Things are gonna get worse. John Cooper Clarke

The maestro says it all about ageing.  A bungalow smelling of piss and biscuits 👍

Life lessons with a Gaviscon chaser

 

The gorse bushes mentioned in previous post.

'OK you two.  You're my relatives and I'm asking for - 'Tuppence choked as he struggled to form the word - 'advice.  There I've said it.  You can die happy.  And the way you pair carry on with your baccy, your opium tabloids, your salty snax and your ceaseless bevvying, it won't be long before you peg out so knock yourselves out while you can.  Have a good laugh at my expense.'

'How does he know about the opium tabloids,' murmured Geoffrey out of the side of his beak.

I shrugged and rammed some more Black Bogey into my pipe.  'What precisely is the question, nephew?'  

'I'm not sure I can say.  It's a personal matter and probably too embarrassing.   Especially when I know that you pair won't understand.'

'How do you know that?'  I asked, already knowing the answer.  'That's okay,  you don't have to say.  We're too unworldly, aren't we.  We've never been in 'physical relationships' and we don't have any experience of the internet.  We don't spend all day staring at phones looking at other people's front bottoms in order to avoid dealing with our emotions and engaging in meaningful interaction with real flesh and blood people.  We don't even HAVE phones.'

'We have a gramophone,' said Geoffrey.

'Shut up.   We understand that in your eyes we lack sophistication and brains.  But what we do have,  Tuppence,  is Life Experience.'

'Oh no,' groaned Tuppence.  'Here we go.'

'Yes!'  I continued,' Life Experience that cannot be bought, cannot be learned from Tiktok and Youtube vids.  We've been through the mill Tuppence!  We've seen it all! We've done it all!   Shipwrecks, smuggling, thieving, killer whales, giant wasps,  nettle underpants...'

'Right that's it I'm off.  I knew you'd never understand.  You pair are useless.  I'm going to try the Tupfinder General now.'  Tuppence adjusted his bandolier and headed for the hole in the wall.

'Will you be back for tea?'  

Tuppence paused on the threshold, turned slightly with narrowed eyes.  'What is it?'

'Soup.'

'Definitely not. Bye.'  

'It's not soup, is it Tuppy?'  asked Geoffrey anxiously, as our nephew disappeared into the swirling mists.

'Don't be stupid, of course it's not.  It's a full fry up including kidneys, liver, sausages, pork chops, fried bread, tattie scones and white black and fruit puddings washed down with six bottles of 80 shilling and a Gaviscon chaser.'

'Phew.  You had me going there.'

Next time - Tuppence tries the Tupfinder General.   And gets some surprising answers involving 3rd wave feminism from Mrs Tupfinder General.

Ageing is a bastard. Withnail and I - Camberwell Carrot

I'm the same age as Paul McGann.   Getting old would be fine if not for regrets, the bodily decay thing and the ever-more-intrusive looming of Death.

There's also a definite feeling that you should be thankful to have got this far in years without pegging out or becoming disabled and living in John Cooper-Clark's 'piss-stained bungalow' rather than having a whinge about dodgy knees and other embarrassing, undignified and preferably unmentionable things that occur as a process of said bodily decay.  

Which I truly am.  Nevertheless...you have to allow yourself a screaming episode once in a while.  Ageing is a bastard.  It's really bloody awful.

I like this clip.  It's about the end of an era.   

Mirror Mirror...

 

The upper field

Val Nark peered at herself in the artisan-crafted mirror, framed with locally-sourced driftwood and dried seaweed fronds.

'Mirror, mirror, on the wall.  Who is the fairest between me and Mrs T-G? I know we're both  d'un age certain, or whatever - but come on.  It must be me and not that hideous old bat.'

Enter the cleaner, an empath, wearing rubber-soled Skechers and holding a bottle of glass cleaner and a blue microfibre cloth.  It is Alexa,  Tuppence's on-off off-on on-off girlfriend.  

'I'm not being judgmental or anything, I'm sure she's a very nice person and all...' babbled Val, unaware, 'and I do feel really bad for being so appearance-obsessed and superficial, but honestly she has a complexion like corned beef, no discernable neck, a black moustache, liver spots and a torso the size, shape and texture of a large sack of potatoes.  She lives off black sausage rolls and crisps and I've seen her swigging cheap gin and smoking cheroots while lurking in the ha ha.   At least I think they were cheroots.  They might have been spliffs.   In fact they probably were, now I think about it.  If I were married to that old devil the Tupfinder General  I'd require more than spliffs, I'd need weapons-grade opiates just to cope with the knowledge that I'd wantonly destroyed my own life.    Anyway where was I.  Oh yes. I bung on a bit of jojoba oil,  I do the old pelvic floors, I breakfast on goji berry tea and my own-baked gravel flapjacks.  I think if it came to it most people would say that I am definitely the more well-preserved.   Or at least I deserve to be.  I...'

Alexa coughed gently, unfolded the blue microfibre cloth, and set the glass spray to 'stun'.

'Alexa!  you evil little creep!'

'It's my Skechers.  They're silent.  I can't help that.  Perhaps I should wear a bell round my neck.'

'Or you could just say hello when you come in, like a normal person. But you aren't normal, are you dear?  You're a CLEANER.  So I don't suppose you understand about the social niceties, like not eavesdropping.  Give the car park Portaloo a really good scrub today by the way.  We don't want any more complaints on Tripadvisor.  The yurt's fully booked and Dave says there are wild campers in the upper field. He caught them in his wildlife cam shitting in the gorse bushes.  If they'd only keep to that there wouldn't be a problem but no, they have to go all civilised and use the fucking Portaloo...'

'This is very tedious,' thought Alexa, squirting glass cleaner on the mirror. 'That Dave is a total arsehole.  I don't know which one's worse, him with his wildlife vids or Val with her nettle underpants.  Still, they're paying my wages and it's getting me through uni.  This and Onlyfans.'

'Did you just use a chemical spray on my artisan-crafted mirror, you troglodyte?' shrieked Val. 

'SKREEEEEEEEEEEK.......SHATTER.......................SPLINTER..................SKREEEEEEEEEK'

'Sorry....'

Next time...Tuppence re-launches his band via the power of the internet, gets no interest whatsoever, and also finds out about Alexa's Onlyfans revenue stream. Unsure how he feels about it all except that it isn't anything good he turns to his uncles Tuppy and Geoffrey for moral guidance....a lengthy, pointless, philosophical deconstruction over Madeira and pipes of baccy follows.

About my ancestors.

 Written eleven years ago, and published somewhere in a long-forgotten online magazine or website.

When I was about twelve I wrote a composition for my English class about a holiday with my great-aunt on her croft on Skye. My English teacher told me how lucky I was to have seen that way of life, as it was fast disappearing.  He happened to be a Skyeman – and he was right. 

I'm now fifty two, so this is going back a bit.  I can't remember what I wrote, except that I mentioned my aunt's fondness for dulse, the seaweed that grows on the rocky shoreline, and that she'd sent me to fetch some for her, and that I returned with the wrong thing.  I wish I still had a copy of that composition, freshly written as it was, and from a child’s perspective.

I returned to the croft often as a teenager.  My aunt was a MacAskill, and my grandmother's older sister.  Her croft was half a mile or so away from the former family home, which had been a traditional black house. At that time, which was the 1970s, most of the people within a radius of a couple of miles were related to me, and even if they weren’t I could turn up at their door confident that I'd be invited in for a "strupach".  This usually involved stewed tea, home-made girdle scones or Mother's Pride bread, with crowdie or jam.  People were generally pleased to see me, I think, most of them being very old and possibly lonely and bored, but with hindsight I'm sure at times they could have seen me far enough although they were far too polite to say.   

In summer, there was a stream of visitors, all family, from Glasgow and the central belt mainly.  They all referred to Skye as "home" and they were all made welcome.  The tiny cottage with its outside loo became so crowded that on one memorable occasion I'd to share a bed with my aunt.  I lasted about five minutes before shifting to the sofa.

I remember once one of them bringing with them from Glasgow the remnants of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Having been brought up in the country I'd never seen such a new-fangled thing before.   I thought it was great.

My great-aunt's first language was Gaelic, of course, and I learned some when I was there.  The thing I was most proud of was being able to command a sheep-dog, in Gaelic.  I like to think I probably still can.  I also learned Gaelic at school, and recited in the Provincial Mod, coming fourth (in a group of four - and that was with much coaching from my grandmother!)  The mobile library used to come round occasionally, and I remember the librarian (who was English) refusing to address me in anything other than Gaelic, and scolding me because I'd stubbornly reply in English.  I was never good at it and I've forgotten most of my Gaelic now. 

In addition to the mobile library, every week the mobile shop came round. You went inside and got your tinned ham and peaches, and your bread and marmalade and so forth.  There was a butcher who came on a Thursday, I think, sometimes at two in the morning depending on how his round went.  Not many people had cars.

My great-aunt told me many stories about crofting life in years gone by.  I wish I'd written them down, because I've forgotten such a lot.  She was a thoroughly kind-hearted and good-natured woman, who had never travelled further than Inverness, and that was only because her sister, my grandmother, invited her every winter.  She was an avid reader, and like many of her generation, could recite impressive amounts of poetry from memory.  She was also, like many Highlanders, a devotee of the Free Kirk, and besides attending church every week there would be a nightly prayer and Bible reading.  On one occasion I assisted with "Communion", which lasted if I remember correctly, a whole week.  Food and tea and constant general hospitality had to be provided for the communicants and the minister.  This was at another aunt's house.  I felt quite uncomfortable because I had to wear a skirt, rather than my usual jeans.  Trousers were still, at that time, considered unsuitable for women and definitely not to be worn to church.

On the sideboard was a strange lamp with a photo of - I think - a waterfall, which lit up and revolved when switched on.  Sadly it didn't work. I think someone brought it back from South Africa - a cousin once or twice removed had emigrated there.

Another crofting relative would rage at me because I didn’t know my family history – some, and I still don’t know who – had been among the Land Leaguers of Glendale.  They’d fought for their rights, and subsequent generations had forgotten. He kept sheep, but he hated them for what they represented.  “This way of life is over,” he’d say, disgustedly. “We’re the last of our kind.”  

When I’d mention Skye to friends in Edinburgh (where I lived for a time) they'd say "Oh yes - the Cuillins - have you been there?  Do you know Loch Bracadale, or such and such a place?" No, I didn't.  I only knew the croft, and the distance I could explore round about, and the journey there.

My aunt died in the early 1980s and her house was sold.  It was renovated by its new owner, and rented out as a holiday cottage.  Trips to Skye were very different after that.  I'd camp, or stay in B&Bs.  I felt bereft.  But the positive side of that was that I got to know the island in a different way and explored a much wider area.

It wasn't until about fifteen or so years ago that I learned of my connection to the Giant MacAskill and I went to the museum in Dunvegan to check out his enormous socks, among other odd items.  My MacAskill ancestors - one branch of them - had apparently moved from Harris to Skye in the 1700s.  They were shepherds near Neist Point, I believe.  

My grandmother was in service in the local landowner's house on Skye when she met my grandfather, who was the local police sergeant.  I think he had very little to do.  When he retired they moved to Inverness and I have very happy memories of their cosy and welcoming home there.  Sitting by the coal fire after a good tea, watching the black and white television among comforting wafts of my grandfather's pipe tobacco.  My grandmother was an expert oat-cake baker.  She made them with fine oatmeal, whereas my aunt's were thick and "coarse".  She could also bake a fabulously light "fatless sponge", which she sometimes made as a treat when she visited us.  My grandmother loved to speak Gaelic, it was her first language and to her English was a very poor second.  She was a lover of fine hats and a believer in - well, it was not really spoken of, but "second sight".  There were tales of ghostly funeral processions being seen before a death, and so forth, but it was all very hush hush.  My grandfather was from Petty, near Inverness, and he did not speak Gaelic although I am quite sure he could have done so and that he most definitely understood it.  He was a tremendous story-teller and would regale us with amusing tales in the evening or sitting back digesting after meals.  The one that sticks in my mind is about the Well of the Seven Heads.  If only I'd had a tape-recorder.

My grandfather served in the trenches as a Scots Guardsman in World War 1.  I have a letter that he wrote to me in the 1970s about his harrowing experiences when I was studying O Level history.  His father's cousin was Sir Hector Macdonald, an extraordinary, brave, and, to some, controversial character who was knighted by Queen Victoria and whose sword is now in Edinburgh Castle.  There is a monument to him in Dingwall.  He was a hero of the Empire, hugely popular at the time, but tragically he shot himself in a Paris hotel room in 1903 as a scandal about his private life broke.  Several books, a play and a television programme have been made about Sir Hector, most recently The Devil's Paintbrush by Jake Arnott, which I found riveting to read because of, among other things,  the theory that he shot himself following lunch and a drug-fuelled binge with Aleister Crowley.  He certainly travelled far from his crofting roots, but he did not forget them.  Thousands came to mourn him, and many refused to believe that he was really dead.  He is buried in the Dean Cemetery, Edinburgh, and to this day his grave is decorated with scarves and flowers.

There is a theory that Hector made the wrong choice when he accepted a commission.  In those days, it was a remarkable opportunity for a soldier from the ranks and one can completely understand his decision.  I suspect that, like me, he was brought up to believe that he was "just as good as the next man".  Unfortunately, while he undoubtedly had his supporters, many of the officer class did not go along with that and would not allow him to "fit in".  It must have been a difficult and lonely life, and when rumours about his sexuality and private life became a scandal, there were few to whom he could turn for help.

I didn't learn about my family connection to Sir Hector until very recently.  We are still unsure why such a well-known character was not widely discussed in the family, considering that our grandfather was such a prolific teller of stories and legends.  It may have been modesty, or on the other hand it may have been because of the "scandal".  We will never know.   One thing I'm sure of is that memory is fickle; this is my account of what I recall of the past, but my brother for example – and my other brother, who emigrated to Canada over thirty years ago, and no doubt other family members - will have a very different set of impressions.  I suppose that is why it's important to have a written account.

As for me, I’ve lived in Perthshire for many years and don’t intend to move.  If I win the lottery, I’ll buy a place on Skye, but that aside, I’d never be able to afford it.  I worked as a nurse for many years, then after an illness I started writing as a hobby about five years ago; on the advice of a local writer I started a blog, which became a long-running series of Tales inspired in part by my affectionate memories of evenings spent by the firesides of Highland relatives and friends. I was surprised and very proud when my blog was reviewed in Northwords Now in 2011. The blog has been very much a reflection of Me and as such as taken various odd and dark twists and turns, but the heart of it will always be those firesides and the people who sat round them telling tales.

Geoffrey is a Psychopath

 'So now on top of stealing from them you're having a go at people who donate to foodbanks.  You pair are so horrible I can't even.'

'You can't even WHAT?' sneered Geoffrey, scraping his spoon round the inside of the tin to get the last vestiges of custard.  'We haven't said a word.'

'You've said that people who donate to foodbanks are donating crappy stuff.  You're basically calling them stingey and mean.  People who have almost nothing themselves,  yet still find the money for a tin of custard for a stranger in need.  And you two are slagging them off. '

'Did we say that?  Did you actually HEAR us say that?  Or is this just your unconscious bias rearing its head again to reveal you as the sanctimonious little Peter Pan-style twerp that we are apparently condemned to put up with for all eternity.'

'That's gaslighting Uncle Geoffrey.  But I'm pretty sure you didn't do it deliberately.  You're definitely too stupid to know how to gaslight.  So you must've done it unconsciously - or, unwittingly, more like, what with you being totally and utterly witless and all that.  Which makes you  an utter and total psychopath.'

'Well pardon me all over the place.  How old are you now Tuppence?  Thirty two isn't it?  Isn't time you moved on from the sixth year common room student activist stage, into maybe, oh I don't know - a job at Speedispend customer service desk or something?  And while you're here - let me get this off my chest.  You know what really annoys me more than anything about you Tuppence?  Away ahead of some strong competition?  It's your vocal fry. '

'My what?'

'You heard.  Let me tell you right now m'laddo...'

'I'm all ears.'

 'We're living on a rocky outcrop somewhere on the north west Scottish seaboard,' continued Geoffrey, flinging the empty custard tin grandly out of the window, 'Nobody is quite sure where 'somewhere' is exactly,  but we know where it definitely isn't.  And that's the United States of America ten years ago.  The only 'fry' required round here involves eggs and bacon with possibly a slice or two of black pudding, some kidneys and a couple of sausages.   Which reminds me of my original point - how did the foodbank comestibles find their way into the tunnels?  We don't have a foodbank in these parts, so what - or who - on earth brought them here?  And why?'

'Don't you know anything about what goes on round here - except your neighbour's personal business from listening at keyholes?  Of course you don't.  All you two ever think about is yourselves.  Cripes you are self-obsessed.  OK I'll tell you.  If you must know, Stormy Petrel is only opening up a mobile coffee wagon cum hi-end vegan burger van in the tourist car park.  He's going for the green dollar with McCartney sausages, maybe some bulgur wheat salads, hand-cut chips and buckets of coleslaw or whatever.  It means using half the spaces meant for cars so the tourists will have nowhere to park but he reckons that's even greener and better for an eco-micro-business cos they'll have to take the bus, bike it or walk.  He needs as many foodbank comestibles as he can get till he gets it off the ground cos he's skint.  The Puff Inn's on a knife-edge - it hasn't recovered from lockdown yet.  The foodbank stuff came from the donation trolleys in the Speedispend exit lane but it was all a mistake.  Stormy wanted the rats to nick stuff, supposedly to order, in return for a cut of his profits.  He asked for packets of Quorn mince and gluten free buns and ketchup and stuff but they couldn't be arsed hunting round the shop for all that so they took the foodbank's trolleys instead. He'll have to make do.  And now he can't even do that, because you pair have stolen it all.'

'Oh...'

More later

Pre-stolen comestibles

I'm ashamed to say that for quite some time we continued to raid the foodbank supplies in the tunnels.  We were stealing food, basically, from the mouths of those who needed it most.  

Or were we?

Theft, of the lowest order.  

Or was it?

All was not quite as it might seem.    Partly,  obviously - but not quite.

For the supplies had already been stolen - they were, you could say, pre-stolen comestibles.  Tins of rice pudding, mandarin oranges, baked beans, cartons of UHT milk and boxes of cereal left in the tunnels by A.N. Other along with a miasma of 21st century misery.  Did that make what we were doing - pilfering - better?  Did it absolve us of responsibility?

After a brief, rather dull discussion around 'degrees of theft' (to be continued) and the current direction of travel of moral turpitude in general, we lugged our tins of custard and packets of cheesy pasta back to the Outcrop.

'Geoffrey, this isn't vittles, this is crap.    Where is the korn bif?  Where is the Madeira?  Where are the pouches of best baccy?  What possible use can we find for custard and cheesy pasta?  Perhaps - and at the risk, heaven forfend, of sounding sanctimonious - we should lug it back to the tunnels, for someone who actually, erm... needs it.'

'Well Tuppy, not so fast there.   I'm a little embarrassed to admit it but I've been suffering from a touch of diarrhoea lately.  And I believe this is precisely the type of bland, fibre-free 'vittles' that might put an end to my toilet torment.'

next time - we discover who 'pre-stole' the foodbank comestibles - and why.  

 I raised the hurricane lamp and peered into the musty cobwebbed depths of tunnel 4a. As I inched forwards I stubbed my toe.

'Ooyah bandit.'  I put the lantern down so I could rub my foot and saw that the offending item was a battered CD of Mike Oldfield's second opus,  Hergest Ridge, which was wedged inconveniently between the tunnel wall and a large, slightly raised stone on the footpath. Presumably it had been left behind by a workman.  But surely the tunnels predated Hergest Ridge by more than a century, at least?  

Raising my lantern I saw oak barrels of madeira and port lining the walls and crates of tinned meats gleaming enticingly.  Far below at the other end of the tunnel, the sea crashed against the cliffs.

Somehow, the ghostly darkness and gloom and the relentless crashing of the sea against the rocks and the general awfulness reminded me horribly of the unmitigated Hell that I expect awaits us in the latter half of 2023.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on that.   I had a tartan shopping trolley that needed filling.

'Broadsword to Father Macree.  Come in Father Macree.  Hurry!' panicked Geoffrey, who was keeping 'shottie' at the tunnel entrance.  His voice crackled again from the walkie talkie. 'The Moon's rising.  Over.'

I packed a few tins of korn bif into the wheeled shopper.  What else could I grab?  I was hoping to see crisps or other types of salty snack.  After all, it wasn't as if...

FOODBANK,  HEREABOUTS

'What the...?'   I removed my spectacles so that I could read the label without the blur.  

FOODBANK, HEREABOUTS.  It was written in block capitals in red felt tip on a white self-adhesive square.  Every barrel of port and madeira and every tin of meat had one.  I could scarcely believe my eyes. 

'Tuppy - I mean, Father Macree!  This is Broadsword.  The Moon's UP and I mean RIGHT UP.   We have to go.'

'Yes, yes, just a minute Broadsword...'  I seized a large oilcloth package that smelled strongly of tobacco.  Surely that wasn't destined for the foodbank. 'Over and out...'

Later, back at the Outcrop, we examine the contents of the oilcloth package, and find ourselves caught rather uncomfortably on the horns of a moral dilemma vis a vis nicking stuff from the foodbank.   

 

 

Mrs T-G Prepares for Nuclear War

 'I can't believe we're talking about nuclear war.'  The T-G paused to light his pipe.  A pipe that was fashioned in the shape of a Cruise anti-tank missile. 'Or were we talking about it?  Perhaps I nodded off and had a horrible nightmare.'

'Where did you get the pipe, T-G?'  asked Geoffrey.

'Mrs T-G carved it for me from an old ham bone that she'd boiled up for soup.  Do you like it?'

The smell of ham wafted through the clouds of Black Bogey as the T-G lit up.

'Not sure T-G.  I think I prefer your usual pipe.'  

His usual pipe was fashioned in the shape of the Trans-Antarctic Mountains, with the bowl as Mount Erebus, and it was nestled in a velvet-lined case on the mantlepiece, next to the T-G's skull-shaped tobacco jar and a letter inviting the recipient to have a fourth 'booster' vaccination.

'I see Mrs T-G's getting on with the bunker T-G,'  I peered through the mullioned window and watched a sturdy tweed-skirted figure pausing to wipe the sweat from her eyes as she stood leaning on a shovel waist-deep in a large hole just beyond the ha-ha, many feet below.

'Oh I'm sure, I'm sure,' said the T-G through clouds of tobacco smoke. 'She just needs to dig another ten feet, line it with concrete and put some corrugated iron sheeting over the top.  She'll have it done in no time and then she can get it stocked up with black sausage rolls, blankets, brandy, morphia, laudanum, playing cards, Canasta and the like.  We'll be perfectly safe from any nuclear strike.' 

'Do you think she could manage to tunnel another mile or two and link up with the smuggler's tunnel in the cliffs? Then we could have quick and easy access to supplies, like korn bif and such-like, without having to risk exposure to nuclear radiation or whatever.'

'Oh I'm sure, I'm sure', soothed the T-G.  'Best to wait until later though.  I find these things are best asked in the evening, when Mrs T-G has made our Horlicks and is settled in her housecoat with her curlers in and cold cream on her face.  Just before she chops up some logs for the next day's fire and takes the bins out.'

'What about toilet facilities?' asked Geoffrey. 

'What about them?'

'Well, will there be any?'

'You mistake us for fools Geoffrey.   Naturally, we've thought this all through.  Mrs T-G is hollowing out a separate chamber within the bunker to be used as a lavatory.  Within it there will be a seated facility below which yet another chamber will be hollowed, to contain any waste.  This in turn will be dealt with whenever we can think what to do with it, or when the smell becomes intolerable, whichever happens first.'

'Fantastic T-G.'

'Thank you.   Where is your nephew Tuppence by the way?  I haven't seen him for a while.'

'I'm afraid he's gone off to Ukraine in a Bedford van, ostensibly to play charity fund-raising gigs with his band but really, to steal weapons.'  I glanced at the T-G's pipe.  'He's always wanted an anti-tank missile.'

more later

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)