Fat Smokers

 'You two are anti-vaxers aren't you.  Don't bother denying it.  Even if you weren't my uncle and pretendy uncle I could tell  you were just by looking at you.  You're worse than Van Bore-off-ison and Eric Crapton.'  Tuppence sniggered at his little joke. 'You know what - I bet if Crapton had found his brain cell and gone for his vaccination, he'd have said as he rolled up his sleeve - which would probably have been half rolled up already, as he would most likely have been wearing a 1980s icecream-coloured jacket with turned back sleeves over an Armani cap-sleeved T-shirt - ' and at this point Tuppence doubled over in fits of laughter - ' he'd have said 'will I be able to play the guitar after I've had the jab?'  'Of course' would come the reply, to which Crapton would reply 'oh that's good - cos I can't play it now!'  Ah-hahahaha!!!  Exit Crapton, pursued by a nurse waving a massive syringe full of extra strenf vax.'  Tuppence gasped for air, hiccuped and dabbed his eyes.  'Oh dear.  I've got hiccups now from laughing.'

'Got the time on you Geoffrey?'

'Nope.  But can't we get him to leave?'

'Doubt it.'

Tuppence was in full lecturing mode.  

'Anyhoos - I bet you both go down with the covid and have to get intubated and take up NHS beds and everything.  Especially you Uncle Tuppy, what with you being a fat smoker and all.  I bet you'll be on the TV news, crying into your oxygen mask and saying how sorry you are that you didn't take the vax.'

'Bore off Tuppence.  It's all over now, bar the shouting and the vast barren economic wasteland.  Maybe we can have a whip round for Stormy so he can open the Puff Inn again.  It's all boarded up and Stormy's living with his sister Gale on the cliffs.  It must be awful for him - he's spent all his savings and she's like Joyce Grenfell on crack, all cold showers, jolly hockeysticks and boiled cabbage.   We need to help him out.'

'Well I could offer to do a fundraising gig with my band and put out one of our charity singles but from a moral standpoint I don't think I should,' said Tuppence.  'After all Stormy was at that anti-vax protest at the tourist car park with all the nazis and old people driving trucks.  I couldn't possibly associate myself with him.  He deserves all he gets quite frankly.  Including the covid.'

'Dearie me Tuppence.  That's an awful thing to say.'

'No it isn't.  If he dies of covid it'll be all his own doing.'  Tuppence removed the pistol from his belt and twirled it in expert fashion. '  And if he doesn't die of covid,  I might finish him off myself.'

'Can we have our tea now?  haven't you somewhere to be Tuppence - like an online meeting or a virtual disco or something?'

'Yes I do as it happens.  I have to meet Alexa at the gender neutral toilets behind the tourist car park.  We've been hired by the government to watch out for truckers, steal their wallets and shoot anyone who feeds them.'

IN OTHER NEWS - WORLD WAR 3 IS BREWING and vaxxing and anti-vaxxing is so last year.  They aren't even talking about 'boosters' any more.   How quickly the world moves on.

 

The Vaxing Yurt

 

Fortified by large helpings of sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes we sat uncomfortably on the Morocco ottoman by the mullioned window and awaited further thoughts from the T-G.  

'Would you look at the nick of that roaster with the cattle prod in the hi viz jacket - who is it Geoffrey - I can't tell what with the mask, the safety goggles and the balaclava helmet.'  I rubbed at a diamond-shaped pane of glass with a corner of my plaid scarf and peered at the grassy knoll far below, where a tall, rangy figure stood waving his arms and gesturing with a cattle prod towards a newly-erected yurt.

'Of course you can.  It's Dave Nark.  Who else would it be?  He's rounding up stragglers who won't take the vax.  People won't go into the yurt now because they're saying they've seen others go in and never come out.  That's why he's using the cattle prod.'

'Cripes.  Can't we nobble him?'

'I'm sure that's not beyond our wit and skill Tuppy.  But we'll need to be careful.  Oh - settle down.  The T-G's on the starting blocks again.'

We moved towards the roaring fire and sat gingerly on the fender seat.  The T-G sat on his customary leather armchair beside us with his long sea-booted legs stretched before him, a Meerschaum pipe gripped between his teeth.

'Is there at the core of Man such a limitless darkness that can never be apprehended by the human mind?' he began.

'You know Val Nark's selling heat logs made from compressed sawdust,' said Geoffrey, sotto voce.  'They're meant to burn quite well and are much more eco-friendly than normal logs.  Perhaps the T-G...'

'Don't be stupid Geoffrey.  They wouldn't do on a fire this size.  You need proper logs three feet long to fill this fireplace, not Chad Valley rubbish.'

'Well I was only saying.'

'Fine, but don't bother next time.  Did you bring the hip flask?'

'N-nooo,  I left it on the - '

'Oh for pity's sake.'  I needed that hip flask, and I needed it badly.

'We are the void.  We are blackness.  We are the manifestation of the type of evil that results from sheer ignorance - our actions driven by wilful blindness to our own faults and a vainglorious belief in our superiority as a species.  At best, we are egregiously foolish, at worst, deliberately wicked.  Or is it the other way round.  I'm not sure.  Anyway,  in short, we should never be allowed out on our own.  None of us!'  The silverware on the oak monastery table rattled as the T-G thumped his sword stick on the floor.

Many floors below there was an unearthly scream as Dave Nark cattle-prodded another quivering victim into the vaxing yurt.

'We're going to have to do something aren't we Tuppy.  How I hate it when things get to this stage.'

'Afraid so Geoffrey,'  I said, stifling a sausagey belch.  'Fetch the blunderbuss and limber up.'

more later

Reflections on a Monastery Table

 'I blame Eve,' said the T-G.  He shifted position in his green leather armchair as he reached for the skull-shaped tobacco jar on the gleaming oak monastery table which stretched from the door, across the fireside to the tall mullioned windows at the far end of the room.    

'That's rather striking,' said Geoffrey.

'I always think it's good to be reminded of one's own mortality,' replied the T-G. 'The wife gave it to me for my ninety fifth birthday, which wasn't yesterday.  In fact,  I believe it was thirty five years ago next Saturday.'

'What do you blame Eve for?' I asked.  I didn't really want to know - I could hazard a guess, myself.  And hazarding a guess was about as far into it as I wanted to go.  I just wanted to get whatever it was, over and done with without being overtly rude so we could all move on and get our teas without a row.  Geoffrey had made a sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes and I was starving after only having had a triple black pudding and bacon sandwich for luncheon.   I could only hope that the T-G would exercise some self-control and keep any exposition to a minimum.

'The Fall. And every disaster that's happened as a result of it.'

Oh no, I thought.  Here we go.  'Surely you don't believe we're all tainted with original sin T-G.'

'I wouldn't go that far.  But there's certainly something there that needs looking at.  Something profound Tuppy.  Even you, with your tiny cholesterol-beset brain and your preoccupation with sausages and greasy snacks must understand that.  Human beings have made such an almighty mess of everything, despite the best efforts of some.  We can't help ourselves, it seems.  Therefore I must conclude that we should never have been allowed free will.  It's like a cosmic credit card, and most people can't handle it.  Especially Mrs T-G by the way.' 

'Aren't you saying all this just because you've - how shall I put it - had a row with Mrs T-G?'

'Certainly not!  If Eve hadn't picked that apple...well, we'd all still be living in the Garden of Eden and everything would be fine and dandy.'

'T-G - I'm sorry to stop you mid-flow but there is a sausage casserole with my name on it simmering on the back ring of our kitchen stove.  It will have reached the perfect consistency in approximately ten minutes, so I'll need to get a shift on.  Can we continue this later?'

'I look forward to it.  Genesis, by the way.  Have a gander after your tea.'

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

'Dust into dust,' murmured the T-G, who was sitting in a vast green leather armchair sipping a glass of absinthe toasting his toes in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  His bare feet rested on a brass fire dog while a pair of multi-coloured stripey toe-socks dangled from the mantlepiece.  The blunderbuss, with which he'd blasted us out of our previous situation (see previous post), was propped by the mullioned window alongside a pair of sea-boots and high-powered infra red binoculars. 

There was a loud creak as the heavy oak door was shoved open by a muscular fore-arm.  Mrs T-G bustled in carrying a plate of black sausage rolls (her specialty) and placed them on the oak monastery table which stretched across much of the room.

We were in the 'Tower Room' of Tupfinder Towers,  enjoying the hospitality of the T-Gs.  

'You'll need to sweep that chimney T-G,' reminded Mrs T-G,' We don't want it going up again like before.  And you won't be doing your chilblains any good with your feet right in front of the fire like that by the way.'

'Yes yes dear,' soothed the T-G., staring into the dancing flames.

'I'm only saying,' she sniffed as she left the room.

Mrs T-G never socialised with visitors, or indeed anyone.  In fact, she was rarely seen, even inside her own home.  She liked sitting in the large kitchen by the range, polishing copper pans and preparing the pastry and fillings for her famed black sausage rolls.  Nobody knew what she thought about while she sat there all alone ruminating with her tin of Brasso and her yellow dusters.   And I'm sorry to say it,  but nobody cared.  

'She's always been like that,' the T-G would say when badgered by Val Nark, who was convinced Mrs T-G was menopausal and would benefit from an ear-candling session.  'She's a lone wolf.  She doesn't want friends, or indeed ear-candling.'

'Dust into dust,' he murmured again, topping up his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

'What do you mean, T-G?'  I asked.  Geoffrey fluffed his feathers and leaned in closer.

'The human race is over.  Grieve for it now, while you can.  The great days, the great battles, the great days of wisdom are fading into the dark.  The ancient yew by the chapel has watched the rise and fall of Man over many centuries.  And it will watch its End.  Humanity, despite the best efforts of a few, is finished.'    

'Does this mean that Evil has finally won?' asked Geoffrey. 'Is that what you're saying, T-G?'

'Are we the few?' I wondered silently,' And is it worth struggling on?  Is there ANY hope?'

The pale light of the rising Moon shone through the mullioned window and reflected on the polished oak monastery table as the T-G topped up his glass of absinthe.

more later

Tuppence has a Meltdown

 'Van Morrison is a fat old anti-vaxing bigoted brexiteering fat old gammony old fat bigotty anti-vaxer who has no insight into his own white old fat bigoted antivaxing privilege,' declared Tuppence, smashing my original vinyl copy of 'Veedon Fleece' off the mantlepiece and into a thousand pieces. 'Did I mention him being old fat and bigoted?  Much like you and Uncle Geoffrey.  Now for Astral Weeks.'  He reached into the wire 'LP' rack which I'd bought in Woolworth's in 1971 and now was buckling beneath the weight of late 60s West Coast sounds, 70s prog, plus Van Morrison and a few random items purchased when under the influence and in a weak-minded state, best left to the imagination. 

'Oh for goodness sake Tuppence.  If you must destroy them can't you melt them over a soup bowl and re-purpose them into ashtrays or something?  This is carnage.  Wanton carnage.'

'You see this is typical of you Uncle Tuppy.  Ashtrays?  Who do you think smokes these days, besides you and Van Morrison and probably Eric Clapton?  I've told you before to educate yourself,  read something intellectually stimulating that will shine a light into your cholesterol-addled old brains - and I don't mean the People's Friend or the Daily Record.'

'We just use the Daily Record for toilet paper when we have visitors.  We cut it into squares and hang it on a nail by the lav.  We don't actually read it,' said Geoffrey. 'Same with the People's Friend.  We just get old copies from the bin in the tourist car park.  About once a year or thereabouts, when a bus party's been through.  Sometimes they throw cakes out of the windows. I got a whole cherry bakewell once.'

'I read them when I think I'm going to be on the toilet for a while, if you know what I mean', I said.  'I used to quite enjoy Coleen Nolan's problem page.  I don't think she does that any more though.'

'Oh yes that was good,' enthused Geoffrey. ' I do like Coleen.  She's so down to earth.  You could imagine sitting down with her for a nice cup of our usual poison, couldn't you Tuppy?'

'Let's cut to the chase.  When are you two going to join the 21st century?' lectured Tuppence.' No don't answer that, cos I already know.  NEVER, that's when.  So, for the good of the planet someone needs to round you up along with Van and Eric and shove you down a mineshaft.  I don't like to sound specific or anything but I know just the one.'  Smashing 'Astral Weeks' off the mantlepiece he brandished one of the shards and gestured towards the door. 'Out you go.  Go on.  Never mind the medical chest and the corned beef sandwiches.  Just get moving.  You know I'm armed to the teeth with a brace of loaded pistols and a bandolier of ammo, as always.'

'Can I take my baccy pouch?' I asked meekly, while staring at Geoffrey who was still perched, aghast, on the end of the sideboard. 'FLY GEOFFREY - FLY!!' I screeched.

Geoffrey can of course fly,  because as any regular reader will know, he is a seagull.  I, on the other hand, cannot, as I am a sheep heavily laden down with wool.  I don't regard this as a disability, although some might encourage me to do so.

'Oh - oh right - of course,'  said Geoffrey, fluttering. 'I'd better take my glasses, if only I could find them...'

'They're on your head,' I hissed,' Now fly - and fetch HELP - preferably the T-G with his blunderbuss.'

More later

Covid Convos

 Times are dark now sure enough what with the covid and all, but they've always felt a bit doom-laden hereabouts.  Death at your fireside and so forth.  The *thud-thud-thud* of the Grim Reaper's scythe-handle hammering at the door when you least expect it, and were hoping for a quiet evening by the fire with a favourite book, a pipeful of Black Bogey, some crisps and a bucket of absinthe.

'If you aren't preparing for Death, you aren't really living,' opined the T-G.  'If you're wise like me,  you'll always keep an empty chair by the fire, directly opposite your own, as a constant reminder of your inevitable demise.'

'Doesn't Mrs T-G mind?' asked Geoffrey,  'After all surely that's her seat,  opposite yours by the fire?'

'Oh she doesn't mind.  She doesn't have time to sit by the fire.   If she isn't scrubbing the floors and blacking the grate she's usually in the kitchen cooking black sausage rolls (see paperback for recipe) and doing the washing up.'

More on stereotypical gender roles and toxic masculinity later (or not - most likely not actually)

Dave Nark - Covid Tester and Wildlife Vidder

 A year on, almost, from the previous post.   And we don't have 'covid marshals' any more.  No - we have 'vaccines' and 'vaccine certificates'...and covid testers...

'So.  Dave Nark's a covid tester now.  Sticking cotton buds up people's noses in a caravan in the tourist car park for what he claims is a 'competitive salary'.'   The T-G had stopped by for a glass of piping hot Madeira and was reading a crumpled copy of last week's 'Daily Bugle'.

'He needn't bother sticking one up my nose,'  I said, throwing a piece of driftwood on the fire.

'Or mine', agreed Geoffrey.

'Or indeed mine,' said the T-G.  

'Is he still posting those wildlife vids on Youtube?'

'I believe so Tuppy.  He did get banned for a while after his trail cam filmed a staycationer doing the toilet in the burn.  He posted it without realising, or so he said.'

'Gracious.'

'Indeed.  Number twos, as well.  Val was mortified.  People were saying Dave was a pre-vert.  She was terrified the negative publicity would ruin her ear-candling and hot stones for well-being business.  She was running out of furlough money and it happened at exactly the wrong time, so she told Mrs T-G anyway.  Not that there would ever be a right time for that kind of thing.'

'Good grief.'

'Indeed.   Apparently the clip went viral before it was removed.  They've put portable toilets in the car park now so there's no reason that kind of thing should happen again.  Black Bogey?'   The T-G proffered his worn Spanish leather tobacco pouch.

'Thanks T-G.  How does Mrs T-G feel about it all?' I asked.  'Is she pro or anti vax?'

'Oh she's been double-jabbed, like me,' replied the T-G. 'We've had no side effects to speak of, other than the pustule eruptions, the chronic halitosis and the growth of the tail.  And of course Mrs T-G has the enormous wart on the end of her nose - but that was there before.'

'When I went for my jab I asked - ' Geoffrey spluttered and had to pause to control his laughter - 'I asked - ' Geoffrey doubled over in hysterics - ' I asked -'

'Oh do get on with it Geoffrey.  We've heard this one umpteen times already and it doesn't get any more amusing in the telling.'

''I asked if I'd be able to play the piano after the jab,' he blurted, ' Of course, replied Dr Wilson, looking amazed as he waved a needle in my face.  That's great,  I answered. Because I can't play it now!  Ba-boom!'  Geoffrey rocked back and forth with laughter while the T-G and I lit our pipes and stared grimly into the glowing embers.

'Interesting times,  Tuppy,' said the T-G.  'Interesting times...'

more later

EGG 1970 The Song Of McGillicudie The Pusillanimous

Dave Nark - covid marshal

 Tuppence staggered in at dawn this morning and threw himself on the sofa.

'Thank fizz you've got a hole in the wall for a front door uncle Tuppy cos I'd never have managed a proper door handle,' he wheezed, pulling the tartan knee rug over himself as he curled into a foetal position.

'Thank fizz?  are we in an Enid Blyton story Tuppence?  next you'll be wanting lashings of ginger beer, treacle tart and heaps of cook's special plum cake.'

'I wouldn't say no.'

'Where've you been all night anyway?  And why wouldn't you manage a door handle?  You look awful.'  I kicked a fresh log on to the smouldering embers and wafted yesterday's 'Bugle' in front of it to get a flame.  

'Don't ask.  Well, do.  I don't mind talking about it.  I've binned Alexa.'

'Really.'

'Well all right, she binned me.  There, I said it.  Are you happy now?  She only got off with Alvin, the frozen foods manager at Speedispend's pre-lockdown completely non-socially-distanced street party last night while I was providing the musical entertainment with my band.  You'd think she'd want to stick with ME, the mercurial, brooding, Byronic musical genius, the undoubted future STAR of the 2030 Jools Holland Hootenanny - but no, off she went with fizzing Alvin and his frozen fizzing fish-style fingers.   I was in the middle of a fantastic rendition of Egg's classic from 1970, 'The Song of McGillicudie the Pusillanimous' when I saw them openly flouting the social distancing guidelines together.   It totally put me off my half hour moog solo, to the extent that I fell backwards off my organ stool, getting my fingers trapped in a tightening coil of the electric cable as I did so, and toppled the entire amplifier stack as I yanked at the cable in the - ultimately successful - struggle to free myself.  Nobody helped.  Not even the rats.  I was utterly humiliated and I've been wandering the moors ever since.  My fingers are still swollen - look.'

'You'd better have a mug of hot Madeira and get off to your bed then.  I'm sure everything will seem better after a bit of kip. What's that noise?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

'Somebody's thumping the wall with a big fizzing stick!'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

A lump of plaster fell off the ceiling.

'Hey just a  - '

'OPEN UP.  THIS IS YOUR LOCAL COVID MARSHAL. WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE BRAZENLY FLOUTING THE COVID LAWS.'

'That's Dave Nark's voice!  What the fizz is going on Dave?'  I poked my head through the hole in the wall and peered at him.  He was sporting a yellow hi-viz jacket and a peaked cap, and was carrying a clip board and a mobile telephone.

'That's Sir to you if you don't mind.   I'm here to put you all under house arrest for not adhering to the new covid rules.'

Turns out that Dave's Youtube vids weren't bringing in enough dosh to keep him and Val in teabags never mind anything else, and so he applied - successfully, weirdly enough - for a job as Covid Marshal at the princely sum of £8.72 an hour.

'At least I've got my pride!' said Dave.

'Really,' I replied. 'You'd better come in and have a cup of hot Madeira to keep the cold out.  That rain's dripping off your cap and right down the back of your hi-viz jacket.  Before you know it you'll have a sniffle and have to self-isolate for fourteen days.'

'But you're a separate household.  We're not a bubble.  We cannot - I cannot - I cannot - '

'You don't understand the rules, do you Dave.  Never mind - nor does anyone else.  Just come in and take the weight off for half an hour.'

'Oh what the fizz.  Don't mind if I do.  I'll just scan the horizon with my hi-powered binoculars - the ones I usually use for watching wildlife for my Youtube vids - to see if any potential grasses are watching.'

NEXT TIME - a potential grass WAS watching, and we are forced to track them down and 'correct' them in the customary manner.  Dave sees the error of his ways and packs in the job as covid marshal, leaving a vacuum that only Nature - or some venal jobsworth - could fill...

The Count Five - Psychotic Reaction

 'Is there going to be another lockdown?' asked Geoffrey, breathlessly.  'Is the social distancing and handwashing and stuff working? What about the test and trace system?'

'Stop getting over-excited and get those fish fingers grilled,' I replied, packing my pipe with Black Bogey.

'No it's just that we might have to start stockpiling again.  Toilet paper and that.'

'I thought we went through all that already (see previous posts)?  We don't NEED toilet paper.'

'I know WE don't need it, but what if we have visitors?'

'If there's a lockdown we won't have visitors Geoffrey.  But if you feel THAT badly about it, nip down to the tunnels after lunch and see if you can find a pack or two of Izal.  And pick up a barrel of best Madeira while you're there, we definitely don't want to run out of that.'

'Wilco.  Val Nark's coming over later, she's got a petition for us to sign.  It's about the Gaelic signage.'

'Wot?'

'The Gaelic signage.  Someone's been going about with a tin of blue paint, erasing all the English signs so nobody knows where they're going.'

'And?'

'Val wants the remaining Gaelic signage to be replaced by pictograms - that way, nobody will feel left out and everyone will be able to understand - or 'unnerstaun' - the signs and therefore won't get lost.'

'I see.  Well, I daresay we can have a look at it and if my inky footprint will help then she's welcome to it.  We can't have folk stumbling around lost hereabouts - the cliffs are far too dangerous, as well we know (see posts passim) Does she still have folk self-isolating in the yurt?'

'Yes, still the same ones.  Nobody's seen them for six weeks - Val leaves quinoa and wholegrains and such-like by the flap and they pull it under using the end of a walking stick, and push out their rubbish when they're finished, using a toxic waste bin which Val then flings over the cliffs - it's a good system.  I think she's put Dave on the furlough scheme, he never does much anyway except film otters and post his vids on the internet.'

'That runs out in October though.  What's he going to do then?'

'He's applied for a job as a covid tester.  And, coincidentally, so has Tuppence.'

'What does that involve?'

'Well, I gather you get masked up and stick cotton buds up people's noses and test them for covid using a test-tube and some sort of 'liquid' covid-detector-serum. If they turn black and shrivel in the fresh air you've got it, and they fling you in a dungeon, or something.'

'They won't get anywhere near my nostrils with their cotton buds I'll tell you that for nothing.  They can stick 'em where the sun don't shine and it isn't up their nose.'

more on this later

Eric the half-a-bee

'I hate you lot.  You're old stupid fascists with no idea about anything and I'm going to cancel you all.'

 'Why are your ideas, needs and wishes more important than ours, Tuppence?' 

'They aren't,' said the T-G.  'He just doesn't understand the need for compromise.  Or that older, more experienced minds generally know best.'

'I understand that you lot have lived longer than I have,' said Tuppence, ' but that doesn't mean that you know any better.  Look at the state of you!'

'What do you mean?'  I paused as I reached for the baccy jar.

'You live in a tumbledown shack with a hole in the wall for a door.  You survive on stolen food, not to mention drink. You've not got a brass ha'penny to your name.  You've never travelled beyond your immediate environment. And I'm not even going to mention your toilet habits.  You've never even been to uni, for god's sake!'

'We went 'Overthere', remember?  About ten years ago? (see books for details of the trip) And we went to Flannan Isle. You were there too Tuppence.  Don't say we never took you anywhere.'

'You never took me anywhere.  I went places in order to rescue you.  You lot couldn't handle yourselves!  It was me who learned how to shoot a pistol, and use a crossbow.  Not to mention, captain a submarine and fly a plane.'(again, please see books for details of these exploits)

'I've been to 'uni',' said Geoffrey quietly.

'Oh what.  The 'university of life' I suppose? All that means is, you're old and too thick to have gone to proper uni! You lot are pathetic right wing fascist nutjobs who don't even know what privilege means, you're so thick and uneducated.  Read some books!  and I don't mean the Beano annual because THAT'S fascist too.'

'I really HAVE been to uni,' said the T-G. 'I attended the university of Holstein Carlsberg Saxe-coburg Gotha in 1846, and after finishing my degree, I did a further research degree on the lethality of curare poison when applied to small wooden darts and fired through multiple bamboo pipes and its possible use in wiping out the world's excess population.'

'Cripes!  You really ARE a fascist T-G!' shrieked Tuppence, spilling his Vimto.

'I don't subscribe to any political creed,' T-G replied, packing his pipe with Black Bogey. 'I think it was Nietzsche who said, I am not my book.  In my case, I am not my research paper.'

to be continued

'

YES - Then

Classic vid.  Almost unlistenable prog.  Tuppence loves it. 

Arson About

Remember the unidentified pile of bones found when the wicker man burned down? Well, they aren't 'unidentified' any more.  Not really, anyway.  This is what happened.
Dave and Val were livid when they saw what happened to the wicker man. When I say 'what happened to',  of course I should really say 'what Tuppence did to'.   With a Zippo lighter and a box of firelighters.
'We understand that Tuppence has issues,' said Val. 'We aren't surprised that he's turned to arson.  The poor creature hasn't even been to school.  And with role models like Tuppy and Geoffrey...'
'His diet's awful as well,' added Dave. 'No fresh vegetables.  I think he just gets crisps, fish finger sandwiches and corned beef to eat.'
'It's a wonder he's alive,' added Dr Wilson, 'he'll never make it to old age and maybe that's a blessing.  For all of us.'
This 'convo' took place on the headland where Dr Wilson was picking through the remains of the wicker man, and was overheard by Geoffrey as he circled over on his way to the Tunnels to check out the crisps and corned beef situation - we were running a bit low on supplies for that evening's tea.
'They even let him have a brace of pistols,' said Dr Wilson, foaming at the mouth, 'and live ammo.  He should really be in a secure unit - one of the old-style Borstals, where they could birch some sense into him. That's clearly a human femur by the way.'
'Oh no!' said Val, 'it's not his fault.  He needs help.  Proper psychological help like what we can offer and that.  Punishing him won't help.'
'He's already been in the sweat lodge (please see paperbacks for details of this awful experience).' said Dave. 'I'm not sure we can offer much more.'
'What about a short course of online C.B.T. or some ear-candling - once the pandemic's over of course?' said Val. 'It might help him develop a more positive mental attitude.'
'That wouldn't even make a dent,' scoffed Dr Wilson,' the lad's battle-hardened.  No, no, no, a good birching once a week would sort him out.  I'll do it. I've got a birch tree growing outside my garden and - '
'He hasn't even got a garden,' I said, interrupting Geoffrey's account. 'He's raving again.'
'I know,' said Geoffrey. 'Just wait till you hear the next bit.'
'OK but hurry up. I'm starving and I want to get the tea on.'
'Well,' said Geoffrey,' I'll cut a long story short.  Turns out Val and Dave had a self-isolating visitor self-isolating in their healing yurt, and they went for a socially-distanced stroll along the headland to admire the view.  Thinking they'd get an even better view from the top of the wicker man, which was of course then in situ having been erected as a publicity stunt by Val and Dave, they climbed to the top, got trapped in the head and were unable to make their way down.  Tuppence failed to hear their frantic screams over the calling of the gulls and the howling of the gale that whipped over the clifftops as he set light to the thing, and they perished in the inferno.'
'What a lovely story,' I said. 'Did you get any corned beef when you were out?'

next time - Stormy's relatives return to the States having failed to inherit the Puff Inn, and Dave and Val start a government-style anti-obesity clinic, free at the point of delivery - actual funding details to follow.  The bones of the late self-isolating yurt guest are hygienically crushed into paste with hand sanitiser, hygienically folded into a face-mask and flung over the top of the cliffs and into the sea, for hygienic funeral-style reasons.  Somebody says a few words but nobody can hear them over the calling of the gulls etc.. and there is a ham sandwich tea back at ours.  Dave and Val don't come because we don't provide a vegan alternative.  Tuppence hears about Dr Wilson's plans to birch him, and plots a ghastly revenge...