Chic Murray was very funny.
Here are some of his jokes and one-liners, mostly courtesy of a webpage I found here.
"If something's neither here nor there, where the hell is it?"
"I met this cowboy with a brown paper hat, paper waistcoat and paper trousers. He was wanted for rustling."
"Kippers - fish that like a lot of sleep."
"I drew a gun. He drew a gun. I drew another gun. Soon we were surrounded by lovely drawings of guns."
"I'm not saying my wife's nose was big, but she could smoke a cigarette in the shower."
"My mother was a simple woman. My father was a simple man. You see the result standing here before you - a simpleton."
Sunday 29 August 2010
Saturday 28 August 2010
Oh dear oh dear - I haven't got a soul
When I finally emerged from the kitchen, I was confronted by an awful sight.
Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.
Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.
"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"
Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.
Or perhaps that was me.
"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."
I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.
"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."
To be continued...
Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.
Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.
"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"
Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.
Or perhaps that was me.
"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."
I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.
"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."
To be continued...
Friday 27 August 2010
Thursday 26 August 2010
Bacon sandwich, anyone?
It was a wet and windy night and me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire back at the Outcrop.
"Wonder where B.O. is now?" I mused, packing some Black Bogey into the Meerschaum.
"I'm sure he won't be too far away. Here - have my Swan Vestas. Those disposable lighters are useless," said the T-G.
"Awful if he got turned into fish fingers," said Geoffrey.
"Meat fingers, actually," said Peter Edant, pushing up the sash window and sticking his oar in.
"I suppose you better come in before we all expire from the cold, Edant. But do try to control your more boring propensities," I said.
"Oooh! get you uncle Tuppy! Porpensities!" it was Tuppence - sticking his oar in as well. They both clambered in the window.
"PROpensities, actually," murmured Edant.
"Tuppence! what on earth are you doing here?"
"Yes! You see? You can't get rid of me so easily. I was wearing a life preserver, remember!"
We all exchanged glances.
"You don't still want to harpoon baby Orca and turn him into fish fingers, I hope?"
"Of course I do! think of it - we'd have our own food supply right through the winter and beyond, and that's AFTER we've sold the bulk of it to Speedispend and made our fortunes!"
"But that's WRONG, Tuppence."
"In what respect?" frowned my nephew.
"Killing your fellow creatures, and eating them. Let me explain why," began the T-G.
"Okay - I can see this is going to take a while so I'll just put a few sausage rolls in the oven and make up some ham sandwiches to keep us going..."
They all stared at me.
"Well? oh - I see. Well, let me remind you that I was key to the release of the lactating ewes from the Hulks in summer 2008. Remember?" ( see previous posts)
"That's all very well Tuppy. But you only did that because they were sheep like yourself. What about other animals? You don't seem to bother so much about pigs and cows."
I rushed into the kitchen in a huff and didn't come out for four days...
"Wonder where B.O. is now?" I mused, packing some Black Bogey into the Meerschaum.
"I'm sure he won't be too far away. Here - have my Swan Vestas. Those disposable lighters are useless," said the T-G.
"Awful if he got turned into fish fingers," said Geoffrey.
"Meat fingers, actually," said Peter Edant, pushing up the sash window and sticking his oar in.
"I suppose you better come in before we all expire from the cold, Edant. But do try to control your more boring propensities," I said.
"Oooh! get you uncle Tuppy! Porpensities!" it was Tuppence - sticking his oar in as well. They both clambered in the window.
"PROpensities, actually," murmured Edant.
"Tuppence! what on earth are you doing here?"
"Yes! You see? You can't get rid of me so easily. I was wearing a life preserver, remember!"
We all exchanged glances.
"You don't still want to harpoon baby Orca and turn him into fish fingers, I hope?"
"Of course I do! think of it - we'd have our own food supply right through the winter and beyond, and that's AFTER we've sold the bulk of it to Speedispend and made our fortunes!"
"But that's WRONG, Tuppence."
"In what respect?" frowned my nephew.
"Killing your fellow creatures, and eating them. Let me explain why," began the T-G.
"Okay - I can see this is going to take a while so I'll just put a few sausage rolls in the oven and make up some ham sandwiches to keep us going..."
They all stared at me.
"Well? oh - I see. Well, let me remind you that I was key to the release of the lactating ewes from the Hulks in summer 2008. Remember?" ( see previous posts)
"That's all very well Tuppy. But you only did that because they were sheep like yourself. What about other animals? You don't seem to bother so much about pigs and cows."
I rushed into the kitchen in a huff and didn't come out for four days...
Wednesday 25 August 2010
Kind of like...weird
I just switched to a new template - and can't seem to switch back - so, hope it's not too disturbing for any readers who liked the old one.
Soz!
seapenguin
"DON'T say "soz!""
"Don't be so pedantic Geoffrey. I'm only trying to keep up with the times."
"In your dreams."
"Don't guffaw Geoffrey. I don't know if you're aware of it but it makes you spit. And sneering isn't a good look for you. Now fire some bacon under the grill - I'm starving."
Soz!
seapenguin
"DON'T say "soz!""
"Don't be so pedantic Geoffrey. I'm only trying to keep up with the times."
"In your dreams."
"Don't guffaw Geoffrey. I don't know if you're aware of it but it makes you spit. And sneering isn't a good look for you. Now fire some bacon under the grill - I'm starving."
We save baby Orca from a terrible fate
"But I've not got fingers!"
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."
Tuesday 24 August 2010
A reader complains - again
A regular reader whose name I won't reveal - as all readers will know, confidentiality re. readers' identities is KEY on this blog - oh, all right then, it's Peter Edant, or P.Edant if I really have to spell it out - writes in to complain that there is a spelling error in a previous post.
Apparently, I spelled "tin" wrongly. I can only apologise for my appalling incompetence and inability to spell even a three letter word correctly.
I also regularly mis-spell "hazard" and "corned beef" - so there, Peter! Now bog off before I introduce you to one of the less savoury inhabitants Hereabouts!
Any other complaints?
(all comments are welcomed and complaints WILL be acted upon - wun way or anuvver)
Apparently, I spelled "tin" wrongly. I can only apologise for my appalling incompetence and inability to spell even a three letter word correctly.
I also regularly mis-spell "hazard" and "corned beef" - so there, Peter! Now bog off before I introduce you to one of the less savoury inhabitants Hereabouts!
Any other complaints?
(all comments are welcomed and complaints WILL be acted upon - wun way or anuvver)
In the Bay
"Put your back into it Geoffrey! you can't expect me to do all the work."
"I've got a splinter. I can only row with the one wing."
"For heaven's sake! no wonder we're going round in ci-i-i-ir-r-r-rc-c-c-cles!"
Friday 20 August 2010
A reader asks...
A reader (Axle Snailbotom, if you must know) has emailed in, demanding to know where he can obtain Tincture of Mattesson weight gain micksture, super hi strenf, as mentioned in a previous blog post.
He also requests that I spell his name correctly, viz. with ONE "t".
Well Axle, the micksture is highly combustible and constitutes such a serious helf 'n' safety hazrd that it is not actually available in the shops/Speedispend - as I'm sure you knew.
However - should you care to micks your own - this is how it's done.
Take one large helping of own choice processed meat. Boil it up in a pan - NOT aluminium - with some lard and a splash of plain water - until you are left with a brown layer of sludge at the bottom. Syphon this into a glass jar or bottle, top up with methylated spirit, and cork securely. Leave for three minutes (approx) then neck it. Oh - perhaps best to open a window first.
Let us know how you get on.
(PLEASE NOTE - THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - IT'S JUST A JOKE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)
He also requests that I spell his name correctly, viz. with ONE "t".
Well Axle, the micksture is highly combustible and constitutes such a serious helf 'n' safety hazrd that it is not actually available in the shops/Speedispend - as I'm sure you knew.
However - should you care to micks your own - this is how it's done.
Take one large helping of own choice processed meat. Boil it up in a pan - NOT aluminium - with some lard and a splash of plain water - until you are left with a brown layer of sludge at the bottom. Syphon this into a glass jar or bottle, top up with methylated spirit, and cork securely. Leave for three minutes (approx) then neck it. Oh - perhaps best to open a window first.
Let us know how you get on.
(PLEASE NOTE - THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - IT'S JUST A JOKE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)
The Giant Phag - an unexpected twist
"I spot an opportunity, Geoffrey. Get the coracle down from the attic. Is it caulked?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Caulked. Oh, never mind. Take that old korn bif tine in case we have to bale. And don't forget the medicine chest."
"Oh yes. I better make sure there's some Vick's in it, in case we catch a chill. It's a bit parky out there in the Bay."
"Yes, we can heat it up with some ribena on the primus - FOR FRIG'S sake! Vick's? What do we need with that when we've got every opiate known to man?"
"Opiates are no use for colds, Tuppy. There's nothing like Vick's for a chill."
"Oh well, if you feel you must. I don't suppose it takes up much room."
"That reminds me Tuppy. Why was the toadstool not allowed into the party?"
"Because there wasn't MUSHROOM inside. For pity's sake, let's get on with this. The nights are drawing in already."
"Yes. but wasn't he - Tuppy! Wasn't he -"
"WHAT?!"
"A FUN-GHI! a FUN - ghi! so, it's a shame he didn't get in!"
At this point, I sigh heavily, open the medicine chest and carefully select a vial of hi strenf tincture of laudanum. Just to numb the pain.
We WERE on our way to the Bay - what with the bed sheet landing on the bonce of Baby Orca, we thought we'd take the opportunity to inform him of Tuppence's nefarious plan to turn him into fishfingers. We MIGHT get there some time before next Christmas...
"I beg your pardon?"
"Caulked. Oh, never mind. Take that old korn bif tine in case we have to bale. And don't forget the medicine chest."
"Oh yes. I better make sure there's some Vick's in it, in case we catch a chill. It's a bit parky out there in the Bay."
"Yes, we can heat it up with some ribena on the primus - FOR FRIG'S sake! Vick's? What do we need with that when we've got every opiate known to man?"
"Opiates are no use for colds, Tuppy. There's nothing like Vick's for a chill."
"Oh well, if you feel you must. I don't suppose it takes up much room."
"That reminds me Tuppy. Why was the toadstool not allowed into the party?"
"Because there wasn't MUSHROOM inside. For pity's sake, let's get on with this. The nights are drawing in already."
"Yes. but wasn't he - Tuppy! Wasn't he -"
"WHAT?!"
"A FUN-GHI! a FUN - ghi! so, it's a shame he didn't get in!"
At this point, I sigh heavily, open the medicine chest and carefully select a vial of hi strenf tincture of laudanum. Just to numb the pain.
We WERE on our way to the Bay - what with the bed sheet landing on the bonce of Baby Orca, we thought we'd take the opportunity to inform him of Tuppence's nefarious plan to turn him into fishfingers. We MIGHT get there some time before next Christmas...
Wednesday 18 August 2010
The Giant Phag (continued and ongoing)
"Right Tuppy - you hold on to that end and I'll pin this one down with a rock. Then we can start piling in the filling."
"Righty oh."
We started making the world's largest phag this afternoon, and it wasn't easy. It was blowing a gale Hereabouts, and we found it impossible to keep the wrapping on the ground.
"Oh, let's pack this in for a game of soldiers," I said, letting go of my end. With that, a gust of wind caught the "wrapping" or king-size bed sheet we'd obtained from Mrs T-G's linen kist, and off it flew over the cliffs and out into the Bay - where it landed four-square on the coupon of - well, you know the rest. At least he's not been harpooned yet.
To be continued...
"Righty oh."
We started making the world's largest phag this afternoon, and it wasn't easy. It was blowing a gale Hereabouts, and we found it impossible to keep the wrapping on the ground.
"Oh, let's pack this in for a game of soldiers," I said, letting go of my end. With that, a gust of wind caught the "wrapping" or king-size bed sheet we'd obtained from Mrs T-G's linen kist, and off it flew over the cliffs and out into the Bay - where it landed four-square on the coupon of - well, you know the rest. At least he's not been harpooned yet.
To be continued...
Monday 16 August 2010
The Phantom phag nicker
"Oh come on. Give me my phags back. I'm gasping."
That's what we heard in the small hours as we gazed up at the toweriest tower of Tupfinder Towers.
Suddenly a plume of smoke and a fountain of orangey red sparks lit up the moonless sky. A lone figure stood leaning over the edge of the tower, silhouetted against the inferno. We heard him cry,"You rotten swine. Have a heart. Twenty Rothman's and a disposable lighter, and make it snappy. Or I won't be answerable."
A second figure caught our eye as it scurried down the ivy-clad walls.
"Hee hee hee!" it sniggered evilly.
What was going on? well, the T-G's had a guest staying in one of his upper rooms. The ones with the bars on the windows and the reinforced doors. Apparently, he's been there for quite some time. Like, his entire life. It's a cousin of Mrs T-G, who happens to have rather unfortunate maniacal tendencies. Seemingly, if he's let loose, he creates mayhem with an axe.
The only thing that keeps him sane is his phag habit - and now, someone has nicked his supply.
"I daren't go near him," quavered the T-G. "Not while he's in this state."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was most out of character. the T-G is usually someone we can turn to in a crisis.
"We'll have to administer a tranquilliser. We'll need to use the blow-pipe of course."
Of course.
"I've got one..."
"In the vitrine. Yes. But that means..."
"Going into the tower itself..."
"Yes, but surely..."
"He'll be safely locked in the upper room? I wouldn't be so sure..."
"Can we not just chuck him some phags?"
"I'm afraid it's gone beyond that now. The thing is, he's already reached such a stage of withdrawal that the strength of phag required would be beyond our wildest imaginings. It's simply not something that would be obtainable, in the normal way."
"Nothing's beyond OUR wildest imaginings. Maybe we could make him a special phag. A giant, superstrength one? Home-made?"
"Maybe..."
That's what we heard in the small hours as we gazed up at the toweriest tower of Tupfinder Towers.
Suddenly a plume of smoke and a fountain of orangey red sparks lit up the moonless sky. A lone figure stood leaning over the edge of the tower, silhouetted against the inferno. We heard him cry,"You rotten swine. Have a heart. Twenty Rothman's and a disposable lighter, and make it snappy. Or I won't be answerable."
A second figure caught our eye as it scurried down the ivy-clad walls.
"Hee hee hee!" it sniggered evilly.
What was going on? well, the T-G's had a guest staying in one of his upper rooms. The ones with the bars on the windows and the reinforced doors. Apparently, he's been there for quite some time. Like, his entire life. It's a cousin of Mrs T-G, who happens to have rather unfortunate maniacal tendencies. Seemingly, if he's let loose, he creates mayhem with an axe.
The only thing that keeps him sane is his phag habit - and now, someone has nicked his supply.
"I daren't go near him," quavered the T-G. "Not while he's in this state."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was most out of character. the T-G is usually someone we can turn to in a crisis.
"We'll have to administer a tranquilliser. We'll need to use the blow-pipe of course."
Of course.
"I've got one..."
"In the vitrine. Yes. But that means..."
"Going into the tower itself..."
"Yes, but surely..."
"He'll be safely locked in the upper room? I wouldn't be so sure..."
"Can we not just chuck him some phags?"
"I'm afraid it's gone beyond that now. The thing is, he's already reached such a stage of withdrawal that the strength of phag required would be beyond our wildest imaginings. It's simply not something that would be obtainable, in the normal way."
"Nothing's beyond OUR wildest imaginings. Maybe we could make him a special phag. A giant, superstrength one? Home-made?"
"Maybe..."
Thursday 12 August 2010
Sausages
"Sausages," groaned a small voice from the corner (mine).
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)
Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)
Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)
Wednesday 11 August 2010
Aloysius/Axle Snailbottom tries to frighten us - and fails
Axle Snailbottom persists in flinging abuse at us, and threatening legal action, albeit from what he assumes is a safe distance.
He might be living in la-la land but he forgets that we still have live grenades up on the roof - and a very powerful catapult. La la land is nothing to us.
Think on, Axle. Think on.
He might be living in la-la land but he forgets that we still have live grenades up on the roof - and a very powerful catapult. La la land is nothing to us.
Think on, Axle. Think on.
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