'You know who's going to come out of this well?  Banks, Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, life coaches like Val Nark and novelists.'
'What about Doctor Wilson.'
I was slumped in my favourite leather armchair, toasting my feet by a roaring driftwood fire as Geoffrey poured us both a hefty slug of Madeira.
'What about him?'
'Well, aren't medics the heroes of the hour?'
'Some might be.  Wilson certainly isn't.  Ghastly man.  He's a throwback to the era when barbers doubled as surgeons.  Only worse.  He doesn't know what he's doing, crawling about in the caves covered in seaweed (please see books for details, if you're interested) and forcing everyone to go on diets and stop drinking and smoking.'
'He hasn't forced us.'
'No but it isn't for the want of trying.  All the things that make life tolerable, and he wants to destroy them.'
'Drink, baccy...fatty foods...biscuits...'
'Yes, and worst of all - he wants to destroy the illusion that we're immortal.  He constantly undermines our inalienable right to the essential belief that we're immune to illness and death.  That we have Teflon innards that won't be affected by a high-fat diet, and livers that can tolerate as much alcohol as we fancy.  His constant doom-laden needling about how we've got to look after ourselves else we'll die, terrifies me.  I won't live under the medical cosh Geoffrey, I simply won't.  I can't.'
'You will take his advice to stay indoors to avoid the coronavirus won't you though.'
'I don't know that I will Geoffrey.  I think I'll go along to the Puff Inn and...'
'It's shut.'
'Oh.  Well, I'll nip over to Tupfinder Towers and see if Mrs T-G has allowed the T-G back in again...'
'You can't.  You're not allowed to visit friends.'
'Mrs T-G isn't a friend.'
'You're not allowed to visit anybody.'
'Alright, I'll go along to Val Nark's for an ear-candling session!'
'Social distancing rules that out as well Tuppy.  Val's working from home now.  The yurt's locked up and Val's doing life-coaching via Skype.  Ear candling won't be possible till after the lockdown.'
'Oh.'
'We're only allowed out for a daily walk.  For the good of our physical and mental healths.  There are drones circling the cliffs to ensure compliance.'
'What happens if you don't comply?'
'You get herded up by people in hazmat suits armed with cattle prods and put in a nasty dark place for a very long time.'
'What fun.'
'You are allowed out to fetch essential supplies though.'
'That's more like it Geoffrey!  Let's go down the Tunnels and fetch some more crisps, baccy and Madeira - nobody can tell me they aren't essential.  We'd better put on the camouflage gear and wait till nightfall, just to be on the safe side.'

Next time - Tuppence and his prog friends release a charity single, and Val Nark has some life coaching ideas to help everyone through troubled times.

Today's Conundrum. How Do I Become a Self-realised Soul?

Geoffrey's been attending Val Nark's Mindfulness and Self-realisation Training, every Monday at 7pm up at the new Community Centre.

Between that and his DebSoc and his Weekly Whingers Anonymous Group he's never in.  I keep forgetting that he's out. And then when he returns I forget that he's come back in, and I totter to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  I never put the kettle on!  For the past millenium I've always shouted through to Geoffrey to do it, quick as he likes.  I've even made my own tea, on occasion, due to this ghastly, new-fangled and disruptive routine.

It's not only that.  When he returns - and for days after - he insists on telling me All About It.  A blow-by-blow account of who brought the best biscuits,  who said what,  and endless theories about why they might have done so.

I don't mind the debating and the whingeing but mindfulness sounds like the biggest pile of - 

'Tuppy!'

'What?'

'I asked you to ping the finger cymbals after twenty minutes.'

'It's only been five, Geoffrey.'

'Oh.  It must just feel like twenty I suppose.' 

He's learning to meditate.  

Me,   I prefer to stare blankly out of the living-room window,  and smoke my pipe.  Preferably after a fry-up, four opium tabloids,  and two schooners of best Madeira.

Geoffrey used to do the same,  but he's fallen under the spell of Val Nark and her organic vegan lifestyle.

I doubt it will last.

Next Saturday at DebSoc, by the way, Val is debating naturopathy with the Ghastly Wilson.  Geoffrey's going along, of course, and he's so keen to impress his new so-called friends that he's baking his own biscuits and manning the 'Jackson' tea urn.  

More about that,  later....

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 

Home for Christmas...

We're not sure if we're really home, or if we're hallucinating due to lack of food and drink.  At the moment, we don't much care.
We seem to remember being pushed shore-wards at alarming speed by the Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway.  Both of us remember that,  so it must be true, surely.   We reached land at about 5 o'clock this morning - Christmas morning - and managed to leap ashore and throw the painter round a rock to secure Fancy, before she could escape.
It wasn't easy, weak with hunger as we were, and we wouldn't have managed it but for the assistance of the forward momentum provided by the Whale.
"Thank you, Whale!"  we cried.
"Don't forget me lads!  Throw me some food as soon as you get the chance."  The Whale circled slowly in the deep water of the Bay.
Not too far behind him, circled the other coracle - the Big One.   When we got back to the Outcrop, I found my most powerful spyglass and had a look at it from the livingroom window while Geoffrey set to in the kitchen, lighting the fire and getting some breakfast on the go.
"Sausages, egg, bacon, fried bread, tattie scones, beans....yes, that should do.  Brown sauce.  Mustn't forget that.  Toast and marmalade for afters, and a large pot of tea," I heard him murmur, amidst the clattering of pans, and the spattering of hot fat.  Comforting, homely sounds.
"That coracle's carrying a ragged black flag at half-mast,"  I said. "What do you make of that,  Geoffrey?"
The kettle whistled.
"Same as you,  I imagine,  Tuppy.  She's a Death ship, come to claim her own during the Dark Days of Winter.  Let's chuck a sausage sandwich down to the Whale and then light the signal fire.  We'd better warn the others."
"What others?"
"You know.  Our neighbours.  The Fulmars.  Stormy Petrel. The Narks.   Doctor Wilson."
"Wilson?  The Narks?  You must be kidding."
"Well, the Tupfinder-Generals then. Although, I'm quite certain he'll already be aware."
"Oh I can't be bothered Geoffrey.  At least, not until I've had my breakfast and a serious nap.  Surely nothing bad will happen today.  After all, it's Christmas.  Goodwill to all.  A time of joy and starlight and happy faces crowded round a homely fire over glasses of hot punch.  Everyone will be busy with their Christmas dinners and stockings and presents and stuff."
"Not everybody,  Tuppy.  Think of that poor Whale, circling round and round all alone in the cold and the dark.  All he has to eat is what we throw down to him."
"But that's his natural environment Geoffrey.  He's a Whale.  He can't manage on land, just as we can't manage in water."
"I can.  I'm a gull.  I can manage water, land and air."
"Don't be smug!   You know what I mean.  Not everyone can enjoy Christmas like we can,  but there's nothing we can do about it so we're just going to have to blot out the guilt with insane amounts of food and drink,  and hopefully every other nasty memory.  Is that breakfast ready yet?"
"Oh dear Tuppy.  That's not the way to approach things, at all."
"Well I can't help it,"  I snapped," I'm tired and I can't manage moral dilemmas and guilt on an empty stomach.  I hope you've made plenty tattie scones."
"I have,  Tuppy.  I have."
"Black pudding?  Don't say a word.  I can tell by the look on your face that you forgot."
"Well to be honest Tuppy - and I know this is very poor timing - I think we need to give up black pudding."
"Oh?"
Geoffrey swallowed anxiously.  "I want to go macrobiotic Tuppy.  There, I've said it."
" I'll have your full-cooked then."
"I didn't mean right now!  It's something for the New Year. You know the kind of thing."
"I do."
Phew!  I thought.  Macrobiotics?  It'd be yoga next,  if I couldn't nip this in the bud, and giving up smoking and opium.  And then where would we be?  Life wouldn't be worth a candle.  I'd need to keep a close eye on Geoffrey.

We sat by the fire and ate in silence, and then dozed pleasantly in the warmth as we waited for the sun to creep above the horizon.

And we tried not to think about the lonely Whale, swimming round and round in the cold dark water, or the coracle of Death, as it drifted ever closer....

Whatever Boils Your Kettle - Strivers and Scroungers

"I know which one I'd rather do,"  I muttered as I thrust a "pamphlet" shrieking "ARE U A STRIVER OR A SCROUNGER?"  which some deranged nutter had rammed through our letterbox - or *hole* - on the fire, along with another screaming "DEATH TO SCROUNGERS"  and yet another yelling "GO AWAY ANYONE WHO'S NOT FROM ROUND HERE BEFORE WE KILL YOUSE ALL".
Yes, it's come to this.  Politix.  Politix has arrived, finally, on our draughty doorstep, via Mrs Tupfinder General's niece-by-marriage, Melaena Shovelbum-Steele.
Melaena is what we call an "incomer".
She's not "normal", like us.
She comes from "Overthere".
I don't think I need say more.
"I'm too old to strive," I said firmly, as she parked herself in Geoffrey's usual armchair,"And that seat's taken by the way.  Geoffrey's not here but I need it for putting my feet on."
"You're never to old to strive, Tuppy.  People - creatures like yourself, even - are living till ninety plus, thanks to the help of health boffins such as Drs Kwak and Wilson (see e-books, and paperbacks) and why on earth shouldn't you continue to contribute and do your bit for society, right up until your final breath? "He Strived Until He Dropped". Wouldn't you like to have that inscribed on your gravestone?"
"No.  Now sod off Melaena.  I've got a kettle to boil."
Melaena stood up, smoothing her Tupwatch Tartan trews over her well-toned thighs.  How did I know they were well-toned?  Because the Tupfinder General recently informed me with a heavy sigh that Melaena has installed a gym in the dungeon of Tupfinder Towers, complete with Stairmaster.
"I thought she was involved in the occult when she started banging on about The Stairmaster," he said, aghast," But no - it's worse.  She's a Parliamentary Candidate - and she's into body-pumping, and personal development - and what's worse still, she wants us ALL to do it...we've to have a fast day once a week and there's no smoking and no drinking and no bacon and no sausage rolls and we're not allowed to complain about anything because we've all to cultivate a positive mental attitude - Mrs T-G is NOT impressed...and my life is now officially HELL.  Hell Hell Hell.  And what's put the tin hat on it is, my home is a wreck - again (see e-books for details of previous debacle)"
Apparently, the gym was originally installed in the uppermost floor of the uppermost turret of Tupfinder Towers - just above the Secret Room, with the Vitrine (see e-books, and paperbacks) - however, due to the weight of the equipment, the entire room came loose from the ancient stone walls, and crashed holus bolus down through the turret and the banquet hall and the drawing-room and the kitchens and the pantry and the still-room, right into the bowels of the dungeon, where it rightly belongs.

Something Will Have To Be Done............................

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Is Life Worth Living?

"Geoffrey?"

"Yes?"

"Pour us a snifter and chuck us the baccy will you? It's gone ten."

"OK. Wait till I get off the bog first."

"JUST HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!!!" interrupted a familiar voice. None other than the Ghastly Dr. Wilson. Covered in seaweed and stinking of sewage as usual. (why is this? I cannot be arsed explaining, but it's All There in previous posts....) Sticking his head in the window without so much as would you mind or a by your leave.

"Oh for -"

"What the Kentucky Fried Chicken are YOU doing here o Ghastly one? Lovely to see you and all that," lied Geoffrey, as he carefully replaced the lav seat and forced a smile.

"I'm here to save you two utter wastes of space from yourselves. Don't have that drink. Put that baccy down. Pop the kettle on and make some hot water instead. Don't have that bacon and egg sandwich. Rather, have a plate of cracked bulgar wheat with a splash of miso, raw garlic and a steamed macadamia nut. If you stick with that regime through the week you can treat yourselves to some Barleycup and an organic sultana each on weekends. Maybe a carob bar. Mind and go for all these cancer tests as well. And don't forget your five a day. Or your compulsory forty five minutes of aerobic exercise."

"Will we live to a ripe old age then Doctor - if we do all that you say?"

"Well you'll avoid the sanctions."

"Sanctions?"

"If you don't adhere to current medical thinking, we'll shoot you. Simple as. You've no right to be alive and taking up space on the planet if you can't take a few simple steps to protect your own health."

"What about pleasure? Cutting loose? Letting go occasionally?"

"Some might take issue but personally I see nothing wrong with having a prune instead of a sultana at Christmas. Surely you can't complain about that! Look at me! I'm a picture of health. Okay, I'm bald, I've got a bad leg, a paunch, piles, hammer toes, gout, halitosis, gingivitis, and chronic flatulence but otherwise I'm the best specimen you're likely to see round here."

"But you're only 27."

"And your point is?"

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances, then nodded.

"Do you have the gun on you now? for doing the shooting part."

"Oh no! a-hahaha! I have other people to do that - nurses, for example. They get £28 a head plus an hour's annual leave. No - I'm a doctor - my role is to cure, never to kill."


No gun, eh? We were safe enough. It was time to unleash the Wheechie Net.

"Press the lever please Geoffrey."

WHEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly the Ghastly Wilson was bundled into a sturdy net and wheeched or "drawn" upwards and sidie-ways by hi-powered rope attachments towards the handy catapult which we have installed beside the house for just such eventualities.

"PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEyoinnnnnnnnGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!" catapult twangs.

"SPLAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" The Ghastly Wilson is launched bay-wards, where the ever-hungry, snapping jaws of the orca await.

"Nom nom nom.................."

"Heh heh heh. Bye bye Wilson! What were you saying about cracked bulgar wheat?"

Treble brandies all round.

Free at last

Well that's me safe and well back at the Outcrop. I'm sitting in my favourite chair by a roaring driftwood fire and I'm settling down with my fifth mug of madeira and a multi pack of salty snax.
Geoffrey's got sausage rolls in for our dinners so all's right with the world.
How did I escape? well - the smell of frying fruit pudding wafting under my nostrils made me desperate so I breathed in as hard as I could, expanding my chest and stretching the gaffer tape to snapping point - when suddenly -
"What the frigging heck's going on here then?" a familiar voice boomed. "I'll be having some of that. ALL of it actually. IF you don't mind."
It was none other than Mr Spockfingers. He seized the frying pan from the Grim Reaper and wolfed the lot in a oner.
"Hey! what about me?" I cried. "I'm starving!"
"All in good time," said Spockfingers. "I'm just waiting for..."
"Never mind him. What about ME?" crooned the Reaper, brandishing his scythe.
"AND me!" whined Wilson in the nasty whingey voice he uses when he's not in full control.
"...nature to take its course," continued Spockfingers.
"Oh NO!" we all screamed, as Spockfingers let rip with one of his "specials". And if you want to know about the damage THAT can do - please have a search through previous posts.
At any rate it's an ill wind as they say - the Reaper and the Ghastly Wilson fled for their lives, and I managed to place some Vick's under my nose and high-tail it back to the Outcrop.
And here I am. Later on Geoffrey and I will be heading off to the Puff Inn for the usual Friday lock-in. I can only hope that Tuppence isn't doing another of his "gigs".

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.

Oh dear oh dear - I haven't got a soul

When I finally emerged from the kitchen, I was confronted by an awful sight.

Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.

Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.

"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"

Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.

Or perhaps that was me.

"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."

I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.

"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."

To be continued...

The Bacon Torture (contnd.)

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

The Bacon Torture

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

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

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

By the Way

In case you're wondering - Tuppence swam back to shore. He's still on his health and fitness drive, and was determined to show off his prowess.
"For pity's sake," we shouted, as he prepared to jump overboard just as the "Hebridean Princess" bore down upon the coracle, "Don't be foolish, Tuppence. Nobody could care less about your prowess."
But our words were drowned out by the ear-splitting honking of the boat's fog horn, and the horrified screams of the passengers as the coracle was sucked into the wake and chopped into a million pieces by the whirling propellors.
He returned late last night, none the worse and unbearably full of himself. And amazingly, his wool was bone dry.
"See, uncle Tuppy? I'm in terrific shape. A quick five mile swim in the icy waters of the Minch is just the ticket. Dr Wilson..." (at this point, Geoffrey and I sighed loudly, and spat into the fire)"...Dr Wilson has started up compulsory body pumping classes, followed by a glass of black carrot juice, colonic irrigation and a ten mile hi-energy jog along the cliffs. I'm all for it. Besides, he sez anyone who doesn't take part, will..."
At this juncture, a familiar face, or rather, hooded head, appeared at the open window. It was the freakin' Reaper - again.
"Why bother with all that rubbish? You might as well relax, put your feet up and eat chips. After all, you're all going to die anyway!" and he laughed his horrible, hollow, echoing laugh as he glided off.
"I think a quick snifter's in order," I murmured, reaching for the madeira. "By the way, Tuppence - why isn't your wool soaking wet, after your five mile swim? it's not acrylic, by any chance?" I sniggered in an unpleasant, snide kind of way.
"Don't snigger like that," scolded Geoffrey. "You're lowering yourself to his standards. There's absolutely no need. Besides, you're right. It IS acrylic. Look!"
Tuppence was unzipping his "wool" which, it turns out, is actually an acrylic fleece-style zip-up jacket. Beneath that, he was wearing a "dry suit" and a jet-propelled life jacket.
"You didn't think I'd go out in that holey old coracle unprepared, did you, uncle Tuppy?"

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.

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."

Bagged Up

"H-E-E-E-LP!!!" I screamed as the coracle hurtled towards the crack in the cliffs.
Not only was I suffering from severe indigestion, my waterproof trousers were cutting in something awful - possibly, though I hate to admit it, due to the bagging up effect of recent over-indulgence in FJRs.
Before venturing out in the coracle, Geoffrey and I were discussing the possible "health properties" of the jam, i.e. "fruit", in the middle, and wondering whether it might count towards our five a day (not that we're that bothered).
"Don't be so stupid," sneered a scornful voice. It was none other than the Ghastly Wilson, sticking his head through the open window (the chimney had been smoking again) all geared up to provide us with yet another unwanted lecture on health/death avoidance.
"Oh, who cares anyway," we replied, grabbing some supplies and making a dash for the boathouse. "Let's go for a quiet sail and relax."
It has been pleasant so far, if a tad choppy. Let's hope we make it through the C-C-C-R-R-A-A-A-A-A-CK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

dreadful wind farm shock

What a terrible, terrible shock. Just as Geoffrey and I were tucking into our second round of double sausage and brown sauce sandwiches, and pouring ourselves another mugful of hot madeira, Razor Bill arrived with the day's post.
"Bad news, Tuppy old son," said Bill, sitting down heavily in our spare armchair, which promptly collapsed underneath him (and he's not even slightly obese - never mind morbidly, unlike myself - but that's another story). "Everyone's getting one of these." And he handed me a long brown envelope.
Inside, there was a letter, informing me that a "road" is to be built across the moors, in order to "service" the building of a "wind farm" on the cliffs.
"Well, there's plenty of wind round here. In more ways than one," I mused. "But I don't like the sound of this, at all."
"It's to do with green energy targets, Tuppy. You know the obesity targets Wilson keeps banging on about?"
"Don't remind me. We're all much too fat and lazy, and we've all to eat five veg. a day, not including red sauce, or we get sent to the hulks?"
"Yes. But this is much, much worse. It could mean the end of the Outcrop, as we know it."
"Oh no! Something must be done!"
"Yes. The Tupfinder's arranged a top-level meeting at the Towers, tonight, at the witching hour. Be there. Mrs T-G is doing sausage rolls."

wilson hits the skids and is replaced by kwak

"Ring out the old, ring in the new!"
"For pity's sake, Geoffrey! We've been and done the New Year. It's the first of frigging February!" I snapped.
"Soz, Tuppy."
Soz? what the heck does THAT mean? I can probably guess, but blimey - what's the world coming to? answers on a...oh, never mind.
Regular readers will sense that there is something amiss with dear old Geoffrey. He's pretty darn far from his usual sanguine self. The T-G suspects that trying to work out how to play two-handed cribbage might have over-taxed his (soz to say it, but rather small) brain. Geoffrey received a cribbage set from Sanity Claws at Yule, and spent hours obsessively poring over the rules. I hate to even allow this thought loose, but things are so bad that he MIGHT have to (gulp) arrange a so-called consultation with our new so-called medic, Dr Kwak.
Yes, the ghastly Wilson has a rival. A quack called Kwak is in our midst, doing his worst to test and screen us for every ailment known to man, just so's he can keep himself in luxury on a six figure salary. Not that we're jealous! no! not a bit of envy here - it's way beneath folk like us, with impeccable moral fibre/hygiene. Geoffrey and I are absolutely incapable of feeling anything so crass. No, we're quite content to live in our rundown hovel with its quaint leaks and draughts, which are SO character...oh, forget it.
Anyway - re. Wilson - turns out he has a terrible morphine habit (no surprise to US Hereabouts, but "the authorities" were quite unaware, till "someone" (no, not us - again, we're FAR too morally hygienic) grassed him up. Question is - who was it? do we care? not particularly, but it does give us something to mull over while we try to figure out the cribbage thing...