The rice pudding business

I'm presently in training for my "blowing skin off rice pudding" challenge. It isn't going to be easy - Cherry Fulmar's had one baking at gas mark 4 for three days now, and the smell of boiled milk is dreadful. I'm dreading it - the skin will be like shoe leather.
I was hoping they'd just produce a tin of Ambrosia and fire it under the grill for a few minutes (even then I'd be struggling), but no - they've gone the whole hog and have made the thing from scratch with real "pudding rice".
I'm never going to manage to blow the skin off something of that calibre, so I'm racking my brains trying to think up a way to cheat.
Geoffrey foolishly suggested I go swimming underwater in the Bay, to strengthen my lungs.
He's been reading Frank Sinatra's biography. Seemingly, Ol' Blue Eyes used to do that in order to improve his "phrasing".
"Why don't you try it, Tuppy?"
"Don't be stupid Geoffrey. Singing My Way is one thing - blowing the skin off a rice pudding is quite another. Me and the Bay don't get on - as you well know. Unless I'm in the coracle - and even then I have to be careful. It would be sheer folly to go swimming. Aren't you remembering Baby Orca and his vendetta? I don't want to dice with death thank you very much - I've got quite enough of that going on with this rice pudding business. And what about my wool? It would pull me under in a trice."
"You could get a wetsuit."
"Bog off Geoffrey. Put the kettle on and fetch me a Ginster's. You're getting right on my nerves. I need to concentrate on a PLAN..."

Death - is it avoidable?

(I know - I've done this before. A few times. But hey. Always worth another visit.)

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire discussing the ways of the world, while the rain battered the tiny windows of the Outcrop.
"Another madeira, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, rising to his feet.
"Why not," I replied, proffering my mug. "Another pint or two should keep out the chill on this fine July morning. And fire on the lorne - I'm gasping on my breakfast."
"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Geoffrey, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "After all..."
"Not you as well!" I spluttered. This was too much.
"Well, diet and exercise, Tuppy. Very important if you want to keep your health."
"You've been brainwashed, Geoffrey. You've gone over to the dark side. I thought you had more fortitude. Well, let me tell you this. If the Grim Reaper wants to meet up with me, mano a mano, for a square go anytime - bring it on."
"Square sausage more like."
"Are you implying that I couldn't take on Death?"
"Yes. I'm not being rude or anything, Tuppy, but you couldn't blow the skin off a rice pudding in your current condition."
"Alright. If you want to be like that, fair dos. All I'll say is this - bring me that rice pudding, and watch me blow its skin off. Just watch me do it. And now I'm going in a massive huff."

Wishbone Ash?

"Er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er doombiddy doombiddy er er er, er er er er, er er er, er er er..."
"Will you stop that racket, PLEEEEZE!"
We're all in an air guitar frenzy here - and as with everything, it all gets a bit much at times. Especially when you're recovering from an almighty three day sesh at the Puff Inn, as we are.
But not as far as Tuppence is concerned. No. I'm afraid to say that my intrepid nephew is hellbent on getting a real guitar. (His moog ended up in the Bay after exploding and bursting into a ball of fire during his umpteenth rendition of Nut Rocker.)
"I want a change, uncle Tuppy! I'm sick of the moog!"
"Phew," we sighed. "At last."
"I want something else - something screechier..."
"Screechier than a moog?"
"Yes. I want a Gibson flying V. Like that guy from Wishbone Ash. And nothing's going to stop me."

Fire in the freakin' Sky

"Der-ner-ner, der ner ner ner, der der der, der de der," screamed Tuppence at the top of his lungs, while he played air guitar. "Smo-o-o-oke on the wa-a-a-a-ter..."
"Shoot him," whispered Geoffrey. "Put him out of his misery. Not to mention the rest of us."
"Besides," added the T-G sagely,"It's not even proper prog."
Geoffrey and I looked at each other in amazement. "Since when could YOU tell prog from a Ginster's slice?"
"I enjoy a bit of Rick Wakeman from time to time," he said loftily.
"Oh yes. Which bit?" we sniggered.
"FY-ER IN THE SKY..." Tuppence continued, whirling his arms like Pete Townshend.
"I must say though, this acapella version is a bit much. And all the appalling gesticulations. Where's his usual instrument of choice?"
"The moog? Bottom of the Bay with any luck."
"Ginster's slice, anyone?" offered Stormy proferring a plateful (yes, we were in the Puff Inn, and it was the Friday lock-in...)

Munny - is it the root of all evil, or what?

Well, it's 10.33, the T-G has arrived for his morning snifter and so it's high time we cracked open the madeira and lit our pipes. Geoffrey and I have been recovering from our recent ordeal in the tunnels, in which the Grim Reaper aided by the Ghastly Dr Wilson attempted to make us part of his "quota". As if.
Anyway, we're none the wiser re. how Tuppence got his digital camera, never mind his "munny".
"But why do people need munny?" mused Geoffrey.
"Nobody needs munny. It's the root of all evil," asserted the T-G, poking the fire with his sword stick. "Take Speedispend for example. You can bet your bottom dollar that's where Tuppence got his camera."
"But we've not got bottom dollars. That's what we're getting at. Should we have? Is munny necessary? Should we be going to Speedispend as well?"
"NO!" shouted the T-G, leaping to his feet and releasing a shower of ash from his pipe. "NEVER darken its doors."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. We already did darken its doors, by accident last summer, when the TTD went awry (I think - anyone keen to read that episode will have to trawl back a bit) and we had a dreadful time.

The Bacon Torture (contnd. - again...)

"Get your laughing gear round THAT," said a muffled voice. It was Mrs T-G, talking from a crouched position in the dumb waiter. (as regular readers will know, Mrs T-G is rarely if ever seen in the flesh - and possibly just as well).
Yes, we managed to escape from the tunnels, thanks to the T-G's pistols, and we're now sitting round the fire in the study at Tupfinder Towers, about to tuck into bacon rolls. At flaming last. We've no idea what happened to Tuppence by the way - but we'll be having top level discussions later on, over steaming mugfuls of madeira...

The Bacon Torture (contnd.)

"Put that frying pan down!" commanded the T-G.
"Yes," I added eagerly, "And get that bread buttered while you're at it. I'm gasping on a bacon sandwich. Any brown sauce?"
"Red for me," said Geoffrey.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Reaper. "Your puny weapons are quite useless against me - I'm dead as a doornail."
"And besides - bacon's for CLOSERS!" chortled the Ghastly Wilson, just as a bullet whistled past his ear.

More on the Bacon Torture

I've digressed a bit but yes, we ARE still in the tunnels having bacon wafted under our noses, and the T-G has just whipped his pistols out. More on that later...

The Bacon Torture

Before we knew where we were, we found ourselves "huckled" towards some ghastly-looking machinery and strapped on.
"Turn the switch!" commanded the Reaper.
We assumed that he meant our exercise machines and braced ourselves accordingly - but no - Wilson was busily stuffing vegetables into three blenders, all going at top speed.
"That's enough!" said the Reaper. "We don't want to lose all the fibre. Now get the tubes in."
As Wilson approached us carrying several lengths of rubber tubing, the Reaper continued.
"You are about to have a healthy mixture of berries, wheatgerm, leafy green vegetables and alfalfa sprouts poured down your throats, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, I will start frying up a bacon sandwich, nice and crispy, which I will then waft under your noses just out of reach. I might even bung on a sausage as well. The resulting mental and physical torture should finish you all off nicely, and I shall make my quota no bother. Goodbye!"
And with that, he turned his back and proceeded to light a gas ring and open a packet of Co-op smoked back.
"I'll just wait till the pan's nice and hot," we heard him murmur to himself as Wilson began pointing the end of the rubber tubing at my throat.
"Just hold it right there!" bellowed the T-G. Somehow, he had managed to twist free of the burly henchmen and had whipped a pair of pistols out of his belt.

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

...none other than the Ghastly Wilson, all togged out in Lycra for pity's sake. And looking very full of himself.
"He's looking very full of himself," whispered Geoffrey.
"And well he might," I muttered. "Look who he's got riding shotgun. In a manner of speaking."
"Blimey!"
Striding around impatiently at the back of the podium was none other than the Grim Reaper himself.
"Come on, come on, get on with it," he hissed, swirling his cape around and creating a terrible draught. "I haven't got all day! I need to make my quota before midnite. Get them on the machines, toot sweet."
"Yes, master," grovelled Wilson. "And I'll start feeding them the health foods, as well. Just to send their systems into shock."

We meet our nemesis (again)

"Ah! welcome!"
Arc lights suddenly dazzled us as we crept along the passageway beneath the old coastguard hut, causing me to drop the picnic hamper I was carrying with a loud thump.
"Mind the flask, Tuppy!" scolded the T-G.
The flask was the least of our worries at that point. We had arrived in an enormous cavern, which appeared to have been transformed into a giant, er, gym.
"What's THAT?" I whispered to Geoffrey.
"I think it might be what they call a running machine."
"A running...machine? How absolutely ghastly!"
Suddenly we were grabbed from behind by two burly creatures in matching trackie bottoms and white vests. They propelled us forwards, until we came face to face with our nemesis. (or one of them - there are a few...) It was...

We hatch a plan

"But how did he get a digital camera, Hereabouts? and how is he, er, plugging it in?" mused the T-G earlier this morning over a reviving post-half-ten snifter.
"I don't even know what a digital camera IS," said Geoffrey.
"Modern technology, Geoffrey. All part of the cut 'n' thrust of daily life, for folks Overthere."
"That's it!" I cried. "He must have been travelling Overthere - to Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Health Screening Centre! he must have got hold of some munny!"
"Great Scott! I think you're right, Tuppy! but how - "
"He must have rigged up another TTD (time travelling device). Either that, or - "
"He's smuggling again."
"Let's all calm down for a moment. Let's think about this rationally," said the T-G, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "After all, it's only natural for a young lad like Tuppence to want all the latest gadgets."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "We never had any gadgets. And look at us."
"Exactly," said the T-G.
"But Tuppence has turned to crime. He's out of control. He's smuggling, and wrecking ships. He's dealing in contraband, and getting - "
"Munny. I know. Besides, he could make all our lives a misery with that flaming camera, sneaking up and taking pictures willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Well, there's only one thing to do now. We'll have to check the tunnels under cover of darkness. I'll bring the pistols, Tuppy, if you and Geoffrey wouldn't mind organising the medical chest, a flask, and a few sandwiches. We'll meet at the witching hour, and take it from there."

We Attempt to Make a Bucking/Frigging Coracle

Bucking or frigging, take your frigging pick. (You can guess which is MY fave?!!)
Yes, 'scuse the language, but you'll understand why I'm just a bit tetchy when you learn that Geoffrey and I have been busy trying to make another coracle, ours having been torn to pieces by the propellor of a Calmac ferry last week, somewhere in the Minch - as readers will of course remember.
It isn't easy, finding willow wands, never mind weaving them into a coracle. We managed it, but I'm still picking out splinters.
"Why do you need a coracle, uncle Tuppy? why not have a modern boat - something made out of plastic, or fibre glass?" Tuppence sneered.
"If you have to ask, there's no point explaining," said Geoffrey.
"Don't get priggish with ME, Geoffrey," Tuppence retorted. Else I'll tell Erchie McPheasant-Blaster ALL about your exploits at the Fulmars' BBQ at the weekend."
"Since when did you get so uppity, calling Geoffrey Geoffrey, and not UNCLE Geoffrey?" I said, springing to Geoffrey's defence.
"Ever since I got THIS," said Tuppence, waving a digital camera in a horribly triumphant fashion. "And anyway - he's not my uncle. I've known that for YEARS."

False Frigging Alarm

What a frigging liberty. For frig's sake. As the photo below shows only too well, the craft spotted by Ranald and Sandy was defo. NOT the frigging coracle. As if! no - what they spotted is a rusting old hulk, whereas our coracle was beautifully woven out of willow wands, following the traditional method used by monks.
We'll just have to make another one. Sigh. That's if we can find any frigging willow trees.
BTW - we're off round the Fulmars' shortly, for one of Apsley and Cherry's famous BBQs. The medical chest is well-stocked-up with Bisodal etc., just in case - they do say that charcoal is very good for the digestion but there are limits...and I do hope that Apsley won't be parading around starkers beneath that horrible plastic apron with the hilarious (not) naked fulmar on the front, waving his fish slice before all and sundry.

A Miracle - the Coracle has been found

Word arrived via Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse - Geoffrey's cousin and his civil partner) that the coracle was spotted, aground, in some "godforsaken hell-hole" as they put it none too politely. Joy! we could swear that we saw it being chopped up by the blades of a Calmac ferry just last week. Somehow, it managed to escape, or reconstitute itself. Geoffrey and I are off in a mo to try to retrieve it before the wreckers get it.

By the way - readers might be wondering - and I can't blame anyone who isn't - what happened to young Sir Erchie McPheasant-Blaster's newspaper, featuring yours truly and the full unexpurgated story as to how I got wedged in the crack then blasted free by a humungous, forensically-aimed anal emission from Spockfingers. Well, so am I...but wonder no more, because just recently, Geoffrey admitted that he has heard titters coming from the direction of just about everywhere Hereabouts, along with the words "crack" and "wedged". I'm sure it won't be too long before a well-wisher pushes a copy of the abominable thing through our letterbox. Probably under cover of darkness - not that it gets dark at the moment, Hereabouts. I'm going to stay up late, and watch.