'll ever know what caused that.  Probably just some damp wood reacting to the heat or something.  Not to worry!   Now I'm going to find something else big to burn and I think I know what it's going to be.'

Next time - Tuppence burns Val and Dave's yurt to a crisp.  Val and Dave don't know this yet as they're staying in a friend's airbnb in Leicester and have been 'locally locked down' due to the coronavirus spike.  We also discover that Stormy Petrel has gone missing from the Puff Inn and was last seen clambering determinedly up the wicker man's left leg, followed by a mysterious black-clad figure...this leaves the Puff Inn sans patron just as they've erected a gazebo and extended the beer garden for safe consumption of outdoor comestibles...who could be responsible for Stormy's disappearance?  Could it possiby be...a rival local busniess person, or persons?  

Tuppence came in last night in an agitated state.
'I'm in an agitated state Uncle Tuppy,' he said, wringing his hands. 'Where's the chainsaw?'
'We don't have one.' I tipped an extra dose of laudanum into my tea.  Lord knows I need it these days.
'Well an axe then.  An axe will do.  Anything with a blade.  And ropes.  A block and tackle.  Matches.  Petrol!  Tinder!'
'Usually you manage fine with your brace of pistols Tuppence.  What's all this for?'
'I want to tear down the wicker man. Destroy it, and push it into the sea, to perish on the rocks below.'
'Not the wicker man that Val and Dave Nark have just finished carefully fashioning from locally sourced willow wands, and placed on the headland to attract tourists!'
'Yes!  it's a representation of their two-legged tyranny over the neighbourhood Uncle Tuppy.  A grotesque symbol of the dominion held by the two-legged haves over the four-legged have nots. Dave and Val are money-grubbing capitalists of the first water, trying to slip under the radar camouflaged as green sustainable living type people.  They're nothing short of fascists Uncle Tuppy and I want to saw the legs off their statue and burn it to the ground.  Burn it I say!'
'Why don't you saw Dave and Val's legs off and burn them to the ground?'
'Because I would get done for murder Uncle Tuppy.  Someone would dob me in.'
'Well it is true not much gets past the old Tupfinder General with his infrared spyglass.  But I don't think he'd ever dob you in.  Never mind - we can think about that later.   Why not sit down and have your tea before you rush into anything. It's double egg and chips with bread and butter and plenty brown sauce.  Once we've eaten I'll dig out the balaclavas and rubber soled shoes and we can both head noiselessly over to the cliffs.  I'll help you burn the bastard down.  I can't stand Val Nark.'

next time - Tuppence manages to set fire to the wicker man using a tinder box, some empty crisp packets and a bottle of methylated spirit, and the resulting flames attract a passing coronavirus-infested cruise ship that has failed to find a port that will allow them to land.  More on that later. 

Franklin's Tower ☮ Grateful Dead, 5/9/77

Covid Queeries

'If someone's famous does that make it OK if they break the lockdown?' asked Tuppence.
'It helps if they are both rich AND famous.  But mainly rich.  And it doesn't make it OK,  it just makes it easier transport-wise and less likely that you'll get arrested.  Are you referring to the second home phenomenon?'
'Yes.  Apparently a rich author has just jetted in to one of Val Nark's luxury glamping yurts for some rest and such-like.  He arrived with five cases of baked beans, five boxes of Chili Heatwave Doritos and five barrels of McEwan's 80 Shilling.  His wife has ancestors from Hereabouts and he's self-isolating, he announced with a megaphone when he arrived.  There's also a notice pinned to the post-box, stating the same.'
'Is his wife with him?'
'No.'
'This is an outrage.  It isn't a second home phenomenon - it's a glamping situation which is even worse and he doesn't even have the figleaf of the wife's ancestry to cover himself with.  Clearly Val Nark is complicit in this blatant rule-flouting, because  - true to form - she has rented the luxury yurt to said famous person.  For actual hard cash money.  Tuppence - you won't have experienced such an event, and even I can barely remember the last time it happened, but - this is a pitchfork job.'
Geoffrey nodded.  'If ever there was an occasion to use them , this is it.  T-G - are the pitchforks still to hand?'
'Yes,' he replied quietly.' They're in the Iron Age burial chamber up on the moor.  They haven't been used since the last violation, during the Great Plague of Incomers.  We chased them off the cliffs with them.  My, we were a magnificent sight, wielding our pitchforks, our blue faces shining in the light of flaming torches rudely fashioned from the thighbones of our ancestors as we ran full tilt at the infected incoming hordes.'
'Why were your faces blue?' asked Tuppence.
'The exertion Tuppence.  When you're charging across the moors slightly out of condition with a pipe of baccy gripped between your teeth, a pitchfork in one hand, a flaming torch in the other, plus a flask of soup and a snack for later in your backpack with the usual emergency medical supplies,  it tends to get you out of puff.'
'Will the pitchforks be sharp enough though,' asked Tuppence,' Might they not have rusted up a bit after all these years?'
'Oh but I've maintained them Tuppence.  Polished them carefully with fine wire wool and WD40 by the light of every Full Moon.  Excellent question by the way.'
'Well what are we waiting for?  Let's go!  Let's rid ourself of this selfish incomer.  Pitchfork him over the cliffs and make a Tiktok of it so nobody else thinks they can come here to self-isolate.'

next time - we end up going 'over the top' as we rush headlong and willy nilly at anyone 'strange'.  Tuppence decides not to make his charity single as the lockdown will be over soon. 

'It escaped from a lab in Wuhan Uncle Tuppy,' Tuppence raved as he paced the room with a loaded pistol in one hand and a empty packet of hot 'n' spicy Niknaks in the other.
'What did?'
'For pity's sake, Tuppy,' yawned the T-G (for he had returned), 'Whatever else does anyone talk about these days but that tiresome virus.'
'It's not a virus though,' continued Tuppence, his eyes glittering feverishly, 'It's a bioweapon.'
'That doesn't preclude it being a virus Tuppence.  It could be a weaponised virus.'
'What about the bats?'  I asked.  'I thought it originated in bats. Someone in China et one and it jumped species.  Didn't they?'
'I thought pangolins,' said Geoffrey from the kitchen, raising his voice over the sound of sizzling bacon.
'I'll tell you precisely where it originated,' said the T-G, filling his pipe. 'It originated in darkest South America, in a Nazi colony that's been thriving since the fall of Hitler and waiting its chance for world domination.  Do you remember when you got stung by the giant South American wasp, Tuppy?'
'I do.  I'm still troubled by occasional hallucinations about being pursued by that massive egg.'
'That was just the start Tuppy.  They were only warming up at that point.  You, yes you - were the guinea pig.'
'You mean, the wasp that stung me had escaped from a laboratory run by Nazis?'
'Yes.  Or was it released? You see Tuppy, those Nazis are determined to return, using hi-tech bioweapons delivered by wasps that will wipe out half the population of the earth with minimum effort.  The concentrated venom of the giant South American wasp makes the effects of Covid-19 look like a five year old's birthday party.  They intensified its toxicity through years of careful inbreeding.  Just one droplet is now enough to wipe out a city the size of Inverness.'
'I thought that the wasp had escaped from your vitrine - the one in the topmost tower of Tupfinder Towers, late of this parish.'
'It did. A contact of mine had managed to capture it and sent me it via Yodel in a cast iron strongbox, bolted and padlocked but sadly with no key, so that I could study it. I was out when it arrived but they left it in the coal bunker and put a note through the letterbox.  When I eventually crow-barred open the box and got the creature under a hi-powered microscope with a pair of two foot long fire tongs I was appalled!  So appalled that I let go of the tongs and the wasp escaped and - well, you know the rest.  Yet that wasp was only an outrider Tuppy!  The wasps they've got now make that one look like a Mayfly.  They're super-intelligent, but also completely insane due to the inbreeding.  And their venom - dear Lord.'
The T-G shuddered and I signalled to Geoffrey to fetch the sal volatile.
'What can we do to protect ourselves?  Stay indoors and save lives?  Wash our hands for twenty seconds in hot soapy water?'
'That won't do any good.  We need a plan.  I suggest that firstly we must construct individual hazmat suits, so that we can safely go out-doors.  Then, we should all meet up in the Puff Inn.  Stormy's re-opening while maintaining social distancing - though, how he's going to manage that with a pub the size of your average bathroom, beats me.  But we need to support local businesses so -'
'But his staff have been furloughed T-G', Tuppence interrupted, ' and why should they return to work when the virus is still on the loose?'
'Stormy hasn't got any staff, he does it all himself,' I replied. 'He uses rats when he needs casual labour.  Fetch the sewing machine and the tarpaulin Geoffrey.  We'd better get those hazmat suits made up.  I could murder a pint of Purple Peril.'

next time - battling our terror we venture down to the Puff Inn in our newly-fashioned hazmat suits to find that Stormy has devised a foolproof method of keeping himself and his customers safe - six foot long drinking straws, leading from external seating to the bar, and a six foot long 'money chute' for 'contactless' payment.  Also, Tuppence releases a charity single to raise funds for the NHS, featuring a 100 year old care home resident playing the theremin with his false teeth.

'They're loosening the lockdown and I'm not ready to die Geoffrey.'
Geoffrey had returned from being away.  'Away' was an illicit visit to his elderly cousins-twice- removed, who are 'self-isolating' in their second home on a rock somewhere off the St Kilda archipelago and needed some groceries dropping off.
'Sorry I didn't tell you where I was going Tuppy, but I thought best you didn't know cos you'd only have blabbed to snitches like the Fulmars or someone and I'd have been reported to the authorities.'
He was sitting on the mantelpiece eating a four-fish-finger sandwich (his third since his return).  I was so glad to see him I'd even made the sandwiches myself.
'Sandwich all right Geoffrey?'
'Reem thanks,' he said through a belch, wiping tartare sauce from his chin with the large red-spotted handkerchief he'd used to carry the groceries. 'Nobody's ever ready to die.  You just have to get on with it when it happens.  There's not a lot else one can do, short of finding the elixir - ,' he belched again, 'Pardon me, the elixir of eternal life.'
'Remember how we used to worry about smoking Black Bogey and eating too many biscuits and fatty foods?  We thought we were living on the edge if we had a bacon sandwich.  Halcyon days Geoffrey.  Now look at us.  Scared to leave our own four walls.'
'I believe Val Nark's offering free online 'Meditations on Mortality' in podcast form.  I saw a notice nailed to the gate-post by the post-box as I flew in, and I asked Razor Bill about it when he arrived to collect the mail.'
'Free?  That's not like the Narks. They're always such money-grabbers.'
'Entrepreneurs Tuppy.  Up and coming go-getters.  Trying to get by during straitened times.  But on this occasion what they're offering is free, or, free at the point of delivery as Val puts it.  She does the podcast from the healing yurt with all her products carefully price-labelled and arranged in full view.  Her own-made artisan pine-scented earwax candles, antiseptic creams, herbal cough linctus, masks woven from nettle fibres and so forth.  And there are adverts for eco-funerals at intervals during the sesh.'
'That's nice.  What part does Dave play in all this?'
'He sets up the camera of course.  You know how he does his wildlife vids..  I reckon not many people watch anyway.  Nobody really wants to meditate on their own mortality.  They'd rather take their minds off it by getting blind drunk, or binge-eating Hobnobs while watching The Chase.  Mind you that's much the same thing.'
'So here we are, dancing our merry way along life's razor edge, as usual.  How are we going to get through this one Geoffrey?  Must we return to the Old Ways, and fetch the opium from the medical chest?'
'No Tuppy.  I think we must indeed return to the Old Ways, but by that I mean the Old Religion rather than opium.  We need to find the key to eternal life Tuppy.  If there isn't an elixir (and I'm not saying there's not) then there must be a key.  And if anyone can find it, it's us!'

next time - we set out to find the key to eternal life, and Tuppence and his band release a charity single produced by Gob Beldof . 

Grateful Dead - Attics of My Life (Studio Version)

Corona-spiracy

'The virus was released by a group of Green anarchists in order to get the population down Uncle Tuppy.  Starting with picking off the old and the sick.  The weaklings at the back of the herd - the ones that can't run fast and would die soon anyway.  And as an old fat smoker with short legs you're right in the firing line.'  Tuppence was up till 2am last night reading about conspiracy theories and doing a 'deep dive' into the pandemic.  If only he'd stuck with the grassy knoll and mind control.  Simpler, happier times.
'So what else is new,'  I said, stretching the aforementioned legs towards the fire and filling my pipe with Black Bogey. 'The thing I don't understand is, why they involved bats.  It seems like an unnecessary complication.'
'You and Uncle Geoffrey are toast,' crowed Tuppence,  rubbing his hands together, 'and the T-G as well probably.  Although he's a bit of an unknown quantity age-wise he is bald so he must be well on the turn.   The planet's going to be a much safer place for the rest of us when all you decrepit coffin dodgers are out of the way.  Human beings have ruined everything - human beings of your generation that is. You've milked it dry with your greed, your laziness and your filthy disgusting habits, and you've bitten the hand that fed you.  Probably eaten it as well, deep-fried in lard with a side of coleslaw and extra thick crinkly cut chips.  Now it's up to us millennials to sort things out and that's just what we're doing.'
'Releasing viruses and killing off the old and the sick?'
'Yes!  Survival of the fittest Uncle Tuppy. We must cut out the dead wood.  It's all for the best.'
'Really.'
'Oh, scoff away.  I know that's all your drink-addled brain can manage.  By the way - have you signed your Do Not Resuscitate form yet?'
'No I have not.'

next time - Tuppence forms a new band and names it 'The Green Anarchists'.  They release a charity 'coronasingle' accidentally called 'The Green Antichrist' due to a typo on the label and they get Elton John to sing harmony via videolink.  Sadly the signal went crackly and his contribution was lost.

Lockdown Continues...

Paranoia and sheer existential terror levels aside, life hereabouts continues much as it did before lockdown.  That is, we don't do very much and we don't want to do very much.  When I say 'we', I mean 'I', because nobody else is around right now.  And I should say 'I' because I don't much care for incontinent usage of the Royal 'we'. 
I filled the tartan shopping trolley with provisions from the Tunnels last night, as planned.  It's hard work dragging it home over the moors all by myself and the balaclava doesn't help.  If Geoffrey and the T-G are still hors de combat I might try to rig up some sort of motor and attach it to the trolley for next time.  And I'll certainly need one of those lamp-style things that you tie round your head, because despite knowing the moors like the back of my non-existent hands, I kept falling into peat hags.  How I'll square that with not being spotted by some random noseyparker with nightvision goggles, I haven't yet figured out.  I could also use a bigger trolley; there are several boxes of crisps down in the Tunnels at the moment - smokey bacon flavour, roast chicken, and sizzling steak - and I'd like to nab a few before they disappear.  It's just a matter of time until the Rats get them.  They would have been destined for the Puff Inn only it's shut at the moment due to the lockdown.  Preparation is everything, as someone very smug but probably annoyingly correct once said.
Tuppence hasn't returned yet from his shopping expedition to Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.  I hope - oh no.  He's back.
'Uncle Tuppy!  I've got toilet paper!   Reams of it!'  he struggled through the hole in the wall clutching a multipack of Speedispend 'own brand'.
'I don't care Tuppence.  As I told you before, we don't actually need it.  We're sheep.  We do it where we stand.  We don't have to wipe our bottoms.'
'And as I told YOU Uncle, I've started wiping mine, and what's more I'm going to be using a proper TOYLET and not doing it where I stand any more.  Alexa says - '
'-' I opened my mouth to say that Alexa was a supercilious prig, and to remind him that in any case there are no such things as 'proper TOYLETS' hereabouts, and then I remembered that Tuppence is only a youngster, and that it would be wrong to be cruel and churlish just because I'm older and know so much better due to my mature, super-developed brain, with an intellect honed to a fine edge over a lifetime's practice arguing with Geoffrey and the T-G about the comparative merits of crisps and the finer points of tiddlywinks.  So instead I said, 'Did you get any Hobnobs?'
'Only the plain kind.  There weren't any chocolate left.'
'This is a disaster.'
'Don't be ridiculous Uncle.  You're overweight and you know you're at risk of the sugar diabetes.  Val Nark says - '
'Oh for the love of crisps.'
'No hear me out.  Val says if your waist measures more than thirty four inches you're a walking time bomb.'
'I think mine's thirty two.  Last time I checked.'
'When was that Uncle?  Nineteen fifty three?  Luckily I have a digital measuring tape and all I need to do is point it at the relevant area and HOLY SHIT!'
'Yes?'
'The digital measuring tape just went into the red zone then burst into flames.  It wasn't able to cope with your vast waistline.  Uncle Tuppy, you must take immediate action.'
'A-a-action?'
'Yes,' said Tuppence firmly. 'Val Nark is doing virtual fitness sessions via Skype.  Dave's adapted their bikes and mounted them on stands and they're renting them out during the lockdown to people who are self-isolating or can't be arsed going out.  I'm going to get you one and you can take part in Val's sessions.  You're stronger than you know Uncle T.!'

next time - the comparative merits of composting TOYLETS versus the flushing kind versus doing it where you stand.  Also - Tuppence and his prog friends finally release his charity single.

'You know who's going to come out of this well?  Banks, Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, life coaches like Val Nark and novelists.'
'What about Doctor Wilson.'
I was slumped in my favourite leather armchair, toasting my feet by a roaring driftwood fire as Geoffrey poured us both a hefty slug of Madeira.
'What about him?'
'Well, aren't medics the heroes of the hour?'
'Some might be.  Wilson certainly isn't.  Ghastly man.  He's a throwback to the era when barbers doubled as surgeons.  Only worse.  He doesn't know what he's doing, crawling about in the caves covered in seaweed (please see books for details, if you're interested) and forcing everyone to go on diets and stop drinking and smoking.'
'He hasn't forced us.'
'No but it isn't for the want of trying.  All the things that make life tolerable, and he wants to destroy them.'
'Drink, baccy...fatty foods...biscuits...'
'Yes, and worst of all - he wants to destroy the illusion that we're immortal.  He constantly undermines our inalienable right to the essential belief that we're immune to illness and death.  That we have Teflon innards that won't be affected by a high-fat diet, and livers that can tolerate as much alcohol as we fancy.  His constant doom-laden needling about how we've got to look after ourselves else we'll die, terrifies me.  I won't live under the medical cosh Geoffrey, I simply won't.  I can't.'
'You will take his advice to stay indoors to avoid the coronavirus won't you though.'
'I don't know that I will Geoffrey.  I think I'll go along to the Puff Inn and...'
'It's shut.'
'Oh.  Well, I'll nip over to Tupfinder Towers and see if Mrs T-G has allowed the T-G back in again...'
'You can't.  You're not allowed to visit friends.'
'Mrs T-G isn't a friend.'
'You're not allowed to visit anybody.'
'Alright, I'll go along to Val Nark's for an ear-candling session!'
'Social distancing rules that out as well Tuppy.  Val's working from home now.  The yurt's locked up and Val's doing life-coaching via Skype.  Ear candling won't be possible till after the lockdown.'
'Oh.'
'We're only allowed out for a daily walk.  For the good of our physical and mental healths.  There are drones circling the cliffs to ensure compliance.'
'What happens if you don't comply?'
'You get herded up by people in hazmat suits armed with cattle prods and put in a nasty dark place for a very long time.'
'What fun.'
'You are allowed out to fetch essential supplies though.'
'That's more like it Geoffrey!  Let's go down the Tunnels and fetch some more crisps, baccy and Madeira - nobody can tell me they aren't essential.  We'd better put on the camouflage gear and wait till nightfall, just to be on the safe side.'

Next time - Tuppence and his prog friends release a charity single, and Val Nark has some life coaching ideas to help everyone through troubled times.

Val Lecktures us about self-isolation.

Having sneaked out to the Tunnels last night under cover of darkness to fetch - or 'rob', as some nitpickers might have it - some essential supplies, viz., three dozen tins of smuggled meat (various types), four pounds of baccy (Black Bogey), and two barrels best Madeira, which I had to drag home over the moors all by myself in my wheeled tartan shopping trolley,  I'm a bit tired today.  Tuppence went Overthere again to do another shop at Speedispend but I'm not sure it's a wise move.  I gave him my copper diving helmet to help with the social distancing and I only hope he returns with several boxes of high-quality fish fingers and some decent biscuits.  I don't know where Geoffrey is.  The T-G is sleeping 'rough' somewhere, still being persona non grata at Tupfinder Towers after voting 'brexit'.  I miss them.  Going on the rob isn't half as much fun on your own.
 I fancied a tinned meat sandwich for lunch but I couldn't find the tin opener so I just had a slice of plain bread with red sauce on.   I'm involuntarily self-isolating, I keep thinking I'm ill and Everything's Awful.  To top it all, Val Nark is, right now, giving a leckture on self-isolation, and broadcasting it to all and sundry via loudspeaker from her campervan, which Dave is driving slowly round the area wearing his bobble hat and a gas mask.
'This campervan is covered with electrified barbed wire.  Do not approach.  Repeat, do not approach.
Om mane padme hum.  This is a public service announcement and it's for your own good, not that you lot'd know the difference.  Stay indoors.  You must keep your immune systems healthy so do star jumps and mindfulness and don't drink alcohol.  Anyone needing food, paint a cross on your door and I'll push a Ryvita through your letterbox.  Don't come within fifty yards of me and we'll all get through this.  My own-made hand sanitiser is available to purchase mail order at fifty pounds a squirt.  Plus P&P.  Om mane *massive screeching feedback noise* padme hum.'

Next time - Tuppence and his band reveal their charity single.

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