How Come We Aren't Dead?

'We've been in this cave for nigh on a year,' sighed the T-G,' with nothing to eat but a packet of ginger crunch creams and nothing to drink but random drops of condensation dripping randomly from the roof.'
'We should be dead,' said Geoffrey. 'How come we aren't?  How come we aren't T-G?  Tuppy?  How come we aren't?   TUPPY!  TUPPY!  Stay with me man!  We're losing him T-G - we're losing him!  He's slipping into unconsciousness again!  TUPPY!  Stay with me!  Look at me Tuppy!  Look at me!' and he slapped me round the face with the shredded plastic remnants of the ginger crunch creams wrapper.
'Oh who cares,' I replied, opening one eye.  Everything felt warm and fuzzy.  Outside, the sea washed gently against the rocks below. I settled deeper into my yellow hi-viz jacket and did up the Velcro neck flap in preparation for yet another comfortable afternoon's torpor.
'YOU LOT ARE DEAD,' a scornful voice bellowed over the ear-splitting roar of a powerful outboard motor. As it circled rapidly past the cave entrance and hove to we were drenched by a spray of icy sea water, and I spluttered into unwanted wakefulness.   'BRAIN DEAD! A-HAHAHAHA!'
It was Tuppence of course.
He wheeled the boat cave-side and deftly threw the painter over a jutting rock.  Peering through narrowed eyes I could just decipher the name of the boat in the gleam of the low afternoon sun - 'The Young Brexiteer'.
'Crikey Tuppence - you haven't changed your mind about Brexit have you?'
'No Uncle Tuppy I haven't. You unspeakable old fool.  How could you have even imagined in your wildest, most Madeira-addled, most senile and gammon-like imaginings and that, that I - I - of all people - would change my mind about Brexit?'
'Then - '
'This isn't my boat.  It belongs to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar.  They rent it out to supplement Apsley's pension and get spends. Cherry's a WASPI you see so she doesn't get anything till she's sixty six. They've got a camper van they rent out as well and they're Airbnbing their shed. A lady from Bulgaria does the cleaning and change-overs on a zero hour contract.  They let her stay in the shed when they've not got guests and they take the money off her wages. Obviously they don't let her use the actual beds or the cooker and hot water or that. When they do have guests she gets a bit of tarpaulin and hunkers down in the woods.  Apsley says she likes it, she's only seventy one and enjoys the fresh air.'
'So they've got quite the business going on,' mused the T-G. 'We've missed it all what with being stuck in here for a year.'
'You've no idea.  Loads has happened.  The Narks' yurt burnt down.  Val was doing an ear-candling session and the candle fell out while she was at the toilet because it was faulty. The candle that is. That's what they're telling everyone anyway.  Dave's building a new yurt from coppiced willow wands and hand-loomed jute and that while they wait for the insurance claim to be processed.'
'We can get the gossip later,' I said,  'Have you come to rescue us or what?  After all it was you who abandoned us here and left us for dead in potato sacks.  What's the story now Tuppence? Why the change of heart?  And where's Alexa?'
'In the boat.'
'No she isn't,' I said, peering.  'There's nothing in there but a brace of pistols, a bandolier, a length of rope, a portable toilet, a mysterious square package wrapped in oilcloth, a Genesis CD and an empty Pringles tube.  What have you done with her, Tuppence?'
'Nothing I tell you!  Nothing! anyway aren't you going to ask about Mrs T-G, T-G?  After all she is your wife.'
'No Tuppence.  As you know only too well she threw me out of Tupfinder Towers when I told her I'd voted Brexit, and chased me off the premises with a blazing pitchfork.  I don't expect I'll ever see her again.  Or taste her black sausage rolls.  And stop changing the subject - a very poor attempt at deflection, by the way.  What have you done with your so-called girlfriend?'
'Like I said last year, Alexa isn't my so-called 'girl'friend.  Alexa's like me - she doesn't believe in boring, old-fashioned binary distinctions and she likes her politics like she likes her music- relentlessly progressive.  No, she's not in the boat T-G. But she was.  She's got a zero hours contract Overthere at Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, stacking shelves for whatever the under-25's minimum wage is. I dropped her off for her shift just before I came here.  She's hoping the money'll help her through her next term at uni. cos she doesn't have parents, you see. No bank of mum and dad for her.  At least I've got you three for support.  In theory, anyway. '
'That sounds awful.  I almost feel sorry for her.'
'You lot are so privileged. You don't know what sorry even means.  You've never worked a day in your lives. You've never had to think about uni fees and generation rent. You just hide away from reality in your strange little world, smoking your pipes and swigging Madeira thinking nothing's ever going to happen to rattle your cages.'
'Rattle our cages?  We've only been stranded in this cave for a year thanks to you!  I've nearly run out of baccy and I'm gasping on a pint of Madeira and a fish-finger sandwich.'
'Fools!  Have you learned nothing from your isolation?'

Next time - we return to the Rocky Outcrop only to find the entire place in lock-down following the outbreak of a horrendous 'pandemic'.  We're forced to return to the smugglers' Tunnels under cover of darkness to steal korned bif and toilet paper.    You couldn't make it up!

Whinge of the Week - the Snottish Refernerdernerderndernderndnernernum

'Is that the kettle I hear whistling or is it the sibilant campaign at the door again?'
'It's the sibilant campaign.  Should I tell them that we're ambi-franchised?'
'Yes.  Tell them we're sure that we're swinging both ways.  They can rely on us to do whatever they say.  Get them to come back next week, when it's all over, and we'll give them a game of cribbage and a custard cream.'
'Okay doke.'
Geoffrey was at 'DebSoc' last night.  Again.  He's been there every night for the last three weeks, and he's all clued up about the Snottish Referenernernerdernerndernnernernernernemum.  And so am I. It's all a bit much now.
'I'm bored out of my mind hearing about the Snottish Referenernerndernerndernernernernnemum!'  I snarled, when Geoffrey came back into the livingroom.
'I know how you feel, but it's imPORTant Tuppy,' he replied.  Besides, it'll all be over soon.  One way or another.  Have you decided which way you're going to vote yet?'
'I'm not going to vote at all.  I'm lying on the settee all day with a pint of Madeira, three opium tabloids, a multi-pack of square crisps and Michael Palin's Diaries.  I'm not even getting up to go to the toilet.'
'You're a disgrace.'
'It's part twenty seven of my fifty stage plan to become the world's fattest and laziest person.  Don't tell me I have no purpose in life.'
'I didn't!'
'Anyway, it doesn't matter to me who's in charge.  Life goes on - until it doesn't.  And there's nothing any of us can do about it.'
'Don't you want to get the government you vote for then?'
'No.  There's nobody I want to vote for.  They're all shit.'
'When you resort to foul language Tuppy, you've really lost the argument.'
'Bollocks.'
'Is that the best you can do?'
'Fuckwit.  Put the kettle on and make me a bacon sandwich.'
'What did your last slave die of?'
'Don't get stroppy with me!  I've got a dicky heart.  I need to be indulged at all times.'
'All right.  But really Tuppy, you're language is...'
'I know.  I'll try to stop swearing but it seems to be beyond my fu- sorry - my control.  Shit-bum.'
What was happening to me?  Tourettes syndrome, perhaps?
You may or may not remember that about a month ago I swore at little Chelsy, the Fulmar's three year old niece, who is currently staying with them.  I was worried that she might tell Uncle Apsley and Aunt Cherry about my over-reaction and my awful language and that ghastly revenge would be wrought, but so far so good.  Chelsy has kept her mouth shut.  This might be because I've been providing her with a constant supply of Froobs, but I'm not sure.
'I like you Uncle Tuppy!  You're my betht fwend evva!  get me more Fwoobth!'
'That child will get sugar diabetes, Tuppy,' warned the Ghastly Wilson. 'You mark my words.'
Nobody Hereabouts has ever marked his words and nobody seems any the worse, so I'm sure Chelsy will be fine.
Anyway - I am planning to spend most of tomorrow on the settee with a bag over my head (one with plenty holes in), but late in the night we're going to go over the the Fulmars' for a 'Refernerdnernernernedernenernernernernernernemum party, to watch the results coming in on their 97 inch curved screen 3D TV.  They haven't invited us but we're going anyway.
And at dawn,  Dave and Valerie Nark are planning to light bonfires to celebrate the bright new dawn of a bright new Snotland.

After that,  I expect that we'll stagger home and have a bacon sandwich.

Find my Sea Penguin e-books here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1410973253&sr=8-1&keywords=sea+penguin+part+three 

KER-B-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you heard. KER - B-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What happened was this.
Readers will recall that on Saturday Geoffrey and I were invited to Spockfingers fundrazing gig for awfy needy sick wee kiddies in Africa. We ended up watching X Factor first, and look where that got us.
Caught in a net, dangling hundreds of feet above a fiery pit, awaiting our turn at the Mindmuck removal device.
Anyway. Back to KER-B-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!!!
There we were, swinging above the flames at the end of our tethers and at each other's throats, when suddenly...
"WHAT ABOOT MA FUCKIN FUNDRAZER YE STINGY GETS? WHIT ABOOT THON WEE SICK AN AWFY NEEDY KIDDIES IN AFRICA? GET YER WALLETS OOT RICHT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
And with that, Mr Spockfingers turned round and let rip with one of his special hi-octane cabbage-fuelled anal emissions. Regular readers will know what THAT'S like. (Irregular readers will have to click on the post label below, to find out more. )
The concentrated jet of methane collided with a swift updraught of flame from the fiery pit and the result was an almighty explosion.
Still tied in the net, we were blown clear out of the cave and far out into the Bay.
"I can't swim! I can't swim!" I burbled, flailing.
"Never fear, Tuppy," soothed the Tupfinder-General, calmly treading water. "I've got an inflatable life raft. Just hang on a jiffy till I pull the toggle. It's caught in my...ouch!"
"Hurry up! I'm sinking!" I spluttered. Geoffrey lifted my head with his wing as the T-G struggled to inflate the raft.
"Just as well I did junior life saving at the baths," he said proudly.
POP!!!!!!!!!! WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"There we go," said the T-G, heaving himself into the life raft. "Stop whingeing Tuppy. You've no moral fibre at all, have you?"
"It's all very well for you two. You're not handicapped by wool."
Geoffrey chortled. "I'd like to see your face if anyone else said wool was a "handicap!"
"Never mind that now. Where's the medical chest? I could do with a good whiff or two of sal volatile and a couple of opium tabloids to get me through the afternoon without going completely insane."
"For heaven's sake Tuppy! We'll have to get sculling. We'll have to get home before dark, and there isn't much time. You'll have to put your back into it I'm afraid. We can't afford slackers. If you can't manage, I'm sorry but we'll have no option but to shove you overboard. We're all in this together you know."
"Oh. I didn't realise Nick Clegg had joined us." I glanced around in an exaggerated comic kind of manner.
"H-E-E-E-L-L-O-O-O-O-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" A voice boomed out from atop the nine hundred foot cliffs just to our right.
It was Apsley Fulmar, using a megaphone.
"Hang O-O-O-O-N! We're going to rescue Y-O-O-O-U!"
But how?
more later.

Spockfingers warms up for a gig

'#...black is black

Ah wunt mah baybee back...

'S grey is grey

Der ner ner ner ner...MOOO!#'

"Oh do bog off Spockfingers!" I was becoming a little tetchy after hearing Spockfingers' umpteenth rendition of Black is Black.

"Don't be so uncharitable Tuppy. After all, it is in a good cause."

"What is?"

"The fundraising gig, tonite at 7pm at the Puff Inn. Spockfingers is doing a fundraiser to raise funds for ...erm...something or other. Don't tell me you'd forgotten?"

"Forgotten? Hardly! I didn't get the chance! Nobody thought to inform me. Now I'm going in a massive huff and you can all sod off."

"For God's sake Tuppy. Take one of your special pills and pull yourself together. Here - " Geoffrey seized the medical chest and threw it open " - take several. Take them all!"

"Well! if THAT'S the way you're feeling..."

"It is. I'm pig sick of you and your huffs Tuppy. I want to be able to sit down this evening in front of Apsley and Cherry's 62" telly and watch X factor and enjoy myself. Even though Wagner's out. I don't want you ruining it with an atmosphere."

"WHIT ABOOT MAH FUCKIN' FUNDRAZER?" demanded Spockfingers, front legs on hips.

"Oh, my! Language! a bit of decorum, please, if you don't mind and all that."

"AH DINNAE FUCKIN' CARE ABOOT THAT. FUCK THE LOT O' YEZ. IF YER NO CUMMIN TAE MAH FUCKIN' FUNDRAZER YEZ CAN A' DAE YIN."

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances and I quickly put my huff on the back burner as Spockfingers began drumming one of his feet in rather a tense manner.

"Erm..what are you raising funds for, Spockfingers? what's the cause?"

"COZ? COZ?? the coz is sick kiddies in erm...Africa. Aye. That's richt. Sick kiddies in Africa. They're awfy needy an' that. Yez cannae deny them your dosh you stingey bastards. Sick kiddies in Africa. Noo kin yez?"

"Hmmm..."

X factor down at the Fulmars' place, sitting outside on their decking eating crisps with the super-powered patio heaters blasting away full-tilt, or a dodgy fundrazer down at the Puff Inn, featuring Spockfingers and his dreadful, nightmarish screeching, off key voice.

We'll see how we feel nearer the time...

More arrant nonsense

"All right Geoffrey, you can let go of the strings now. The cape's in position, the laser's fired up and I'm all set to go."
"Hurry, Tuppy. You'll have to turn round so's the dying rays of the sun...oh - it's disappeared..."
"What do we do now? the laser gun won't operate if there's no sun."
"SHHHHHHH! not so loud..."
What the heck is this all about you ask (if you haven't read the blog for a few days)? Well, we were up on the clifftops last Friday evening, trying to harvest the final rays of the sun so that I could laser the skin off a rice pudding (while pretending to blow it off. Difficult. DO keep up.)
Fortunately, at the very moment the sun sank behind a cloud, and then behind the horizon,, Apsley Fulmar lit his gas BBQ and de luxe patio heater combo, and like greased lightning I spun round, caught the glow from the BBQ in the mirror/magnifying glass attachment, and fired up the laser. It was all over in seconds - I blasted the skin right off the pudding in a oner, and it sailed out over the cliffs and into the Bay - where it landed full-square on the coupon of none other than...but you'll have to wait till next blog post to find out. Bet you can't wait?
Meantime - all those who bet on me made loads of money, and those of little or no faith, lost their shirts.

Our cooking implement

A reader wonders how Geoffrey and I manage to cook, as we don't have "leccy" or "gas", or indeed an electrical gas-fired BBQ, like Apsley and Cherry.

Well we sometimes managed to boil up a can of beans on the fire - see header photo - and that is what we generally use for boiling the kettle, also. But we have another implement - the spirit stove - please see photo. As you can see, there are holes for fitting the outer pot, on to the stove, and within the outer pot, we fit an inner pot, which contains the vittles. Geoffrey works the "poo foo valve", which can be seen to the right of the photo, in order to fire the thing up, while I do the stirring.

Geoffrey tells me I'm a born stirrer. I'll take it as a compliment as I cannot be arsed having an argument with him - but I know full well what he's getting at, and what's more he knows that I know.

Special Tea

A reader reminds me that Geoffrey and I were supposed to be hosting one of our "special teas" this week, for Dave and Valerie Nark. Sadly, I've been held up as I'm still wedged in the crack.

"You'll just have to "wait" till some of the "weight" drops off," shrilled Tuppence, who had travelled out to see me in a new motorised raft he had constructed.

"Bog off," I muttered, flailing my legs about in a vain attempt to loosen myself. Meanwhile, Geoffrey flew anxiously round and round.

"But what if the Narks turn up? I don't know how to make a special tea," he said as he wheeled past.

"No more do I," I said.

"Why did you say that then? Special tea?"

"Don't start on me now, Geoffrey, for heaven's sake. Just get me the frig out of here, and we'll think of something. And chuck us a packet of Doritos or something, will you? I'm starving."

"Can't be done, Tuppy," said Apsley Fulmar, who had flown out, along with most of the population of "Hereabouts", to view "the spectacle" i.e. me. "Tuppence is right. You're wedged in too tight for us to pull you out. You'll have to drop a bit of weight and starve yourself out - it's the only way, Tuppy."

"Can't I even have a sip of madeira, to strengthen myself? Get me the hip flask, Geoffrey, and a straw, for pity's sake."

"PUT THAT HIP FLASK DOWN!!" commanded a familiar voice.

"God almighty." It was none other than the ghastly Wilson, pushing his way through the crowds on the cliff top.

"Very Doctor Finlay. Just ignore him, Geoffrey. He's all mouth and no trousers. Tell him to eff off and get me a drink, for god's sake. And I wouldn't mind a puff of Black Bogey while you're at it."

"Righty oh Tuppy."

slaughterhouse fifty five

Party party party! those were the words which greeted us as we arrived at the newly refurbished Old Rectory last weekend. No, not that weekend just gone past - the one BEFORE.
Yes, it's taken us that long to recover. Apsley and Cherry had really gone to town with a BBQ, patio heaters, outdoor jacuzzi, Dansette record player plugged in to an extension cable, mirror ball and flashing disco lights. Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) were guests of honour, as they redesigned the place of course. They've gone for a "retro" 70s look, very rustic, with dried flowers and gourds everywhere, and really uncomfortable orange moquette furniture. The wallpaper was the same as Jack Regan's in The Sweeney - sort of large, intersecting greenish and cream squares, specially chosen to clash horribly with the orange moquette.
The drinks (purple peril, natch) were served in olde style pint mugs, the ones you don't get any more in pubs (except in the Puff Inn, of course).
The food was to die for (more of that later!) Cherry had excelled herself as usual. Not only did we have our fave korn bif and pineapple chunk kebabs, there were weird things on sticks, jammed into upside down oranges covered with foil, such as sausages (my fave!!) cheese kubes (Hmmm....) pickled onions (better) and maraschino cherries (take them or leave them, personally).
And the guests!! first, the more savoury ones. Me and Geoffrey, of course, The Tupfinder General (Mrs T-G did not appear, as per), Stormy (appeared after closing time with a welcome couple of crates of meths), Razor Bill, and of course Ranald and Sandy. We all wore fancy dress by the way - the theme was 70s, to match the decor. Ranald and Sandy rather boringly wore denims and long wigs, and came as "The Sutherland Brothers" - very disappointing and out of character. Razor Bill wore moon boots (goodness knows where he dug them up from - but more of that later!) and came as David Cassidy - Stormy came as Robert Plant, which we thought doesn't really count as apart from wrinkles he looks pretty much the same regardless of decade - the T-G came as Sherlock Holmes, and nobody had the nerve to tell him he'd got it badly wrong (he thought theme was the 1870s).
I got my wool tightly permed and dyed black, wore blue satin flares, platform soles and a sequinned jacket and came as Billy Ocean. Geoffrey was mortified and almost refused to go to the party at all. In the end, he wore a long white cape and a blond wig, and went as Rick Wakeman.
Now for the UNsavoury guests. True to form, Tuppence arrived mob-handed with his gang of rats, and proceeded to "diss" the entire party, saying the music was "crap" (Apsley's Top of the Pops album 1972 with not the right singers on it, was playing at the time, so maybe he had a point...)and the food inedible (well, I suppose he had a point there too - some of it definitely was...and coming from me, that's saying a lot...) He then plugged in his moog, to Apsley and Cherry's generator, shouting "I'LL give you 70s" and started blasting out the opening bit from Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time.
As the song progressed, and Tuppence's screeching and screaming reached a ghastly crescendo, the generator began to overheat and smoke began to pour from the electric socket.
Before we knew it, a raging fire had started - AGAIN!!!!
more later....

the Fulmars invite us to a party/do

Great news! Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) have finished remodelling the Old Rectory (which people are rather churlishly blaming ME for burning down! see previous posts as to why this ridiculous accusation was made - as if it was MY fault the meths got spilt over the BBQ) and Apsley and Cherry are all set to move back in. They're fed up living in the caravan - it would do Geoffrey and me quite nicely as a holiday home/weekend retreat-style dwelling, but Cherry does like her comforts.
A large Speedispend van arrived at the Old Rectory this afternoon, stuffed full of every electrical appliance and mod con under the sun. (Cherry says the stuff's not costing her a penny, as she's put it on plastic and in any case will be getting a load of Speedispend kloobkahd money-back-style vouchers just in time for Christmas - personally I'm not quite sure she's got that right but time will tell) Chief item of interest alongside the foot spas, plug in back massagers etc. was a replacement 62 inch telly, and an invite arrived via Razor Bill this morning to an X Factor/housewarming-style party/do, this Saturday evening!
Let's just hope the house doesn't get TOO warm - like it did last time when it burnt down!

embattled

My goodness, we're really getting them "Hereabouts". Fanatics, extreme sports enthusiasts, or "strangers" as we like to refer to them. They're either whizzing down the hillside on bikes, or kayaking across the bay clad in startlingly coloured lycra - which I have to say, does nobody any favours.
As readers will know, we prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves "Hereabouts", and don't particularly welcome visitors with their demands for mod cons and muesli-style breakfast cereals.
We had an emergency top level meeting at Tupfinder Towers, in which we discussed a strategy, viz., setting up a lengthy trip wire to run along the hillside, parallel with the cliffs, and similar in style and effect to the one which so effectively despatched the "stranger in our midst" just a few days ago. If we can manage to connect it up to the old generator over at the Old Rectory, and electrify it, better still. (by the way - renovations at the Old Rectory are continuing apace and it should be ready for habitation very soon. Apsley and Cherry have been forced to move out of Tupfinder Towers due to Mrs T-G having "one of her turns" and brandishing a carving knife at them over the dinner table, while screaming "are you NEVER going to leave?", and are living in a caravan next to the Old Rectory)
Not that we mean any harm to anyone, of course. Once they've tumbled off their bikes it's hardly our fault if they end up in the bay, a thousand feet below. And hardly our fault if they can't swim fast enough to avoid the snapping jaws of Baby Orca. Mind you, he's quite likely to be full up after bingeing on kayakers.
So, we feel satisfied with our plan to keep Ourselves to Ourselves and fight off the encroachment of the modern world. So far, so good.

red alert - outdoor fanatic spotted

Newsflash - everything on hold - there's a stranger in our midst, viz. some outdoor fanatic wearing camouflage gear and living in a tent. He's carrying some sort of portable camera, and films himself, constantly, and even attempts to film US!! he - apparently - thinks he's living "rough" in "the wilderness", and plans to broadcast his "experiences" on telly! which we won't even be able to watch, since Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's place burned down (see recent posts) along with their 62" LCD TV.
Obviously this won't do at all. Something will have to be done. Personally, I'd chuck him "over the top" immediately, no question, (see Gazetteer and previous posts for details of this practice), but the T-G, Geoffrey, Razor Bill, Stormy et al prefer to have a top level meeting to decide on the proper, morally-correct-style course of action. So, tomorrow night a formal meeting of Everyone Hereabouts wil be convened at the Puff Inn, 8.30 sharp. Purple Perils and salty/hi fat snax to be provided by Stormy for a small remuneration.
Weather forecast is for gales and torrential rain - I only hope we make it...

the old rectory burns to the ground, and I get the blame

Geoffrey and I are having a quiet day today, huddled by the fireside with our kneerugs and steaming mugs of hot madeira as the rain pours down outside. Mind you, even if the rain wasn't pouring down, we'd both be pretty incapable of movement.
"Great to be back home again, Geoffrey."
"Indeed, Tuppy. Just wish we hadn't overindulged at the Fulmars' on Friday. Have you got any more Bisodal by the way?"
We were all invited to BBQ at the Fulmars' on Friday night, in honour of Ranald and Sandy's forthcoming re-modelling of the Old Rectory. Cherry had made up some of her famous korn bif and pineapple kebabs, and I'm sorry to say it and risk seeming ungrateful, but Apsley undercooked them. Geoffrey spotted that the gas jets on the barbeque were burning with a sinister yellow, not blue, flame, and pointed this out to Apsley, emphasizing the risk to us all of carbon monoxide poisoning, not to mention some sort of ghastly improperly-heated-through-food-style poisoning, as well.
"Rubbish! relax and have another drink, Geoff!" said Apsley in his fulsome way, slapping Geoffrey on the shoulder and pouring him another brimming glass of purple peril (meths based drink - see previous posts for recipe). Geoffrey hates being slapped on the shoulder, and he hates being called "Geoff" as well, but he was much too polite to say so. I therefore felt obliged to step in and say something.
Unfortunately, as I stepped forwards, my foot caught in the trailing string of Apsley's special plastic BBQ apron (ghastly - female Fulmar in black underwear on front), and I tripped, banging in to Geoffrey, and knocking his glassful of Purple Peril all over the BBQ, which consequently was set ablaze in no uncertain manner.
Some fool attempted to stem the flames by pouring more meths over, and you can imagine the result.
The Old Rectory was burnt to the ground, jacuzzi, 62" telly, Cherry's Burt Bacharach albums, decking, the lot. We all had to run for our lives!!!
We offered the Fulmars the sanctuary of our settee here at the Outcrop, which they declined rather sniffily, partly because they blame ME for the fire!! and partly because the Outcrop falls a tad short of their usual requirements viz a viz accommodation i.e. we have no "mod cons".
So they are now ensconced in the East Wing of Tupfinder Towers, which has ensuite facilities and gives a lovely view of the sea, so they imagine. (I think the ensuite facilities likely consist of a hole in the floor of the bedroom, with a "drop" on to the seaweed covered rocks below (East Wing is on the fourth floor) - not sure how Cherry will cope with that, but I'm sure we'll hear all about it - I'll bet there is no soft bog roll, either)
No sign of Tuppence yet - Geoffrey flew a mile or two out for a recce but saw nothing.
We can only hope that the Orca is still away visiting his family in the Southern Ocean...

heading for home

What luck! turns out Ranald and Sandy had stopped off at Flannan Isle for a breather on their way to "Hereabouts..." ( see gazetteer for info.) , where they've been invited to give Apsley and Cherry's abode, The Old Rectory, a makeover.
"But WHY? Only last year they got it stonecladded and decked and goodness knows what all else." we asked.
"That's precisely why," replied Ranald. "They want all that stripped down now. They're sick of it. They want a different look for the autumn. More rustic, I think, wasn't it Sandy? Log fires and sheaves of dried this and that? Gourds and twig-type stuff, in earthenware pots? Textured fabrics, in natural tones?"
Sandy shrugged. "No earthly idea and frankly I could not care one jot. They're SO tacky, and they won't listen to advice. It's their way, or no way. Frankly I'd rather it was no way, as I've NO interest in working for them, but what with the recession we need the money. Anyway - can we offer the two of you a lift back to the Outcrop?"
"Yes!!" we chorused, clambering on to their enormous backs.
"Hang on!" they shouted, as they unfurled their beautiful white wings, took off into the westering wind and soared homewards.
As we soared skywards, we glimpsed some wreckage. It looked very much like a pile of rusting tin cans - rusting korn bif tins, to be precise. In fact, we deduced that it was Tuppence's latest TTD (time travelling device - see previous posts), which must have crash-landed on Flannan Isle, hence his mysterious presence on the island. As we flew over the Minch, we glimpsed a tiny white woolly figure clad in yellow oilskins, sculling valiantly away, heading for...well, hard to tell really. But I'm sure it was Tuppence.

duck island

"Duck freakin' island? Duck FREAKIN' island???!!!" I'm afraid Geoffrey and I were awakened VERY rudely by Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's less than dulcet tones. What happened is this.

Apsley and Cherry are very nice in their own way - BUT - they are prone to petty jealousies. Hereabouts, we don't "keep up with the Jones's", we keep up with the Fulmars. Or would, if we gave a toss about keeping up with anybody - as readers will know only too well, we don't.

The Fulmars discovered that "someone" has built a floating island for ducks, half way between Hereabouts and ...Over there. It's not ideally situated, actually, as the sea gets terribly rough and there's a whirlpool and everything, (please see previous posts re. my travels to see the oracle in my coracle) so my guess is it won't last long. Nevertheless, the Fulmars are black affronted as they can see the freakin' thing from their patio. They're determined to either demolish it or build their own.

we decide to resurrect the TTD

Geoffrey and I have decided we can't live without Fisher and Donaldson pies and cakes. Obviously Cherry Fulmar feels the same way - and by the look of Apsley's waistline, he does too.
So, as we sipped a glass of madeira while watching the sunset last evening, puffing steadily on our pipes and listening to the reassuring crackling of the fire, an idea popped into our heads - mine and Geoffrey's, that is. Viz., we think that if we can manage to resurrect the time travelling device - or TTD - it could prove most convenient for travelling back in time, just a week or two to when Fisher and Donaldson were still open Hereabouts. We could then pick up fudge doughnuts and steak pies whenever we felt like it. Another advantage popped into MY head - we could probably get away with not paying for them as well. But I kept that to myself - meantime.
Readers will remember that last summer Tuppence made the original TTD out old korn bif tins. It got powered up by sunlight reflecting on to the panels and causing a combustive reaction with the poofoo valves. We were then able to effect a rescue of all the sheep and other animals stranded on the hulks half way between Hereabouts and Over there. After that, we had to invent a milking device...but readers will have to go back and consult previous posts for use thereof, diagrams etc.etc.
ANYWAY - word from the Puff Inn tells me that there's an abandoned camper van up in the tourist car park - quite an eyesore and it needs to be removed anyway - Geoff and I reckon we could fix it up into a new and improved TTD. We wouldn't even need the poofoo valves - we could power it up using the Fulmar's generator.
That's if we can be bothered of course!!

moog-generator-Fulmar's-cable-style problem

Well, we haven't quite solved the "moog-cable-Fulmar's generator" problem, but almost. I suppose this is what some might say is the "cup-half-full-cup-half-empty" paradigm - but not me. I don't like these "either or" things. I'm more a "shades of grey" person. Tuppence always despised me for it and used to tell me that I'm criminally lacking in moral fibre. I suppose he could be right, but moral fibre-style decision-making seems to require such a lot of brain effort, and frankly I can't be bothered. Perhaps some people know immediately what's right or wrong, but not me. I'd rather blow with the prevailing wind. It can lead me into some difficult, perhaps morally compromising situations, but I can generally winkle my way out of them by flattery, bribery, cheating and/or fibbing. Why not! After all I've had lots of practice! and it's done me no harm! Mind you I was voted "least popular" in the solstice poll last year (see previous posts) and have been ostracised by the local community on several occasions...perhaps people are trying to tell me something? but personally, I believe that the poll results say more about the harsh and judgmental nature of those voting rather than those voted for or against i.e. me...anyway, personally I think the "truth" is pretty elastic in nature. Why make life harder by sticking to it, specially when no-one really knows what it is. Least of all me.
Anyway I'm rambling too much. Back to the moog problem. Apsley managed to track down the tape recorder, and managed to neutralise it by snipping through the tape with a pair of nail scissors. The cable connecting it to the Fulmar's generator was unfortunately concreted in to the cave wall, and the recorder was jammed right up against said wall, also concreted in, so it wasn't possible to cut the cable as we'd planned. We're going to have to go back tonight with some gelignite to blow the thing off. It's the only possible solution. The Tupfinder's got "jelly", fuses, the lot, so it shouldn't be a problem...

minstrel not in the gallery

Well, no joy at the bins. I was forgetting myself - I got carried away with it being so mild for a day or two, but really it's a bit early in the season for visitors and the camper vans haven't arrived as yet. Rich pickings when they do - they seem to chuck all sorts of things away. Not that we want their old bras and "snuff movies " - even if someone was glad of them last year and auctioned them off on "an internet auction site" with great success. Goodness only knows what kind of customer feedback rating they got for that lot but I suppose it takes all sorts. Manners prevent me saying who it was who sold them but they live just along the cliffs, wear matching fleece robes, and are upwardly mobile - how do you imagine they pay for all these home improvements? latest acquisition - purchased from said auction site, presumably - is a set of industrial power tools - the chain saw is going like the clappers night and day just now and my head is splitting - mind you, it does drown out Tuppence's moog. But more of that later.
Despite the cold snap Spring is in the air and word from the Puff Inn tells me that Cherry Fulmar is expecting. Apsley has been busy refurbishing the Old Rectory AGAIN - hence chainsaw racket problem - what he's doing to it I really don't know, after all they've got every possible mod con, stone cladding, decking, gas fired BBQ, summer house, mini-greenhouse (empty - just for show), water butt, faux rose arbour, not to mention the security lights - but I suppose they're redecorating a spare room as a nursery or something.
re. Tuppence's on-going moog drama - word from the Puff Inn tells me that he isn't actually playing it in person - he's set up a loop tape or some modern equivalent, which plays incessantly while he's off enjoying himself somewhere else. We were wondering when he'd wear his fingers out playing the keyboard solo from Tull's Minstrel in the Gallery. It should be a fairly simple matter to disconnect the moog from the Fulmar's generator - all we have to do is find the right cable...

we rescue geoffrey

Matters came to a head with Geoffrey and we had to intervene before he killed himself. The Grim Reaper was hovering in the background with a horrible leering grin as we - me, the Tupfinder, Apsley and Cherry - approached. What we did was this. Geoffrey was cycling at a terrific pace, and it would have proved impossible if not dangerous just to seize him in mid-flow, so the Tupfinder found a pole, and shoved it between the spokes of the front wheel - this halted the bike immediately, and Geoffrey was thrown headfirst over the handlebars - we caught him in a blanket and no harm done.
Since then we've been nursing him round the clock. As well as suffering from shock and severe dehydration his breathing is erratic and he's running a high fever. For a ghastly moment or two I feared the worst - i.e. that I'd have to consult Dr Wilson re. Geoffrey's condition - however, the Tupfinder thinks he'll recover in time, so no need for that.
Tuppence is probably attempting to plug his moog into the Fulmar's generator again, but if the silence is anything to go by, he hasn't yet managed it. Hopefully we'll all manage to enjoy a brief respite from the bleeding from our ears.
I know that crisps are probably not the best thing for Geoffrey's health at the moment, but I'm certain that even the sound of a rustling packet will cheer him up, so I'm off to scour the bins at the tourist car park. Embarrassing, but it will be worth it just to see the look on Geoffrey's face.

trendy

Readers will be anxious to know how Geoffrey is getting on with defeating his terrible crisp addiction. At New Year, he resolved to lay off crisps due to concerns re. his rising blood pressure, but his willpower is awfully weak. He still can't pass a layby without having a good rake in the bins. Now as well as sky high BP, he's worried about rampant middle aged spread.
"I'm turning into a gutbucket, Tuppy", he wailed. "I can't get into my white lycra bell bottoms any more - without looking grotesque."
"Just get a bigger size," I said absently - I'm bored with his constant whingeing about his age and appearance.
Obviously this didn't satisfy his need for sympathy and he blurted out his pathetic concerns to Cherry Fulmar when we went along to the Old Rectory to discuss the sewage-flooding-the-tunnels plan. "Wear a kaftan like I do. Paisley pattern. A nice big design, in towelling or chenille. Great for the chilly evenings, and so versatile," she said, yawning and passing him a sack of chilli heatwave doritos.
"But I want to look TRENDY!" he wailed.
"Your trendy days are over, Geoff," said Apsley, patting him on the shoulder. "You might as well accept it."
I had to agree with him. But Geoffrey clearly didn't. I detected a distinct glint in his eye, as he stared disdainfully at Cherry and Apsley's matching fleece housecoats.

tuppence develops a taste for prog rock

Geoffrey's still recovering from his coma. He insists it was genuine - brought on in part by watching Celebrity Big Brother for more than five consecutive seconds, which we already knew; what we didn't know that was it was also partly brought on by shock, caused by catching a glimpse of Apsley Fulmar's unmentionables.
We managed to find this out by employing a form of regression therapy - which didn't work - the Tupfinder general then produced a vial of truth serum, which he proceeded to inject into poor Geoffrey's brachial artery, despite my protestions.
"Hold him down Tuppy!" he ordered, and cravenly I complied. I'm petrified that Geoffrey will never forgive me, but I'm more petrified of the Tupfinder, and as he says" Better out than in." Though I'm certain that can't be said of Apsley's unmentionables. Or can it? I'm not one to judge.
At any rate, once well and truly under, Geoffrey blurted out the truth - Apsley and Cherry had been watching Celebrity Big Brother whilst lounging on their faux leather recliner settee, attired in their customary matching fleece robes. Apsley had got up from the recliner in rather an ungainly fashion, causing his robe to gape open - that was when Geoffrey saw...well, a rather dreadful sight. As he stood aghast, Apsley went to their kitchen - openplan, faux oak fittings, an Aga, walk-in fridge - and fetched a large bowlful of crisps which he and Cherry proceeded to demolish. That was too much for Geoffrey (see previous posts re. Geoffrey's crisp addiction). He remained transfixed, and that is where Razor Bill found him the following morning - frozen in time, eyes glazed, standing on one leg, beak agape.
Anyway he's much better now.
News from the Puff Inn tells me that Tuppence is having problems - he's currently living high on the hog in the tunnels with the rats, pistol in his belt etc. - likes to think he's their leader (see previous posts) however, he's deluding himself. There's a rebellion afoot. The rats are sick and tired of Tuppence and his arrogant ways and they want him out. More fuel was added to the fire by Tuppence's recent obsession with prog rock - apparently he found an old copy of Rick Wakeman's Six Wives of Henry VIII and has been playing it nonstop on an old stereo system he rigged up.