Bevvy of the week - brandy

 Because sometimes it's necessary.   

Questionable Time at Tupfinder Towers

 

the T-G

'CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP'.

Tuppence thumped on the two feet thick, iron-studded oak door with his fists.

'CRUMP CRUMP - ugh.  I'm knackered.'

'No wonder.  You've been banging on that door for ten minutes.  Maybe if you stopped shouting CRUMP CRUMP at the same time as banging it wouldn't be so tiring though.'

'That's easy for you to say standing there eating - what is it?  It looks like wood.'

'It's one of Val's gravel flapjacks.  Want some?'

'No.'

'How will they ever hear us,' said Alexa.  'Look at the size of the place.'

Above them, vanishing into the clouds, loomed a towering ivy-covered Tower - the only remaining Tower at Tupfinder Towers.  The other three collapsed so long ago that nobody could remember when or why - not even the Tupfinder General, or Mrs Tupfinder General, with a combined age of nine hundred and forty two.  Piles of abandoned rubble indicated their previous location.

'Yes.  Stuff this.'  Tuppence whipped out his pistol and began shooting.  Bullets whistled through the air and lodged themselves into the centuries-old oak making barely a dent.  A few ricocheted off the iron studs and flew who knew where, only a few random screams indicating that they had landed 'somewhere'.

CREEEEEEEAAAAAAAKKKKKKKK

The door swung open slowly, and a shotgun barrel waved them inside.

'A bit of target practice never did anyone any harm,' roared the T-G. 'Come inside.'

They asked what had happened to the other three towers.

'Perhaps the Old Tup might have known,' mused the Tupfinder, waving an arm at a dusty oil painting depicting someone almost identical in appearance to the Tupfinder General, except with white hair, cross-eyes and a kilt.  Oh and only the one cloven hoof.  'He lived to a decent age.  Four thousand and fifty I think it was.  Anyway.  Perhaps you'd like to visit Mrs T-G's laboratory.  Where she makes her black sausage rolls.  No?  Then perhaps we can go to the observatory on the upper floor and you can have a shot of my inter-galactic supra-space-time-dimension telescope.  It's so pleasing to have young visitors for a change'.  He continued ushering Tuppence and Alexa up the vast staircase. 

'Come along,' he beckoned,  his cloven hooves clip-clopping on the wooden floor as he made his way  briskly along a narrow book-lined corridor with an even narrower spiral staircase at the far end. 

'Why do you have cloven hooves T-G,' asked Alexa. 'I'm quite envious it's a strong look.'

'Like long noses, they run in the family,' he replied. 'Here we are.'

He opened a door at the top of the spiral staircase revealing a room evidently at the top of the Tower.  A large telescope occupied much of the space.  He pressed a lever and a humming sound filled the room

The telescope began to rotate.

'This is a special telescope.  It can be used in the usual way, to look at the stars and such-like, but you can also ask it questions.  For example, you, young lady, are wondering whether now is the right time to quit your job as a cleaner, and if Onlyfans is going to provide you with a sufficient revenue stream to see you through uni and maybe have a couple of weeks in Lanzarote.'

'H-how did you know that?'  

The T-G smiled mysteriously.  'I have certain powerful listening devices set up in various locations.  It's part of my supervisory role as Tupfinder General.   Anyway - gaze into the eyepiece and focus your mind on your question...'

Next time - Alexa gazes questioningly into the eyepiece and focuses her mind on her question...Tuppence questions the legality of the Tupfinder General's questionable 'listening devices'....

Sandwich of the week - peanut butter, marmite, cheese, and lime and chilli pickle

 

Peanut butter (crunchy), marmite, cheese, and lime and chilli chutney.   Sometimes I might lose the cheese and add a banana.  Or I might have both.  Either way it's a good sandwich for when you're starving.  I used Lurpak spreadable again.  I think ordinary butter would be too much, with the peanut butter and the cheese.  

Oldness

 'You know what Val Nark's so vain', said Alexa.   'I heard her talking to herself in the mirror before I smashed it.   She's totally jealous of Mrs T-G. it's so random, they're both ancient so why would they even care.'

'Dunno,' replied Tuppence. 'You never know with old people. They kind of want things both ways.  One minute my uncles are demanding comfy seats and help lifting their shopping bags and the next they're annoyed because I keep telling them they might as well go to Switzerland cos they're past it.  But age is still no excuse for them having problematic attitudes and ignoring current tech.  I'm going over to Tupfinder Towers to ask the T-G. about some other stuff now.  Want to come along?'

'Sure.  Is he sort of like an oracle?  Because I want to quit my job but I don't know if it's the right time,  I need some advice from a sage or something.  I'm not earning enough from Onlyfans and - oops!'  Alexa glanced quickly at Tuppence,  who was gritting his teeth and staring determinedly at the horizon. 

Next time - Tuppence and Alexa enter the strange world of Tupfinder Towers

The Verve - Catching the Butterfly

When in doubt, deploy Richard Ashcroft.  Listening to this ALL the time at the moment.  

I'm sure I must have been a Mancunian in a previous life.

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.   

Tea of the week - the five fish finger sandwich

 

I made this with Tesco own brand 'omega 3'  fish fingers.  No idea what kind of fish they're made of but they tasted OK although a bit greasy.  I buttered the bread (Tesco 'Finest' oat and something or other bread) using actual Lurpak spreadable and not the cheaper Lidl or Tesco substitute which is usually found in our house and on this occasion went wild and added a 'garnish' of Sainsbury's tartare sauce, rather than my customary tomato ketchup on one side and mayonnaise on the other.

I often add a 'grinding' of black pepper but didn't bother this time round.

This is quite a good tea in my opinion.  It's tasty, it fills you up and you get your omega 3s.  I like to wash it down with a large mug of tea, although a bottle of beer wouldn't be a bad idea either.

I've been eating fish finger sandwiches on a fairly regular basis since 1987 when a friend invited me round for tea and presented me with this amazing delicacy.   Prior to that I'd thought of fish fingers as children's food best avoided, and to be eaten with chips and peas if eaten at all.  Early sandwiches were made with three fish fingers only, and they were usually the 'value' ones.  I graduated to four per sandwich as my tolerance increased and now I use five just for the hell of it.   I'm still here.  

The Verve - Space & Time

I bought Urban Hymns on CD for £1.99 from Oxfam last week and am listening to this song in the car a lot.   It has a very autumnal vibe, inward, evocative, melancholy, beautiful.   

Re-living the 1990s - my best decade, closely followed by this one.  

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.