Whinge of the Week - Beans with a Cooked Breakfast, and face furniture

'I thought I was on to a winner Tuppy.  I thought for sure that I'd win the Whingers Anonymous Whinge of the Week prize hamper last night, but nobody agrees with me.  I was shouted down! Most people seem to enjoy beans and I simply can't understand it.  I feel like a stranger in my own country Tuppy!  Is it a new-fangled thing Tuppy, this beans with breakfast carry-on?'
I sighed heavily, and glared at Geoffrey through my brand-spanking-new 2-for-1-from-Spec-Spenders 'pince nez' before removing them and warming to my theme.  The heavy sigh was just an act by the way, breakfast being one of my favourite subjects.  Especially if it's freshly-cooked by someone who knows what they're doing and I'm starving and about to tuck in.  And the glare was the same - an affectation affected to draw attention to my new affectation, or 'face-furniture' - wire-rimmed 'pince nez'.
It's just a shame that some people don't appreciate style when they see it.
'I like your new half-moon specks Mr Tuppenceworth!' shrilled Chelsy, the Fulmars' three year old great-great-great-great-grand-daughter as she gambolled across their vile new decking and I tottered past along the cliffs yesterday on my way to throw the rubbish over.
'They're not half-moon specks,  you midget philistine,' I snarled,'They're 'pince-fucking-nez.'  And she ran back inside, screaming for help.
I think we can expect a rather tiresome visit from the Fulmars, later. Anyway - back to the beans with cooked breakfast topic.
'Yes Geoffrey.  It is new-fangled and not traditional by anyone's standards, no matter how low these standards happen to be. In fact, it's an indication of the preternaturally prehensile strength of the grasp of the shoddy processed foods hegemony-style-thing which has its roots deep, deep down in the blackest depths, or indeed 'bowels', of the mid-20th century and whose relentless tendrils stretch right out into the furthest reaches of the Andromeda nebula, and beyond. A traditional full-cooked involves the following, and only the following: a nicely-fried egg, with yolk showing, two rashers of grilled back bacon, one proper sausage, grilled (and none of your cheap rubbish), a grilled slice of black pudding (optional), a grilled tomato (if in season) , and half a slice of non-greasy fried bread.  Needless to add this must all be served piping-hot, on a properly-warmed, white-glazed breakfast plate. This should be preceded by something lightly citrus-y such as a small glass of fresh orange juice or half a fresh grapefruit, and accompanied by a large pot of well-brewed tea and a rack of toast, with real butter and home-made marmalade or perhaps honey.  A freshly-laundered damask napkin should be folded neatly in four and laid on the side-plate with a side-knife placed carefully on top and condiments to hand. By condiments I mean salt and pepper.  No red or brown sauce and beans certainly don't come into the proceedings at any juncture.  They're messy, and spoil the whole aesthetic.'


Find my Amazon page here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Whinge of the Week, and the Mysterious Yoyo Wrapper

Geoffrey was the star turn at the ghastly 'Whingers Anonymous Club' last night.  He came home at half past eight, waving his badge and absolutely full of himself.
'Tuppy!  guess what?  I was the star turn with my whinge 'Why oh why must people call Sandwiches Sangwidges'!  They loved it!  They loved ME! I'm getting a hamper and everything!' he enthused for the umpteenth time, twirling and pirouetting round the settee. 'Next week I'm going to whinge about people who call sandwiches sarnies. It's simply intolerable, isn't it Tuppy?  Calling sandwiches sarnies.  It should really be sannie, shouldn't it Tuppy?  I'm right, aren't I Tuppy? They're going to love it - and ME - all over again!  I can't wait!'
'THIS is intolerable Geoffrey.  It's half past twelve in the afternoon and you're still raving on.
 Neither of us has had a wink of sleep, and if you don't shut your pie-hole NOW, I'm going to be
forced to shut it for you.  Now let that be an end to it.'
'An end to what? I'm entitled to enjoy my small successes.  I've little enough in life to enjoy, Tuppy.  I lead an impoverished existence.'
'Who sez that?'
'Val Nark.  She said it.'
'When?  You never mentioned it before, and it's definitely the kind of thing you WOULD mention,
under normal circumstances.'
But this wasn't 'normal circumstances'.  Not by a long stretch.  And we both knew it.  I was still on a health kick, and Geoffrey had gone stark staring bonkers. I sighed heavily, and out of sheer habit, tapped my pipe against the chimney breast.  Three spiders, a screwed up toffee Yoyo wrapper and a shred of tobacco fell out.  I picked up the tobacco and sniffed it longingly.
'Where did that Yoyo wrapper come from?' asked Geoffrey, pausing in mid-pirouette and collapsing - FINALLY! - on the settee.
'It isn't mine.'
'Come off it!  You've been eating chocolate biscuits on one of your five starvation days, haven't you?'
'Shut up Geoffrey, and use what's left of your pea-sized brain.  They haven't made Yoyos since the 1980s.'
'Where did the wrapper come from then?'
'I don't know.'  It was true.  I didn't know.  I picked up the screwed-up foil wrapper, and smoothed it out on my knee. 'Besides, what's a toffee Yoyo wrapper, compared to Val Nark telling you that you lead a so-called 'impoverished existence'?  The total cow.'
'I know, she is isn't she.  She said that last night at the Whingers Anonymous Club.  But I shouldn't tell you that because if people know who attends it won't be Anonymous anymore.  It's all meant to be hush-hush.'
'Nothing's hush-hush Hereabouts Geoffrey, as we know to our cost.  All the neighbours have night vision binoculars and telescopes.'
'I know Tuppy.  I'm glad I've told you now.  I don't like Val.  She always makes me feel bad about myself and I get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I have to spend more than two seconds with her.'
'I feel the same Geoffrey.  Luckily we never have to spend more than one, or indeed any seconds, with her.  So the issue doesn't arise.  It's a moot point or dead in the water or whatever. You know what I mean.'
'Oh I do Tuppy.  Only - '
'What?' My heart sank.
'I've agreed to attend her Positive Body, Positive Mind class on a Friday morning, up in the yurts.  In fact, I've signed us both up for it.  It's only six pounds a week for the two of us Tuppy - we've to wear loose clothing and no shoes....'  he babbled, backing away from me as I seized the poker and flung the Yoyo wrapper furiously into the fire....

Next time - the Yoyo wrapper mystery deepens, and there is an underpants crisis...

Diet Food of the Day - Keesh

I was featured in the local newsletter 'The Enterprise' this week as part of their 'health and fitness' promotion.  It wasn't a good thing.  Mainly because there was a photograph of me looking rotund, captioned 'How NOT to do it - One Sheep's Weight-loss Hell'.
I don't think that you'll be surprised to learn that 'The Enterprise'' is one of enterprising couple Dave and Val Nark's latest enterprises.  Or that its vile and clumsy motto is 'Boldly to Go Where No-one Has Gone Before - or at least, Not for a While.'
Val came round to ours far too early this morning with a copy hot off their bio-fuel-powered printer.  More of where precisely the bio-fuel comes from, later.
'There you go Tuppy!  I know we've had our differences in the past but Dave and I are nothing if not emotionally-generous and so we've put you right there on the front page!  I'm sure Geoffrey will be so proud.'
'Yes that's right - thank you V - ' began Geoffrey, before I kicked him smartly behind the knee. 'Ow!'
'Well I'll be off then!  Time waits for no-one and I've a pilates class at ten and I need to be on the door before they arrive so I can get the money up front.  Not to mention I also have yurts to fill, goats to milk, and a post-office to run. Do stop by the post office for a lo-cal goji-berry flapjack - I've got some stale ones on special.'
And off she whisked, power-walking back up the hill to what used to be the bare and empty tourist car-park, and which is now a sprawling mass of eco-yurts, the largest and pointiest of which has been converted into a post-office-cum-eco-minimart.
'Why am I not losing weight Geoffrey? I've had keesh for tea for the past five days,' I said, as I flung 'The Enterprise' into the fire and watched my own face staring back at me before it vanished forever into ash.
'I don't know Tuppy.  Keesh is supposed to be healthy.  Everyone eats it when they're on a diet.  You've also had salad with everything, as well, so what with that and the keesh you should be really slim by now. It's a mystery Tuppy.  I hate to say,  but you might have to consult Dr Wilson.  You could have a glandular problem.'

more later.

The Whingers Anonymous Club, Badges, & Gel Inserts

'I've got a new badge,' crowed Geoffrey as he flew through the hole in the kitchen wall and landed on his usual perch on the end of the mantlepiece.
'Really,' I replied, staring out of the window in my usual morose manner, while puffing on my electronic pipe and adjusting my belt inwards - yes, INwards - by yet another notch.
'Don't you want to see?' he badgered.
'No.'
'Why not?  It's lovely and shiny.'
'Oh do shut up.  I'm not interested in seeing anything shiny if it isn't baccy or food.'
'I know you'll like it.  It's just up your alley,' he continued doggedly, 'You'll never guess what it's for - you're completely foxed, aren't you?'
'No, I'm not foxed as you put it.  I'm never foxed.  I don't DO foxed,' I said standing up, and flexing my plantar, 'Cattiness isn't in my nature as a general rule, but I've had more than enough of the animal verbs and adverbs.  Crowing,  badgering, doing things doggedly, being completely and utterly foxed and so forth.  And before you say it - I'm not horsing around.   No more am I cowering in a corner, feeling cowed and looking cow-eyed.  Besides, I know precisely what that badge is for because I saw the notice pinned up outside the post office last Monday when I went to collect my gel inserts.'
'What notice?'
'The one about the new Whingers Anonymous Club that meets in the church hall on Tuesday evenings at 7.  It's like the Hellfire Club except there's no dirtiness, there's tea instead of port, and it's open only to whingeing old domino-playing half-wits like your good self.'
'What gel inserts?'
'The ones I got off Ebay for my plantar fasciitis.  Which, might I add, is giving me absolute gyp this afternoon.  Not that you'd care, with your shiny new badge and your new friends at the Whingers Anonymous club and all.'
Geoffrey looked crestfallen, and I immediately felt alarmed. If I didn't apologise pretty swiftly there would be no chance of his making the tea.  'I'm sorry.  I'm just hacked off is all, Geoffrey.  My feet hurt despite my new gel inserts, I hate my new-fangled electronic pipe and I hate being on this five two diet.'
'It was your own idea to go on a so-called health kick.'
'No it wasn't.'
'It was!'
'WASN'T!  And stop looking crestfallen. You're making me feel even worse.  Here am I with an electronic-freaking-pipe, and starving myself for five days and eating rabbit-food on t'other two....'
'I'm not crestfallen.  I'm cowed.  And by the way Tuppy - I haven't liked to mention it before, because you've been in such a toweringly bad mood - but you're doing the five two diet the wrong way round.  You're supposed to eat for five days solidly, then starve for two. You've been doing it wrong. No wonder you're feeling a touch out of sorts.'
I sighed heavily.  Or as heavily as I could manage, given that I was losing more and more of my 'body weight' by the second.  'I'm such an ass.  Have we any sausages?' I asked sheepishly.
'We always have sausages.'
'Good.  Now pass me the opium.'

Next up - Geoffrey stabs himself in the face with the un-safety pin at the back of his badge.

Processed meat of the week

Chopped pork, from the local butcher's, via Spar.

I know, I know.

It's packed full of salt, chemicals, preservatives, and saturated fat. That's why it tastes brilliant.

On a sandwich with a bit of tomato as sop to the bowels. Sprinkling of pepper. Eh??

Oooh I think I've a wee touch of indigestion...pain under the ribcage, centre of chest, radiating up into the jaw and down the left A-A-A-A-R-R-R-MMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

Salty snack of the week

Salt 'n' potato based snack of the week - Pringles Xtreme Smokin' Ribs.

They are disgusting. I should know - I ate quite a lot of them, before I decided....

Belch.

Salty snack of the week

Salt 'n' potato based snack of the week - Pringles Xtreme Smokin' Ribs.

They are disgusting. I should know - I ate quite a lot of them, before I decided....

Belch.

Black Bun - the scourge of Scotland

Geoffrey and I have been arguing over which special comestibles to get in over the Festive.

As long-term readers will know, the "Big Day" Hereabouts is the Solstice rather than December 25th which we see as mere southern jiggerypokery and up-their-ain-bumness.

Yes, we celebrate the sun's nadir and the total dearth of sunlight and warmth and cheer with as much glee as we can muster - which isn't that much if I'm totally honest.

Geoffrey reckons we should try to obtain some "Black Bun".

"I really fancy a slice of Black Bun," he said. He sounded enthusiastic enough but I could still sense an element of doubt in his tone.

"I haven't laid eyes on a Black Bun since 1978," I countered. "And I can't say I'm all that sorry. As I remember, I burst a filling on the last slice I attempted. It seemed to be full of low grade gravel. And it tasted like something that came out of a dog's behind. So I can't see the attraction, quite frankly."

"I don't care," he pouted." I'm going out to search for some right now."

"Knock yourself out," I said, reaching for my pipe. "I'll keep an eye on your online Heartache Removal Service till you get back..."

A Tom Jones sing-a-long in the sea

Well here we are waiting to be rescued. Apsley said he's sending for help - god only knows how long that will take. Meanwhile to keep our spirits up we're having a wee sing-a-long.

#"Well sheez all yood ever wan' sheez god stahl sheez god grace sheez a winner"# I began, clicking my fingers and standing up in the liferaft.

"Stop it Tuppy!" commanded the T-G. "You'll capsize us. Sit the frig DOWN. Besides, you're doing it all wrong. It goes like THIS.

(he coughed)

#Well sheez all yood evva wan' sheez the kahnd yood lahk to flaunt an' take to DINner#"

"NO NO NO NO NO!" boomed a voice from nearby. "YOU'VE got it wrong an' all."

"Who the frig's that?" I muttered. "Oh my God. It's Spockfingers. He must have..."

"Yes! I've survived the blast and here I am large as life and twice as nasty. You lot are pants at Tom Jones. Here's how it SHOULD be sung." Spockfingers approached the boat at an impressive rate of knots. Apparently, he was still passing wind, and it was acting like a kind of crude but highly effective and convenient form of jet propulsion, enabling him to not only stay afloat but to travel about in the water at will. He began to circle the boat, singing as only he can sing (see post about me and Spockfingers in the belly of the beast, to find out just how powerful his voice is...)

#"Well sheez all yood evva wan' sheez the kahnd o' burd they'd lahk tae flaunt an' tak' fur CHI-ips

Sheez the kahnd o' burd whit likes her plaice

sheez got salt sheez got broon soss...

Sheez a winner..."#

"Frigging hell. Make him shut up, someone."

#" Shee kin tak' whit ah dish oot an' that's no eezy

She's fine an' breezy...

Her feet R cheezy..."#

"Oh - an' by the way - yooz lot didnae contribute SHIT fur the sick and poorly weans in Africa. Yeez are a bunch o' stingy bastards. Ah'll deal wi yooz la'er. Noo piss aff an' let em feenish ma sang.

#Oh she et ma fish an chips an' removed ma orange pips

Sheez a lady...

wo wo wo

She's...#"

I think that's QUITE enuff of that jist fur the noo. I'll go and shampoo my sporran now.

Enough dullness - back to the Outcrop

Right I'm fed up so it's back to business as frigging usual.

Me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire last evening, puffing on our Meerschaums and working our way through a barrel of madeira, when suddenly the door burst open and in came Razor Bill, clutching a telegram.

"I think it's bad news!" he blurted, before throwing himself exhausted on the couch and fanning himself with a copy of the Speedispend Christmas catalogue.

"Open it then, Tuppy," said the T-G in his serious voice.

"We've to start paying rent!" I said shakily, after reading the awful news.

"Rent! what's that?" asked Geoffrey.

"And council tax," I added.

"But why? and who to, exactly?"

"What for, you mean," said the T-G. "This isn't on, lads. Not on at all. We'll have to take action. Where's me pistol?"

"Can we not have a bacon sandwich first," I asked in an outraged voice. "Surely..."

"Stop thinking about your stomach for one second, Tuppy. There are more important things afoot. Grab a packet of smokey bacon crisps and let's get cracking."

More horror

(Well at least it's not green - yet.)

"You'll have to eat it juiced," smirked the Ghastly Wilson, poking me with a stick.

"Not - ch-ch-chipped, or made into crisps - mashed, even?" I quavered.

"Juiced. Along with a couple of onions, some garlic and a handful of alfalfa sprouts. If you won't take it through the normal channels we'll have to put the tube down again."

How on earth had I come to this sorry pass? Strapped in a chair (with a hole sawed in the seat for my "convenience" in case you're wondering) with the Ghastly Wilson force feeding me vegetables.

"You couldn't bung a sausage in it, could you? I'll pay."

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Ghastly Wilson, throwing his head back and revealing some rather poor dental work, if I'm honest. "But you haven't got any munny! besides - munny's worth nothing Hereabouts."

"You're not even doing this for my benefit. You're doing it for your own sadistic pleasure."

"So what if I am? I don't get much fun out of life. You can't begrudge me this."

And he switched on the juicing machine full blast. "Come on boys - I need more voltage - pedal for grim death!" he shouted at the rats (who were powering up the generator via pedal power - please see previous posts if you don't believe me)

"Not so fast, Wilson," said a suave voice. A claw-like hand reached out and yanked the plug from the socket. There was an overpowering smell of mothballs and half a dozen spiders scurried out from beneath his long black robes.

"Oh for f - "

The flaming Reaper again.

"We don't want him to live, Wilson. We want him to DIE!! I need to keep my quota up, remember? you did agree to help. And now I find you going behind my back and feeding people vegetables to make them healthy. Now stop all that nonsense and fire these under the grill quick-style."

And he produced a family sized BBQ pack of mock chops, Chinese-style ribs, Cumberland-style sausages, fruit pudding, black pudding, smoked sausage, and lard-burgers.

"Hope you've got soem brown sauce," I said eagerly.

A hierarchy of meat

A hierarchy of meat.

Cow - king of meats. Contains steak.
Pig - only good for bacon and sausages IMO.
Sheep and lambs - cannibalism - unthinkable.
Humanoids - supposedly taste like pig/chicken, but I've never tried one.
Birds/hens - too close to Geoffrey in the gene pool, so fall into the unthinkable category.
Processed meat. This purports to be okay, because it is heavily disguised and does not resemble "meat" as we know it. Sneaks under the wire of blood-free acceptability. A "wolf in lamb's clothing" you could say. Duplicitous. Which makes it the WORST of all.

Reasons to eat it - it tastes good.

Reasons NOT to eat it - it causes other sentient beings to suffer - appallingly.

Sentient beings

My few days of self-imposed exile in the kitchen proved very instructive from an improving-moral-perspective point of view-style-thing.
Sometimes it's good to spend some time alone with your thoughts...(clutches head and runs screaming over the cliff...gets jumper/wool caught on a handy gorse bush and climbs eagerly back up again...)
"Geoffrey." (fortunately, the others had all got fed up and gone home.)
"Yes, Tuppy?"
"I don't think we should eat meat any more."
"You mean...?"
"Yes. Even sausages."
"Oh dear Tuppy - I hardly think..."
"No Geoffrey. You don't think. That's half your trouble."
"You're one to talk. Anyway - what's brought this on?"
"The other day - "
"Before you flounced into the kitchen, yes..."
"Someone said..."
"Someone said you only cared about people eating sheep because you are one yourself."
"For pity's sake! Will you allow me to finish a - "
"Sentence. Certainly. OW!"
"Honestly Geoffrey. I'm not a naturally violent person but - "
"Yes you are."
"Well I'm sorry you think so. I only hit you with the poker because you were getting on my nerves and grabbing all the attention and I think any sane person would agree that's reason enough. Now I'm folding my arms and going straight back into the kitchen again. And I WON'T be putting the kettle on."

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...

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."

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)

Death - is it avoidable?

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

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

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

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

Tin of the Week

This is an unusual item - a tin containing "froot".

We don't normally eat "froot", as we like to stick to our processed meat and salty snax diet as much as possible. Our systems are accustomed to it and we feel that "froot" would interfere with that.

However we found this on the skip outside Tupfinder Towers, and decided just to take it for a rainy day, or for throwing at visitors, or both.

It's a tin of Co-operative pear quarters, and was priced down at 39p. It states on the tin that you have to eat THE WHOLE TIN in order to reach just ONE of the mandatory five a day, as laid down by the Ghastly Wilson and his ilk. Needless to say we won't be bothering with that carry on.

We Receive a Gift

Mrs T-G's been busy over the weekend. As they still happened to have the skip handy outside Tupfinder Towers (the one they'd hired for the fatty snax), Mrs T-G took the opportunity to clear out the attics, and found some old black-out material. She has kindly used it to run us up matching "Reaper-style" black cloaks, so we can cover up our "Bums 'n' Tums".

The T-G brought them round for us to try on, yesterday.

"Very flattering," he said admiringly as Geoffrey and I paraded round the Outcrop. "Work that look. You'd never guess what was hidden under there."

"Probably just as well," shrilled Tuppence, who had turned up out of the blue.

I threw off my cloak in defiance. "I'm not ashamed of my Bum 'n' Tum," I cried. "I'm expecting a complementary delivery of Holland's Pies very shortly. I WAS going to share them out, but I won't now. I'm going to scoff the lot, so there." And I huffed off with my cloak tucked under my arm.

Then I had an idea...