I wanna tell you a stoooory...
 

Trouble is, none of you have probably heard of Max Bygraves who was assigned that signature phrase as an entertainer.

Not to worry, this thread isn't meant to be about him, but it is meant to be about writing a story. Anyone can join in - in fact it doesn't work unless you do. The rules are simple - you use the name of another dweller in your part of the story and normally you have to mention whatever music was playing at that point in the plot. The last one we did can be seen here if you have no bloody idea what I'm going on about, or just want to see how the plot twists and turns at each entry....

For a subject to start with (and it won't be surprising if it takes off in a completely different direction at any time) how about a nice pirate adventure. 'Talk like a Pirate Day' is still months away so we need something to keep us amused. We'll have to use a bit of prosaic licence though regarding the music bit - I think we can allow an old 78rpm wind-up jobbie to have existed then (just) or maybe the earliest type of crystal set radio (I know that's pushing it, but If you've got a better idea then let me know!)

Yes, that should do it, a nice pirate adventure... Do you know, I can almost hear the deckboards creaking underfoot now...

And I can see them clearly, the sails are billowing in a stiff breeze as the bow of our mighty galleon rises and falls, breaking spray across the ships bows. A lone figure stands on the poop eyeglass to his, ...uhm,,,? ...ah yes, ...eye!

Cap'n Undertow (unfortunate name that - one he tried not to live up to), UT to his friends and fellow officers, scanned the horizon, aware just how attractive his precious cargo would be to the pirates that roamed this part of the Spanish Main - UT's Boo-ty - but they weren't going to get their hands on it - oh no, no-one stole Undertow's cargo!

And here he was sailing between the islands with not another vessel in sight -except for that tiny blip on the horizon. It certainly looked like a ship, but it didn't seem to be getting any closer. Yet whenever he raised the glass to his...... eye (no I hadn't forgotten - not that quickly, anyway - I know I'm getting on a bit, but the dementure's not THAT far advanced...), there it was. Definitely looked like a ship...

The cabin boy sniggered to himself. He thought old Ootee (as he believed his name to be) would have spotted the little spec-like ship he'd glued to the end of the eye-glass by now, but clearly he hadn't... but there was another ship - it was behind them, and HE HAD spotted it, and it was gaining on them too. The boy squeezed tighter into the space he had made for himself and the ship's gramophone behind the cannonball store. The record hissed as the needle scratched out its tune -'All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a....' the cabin boy whilpped the needle away from the record - yuk, girls, who wants GIRLS....!

Capt'n Kit (not to be confused with Kidd) was out for a prize! His fellow pirates had unanimously elected him Ship's Captain in the last field of 64 over a bottle of rum and a dead man's chest. The dead man being the former pirate captain who had expired quite suddenly whilst partaking of a dish of hamburger burger served to him by that sloe eyed seductress, Brianna. Brianna had become weary of the old fart's tendency to have TWO girls in every port, and may possibly have laced the old boy's final meal with some added delicacy. If so, none of the rest complained. The deceased was mourned by no one, least of all the band of rapscallions under his command who had strong suspicions that he was cheating them out of pieces of silver, maps to hidden treasures, and worst of all shorting them on their rum ration! The wake had been quite festive in fact, especially when the young pirate, Kit Soonie, had discovered the captain's stash of Bacardi Gold (151 proof!) and ordered it equally distributed among the crew! He was elected new captain at once and after the funeral festivities were over and all had recovered from their hangovers, the merry band of brigands set sail in quest of whatever opportunity the sea might send their way. UT's ship appeared to be it!

Meanwhile, UT finally discovered the cabin boy's little trick. "LJ," he shreiked, "You appear to have pasted a smilie on my spy glass! I'll get you for this!"

"But not before THEY will!" said the unrepentent boy, pointing back at the pirate's vessel which was quickly gaining ground (or actually sea) behind them. The grammaphone began to play a saucy tune by the 10,000 maniacs.

"Battan down the hatches!","Ready all cannon!" "Fire on my order!" , says captian blye. ( I mean UT.)

The boy leaves his grammaphone to hide and escape by one of the dingy boats if need be. He settles down under the tarp watching the pirate boat approaching dead astern with eyes as large as saucers. This should be the story of a lifetime the boy says to himself.


Brianna proceeds to the galley. Not out of fear. Oh no. She has a constitution as strong as any male. She..........

Brianna stopped suddenly. Hang on, she thought, where's my sign-off music??? Oh! there it is - it's dropped into the next entry. Could be a problem…, but I'm sure that nice Mr Cyclefrance will let me in .... oh - coooeee...!

UT was surprised to see Brianna aboard his vessel, He was sure that she had actually set to sail on Capt. Kit's ship. Still stranger things had happened at sea. He'd always had a soft spot for Bri, in any case. And long before old Soonie came on the scene.

Brianna sidled up to him seductively (at the same time managing unnoticeably to retrieve the gramophone record from the previous entry that had become wedged in the sail rigging. Hmm The Sailor’s Hornpipe. Probably not what I’m thinking it is anyway, she thought – and with that she slipped it into her handbag - all in one deftly and surreptitiously executed move - clever girl!)

'Speak to me, UT. Pleeeease say something - it's been such a long time.'

Ut turned towards Brianna, was about to speak to her, but then noticed some slimy substance on his trouser leg: 'My God! How on earth did that muck get there - it's all over my trousers... and look at my shirt, covered in grime from the rigging... and, and, and… and now I've got black all over my hands as well...'

'Ooooh, UT!' exclaimed Brianna. 'I just love it when you talk dirty!!'

‘Really, Bri, do you ever think of anything else but se…. no, on second thoughts, forget I said that. Look, old girl, I haven’t much time right now. Bit of a battle about to start – over there just behind us. Capt Kit, I have no doubt - I can tell by the flag he’s flying – the Skull and crossbones over a bottle of Bacardi 151 Gold. Where on earth does he get the stuff from?’

Brianna blushed. ‘I’m sorry UT, That was my fault. Although the job of loading it all on board was down to my manservant, Flint – he carried it all. And, actually, I wasn’t going to give Kit any Bacardi Gold to begin with, but Flint kept going on, and on and on, using all those long words and everything,. There was no escape, and I just HAD to get rid of him somehow, and it seemed the best thing to do. I mean he’s not the sort of person you can ignore once he gets going is he. Anyway, it was the very, very, extra strong stuff, so, actually, I think you should thank me, so there!’

‘Thank you? THANK YOU?? Why should I do that???’

‘Well, just look at them. They hardly seem to be going in a straight line now, do they? And it’s not as if they’re sailing against the wind, or anything…’

This Brianna knows a bit more about sailing than meets the eye, thought UT. And sure enough, as he looked, Capt Kit’s ship was slewing this way and that, and not presenting so much of the danger that it first appeared it might. Maybe it wouldn’t do to shoot him out of the water in his state, especially as Brianna was on board as well.

Plan B, thought UT: ‘Hold the cannon me hearties! We’re going alongside and board the ship! Take all the crew, officers and Capt Kit prisoner, clap ‘em all in irons, and throw in the hold!’

And with that the good ship under UT’s command, the Flossie Jetsam hove to alongside the other vessel, the Bacardi Breezer.

Hidden behind the wheel listening to all this crouched a small annoying figure muttering to himself: ‘Well I wouldn’t have used a smilie if I’d been the cabin boy – colored text would have done fine. Sending me across like that, like I’m some sort of errand boy. The indispensability of someone so uncharacteristically intelligent as I clearly escapes her. Not that I’m being sarcastic or anything, I mean if you look at what I’ve just said it’s really very humorous. Well, I’m not going to change anyway, so there! Ooo-err! what’s happening?’

Flint found himself rotating at 78 revolutions per minute. He’d managed to knock the start button and, as a result of his rapid rotation, he quickly tumbled from the platform on which he had been sitting – the deck of the gramophone. This obstacle removed, the needle came down and started playing the disk that was there: ‘Dizzy, I’m so dizzy. I’m so dizzy I’m spinning round…’

‘That’s not funny,' said Flint – oh, dear...wrong again….

Grappling Irons were soon attached to the Bacardi Breezer. "Look! Its a bunch of Helpie Helpertons," shreiked the pirate, Bee Es Steve.

"Now, now, calm down," commanded Capt'n Kit. "They appear to have taken the lovely Brianna captive. Give a pirate a moment to think here."

But the contingent of the crew from Adieu atta Gallup were not prone to thought.

"We'll clone Brianna for you, Capt'n!" they shreiked.

Before Capt'n Kit had a chance to reply to this outrageous suggestion, the grammaphone had given one last furious revolution, rather like a tilt-a-wheel at the carnival, and the centrifugal force had launched Flint into the air, landing him onto the deck of the Barcardi at Kit's feet.

"Spare me," begged the hapless Flint. "Every person has value!"

"Aye, matey," agreed the pirate Tonchi (who also happened to be Kit's next in command), "But some have less value than others. What say we tie this fine speciman with rope, throw him in the hold, and toss him out next time we're near Fresno?"

"AYE!" roared the pirate crew.

"Please, let me walk the plank. I'll use similes! Anything but Fresno!" begged Flint. Tau Pau, Queen of the Universe, walked over and spat up a hairball on the quivering Flint.

"Its unanimous then," announced Kit. Throw him in the hold and repel all boarders!"

The pirate crew scurried to obey Kit's order and Flint found himself in the ship's hold along with 201 casks of Bacardi, 17 lost treasure maps, and a tupperware container of Brianna's infamous Hamburger Burger recipe. X marks the spot!

Meanwhile on the decks above the pirates had scrambled to their stations with cutlesses in their teeth and bottles of rum in their hands.

"Wait! Stop everything!" yelled UT. "We've been Farked!"

The grammaphone began to play Dave Matthews "Crash into me."

(Psssst! John! I don't think "they" read down here. We could have lots of fun!)

(i'm pretty sure we are reading, and enjoying :p)

The whole two ships fell momentarily silent – a pregnant pause in the proceedings (don’t look at me like that - I never went near her!). The two mighty galleons seemed to lurch as one, as the long and powerful tentacles of the great white fark tightened their grip about the ships' hulls. Yes, one might say everyone was totally farked!

The boards creaked even more than they used to, already splintering in places. Something had to be done, and fast, or both ships and all their crews would be taking the downward path to Davy Jones (and I don’t mean the one from the Monkees) locker.

‘That’s the trouble with the Spanish Main! exclaimed UT. ‘Full of pirates AND sea monsters. I’m just not equipped to deal with a fark this trip!’

‘Aaah, but I am…!!’

UT turned to see a rather stunning looking female clad in what seemed to be a one piece, skin-tight, curves-defining, ocean-blue coloured, well, if he had to give the garment any name at all, it would have be ‘suit’, though he couldn’t think why, as the suit hadn’t been invented yet.

Across the lady's rather ample and certainly appealing chest were strapped two belts, forming an ‘x’ between her really very ample cleavage (oh, I see, I’ve mentioned that already, but it was some cleavage, I can tell you, and certainly worth the second mention) and containing throwing knives of every variety. Around her waist another belt laced with water-proofed pre-prepared packets of powder and ball, ready to be loaded at speed into the two double barrelled pistols that hung from the belt about her hips, their holsters, secured to her very shapely thighs with leather thongs – yet still space for the two cutlasses that also hung at her sides. The whole ensemble completed with black thigh-length, tight-fitting pirate (well, what else?) boots.

‘Wh- who are you?’ UT asked nervously, his mouth feeling suddenly rather dry… (for indeed this comely female wore a mask across her eyes, concealing her identity, but permitting the bright green irises of her sparkling eys to shine through the slits made to accommodate them in this black bandana).

‘Why, handsome, that’s for me to know and for you to find out – but let’s say you can call me Galaxy Woman! Of course , only if you want to…’ the words seemed to ooze from the female’s pouting lips, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders.

And with that she leapt towards a handily dangling rope and swung herself out across the side of the Flossie Jetsam – letting go at that precise moment that was presented to permit her to dive headlong towards the writhing body of the monstrous fark – drawing knife and cutlass as she fell.

Hmm, thought UT – Galaxy Woman…? Now could that mean she comes from within our pirate band, or is she just using that name to throw me off the scent, and she is in fact from the Cellar’s crew?

No more time for thoughts such as these – the mystery of true identity would have to wait, as over the side mayhem ensued. As she landed on the monsters bulbous head she slashed and severed first one, then two and then a third of its might tentacles. But then a fourth tentacle grabbed her by the waist, squeezing the breath from her (getting exciting, isn’t it?). Her ample bosom heaved under the pressure, her breasts pounding against the tight fabric of her costume (sorry couldn’t resist mentioning it again - it is Friday after all, and the lads deserve a treat). Suddenly her hands broke free from its deadly grasp, and in a single bound (all the best adventure stories have at least one single bound) she was free. She pulled her pistols from her side and slammed four rounds of lead into the monsters brain. Its grip relaxed around both her and the ships, and it slid silently beneath the seas, taking our heroine with it. She gave a wave to UT, took an enormous gasp of air and was gone.

Would we see her again? Who was she? UT had but a spare moment to think as again the battle on board the two galleons proceeded.

‘Look out UT!’ It was Lookout123 living up to his name. UT side-stepped as a pirate swung past him and crashed to the deck

The gramophone, appropriately, was just sounding out the cannon sequence from the 1812 overture….

Cutlesses flashed! Cannons roared! But the two ships and their crews were evenly matched. After an hour's swash buckling action with no clear victory either way, Brianna emerged from the ship's galley with a large casserole.

"You boys must be famished! What say you all take a little lunch break? I've put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea, too."

"TEA?" roared the pirates in outrage (the question of beverages was still a sore point among them)

"Well, I hear rum goes quite nicely with tea," replied Brianna diplomatically.

"Arrrg, Missy! Then I'm up for it if they are," responded the pirate Kagen, nodding to the pirates clustered round him. "You wouldn't have any Foster's down there, as well, might ye?"

"Well, I beleive I did notice a keg of Foster's, come to think of it," said Lookout, still living up to his name as a man with a fine eye for detail.

Brianna had prepared a feast! Both sides formed lines into the ship's gally and emerged with plates piled high with fried chicken and potato salad, steamed clams and corn on the cob.

Cap't Kit and UT found themselves eating buffalo wings together on the poop deck.

"Heh, heh! We really snuck up on you, didn't we?" said Kit to UT.

UT showed Kit the spy glass with the smilie still pasted on it. "You just can't good help these days," he complained.

"Have you thought of offering pet insurance for your emplyees?" asked Kit. I've found that a good 401K plan with pet insurance is just the ticket! We had every pirate in Barbados clamoring to join the crew!"

"Hmm..." said UT. He was growing drowsy in the warm afternoon sun, his stomach filled with clams and potato salad and starting to doze off a little.

Then he remembered something which jerked him sharply awake.

"Say, what did you lads do with Flint?"

"Flint?" for a moment Kit couldn't remember who Flint was.

"Oh, Flint! Well, matey, we have him in our hold. You have Brianna and we have Flint. I think you have rather the better end of the deal, eh?"

UT smiled with satisfaction. He quite agreed with the pirate captain on this one.

"So, what are you going to do with him?" asked UT

Kit shrugged his shoulders and thought...

The grammaphone began to play, "What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor..."

(In memory yet again of Robert Rankin - he'll kill me if he finds out!)

Kit thought for a while about Flint, but not long. Yes, sooner or later they would have to decide his fate, but for now he had bigger issues to deal with and not least the precious cargo aboard the Flossie Jetsam

UT yawned. He was feeling tired and relaxed and he could just nod off for a while – not long, just a few minu….zzzzzzzzzz.

Kit smiled, The sleeping draft he had dropped into UT’s mug while he wasn’t looking had taken effect. He looked around to his crew and gave the :thumb: sign. They gave the :thumb: sign back (see, Flint....?).

The air was full of the sound of snoring from the Flossie crew. And that included Brianna – he was not so sure he could trust her now, either.

Kit called over Kagen, Bee Es Steve, Tiddybaby and Chey… where was the girl? No matter - probably in the powder room (get it? Powder room, play on words, funny, eh? – oh, never mind), brushing her long flowing hair and putting lipstick on those pouting lips of hers. Not to worry.

Quietly he said to them: ‘Right lads, let’s go have a look in the hold at what exactly this precious cargo is that they are carrying.’ More loudly he addressed the crew:’ You lot stay here and keep lively. If any of the Flossie’s crew wake up, send them to sleep again – the hard way, this time!’ The various sailors toyed with their truncheons (not those truncheons – the ones you hit people over the head with – oh, well, I suppose maybe some of you might…).

The four pirates stepped gingerly down the steps into the hold. It was dark after the bright sunlight outside. Kit lit a torch and the flames danced as did their shadows which were cast about the room.

The hold seemed strangely empty. Nothing really in it, except a small round table on which sat an even smaller purple, plump, velvet cushion. And in the middle of the cushion was….. Kit wasn’t quite sure, but it looked like some form of vegetable.

The four stopped and Kit bent closer to the strange looking small red bulbous… radish? Yes, it was a radish all right, complete with its little green leaves still attached. Quite an attractive looking… Kit jumped inwardly – what was he thinking? He moved closer still, extending his finger and lightly touching the perfectly formed vegetable.

‘Oi! Who the hell do you think you are poking?’ A distinctly English voice

‘Who said that?’ exclaimed Kit.
‘Who said what, Cap’n?’ the other three answered as one (well not really answered, as it was another question)

‘They can’t hear me,’ said the first voice. ‘I’m not saying anything, I’m speaking to you through your brain. You hear what I am saying in your thoughts. God in heaven, you are a thick one. Anyone knows radishes don’t have mouths so how on earth can they talk! Anyway, who are you, I haven’t seen you before?

‘Aaagh, it talked , it talked, the radish talked!!!’ Kit screamed.

‘Cap’n, Cap’n - what’s the matter with you? No one’s said anything!’

‘No… no… of course not – silly me.’ Kit gained a little composure. ‘Nothing, nothing - must be the heat in here. Look, you three go back on deck and make sure everything’s OK. I’ll have more of a look around here see what else I can find..’

Kagen, Bee Es Steve and Tiddybaby reluctantly climbed the steps out of the hold muttering amongst themselves. Kit felt sure he heard the words barmy, loopy and nutcase being mentioned.

‘I said: who are you? Have you no manners. Where’s captain UT anyway, He’s the one supposed to be looking after me. Come on man show some respect for a rear admiral. I expect a salute at the very least.’

‘Rear admiral you say, sorry, but you aren’t in uniform, and UT didn’t tell me your rank.’ Kit saluted. Was he really doing this to a radish? ‘ My name’s Kit. Captain UT’s, err, a bit indisposed at the moment, so he asked me to come down here to make sure you are all right. A bit of a skirmish with some pirates but it’s all over now. Anything I can get you? Captain UT wasn’t exactly forthcoming on what it is you are doing here anyway.’

‘No well, I don’t expect he would have been. All hush-hush and top secret you know. Less said the better. How indisposed is he, anyway, only I ought to get back inside his head?’

‘Aaah, yes, inside his head. He said something about that. Yes, well that’s why I’m here. He will be some time. What can I do in his place? He told me I should do anything you wanted but to be sure I understood why I was doing it first. Can you sort of fill me in? I mean I know absolutely nothing about you.

‘Well, not meant to say much – need-to-know basis and all that, but as he must have explained. I can only exist outside a human head for so long. And time is running short. If he’s that indisposed I guess it’ll have to be you.’

‘Whoa, wait a minute. Are you saying you want to get inside MY head? I’m not sure I’ve enough need-to-know even to begin to contemplate that!’

‘OK. I guess I can trust you. But very briefly, mind. Many millions of years ago, the Caribbean Seas were hit by a giant meteorite – a big rock from outer space to you – and the properties of this… rock… entered into the Earth’s soil in some places and were passed on to a group of lowly vegetables such as I. We gained amazing properties of memory and the ability to communicate as I am communicating now. Alas over the aeons of time our numbers diminished and, now, I am the sole survivor of that event long ago. Rear Admiral Sir Reginald Radish - well, nowadays anyway. Sir Francis Drake found me and brought me to England – I loved being in his head, he had so much knowledge. Then I was transported to the Americas and eventually into the hands of Capt UT. My job now is to lead him to all the sunken treasures I learned of from Sir Francis. That I am afraid is all I can tell you, apart from the fact that time really is running out and I need to get back into a human head, and damn quickly too!’

‘Treasures you say, and you need to be in a head – obviously my head. We-e-ell, maybe… will it hurt.’

‘Not at all, old boy. Just need your approval before I can slip in - and then your approval to slip out of course when Capt UT is available again.’

‘Oh, all right then… oooooooooooh! Goodness that was quick. Where are you exactly?’ Kit had felt a slight tickling shiver at the back of his neck, and then the presence of a radish in his brain.

‘I’m just over your right ear. Not as comfortable as Capt UT’s but it’ll do as a temporary home. Now be a good chap and let’s get into the sunlight again.’

‘OK’, sad Kit. ‘Oh, by the way, there’s something I meant to tell you…..'

The gramophone played above decks – sounded like a female singer with an Australian accent: ’I just can’t get you out of my head….’

"Never mind," said the radish. "Now that I'm in your head, I understand perfectly. You are the notorious pirate, Capt'n Kit! If you think an admiral is going to co-operate with YOU, you are quite wrong!"

"Well," said Kit, "It seems to me you don't have much choice in the matter. I can have you in my salad tonight or you can tell me where the sunken treasure is."

Inspiration struck Kit. "In fact, if you lead us to the treasure, I and my crew will retire from pirating and you will be handed back over to the British navy with valuable insights into how a pirate's mind works. Something for everyone!"

The radish thought it over. Under the circumstances, it seemed reasonable enough. "Oh, very well, then," it said grumpily. "You're on."

Kit and the radish emerged into the sunlight again from out of the ship's hold. The crew of the Flossie Jetsam were still slumbering peacefully.

Kit called out to the pirates, "Right then , lads! I have found a map to a sunken treasure - a ship that was carrying gold bars from Spain and sunk in shallow waters off the coastline of California. We will all be rich, matey's! Back to the Bacardi and set sail!"

"Arrrrrggghhh!" roared the pirates.

"What about Brianna?" asked the pirate Ducksnuts.

Kit considered. Brianna seemed rather fond of old UT. Besides chasing the pirates for the sake of a radish was one thing, but chasing them to get the return of the lovely Brianna was quite another.

"Leave her with the rest," ordered Kit. "We have a treasure to find! Strip the Flossie Jetsam of her sails and put them in her hold. They'll think we threw them overboard, and by time they find out different, we'll be long gone!"

The pirates quickly scrambled up the masts of the Flossie Jetsam to do Kit's bidding. The sails were then neatly folded and placed in the hold where the radish had been.

The pirates then rushed over to the Bacardi, threw off the grappling hooks, and were soon under way with a fine following wind.

Down in the Bacardi's hold, the radish said to Flint, "And what might YOUR name be?"

The gramophone back on the Flossie Jetsam played Brahm's lullaby as its crew snored on undisturbed and the Bacardi vanished over the horizon...

The sound of many cod being slapped around two score of faces filled the air. A strange sound, but in truth the noise actually of two score pairs of lips smacking together to rid the dryness left in the mouth after a couple of hours of snoring.

The Flossie Jetsam's crew was awakening from its slumbers…

UT yawned and looked around him: ‘Hmm,’ he yawned sleepily, ‘no sails…… !!NO SAILS???

In an instant he was fully awake. Damn Kit and damn his pirate crew. He should never have given him a millimeter let alone an inch! Clearly he had spiked his drinks. What other damage had he done? The cargo!!

UT roused several members of his crew to full consciousness and they made their way to the hold. They opened the hatch cover and piles of sailcloth came into immedaite view

Well, at least that was where the sails had gone. But no sign of Reggie. Still, he and Reggie had prepared themselves for such an event. Reggie would be leading the pirates to a certain treasure site, and they had plenty of time to catch them up.

UT turned to Griff, his helmsman: ‘As soon as we get the sails up make a course for California. That’s where Kit is headed.

‘California?’ queried Griff. ‘That’s a long way. I mean we can’t even use the Panama Canal, because no-one’s thought of building it yet. It’ll take a good two months to get there via Cape Horn. What on earth made you and Reggie decide on California?’

‘Good question Griff. ‘Fraid it was out of my hands, that one. As much of a surprise to me as it is to you. These damn writers and their prosaic licence! Just get under way as soon as you can. At least we have plenty of time to catch them up!’

‘Aye, aye, Cap’n!’

The crew went about their work and by nightfall they were ready to begin their exceptionally long voyage…


++

Aboard the Bacardi Breezer all had gone well. She was a fast ship and had completed the voyage down one side of the coast of South America and up the other in no time at all (well, seven weeks to be exact), and was now approaching the Californian coast and the shallow waters where Reggie said the treasure lay.

Kit (with Reggie firmly positioned inside his head above his right ear), Kagen, Bee Es Steve and Tiddybaby (still no sign of Cheyenne) prepared to board the small row boat that would transport them from their anchorage 3 miles off the coast of Santa Catalina Island to the place where Reggie had described the treasure would be. It was going to be a tricky trip negotiating offshore rocks around the little known promontory, called Mai Head, situated on the west side of Santa Catalina Island.

‘Have you decided what to do with Flint yet?’ asked Kagen.

‘No,’ replied Kit. ‘It’s a tricky one that. I’m not sure what would best suit the situation. I’m going to have to think some more. But to more important things. Into the boat and let’s shove off!’

The four rowed towards the island (well two of them did – Kit insisted on being boat supervisor, while Tiddybaby helped the journey along with a nice saxophone solo). It was late afternoon, and the sun was making its leisurely way toward the horizon. A light breeze began to stiffen. On they rowed, closer to the rocks as the stiff breeze decided to up the stakes a bit. It was all getting a bit nasty.

‘I don’t like the look of this.’ said Kit

‘Neither do I.’ added Reggie (only to Kit of course, by way of thought transmission, naturally). ‘I think we had better try another route via the south of the island. It’s less rocky there and will probably save us time in the long run. Tell them to head south and get out of Mai Head.’

‘Right!’ Thought Kit back to Reggie, and then to his fellow rowboatmen:’ We need to head south – get out of Mai Head!’

‘Ha-ha, thanks!’ said Reggie, and promptly jumped out of Kit’s head, bounced on the side of the row boat and then plopped into the water where he floated away on the waves: ‘Just needed your approval to leave – have fun – no treasure where you’re headed I’m afraid….!’

‘Get after that radish!!!’ screamed Kit. The others looked non-plussed, their faces clearly worried at the re-arrival of the radish into Kit’s mental gyrations!

But it was too late. No sooner had Reggie landed in the water than a big fish happened by: ‘Oooh, fresh veg!’ and with that he swallowed Reggie in one go and swam off.

‘No, no, no, no, no!’, KIt held his head in his hands - and on top of all this, he had the unpleasant task of telling them that there wasn’t any treasure after all. Ohhhhhh dear…!

++

‘No, no, no, no, no!’ went the fish. It was a radish. It was a radish – God , it’s repeating on me already…. ‘

The fish was some way out to sea already. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have eaten that vegetable, no matter how fresh it looked. ‘Oh dear. Last time this happened it went on for three days…… hang on, wow! What an amazingingly ample cleav -!’

He never finished. Just wasn’t his day, as a cutlass pierced completely through his body killing him, allowing Reggie to jump free and into the brain of his saviour.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d pick up my message, but thankfully you did SunSparkz.’ (ha,ha, fooled you – you thought our mystery lady was Cheyenne, didn’t you!).

‘Sure did Reggie. Time to get you back to UT . The Flossie isn’t far away, and my job of protecting you on behalf of the British Government will soon be over. Hang on, cobber, it’s not far to swim now. Be there in no more than an hour! And with powerful strokes and heaving bos..(oh, well, you know, Im’sure. I’ve no need to say any more on that subject really, have I…)

Reggie could relax at last – he hummed to himself ) ‘Oh, I‘m riding along, in a chest, on a wave…’ Well even radishes have a few perks , you know….

Kit was no fool. He had been uneasy the entire voyage out, picking up sublimnally on the radish's thinking. When it bounced overboard, he realized UT would not be far behind.

"Back to the Bacardi!" he ordered. "We've been double crossed! UT still has the treasure map aboard the Flossie Jetsam, and I think he just so happens to be in the vicinity!"

Now if there is one thing a pirate hates, its being double crossed. There IS the Pirate Oath of Honor, after all! Kit had made a deal with Sir Reginald and Sir Reginald had shown all the grace of a rotten tomato - NOT a radish!

The pirates swore an oath as one, and were back at the Bacardi in no time.

Meanwhile, aboard the Flossie Jetsam, Sunsparkz handed Sir Reginald back to UT.

“I say, old chap. I think we may have a slight problem,” said the radish to UT.

Sure enough the sails of the Bacardi had appeared on the horizon and were fast gaining ground – I mean sea – on the Flossie Jetsam.

“Oh, dear,” said Brianna. “Do you suppose we could just send for carry out this time?”

Before UT had a chance to reply, the Bacardi had already drawn up close and fired a warning canon shot across the Flossie Jetsam’s bow.

Signal flags were hoisted on the Bacardi. The pirates needed an answer to a burning question:

“What do we do with Flint?”

‘This could take some time,’ said UT. ‘I can’t see a decision being made quickly on this issue. Clearly it’s something that has been occupying Kit’s thoughts ever since he left the Caribbean. There must be some way to turn this to our advantage….’

Just then the door to the powder room opened and out stepped Cheyenne: ‘That’s better,’ she said, coaxing her long flowing hair into shape with the palm of one hand while pouting at her reflection in the mirror she was holding in the other. She didn’t seem to notice where she was.

‘How did she get here?’ said Griff. ‘I never saw her come on board our ship…’

Something told Cheyenne that all was not right. Her hair-shaping hand stopped its shaping activity. And her eyes strayed to the reflection of Griff and UT that was just visible in the top right hand corner of her mirror.

‘EEEEeeekk!!’ she screamed. ‘This isn’t the Bacardi Breezer, where am I??

And with that she fainted

What seemed like only a second later, she opened her eyes to see several of the Flossie’s crew around her - she could feel Brianna wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Cheyenne went to scream again, but held back as she tried to take in the scene around her.

‘I’m not on the Bacardi Breezer, am I.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

‘No,’ said Brianna. ‘This is the Flossie Jetsam. What makes you think it should be the Bacardi Breezer?’

‘Because that’s where I was when I went into the powder room a few minutes ago. I wanted to look nice before we set sail for California.’

‘But that wasn’t a few minutes ago, Cheyenne, the Bacardi Breezer set sail for California seven weeks ago. Both our ships are even now off Claifornia.’

Cheyenne fainted again.

She awoke for a second time.

‘Let me get this straight,’ said UT. ‘You went into the powder room of the Bacardi Breezer “a few minutes ago” according to you, and now you’ve come out of the powder room on the Flossie Jetsam, only seven weeks have passed. Look, are you sure about it only being a few minutes, only you know how long women can be when they go…’

‘Don’t be so silly!’ Brianna and Cheyenne together.

‘OK, OK, I take the point. But there has to be some explanation why you are now on the Flossie Jetsam and not on the Breezer, and also why you think only a few minutes have passed when in fact several weeks have.’ UT looked puzzled, as well he might.

‘It has too be some kind of a portal, ‘ volunteered Reggie, now safely re-installed above UT’s right ear and insde his cranium.

‘What do you mean, portal?’ asked UT.

‘Well, it’s something I learned from my ancient ancestors, the ones that existed just after the meteorite fell. A portal is some sort of gateway between two distinct objects. It can just as easily span a million miles as it can a few feet. The way I see it is that Cheyenne went into the powder room and was in there long enough, taking the normal amount of time required to do what every women has to do in a powder room (and that being something which no man will ever really know) which was enough for her to miss the departure of the Breezer.

‘Both our ships must have passed the point in the Caribbean Sea where the meteorite had landed and then deposited a skeleton portal all those millions of years ago. It clearly has lain dormant all that time, and now our two ships passed over it at exactly the right place and time, permitting it to re-establish itself in each of the ship’s powder rooms. Why it chose the powder rooms, I am not yet sure, but there will be a reason. The point is that the process of re-establishing the portal would have taken several weeks to complete, but Cheyenne would have been held in a state of timelessness while this happened. Then, once it was complete, she would have been released and so she came out of the powder room door that she thought she had entered thinking only a few minutes had passed and that she was still on the Breezer. Only it wasn’t a few minutes and it wasn't the Breezer, it was us, and now!

'But I still need to work out what it is that caused the transference….. Hang on a minute! It must be that mirror she is holding! It’s just the thing to reflect the portal’s energy from one ship to the other.’ Reggie felt very pleased with himself, as well he might.

’Are you saying that there now exists a sort of gateway between our two ships and that we could use that gateway to gain access to the Breezer, without anyone on board the Breezer knowing…?’

‘I suppose I am!’

‘Amazing! Well then! No time like the present to profit from the advantage that has just turned our way! Lookout123, send back a signal saying we are working on a solution to Kit’s little problem - if I know Kit he will give us the time we need then. After that, you, Griff and… let me see… I need someone with extra stealth and determination for this – yes, Urbane Guerilla! – the three of you and I will wait another half an hour by which time the sun will have set, and then we will board the Breezer. Only not the way they expect! Sorry Cheyenne, I’m going to need that mirror of yours…. But I promise, that if everything goes to plan, no harm will come of Kit and the rest of his crew.’

What no-one knew, however, not even I at this stage, was that Reggie had also passed on some information to UT about other powers which the portal possessed….

The cabin boy inside the dinghy boat (which he now considered home) set the gramophone going again: Diana Ross started singing ‘Chain Reaction’…

.

INTERMISSION


There that should have grabbed your attention.

Intermission, you ask? What's this all about?

Well Mari's getting to crunch time with her move and as my partner in crime in this literary fiasco, so to speak, the story cannot really be allowed to resume until she's safely re-installed in her new home next week. So in the tradition of many an entertainment (I know, that is taking liberties to call it that), we are unilaterally declaring an intermission.

Now, I got to thinking that it wasn't really fair just to leave you hanging for seven days like that, and, let's face it, if you were in a cinema, there would probably be adverts, or trailers or some sort of short film available to plug the gap. Hmmmm....

Now, just by chance, I happen to have a few short contributions of a similar quality (that might not be a good thing, mind you) that I posted on another site some time ago. I've added them up, and, guess what, there's seven of them as well - one a day. So, I thought I might therefore 'plug the gap' by posting one a day here.

The idea also passed through my mind that I should consult you first about this, not just land them in your lap all of a sudden like that - not very British good manners, stiff upper lip, and all that. But then I thought, hey, these are supposed to be friends, so they can bloody well have them whether they like it or not! That sounds fair, doesn't it?

So here goes, go grab yourself an ice cream, cola, or popcorn, or whatever takes your fancy, make yourself comfy, and, in no particular order, we'll start with:



The Last Order of the Lukewarm Brues

(hey, I'm beginning to like all this colour/color-fonty thingy - Flint may have something here after all...!)


You may not know this, but there was a little known monastic sect just off the Wandsworth Road where the River Wandle willingly weaves its otherwise weary way westwards before it meets its old father, Thames. They were by that bit of it that lies just past the Earlsfield Business Park behind the Autocue Company's headquarters. I'll give you a moment to locate it on your map. Gottit? No? Well, not to worry, I think we can progress even without your having this detail, come to think of it. It's not that essential to the topic under discussion - a 'nice to have' clearly, but not a showstopper, so I will continue.

What? Oh, you think you've found it after all. I can continue then.... Sorry? No, no not that side of the road, the OTHER side. You can’t find it, after all? Look, don't worry about it, I told you, it's not that important. What now? Yes, I know I seemed to put a great deal of emphasis upon the location at the beginning, but I was trying to set the scene and grab your attention. Honestly, it really, really, really doesn't matter that much. So let's just leave it, shall we? Agreed? Good. Now, where was I?

Ah, yes, the sect. Well, like many such sects (or to give them their correct name, orders), they were a silent one. Go back a few hundred years or more and there were plenty of them dotted up and down the reaches of the Thames. There were the Whitefriars located in Fleet Street, the Blackfriars a little further downstream, and Greyfriars and Greenfriers and so on.

The Wandsworth order were going to call themselves the Bluefriars but there was already a Bluefriar order, so in order (I know all these ‘orders’ are a but messy, but I’ve written them now) to save on time and ink (no doubt you have seen how they elaborately decorate their writings) they decided to go for Bruefriars – which meant only having to change one letter. Clever, eh?

They had some nasty habits the Bruefriars. No, no, no, not the sort of nasty habit like playing with your private parts in public. I mean their hooded cloaks – known otherwise as ‘habits’. They were of such a rough heavy material. Not attractive to look at, at all, but certainly warm – well, not overly warm that you would be perspiring violently inside (thank goodness – nothing worse than a smelly friar), but warm enough to keep the chill out. In fact it was because of their habits that they became known for their kindness when it was their turn to hold the bi-monthly monks get-together. They would arrange for every visitor to be given a Bruefriar habit. You might think that these events as a result would gain an excellent reputation, and they did, but not so much as excellent you might have thought, and this was probably because of the name they acquired. Unfortunately they became known as the Bruefriar lukewarm receptions.

Anyway, enough of all that. They aren’t around any more. Sad I know, but that’s the way it goes – sooner or later most things get out of Order - and so did Wandsworth. But there is the public drinking house, or pub, that occupies the site that once was their domain. Their memory lives on in this fine establishment. It’s a very popular pub too, known as the Pheasant Pluckers Pinus (the sign outside depicts a young lad dressed in peasant’s clothes at rest under a pine tree, cleaning his plucking tool), and is said to have been frequented by the famous Reverend William Archibald Spooner in his time. In the last five years it has twice won the Wandsworth Gazette UK pub-of-the-year contest – in fact it was the original winner of a similar contest held back in 1806.

Back in those days there was no such thing as a refrigerator, and the pubs weren’t air-conditioned, or carpeted or anything like that. Beer was served not in glasses but in metal tankards and pottery mugs (hey, this is sounding quite factual and believable all of a sudden!), baths were taken infrequently by the clientele, so there was always a distinct hum around the place, and a every pub could be considered to have an atmosphere of its own making.

As for our little pub, well, that was special in its own way, because it also stood on the site of the Bruefriars, the last Order of monks to dwell on or close to the River Thames. But even they were ousted as commerce took over (even in those days) and the old wooden dwellings that nestled by the riverside made way for the likes of cobblers, bakers, grocers and all manner of businesses (but understandably – or not – there were no estate agents, Pret-a-mangers or Macdonalds). The Pheasant Pluckers Pinus first opened in 1798, the Bruefriars having moved out in 1795. They’d left a lot of stuff behind though and the then landlord immediately saw an opportunity here to create a theme to his establishment.

So habits and rosaries, sandals and the like were nailed to walls or put on shelves or just left generally lying about. Having no fridge (as I mentioned before) and no supply of ice either, drinks used to be warm, but this did not worry our landlord. No he was a positive thinking man and immediately saw another marketing opportunity. Rather than try to cool the beer down, as many establishments were attempting to do at that time, he actually kept it as warm as he could. Why? Well think about it. What do pubs do at the end of the day in fine old England? Don’t know? They call last orders (well they to used then - since then we've introduced 24 hour opening laws!)!

So you see the landlord created this new tradition. Each night at about ten to eleven (that’s ten minutes before closing time), he would don a Bruefriars habit and stand on the bar with glass raised and shout to the gathered throng: ‘Time! Gentleman! Please! Last orders for your lukewarm brews, if you please! I wish to propose a toast!’ Whereupon, all those present would recharge their glasses with warm wholesome English beer. That done, the landlord would call again: ‘Gentlemen! My toast! Raise your glasses to the Last Order of the Lukewarm Brues! The crowd loved it! An opportunity to have another drink, and the landlord loved the sound of his cash register ringing up sales as well! What a merry time was had by all.

The pub went on to become very famous indeed for its monasterial connections and its warm beers, so much so that other pubs around London moved from trying to create cold beers and developed their own reasons for serving warm beer instead. And this tradition for warm beer not only spread nationwide, it still lasts until this very day. I can guarantee you this is true. Go into any pub in England, ask for a beer and without any doubt whatsoever you will find that it will always be nice and warm!

So never again wonder why the English drink warm beer – you now know the truth. Well, you do believe me, don’t you…..?

+++

Another one tomorrow.

Todays 'short' from a previous existence:


Toads in the holes and similar matters of concern


There are a number of fondly nurtured British culinary delicacies that our friends across the pond might consider – such as 'bubble and squeak', 'pickled wallies', 'spotted dick', 'jam roly-poly', and 'rhubarb crumble' - to hopefully whet (split infinitive deliberately included as an opening gesture of friendship) and satisfy their collective appetites (literally and metaphorically)...

Yes, there are many strange English foods – strange not so much for their content, but more for their names. And I have left one of the best-known and the one that I remember (and eat) more than any other until last - toad-in-the-hole.

Aah, toad-in-the-hole (do you know, it's quite difficult putting/typing little hyphens in place of spaces, far more taxing than I'd ever imagined), English cuisine at its best!

But, that mention of ‘toad’ and ‘holes’ also got me laterally (and literally) thinking about the way we British take care of our wildlife, and, in particular, real, live toads. We will happily go to the expense of laying lengths of drainpipe horizontally across and under our highways so that amorous male toads may find their ways safely and securely to their reclining and sexily clad (well, to a male toad in any event) amoureuses (french pronunciation ignores the last 'es' to make it sound more like an attraction and less like a Birmingham accent - nothing personal Brummie readers - if there are any - it just happens to immediately fall into that regional drone, sorry, tone, if said as it appears).

So another type of toads in holes it is then (and I can forget the hyphens in this context, thank God), and, near my abode would you believe, badgers in tubes (not to be confused with old buggers on the tube - once came across one seemingly genteel old lady who boarded the London Underground (as ‘the tube’ is properly known) Victoria Line at Vauxhall and hissed at my (female) travelling companion for the next two stops - 'ssssssss, get off at Green Park, sssssssss' until my companion relented and gave snakey her seat, whereupon she smiled and said in normal voice' thank you dear, so kind...' - you might wonder why I didn't intervene, but I suffered a crisis of politeness - old lady or female companion - it's a tricky one, believe me), and big tubes they are, as you might expect, passing the complete eight carriageways width of the M25.

Can it really stop there, I began to wonder? For example do we want to offer foxes easy traverse of our highways and motorways (where are you off to then, Raynard?? - ' Oh just thought I'd take the tube over to Wilson’s farm, dearest, and say hello to the hens...!)? Perhaps not... but, if they don't have their own personalised cylindrical access, will they just muscle in on the badgers' ones instead (foxes can be like that I've heard)? A problem there it seems. Do toads sometimes happen across a badger tube and think 'my God, I've shrunk!', and then feel completely inadequate, unable to continue their journeys to waiting and clearly hot-to-trot (getting better/easier) females. Now, that's no good is it - potentially a major contributor to a declining toad population.

How should we deal with such misplaced trauma and the catastrophe it heralds for generations of wart producers? What of other creatures? Is there some strange method of communication between the species that stops, say, a squirrel going through the tube? How come hedgehogs (and rabbits!) never seem to realise they could use them too? You'd think with those splattered remains of their's all over the place they'd have cottoned on by now!

These are worrying times - and thoughts - as I am sure you will agree. Is there anything we can and should do to improve matters; to bring some sense of order to what I am sure constitutes an injection of chaos amongst nature's otherwise harmonious environment? Perhaps you have ideas? If you do that would be wonderful. Don't worry for an instant whether they may be borrowed or freshly conceived, just please do pass them on.


.

:haha:

Another day another dollop (of spurious literary excellence):


The Charge of the Knights in Braid


Well, I am sure you have all heard of the ‘Knights of the Round Table’, of Arthur, Lancelot and Camelot, and of his naughty absconding wife Guinevere, of Excalibur and the magical Lady of the Lake. You have? Well, there wasn’t much point in going to all that trouble time and trouble of writing this paragraph then, was there! Just cut this bit off with a pair of scissors and bin it, will you – no point in leaving it hanging around when it’s of no real use.

Never mind, I suppose at least now it will not be so hard to capture your interest when I tell you about the legend of the Knights of the Inner Ring Road. ‘Inner Ring Road?’ I hear you question. That’s right, Inner Ring Road. And you thought the ring road had only existed since the age of the motor car, didn’t you? How wrong you have been, for the Inner Ring Road goes back many centuries to a time before King Arthur (who actually stole the idea when he came up with the alternative of the Round Table – typical) when the city of Londinium was under the control of the then king’s brother, an instantly dislikeable prince of a fellow, who went by the name of Leesum. Money was all he thought about, and, naturally, ways in which he might acquire it. His name has stayed with us today and is used to describe an expensive purchase – no doubt you have heard people say on such occasions when a high price has been paid ‘I wager he paid a Prince Leesum for that!’

Now Prince Leesum was keen to take advantage of the king’s absence (the king having gone to do battle, as kings always seem to do – no, I don’t know why, either), and in particular he was most unhappy at the number of citizens…- no, wait a minute… not citizens…. peasants more like - that just thought they could roam freely about the streets of Londinium, clogging up the thoroughfares, kicking up the mud and dirt, making lots of noise. IT JUST WASN’T RIGHT!!! He could get very worked up about it all given just a tenth, no a hundredth of a chance.

Like all good evil (see, you even get a first class oxymoron!) princely brothers, Leesum had his ne’er-do-well (aah, hyphens again, how pleasant) henchman, an equally nasty piece of work from the marshy, boggy areas to the east of the city, and a baron as well to boot.

‘Wasteland!’ called Leesum, for that was the Baron’s name (think about it!), ‘I have an evil idea, and I want it to turn into an evil plan, and from there into an evil action….’

‘Ooh, I’m your man, your highness. Please, please let me help.’ A real sycophant he was, brown noses just didn’t come into it – brown everything, if you ask me.

‘Hold your horses, Wastey, you haven’t heard what it is yet..’

But he was about to hear ALL about it, as the Prince revealed how he proposed to create a single ring of a road right around the city and then forbid anyone but the chosen few (and we know who would be doing the choosing, don’t we) to enter inside its boundary. Every one of the peasants would be forced to live on and around the outside of the ring road, it would be chaos. There wasn’t the space.

This didn’t stop Leesum though, and Baron Wasteland (get it now?) set about to do his bidding. The Baron’s despicable army of men were put to work, and they pushed and shoved and poked and dragged and threatened and bullied all the peasants to the outside of the city of Londinium that they loved so much (that’s the city, not the outside!).

The peasants weren’t happy. ‘Who can save us? ’ they cried (just like that all together, quite amazing, and quite spectacular too).

‘There is one …’
‘Who spoke?' A hush fell over the crowd.
‘Who spoke?’ They all asked as one (again, all together, more amazing stuff).
‘That’s right. Who spoke!’
‘Who?’
‘Yes. Who!’
‘Who? Who?’
‘Yes, Who!’
‘Well who would have believed it?’ Which of course he did. Up stood tall and large the owner of the information, Big Barry Who (when the Chinese say this they double over laughing! – and I bet for a moment there you thought there was another chap called Up, didn’t you – go on, admit it….), the local blacksmith.

‘Who, Barry, Who?’ they all cried (together, of course).

‘ I came upon a friendly knight, one day, whose horse had stumbled and appeared lame, but I knew it wasn’t a gonner as soon as I looked at it. With a bit of attention and a tap here and there, I had it walking again proper-like (peasants talk that way) in no time at all. The knight, Sir Culation his name was, a red-faced chap I recall, said he would pay me back in return. Well, I reckon this is it’

‘Brilliant idea!’ they all shouted (yes, you got it).

‘Then I will off and find him!’ - and he did!

Sir Culation lived out on the Great Weste Road, near the old town of Swyndone, a magical place if ever there was one (you can find out how magical if you read about the Magycke Ronde-y-boote elsewhere on this site*).

Barry told the knight his tale ‘Will you help us?’ he asked (I was thinking of saying begged, but Barry was not the begging kind).

‘Of course I will, but I must consult my lady first, as this needs wisdom and maybe a little magic to solve.’ And with that the knight fell and Barry had to go home in the dark (no, it/he didn’t really, but I couldn’t see how I was going to fit that one in anywhere, to be honest, so I thought it was best to get rid of it as soon as possible).

The knight did go, however and so did Barry, both their separate ways.

Now I expect you’re wondering who ‘my lady’ is, some bodiless arm floating out of a lake you are no doubt thinking. Afraid not! My lady was the magic fairy of Swyndone whom our goodly knight had chanced upon, finding her caught in a spider’s web. And being the exceptionally good knight (going so soon?) that he was, he released her from her gummy prison whereupon she promised to help him with any problems he might have as she was a very, very, very wise fairy indeed (and a nice one too, obviously).

The knight called her name: ’My Lady Nuff, I need your help’. He only had to call her name once – that was, how should I put it…. hmmm…. Nuff said!

‘How can I help you?’ The fairy’s little voice responded And he told her of the problem caused by Prince Leesum and Baron Wasteland.

‘Fairy Nuff – will you help me?’
‘Of course I will!'
That’s fair enough he thought to himself (or perhaps he thought that’s Fairy Nuff).
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I!’ she responded, because , when she wanted to she could read minds as well – what a clever little fairy girl she was!

She told him her plan. Sir Culation had many friends who were also knights and also friendly. She told him to gather his friends and, with their numerous followers, to form themselves into a formidable body of men, the Knights of the Inner Ring Road. So, not wishing to waste any more time than was necessary Sir Culation went off to gather his friends and to form their new Knight Club.

First there was Sir Cumference, he lived on the edge of town, in a caravan that he would move to a different place each night… wait a minute….

Look, I just wanted to stop a second or two and say, well, I am really, really sorry that this is turning out to be so long, It wasn’t intended that way, but the story kind of became more complex. Anyway, ‘keep with it’, is what I say, and I will do my best to make it worth your while. Now, where was I? Oh, yes…

(seems there is a limit to the size of each entry - this must be a big one!)

Then it was on to recruit Sir Cumnavigate – a much-travelled knight. And close by lived the twin knights Sir Cuit (pronounced ‘kit’)and Sir Cle (pronounced ‘call’).

Sir Culation spread his net wide even taking in that not so brave knight, Sir Render, and a whole medley of colleagues including Sir loin, Sir Feit, Sir Prise, Sir Plus, and Sir Lee, finally ending up with two of his oldest friends, Sir Facing (he’d been down in the Cellar) and Sir Vival (just back from seven weeks in the desert). And that was about it.

It all seemed to be going very well indeed, except for one thing. They all looked the same – not only as each other but, with their armour on, also the same as Leesum and the Baron’s men. This wouldn’t do at all. Back to Fairy Nuff.

‘Well it’s obvious!’ she said, ‘You need something to distinguish you, to tell you apart from Prince Leesum’s men, but at the same time make it easy for you to know each other on your own side without giving anything away. So, nothing too obvious but easy enough for your men to recognise. I know. Something braid.’
‘I didn’t hear anything’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said something brayed, but I didn’t hear a thing – haven’t seen a donkey around here for weeks anyway.’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re going on about!’ Nuff was busy going through her work basket. ‘There you are – braid mail. It’s like chain mail only more detailed (which is the subtle difference you want) and the braiding gives you more protection.’

‘ Aah, yes, of course. No noise at all. Never was. Never could be. Yes, that looks like it will do the trick.!’

So the Knights of the Inner Ring Road changed their name and became the Knights of Braid (but only to themselves – they didn’t want to give the game away, now, did they…)

On to the next stage. Battle plans were drawn up, troops armed and exercised (all in secret of course), and soon they were ready.

The plan was simple. They would send out a few men dressed as peasants first. And these would shout names at Leesum and the Baron’s men. Not names like John or Brian or Barry, naturally, but something that would get them riled such as Big Nose, Flappy Ears, and Pig’s Face. This would cause the Prince’s men to get extremely annoyed, agitated and worked up so that they would become a set of snarling, sitting targets crowded inside a small part of the Inner Ring Road.

Troops would be strategically positioned, Sir Cumference would take charge of protecting the right flank while Sir Cumnavigate would take the left. The Rest of the men would prepare to charge the opposing ranks full in the face.

And it worked.

‘Chaaaarge!!’ went the order and the first wave of troops piled into Leesum’s hordes, then a second wave, then a third. Those of Leesum’s men that weren’t knocked down or captured, scattered and fled beyond the city way out into the country (it is even said that many of them went abroad to places like the Isle of Wight, and even the Scillies). The once crowded Ring Road was now freed and so were the streets of the inner city. The peasants became citizens again and everything returned to normal, uncrowded harmony (well as far as they were concerned it was harmonious – you and I might have different ideas about that!). As for Leesum and Wasteland, well they disappeared never to be heard of again.

And so it was that this now famous charge freed the inner city from the scourge of Leesum and removed the overcrowded ring road. The charge naturally acquired its own famous name: ‘The Charge of the Knights in Braid’. It also acquired another name and one that may be better remembered these days. What name might that be…I hear you ask? Why, ‘The Inner City of Londinium Congestion Charge’, of course.

Time for my tablets again… aah, and here come the pixies…..


* and you will do soon – right here. So no need to go wandering off looking elsewhere, after all…

Must be the bicycle pants or something......you have no shame, do you? :lol2:

Sorry to disappoint, Bruce, but I've always considered the general public to be totally unprepared for such a cataclysm as me in lycra shorts.

Enough! - On to today’s significant adventure (adventure? Pah!) - it was penned around the same time that we were discussing jug handles and similar forms of motoring hazard during my early Cellar days.

The five-entry, counter-rotating, traffic roundabout at Swindon is relatively unique, there being only a couple more of these strange inventions elsewhere in the UK, and so it warranted a story both to complement and to explain its existence, I thought. It seemed like a good idea at the time – a bit like the way the sherry trifle after a plate of pickled onions does, well, once you’ve consumed 5 pints of beer and four double whiskies. Anyway, here it is….


Magycke Rond-y-boote


As a high-spirited and impressionable spotty teenager, books on the occult formed obligatory reading material, and amongst the authors to be counted upon for suitable under-the-bed-sheets-with-torch (just have to practise inserting those hyphens) moments was the master of writers, Dennis Wheatley, a producer of such wonderful titles as ‘The Devil Rides Out’, ‘They Used Dark Forces’ and ‘The Satanist’.

Central to all his stories was the pentacle, a circle containing a five-pointed star, the gateway to hell and all things evil for the satanic practitioner, or sanctuary for the hero preparing to do battle with demons and ghouls (and all things nasty from deep down there).

Why should this information be relevant? All will become clear very shortly. Prepare to be traumatised. Make sure you are firmly seated and there is nothing breakable close by, as what I am about to relate will surely taunt and anger the dark ones. If the room suddenly turns icy cold and steam falls upon your breath where before there was none, it might be best that you do not continue. The risk and decision is completely yours.

For there is a place to the west of London, where a pentacle exists for all to see. Not only that, the local population is encouraged daily to enter inside its boundary. To do so, however is to place oneself in extreme danger for a battle between good and evil rages within. The innocent is not aware until it may be too late. This text is therefore given as a warning for its readers - the truth about this mystical, dangerous object. Read on with care and cross and garlic close at hand…

What is this place and where its location? In modern tongue it is named the Magic Roundabout, a revised spelling of its former name, for this device existed there long before its present manifestation. The original Magycke Rond-y-boote was strategically located (as is the new) not only on the east-west ley line that traverses London and Bath, but also at its junction with the north-south line linking Southampton with Coventry. There is likely no more influential or powerful positioning possible within the UK. And the name of this place? – why, the town of Swindon which is quite near Slough (not pronounced Sloff or Sloo*, but Slow – no. no, no not slow like Slo, but Slow as in cow – my goodness this is becoming far more difficult than I had ever expected – down to a goblin or two popping up to interfere in my mission, I have no doubt!).

The approach to the pentacle (for so I now shall call it, by it’s true name and not some disguising euphemism) seems safe enough. Like any other roundabout it appears, but there’s the trick, for at each pentacular point lies a smaller roundabout, and, before the innocent entrant realises, he is caught inside an ever circling infinity – first clockwise (as with all things round and British), as he initially attempts to move around the outside, but soon he is drawn inwards and the rotation reverses – anticlockwise (the devil’s rotation) he now must go, and before he has a chance to think he is back where he started, so once again he tries but with little chance of any more success than before. Round and round, backwards and forwards, endlessly, endlessly…

But there are those who understand the pentacle’s secret, how to turn the forces against themselves and extricate a safe and timely exit. The good knights of the pentacle - recognisable from their strange and silent transports, containing bottles filled with milk. Early morning heroes these, their coming heralded by the sounds of jingling glass next to an overwrought hair-drier. So go carefully would-be traveller and do not venture close if a knight of Saint Unigate’s order is not at hand.

I could have (would have if I could have worked out how to do same) placed a picture here before your eyes upon this site of this amazing devilry, but better I feel that the forces are kept at bay. And so you must follow the link I set out below…

Follow here for safe passage to the Magycke Rond-y-boote

Just one last thing – I’m completely out of garlic and had intended to cook tonight a delightful continental dish requiring same – don’t suppose you could send me that clove or two you appear to be clutching in your left hand….

* or Sluff, I forgot to mention Sluff

Well, the original idea of these extra posts was to act as an intermission, to allow Mari to complete her move and then to take up the pirate story again. Having been banned that is going to be difficult for her to do.

So I guess we call it a day for this one.....

Thanks CF, entertaining and informative.....I've got to check out the milk floats. :D

Mari's unbanned so I hope she takes up the story again soon. To give her encouragement, I'll continue the shorts from the other site (Aaagh! I hear you cry...). Only she can put you out of your misery now....! - although the good news is I only have a couple left....start again by moving here this one that I put in the Politics thread earlier today - it didn't really go there, and I'm now not sure why I did it - I'll put it down as an age thing and leave it at that...:


This early contribution to another board probably won’t travel so well in its original form, being distinctly British in its content. So, I’m starting with a sort-of glossary to give you at least half a chance to understand who the various concocted characters might just be.

You probably all know that we have a prime minister called Tony Blair, but his friends, relatives and enemies may not be so well known. First, his wife, Cherie (reputation for being a bit of a money grabber), then the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown (He lives at no.11 Downing Street next door to Tony who’s at no.10 and has the keys to the petty cash tin, so-to-speak). Then we mustn’t forget John Prescott, he of oafish nature, and little else - nicknamed ‘two-Jags’ because he drives/owns two Jaguar cars. Another important person is Alistair Campbell who was one of Tony’s chief advisors, and the father of ‘Spin’ – I use the word ‘was’ wisely as he resigned during the fiasco involving the death of the scientist David Kelly. Alistair is generally regarded as a bully-boy who finds it difficult to complete a sentence without including an expletive. Another to mention is Peter Mandelson, the instigator of our Millennium Dome white elephant, and now the trade minister in the EU, having been forced to resign from the British government – twice!

A few to mention outside of the Labour party and pertinent to this story are Michael Howard, the leader of the opposition Conservative, or Tory Party when this was written, Charles Kennedy, leader of the Liberal Democrat party (again then), and good old Saddam Hussein, once mighty ruler of Iraq, and now an erstwhile contributor to the Cellar’s pages! Probably no need to mention George Bush – I feel you may have an inkling who he is already….




The Widdlemiddle Tales - No.1 Losing the Ladle


These are the stories of the little people who live and work inside the walls of the Houses of Piddlemint in the Borough of Widdlemiddle, and being the centre of government for the little people of the country in which that borough lies, a magic land the name of which is never spoken, let alone written.

Tiny was not happy. As Primary Minteater he was not used to things not going his way (or one might rather say he was used to things going his way, saving both breath and ink in one fell swoop), well except perhaps for those jobs he gave to Joined Pisspot (or Two Jugs as he was more often known), but they were another story (or possible three, or even four). ‘Oh, this is no good at all', he said to himself, 'where HAS the ladle gone?'

How could the party of which he was head, the Ladle Party, lose it’s ladle? It really was a mystery. Two weeks had now gone by and no one had come up with the answer. Well that wasn’t strictly true – just like the answers that had actually come up (i.e. they were all total rubbish!). He had thought that Pitted Mentalgnome might have found out something. He seemed to have his fingers in enough pies, that surely the ladle ought to have been in one of them… But no, all Pitted could come up with was that it could well have found its way to the Meal-in-the-sun Dome. A reasonable guess, some might say (mainly Pitted’s friends), seeing how he had been in charge of it in the beginning – and leaving aside, of course, the fact that the place had closed down years ago.

No, it had to be somewhere else. Probably one of the other parties had been up to no good. Take old Mucky Holdhard for a start. Since the Story party had lost the last election he’d been a different man. All that talk about honesty and accountability. That didn’t wash with Tiny Blur, oh, no! Mucky had been smirking to himself a little too often for Tiny’s liking, and as for that other scoundrel, Cheap Kendall-Cake and his Lob-a-ball Down-a-crack party, well you couldn’t really trust that lot could you?

It just kept playing on his mind. Who had taken it? There were too many possibilities, both outside and inside his party. Even Golden Brain could have had a hand in it – everyone knew that their friendly double-act was a complete sham anyway. But in reality, he just couldn’t go straight out and accuse anyone. He needed evidence. But more than that right now he needed a strong cup of coffee!

He made his way to the kitchen at No.10. That £4 million refit of the official residence had worked out well. Finished a couple of weeks ago and well worth the public money that had been spent on it. Churly, his devoted wife, had taken over control of that task, and he just had to agree that the kitchen looked, well, great. Nice new shiny units with a mixture of dark granite and steel surfaces. Concealed lighting and an islandy thingy in the middle, above which was one of those funny looking suspended jobs on which you hung all manner of things, pots, pans, utensils, baskets, dead, sorry no, dried flowers. Yes it was quite pleasing, and unexpectedly relaxing in its own way.

The kettle whistled and came to a stop. Tiny poured the boiling hot water on to his coffee, and carrying his mug made for the island unit, pulling a chair-stool on the way. He sat himself down and took a sip of his coffee. Ouch! That was hot!! He jerked his coffee mug as he reacted to the sudden pain searing across his lips - and more coffee spilled, over his lap this time and between his weeny legs. Ouch, ouch, OUCH!! He leapt up. BONG!! His head hit something hard and metallic above his head. Oh, shit, bum, bollocks! Tiny kicked the chair and rubbed the various parts of his body that were either sore or aching. He was really miserable now. He limped out of the room and up to his bedroom to change and shower (probably shower and change, actually, not so messy).

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the kitchen. This time he would take it more carefully. OK.. boil kettle…, mug…., coffee…, water…, milk… and stir. Fine. Right, over to the unit. Coffee down, sit down - that’s better. Now lift the mug slowly to…

‘TINY!!’ Tiny leapt up. BONG!!! ‘Oh, my head… Oh, MY TROUSERS!!
‘What on earth are you doing??’ It was Churly, arms full of goodies. (clearly she had been shopping - or donating as she preferred to call it).

‘I’m just trying to have a relaxing coffee and then you come in and scare the daylights out of me! It’s the second time I’ve had hot scalding coffee all over me in the last half-an-hour and twice I’ve banged my head on that, that, that….’

Tiny stopped in mid-sentence. Looking up he saw his own face, a little more contorted than usual perhaps (but not a lot!) looking back at him from the back of a large spoon that was swinging from the overhead contraption. No, hang on a minute, it wasn’t a spoon, the shape was different, the bowl of the spoon much deeper and rounder ….. it was a ladle - THE LADLE!

‘What? What on earth is that doing there, I mean, here?’
‘Oh, that old thing, it was just stuck in that glass-doored cupboard in the Cabinet Room, doing nothing, and, well, we had a gap on my overhead utensil rack that was just crying out for something long and culinary. It just suited perfectly so I put it there. – and I must say it certainly finishes it off nicely.’

‘It’ll finish me off nicely, if it’s found out that I had the ladle all the time! I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this one. I can hardly just put it back like that. Everyone is bound to notice and then the questions will start. Demands for a public inquiry, etc, etc. – it’ll never end. You really shouldn’t have done this, Churly. I knew this penchant of yours to think that everything you want should automatically be yours would eventually lead to no good ’

‘Well I must say, this is all getting out of proportion if you ask me. I really can’t be worried so much about your silly little ladle, but if you are then you’d better go and ask All-upstairs. He’s the one with all the answers when there’s a problem you can't seem to get out of!’

‘You’re absolutely right, dearest, of course, as always. Clamped-balls will know what to do. I’ll call him right now.

(Oops - too long for a single post!)

(Part two)

Tiny phoned All-upstairs on the secure handset and explained his problem.

‘Well it’s fucking obvious isn’t, it!’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, you need to find something that will take over the public fucking interest much more than that bollocks of a ladle thing, leaving you to return the sodding spoon to the cabinet without anyone noticing. And, as it fucking well happens I think I have something in mind that will fit as snuggly as a prick in a condom!.’
‘Oh, I hope you have All-up….. I mean the idea, of course, not your thingy. Tell me what it is, please, please!’
‘I’ve just put the phone down on Gorgeous. Seems he has some oil price problems and a bit of trouble with a Middle Eastern dictator at the moment. Well, we all know that old Gorgeous is into oil big-time, and right now he’s losing a fortune - the price is right down the toilet. And that got me thinking.
‘Yes, thinking, go on…’
‘Well, we get old Brushy bollocks on board naturally as the first step, and then we go and buy up loads of oil while it’s cheap.’
‘Cheap, yes… and??’
‘And then we invade Sardine Who’s-a-pain’s country to liberate the people, of course. Are you following me or not?.’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘Obviously not! We do that because Sardine’s in the fucking Middle East, and so the invasion will cause the price to rise.’
‘Oh, I get it. So we then sell our oil – that’s brilliant…., but, hang on, then what?’
‘You really aren’t with it, are you? Once the invasion is successful – and there’s no way we can lose – the price will drop again, so we can buy up some more of the lovely stuff’
‘Yes, buy up some more, of course… er, why would we buy up some more….?’
‘Look, do try and fucking follow me will you? Once we’ve won, it’ll take some time to get things straight, so we stretch it out a bit, make it look difficult and then the rest of the world will wonder if we have made a mistake and that’ll make the price go through the roof again. That’ll give us the opportunity to sell a second time. And while all this is going on there will be loads of time to lose that fucking ladle.’
‘But I don’t want to lose the ladle….’
‘No Tiny, not lose as in lose, but lose as in conceal. And I wouldn’t mind betting there’ll be plenty more opportunities to lose lots of other irritating fucking little problems as well, while all this is going on……’
‘Hey, it’s really good – buy… sell… then buy again… then sell again. And lose a few problems as well. Yes, I really like it. Well done All-up. Let’s go for it! Now, where’s that phone….. tum-ti-tum… Oh, is that you Gorgeous…?

And the rest, of course, became WiddleMiddle history…!

$500,000,000,000.00 ladle. :(

The second and last Widdlemiddle tale follows – uncannily topical at the moment considering the activities of the main government minister featured (see the Politics section and the thread a bout British Politics). It was written, however, at the time when our Deputy Prime Minister’s department was tasked with producing affordable housing – houses that would be cheap enough to buy to be within the scope of lower paid professionals like nurses. If I remember rightly he did manage to get a builder to produce a new house for £100,000 which was his target price. The only problem was that this didn’t include the land needed to take the construction. Still John Prescott ducked and dived his way out of that one and also probably threw a couple of right jabs at it as well – he’s quite good at that, having already punched one member of the electorate!

Another three new characters to digest in this one, so add to the glossary of story no.1 a gentleman named Ed Balls (seems a shame to have to change that one!) Gordon Brown’s chief assistant at the Treasury, and someone who loves talking in accountancy jargon never acknowledging that no-one understands what the hell he is rambling on about! Add also blind David Blunket, then Home secretary (he resigned after an affair with an American lady - don't know what she saw in him - obviously he could see nothing in her - sorry, bad joke), and finally add someone not of the government but a good friend of Tony Blair, one Cliff Richard, singer ancient and extraordinaire – I think Tony and his family have holidayed at Cliff’s Caribbean villa at least 3 times now….

Oh, and this IS a long one...!


The Widdlemiddle Tales - No.2 Property price bubble pricked


These are the stories of the little people who live and work inside the walls of the Houses of Piddlemint in the Borough of Widdlemiddle, and being the centre of government for the little people of the country in which that borough lies, a magic land the name of which is never spoken, let alone written....

‘What the fuck’s he going on about..?!?’
‘In your usual fine form this morning, I see, Mr Pisspo-‘
‘And you can shut up as well!!’

Joined Pisspot held the handset of his telephone in front of him and stared disbelievingly at the noise that was emanating from it. It was possible to detect a distinct trans-Atlantic ‘twang’ to the voice that was clearly trying to deliver some words of wisdom (no point in being unkind, let’s give our American friend the benefit of any doubt that there might be about that), but so far as Two Jugs was concerned he might just as well be speaking Chinese. Somehow, whatever connection the speaker might have had with the English language was completely lost on the Dyspeptic Primary Minteater – somewhere between Sheffield and Coventry I would hasard a reasonable guess!

‘Burble, burble, £60,000, burble, burble. Turg, burble, condo, flurgle burp’

‘May I try, sir?’
‘Please yourself, Skirmish’
Richly Deserved Skirmish III MBE, DSO, RAC took the handset from Pisspot, and placed it quite close (but not too close) to his ear. As Pisspot’s personal private secretary he was used to this sort of development first thing in the piddlemintary office. Pisspot never was that good in the mornings (some would say that applied to the afternoons and the evenings as well, but whoever did say that, they most certainly would never ever be R D Skirmish III, MBE, DSO, RAC).

‘I see…., mmm……, oh, really……, yes, that makes sense….., that quickly…., certainly would……, no problem……., I’ll take down your details then……, OK, that’s fine. Mr Pisspot will write to you immediately!’

‘And….??’

‘Well, sir, it seems you have stumbled across a real opportunity. Not only can the gentleman on the phone, Bucks Grandiose Jr., build you the cheap accommodation you wanted but he can do two for the price of one! All we need to do is to write to him, well to his brother Billboard actually, giving details of what we need and they will organise for a show-home to be sent to us within ten days. It’s all flat-pack stuff that can be put together with not much more than a screwdriver. And a pack that makes up two three-bedroom apartments – condominiums, or ‘condos’ as he called them – can be arranged at a price well within the target. He just requires an official piddlemintary letter from you confirming that we will take delivery of the item and Bob’s your uncle!’

‘Right, sounds good. Well you write the letter, Skirmish, but make sure it sounds like it’s come from me. None of your ponsy Eton language, you hear?’

‘Of course, sir…’ but privately Skirmish was thinking ‘oh, no, writing northern…. Again!’

It was well into the late afternoon before Skirmish had a real chance to put pen to paper. He’d turned the words over and over, again and again in his mind, but they just didn’t sound quite right. Still better get it done. It needn’t be a long letter anyway, Sharp and to the point would be much better.

The words formed from his pen tip, slowly at first, and then he seemed to gain a rhythm, almost (only almost) enjoying his task. His tongue darted across his lips from one side to the other as the concentration took over.

‘OI!!’ Skirmish jumped out of his skin. ‘You finished that yet?’
‘ Not quite but it’s coming on quite ni-‘
‘ Give it here. Let me see!’

Skirmish timidly passed across the sheet of paper containing his words. Why did he feel so, well, frightened. Of course, it was obvious. Whatever he wrote it wasn’t going to be good enough.

‘This isn’t good enough. There’s no way I’d say that. What the hell is a “preconceptual investigation” for God’s sake. Oh, it gets worse….. just, just piss-off Skirmish. I’ll do it myself!’

And with that Pisspot stormed off taking the letter with him. Skirmish sighed, relieved, but at the same time he felt this quick cold chill brush across the back of his neck. But then it was gone. Never mind. He set about the remainder of his day’s chores putting the incident to the back of his mind (which, conveniently enough, was just above the back of his neck!)…

+++

Two weeks had passed. Nothing particularly notable had happened since to speak of. And this morning was a glorious sunny morning as well. So few of them left, he knew, but he did enjoy these late summer days that kept winter at bay.

The phone rang and Skirmish answered: ‘DPM’s office, Richly Deserved Skirmish III speaking…’

‘Aaah, Richly, my dear boy….’ It was Edible Bollocks, Golden Brain’s protégé and number 2 at the Treachery Office, ‘just the man I wanted to talk to….’ And off Edible went into one of his long, drawling, totally confusing and meaningless diatribes.

‘Mmm…. Uh,huh…. Ye-(stifled yawn)-es…. mmm………… ‘

Skirmish was interrupted in mid affirmation by a knock at the door. Bollocks rambled on.

A man in overalls waved a piece of paper: ‘Delivery for Mr Pisspot…’
‘Oh, jolly good!’ Skirmish had placed a hand across the mouthpiece of his telephone. Bollocks (needless to say) rambled on, the odd word still catching Skirmish’s ear.
‘mean average…….statistical fluctuation…….’
‘Is that our condos?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, guv, sign here.’
Skirmish signed the paper:’ ignorant fellow’, he thought, ‘misspelled condos, as I might have guessed.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘….growth cycle……GDP……’
Would the man never stop?
‘So where do you want them?’
‘Oh, yes, of course – put them in Horse Farts Parade on that nice big open square of ground. That should do shouldn’t it?’
‘ Oh, yes Guv – plenty of room there I reckon – mind you it is a big load.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would be….’ The delivery man went.

‘And that’s it. I just wanted to run that past you. Can I count on Joined’s support on this. It is rather important after all’
‘Of course, of course my dear, Edible, I am sure Mr Pisspot will be as supportive as ever on such matters.’ (Whatever it was and whatever that meant!)

The minutes and then an hour ticked peacefully by. At least old Bollocks had gone. Skirmish had to agree with the majority opinion - he certainly lived up to his name! But he couldn’t sit around here all morning gazing into space. On to more important things. Now where had he put those breadcrumbs. Almost time to feed the ducks over in St Gymshoes Park. Skirmish rummaged through his briefcase. Not there. Bottom drawer? No. Think back, think back. He’d come into the office. The bag of crumbs had been in his left hand, and he’d taken his jacket off and thrown it onto the chaise-longue by the window. He looked. He could see the edge of the packet just protruding under his jac-

The red phone rang with a harsh, shrill jangle! Tiny’s line (Tiny Blur, the Primary Minteater) – the Hot Line! He knew the peace couldn’t last. What now….??

(part two)


‘Mr Pisspot’s office’
‘Oh, hi, ehm, that you, Skirmish?’ Tiny’s distinctive voice danced at the other end of the line. ‘Look, he’s not there is he? Only, well, it’s kind of important…’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. May I be of assistance?’
‘Well, it’s just that there’s this huge pile of-‘
‘Oh, I think I know what you are talking about. The delivery that I told the driver to leave in Horse Farts. Mr Pisspot says he will be attending to it shortly. It’ll look really great, I am sure, A real crowd puller, and just the message Mr Pisspot wants to get across..’
‘Are you saying this is Joined’s handy work?’
‘But of course – he handled it personally, sir. Can you imagine how pleased people will be when they see for themselves that they’re as affordable and as obtainable as he promised. And they can be up in a matter of moments. All it needs is a quick screw here and a quick screw there, and-
‘Really Skirmish, this is quite enough. I really, well I really did expect better from you. This is all very smutty’
‘Smutty sir, what’s smutty about a couple of condos?’
’A couple of condoms??? I’m talking about literally thousands and thousands of them, Skirmish. All sizes, shapes and colours as well. They’re filling the whole square. The Press are there and the crowd is huge already and still growing. I’ve ordered a police cordon and the army is on standby.The Archbishop’s been on the phone six times at least. What on earth has Pisspot been up to this time??!!

‘Condoms???? But they’re supposed to be condominiums. Two of them. £60,000 for the pair.
‘Well they’re not condominiums, Skirmish. Not by any stretch of the imagination, let alone rubber! Tell Pisspot I want to see him in my office immediately. Sooner, if he knows what’s good for him!!’

The phone went dead. Skirmish was left holding the handset, his jaw dropped open so far it was no more than just a few millimeters from the floor. He was speechless. All he could do was look and point at the phone, and then look and point in out towards the room, then back to the phone, then the room…..

‘What’s up with you – you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Taken bloody ages getting here, God knows what’s going on, people all over the place, police, army… Are you incapable of speech or something, Skirmish??’

Skirmish looked bewilderedly at Joined Pisspot. All he could do was shake his head. They looked at each other, and then it was as if Skirmish had been given the power of speech again, but too suddenly for his brain to cope. It all came out quite maniacally:

‘Ha-ha, no, coloured ones you see, not two flat ones, but balloons, screw you – up in no time at all, hee-hee, cheap thrills, thousands of them, bang, bang, bang, get the gang to bang it up ‘em, screw em all together, three in a pack, not two, thousands of them , red, white, blue - God save the queen, hello sailor, put that up there for you, no probl-!’

Pisspot slapped Skirmish round the face. ‘Snap out of it man - have you been at my brandy again?’

Skirmish rubbed his cheek, sense returning. ‘No, sir, oh sorry sir. Something’s gone terribly wrong. They haven’t delivered a £60000 pound condo. It looks instead that they’ve delivered 60,000 contraceptives!

‘What are you on about?? ‘condo’?? The word’s ‘condom’. That was the trouble with your letter. There were too many mistakes. I changed that one and I also took away that silly pound sign – why tell them we’ll pay £60,000 when they might think we meant $60,000’

Skirmish was back to normality very quickly. ‘No, no, no, no noooo!?! Let me get this straight. Instead of ‘as per our discussions with your brother, Bucks, we would be grateful if you would send us the £60,000 condos to test out with the public’ you wrote ‘ we would be grateful if you would send us the 60,000 condoms to test out with the public’! Oh. My Dear God!!’

‘That’s right, so what’s the matter??’

‘What’s the matter? WHAT’S THE MATTER??’ There are 60,000 contraceptives - condoms - of all shapes, sizes and colours sitting in a pile, god knows how high and filling up the greater part of Horse Farts Parade. That’s where all your police and crowds and army are coming from.

Now Pisspot was speechless. Well, for a few seconds. Then ‘Does Tiny know about this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Hmmm. Well That’s not SO bad. At least he doesn’t know that I had anything-‘
‘I’m afraid he does. You see I told him’

Skirmish ducked a right jab.

‘Come here!’ Pisspot started chasing him around the room’

‘It wasn’t my fault. I thought it was the flats, I didn’t know it was condoms. Not until Mr Blur told me. No, no, please don’t hit me…!’

Pisspot had him cornered. And was just about to change the shape of Skirmish’s face when the red phone rang.

Pisspot became all smiles as he reached over and took the handset: ‘Tiny, how are you? So nice of you to call.’ Tiny’s voice could be heard resounding around the room and resembling something akin to a distressed parrot with a hernia.

Two Jugs couldn’t get a word in for some time but finally interrupted: ‘Oh good, you’ve seen it, then. Yes, I know there’s a lot of them, but calm down, Tiny. It’s just the timing’s got a little ahead of itself. Oh, all right, quite a bit ahead of itself.’ Pisspot was thinking rapidly on his feet – not something he was that good at doing. But in times of need, God can occasionally be kind, even to northerners: ‘They were supposed to have put up the banners first.’ More shrieks from Tiny, but a shade lower in intensity. Pisspot registered the slight, but positive change: ‘I know I didn’t tell you, but you’ve been so busy with Iraq and Blindkit and all that other stuff. I thought it would be a nice surprise - National Birth Control Week. Free Condoms for anyone who wanted them, and a number of complementary events to go with it. Cleft Ricketts has written a song especially. I think he’s calling it ‘Safe Copulations’ or something like that. Catchy little number –Eurovision sort of stuff. And there’s a series of talks planned in St Gymshoes Park as well. It’s just that the delivery came forward two days and they forgot to let us know. I’ve got the guys from the BBC and ITV coming round later. That’s what I’ve been arranging all morning. I assure you it will all be under control by tea-time.’

Tiny seemed to be placated. In fact he was coming up with some ideas of his own. Mainly involving him being on TV and not Pisspot, naturally. Pisspot sighed a sigh of relief. Two more minutes of verbal bowing and scraping and the phone was returned to its cradle.

‘Right Skirmish, now where was I??’
Skirmish dropped to the floor his arms covering his face.
‘Get up man,. What’s the matter with you. You’ve got work to do. I want banners by tea-time. You can work out the wording. Then I need you to write a song that’ll fit that ‘Congratulations’ tune and get Cleft on the phone to sing it - AND record it. About time he did us another favour seeing as Tiny didn’t use his place this year. Oh, and first of all, you’d better get on to ITV and BBC. Come on man. Jump to it!’

‘New Ladle??’ Thought Skirmish, ‘Give me the old one any day…!!’

.

Think nought of it...!

Well, let’s hope that Mari’s back tomorrow for two reasons. One, obviously, that you are screaming for relief from this prosaic onslaught, and second, I haven’t any more to give you after today, unless I think up some new ones, and that’ll take a bit more time to do.

So the last entries – yes, entries. Two relatively short ones, and not really stories as much as commentaries. The first speaks for itself – in more ways than one, as you are about to find out. The second needs an introduction:



Educational Reform - Common Syllabic Spelling Experiment


The government is concerned at the deterioration in basic learning - too many pupils are leaving school wthout being able to read and write properly.

In an attempt to improve matters the government is advocating a return to the teaching of English by phonetic syllables. This is Ok, but we've seen it before and it wasn't a success last time around. If we want it to work, then I feel we need to allow words to be formed using a commonality that has not previously been possible.

How will this work?

Spelling of each syllable should be as accurate as possible, based on the word it represents. for example 'education' becomes 'edge-you-kay-shun' - and if we go this way the there will be plane-tea of that.

To give you a bet-tar eye-deer of how this will work I will give fur-the eggs-arm-pulls by tie-ping words in see-lay-balls from now on. It is not so seal-he as it sounds (or purr-wraps that should be looks!)

Hen-he-way, the go-fair-meant wants to car-he out their eggs-pair-he-meant so we are go-wing to have to face this die-all-hem-air hen-he-way.

Yew-sing the mirth-hod I am add-vow-kate-tin, off-air the car-ming months the pew-pills from part-hiss-he-pay-tin schools will be hay-bull to hay-queue-mew-late hen-off words to east-tab-leash a rear-sun-air-bull foe-cab-ewe-lair-he.

Add-dish-shun-all-he, there is no rear-son why they should not use numb-burrs for words like to (bee-combs '2') and for (bee-combs '4') and awe-there words may all-sew be shore-tend - e.g. 'wait' bee-combs 'w8'
.
If you have hen-he quest-shuns air-boat this eggs-pair-he-meant and the hide-ears the go-fair-meant has then please do ask them yew-sing the mead-he-hum of the 4-hum. Please do not w8 2 be asked fur-there.

I look 4-ward to he-ring from you.

Men-he thanks


+++


When President Bush was scheduled to visit Canada last year, one of the members of this other forum suggested that there were sufficient grounds for the Canadians to indict Bush. The member then went on at some length to make the case for this action. It all seemed a bit long-winded to me so I proposed the following alternative, and I thought far more attractive solution than indicting Bush:



Why don't we ignite Bush instead?

All this indicting stuff takes so long - it'll be years before it gets through the courts, and who's to say the desired outcome will be achieved. You may be convinced you have a good case but once Dubbya's lawyers get hold of it, well, who's to say...?

Now, a good old-fashioned burn up is a much, much simpler and quicker solution - absolutely no hang-ups - position, ignite, and whooosh, away he goes - and think of all the benefits:

1. Those standing close enough will get nice and warm.

2. If it's arranged for November 5th then there will be a significant saving on Guy production (one for the Brits there!)

3. The Christian/Jewish lobby will be satisfied with this solution as it will remind them of Moses when he got the message about taking the tablets ('oh, look a burning Bush...')

4. Properly managed it can act as a timely warning about the danger of forest fires. A controlled Bush fire is a safe fire.

5. The department of the double-entendre will be in hysterics.

6. There's potential for a huge turnout if the event is staged and promoted properly. Maybe venues like Hyde Park in London and Central Park in New York and big screens in other locations to permit even more viewers and attendees as well. I'm sure Sir Bob would jump at the opportunity to be involved, which brings us onto....

7. Charity fund raising - needs a catchy name like 'match of the day' (with a title like that the door's open for similar events on other occasions)

Well, think about it, anyway...

+++

And that’s your lot!

,

End of Intermission


The Story so far...


Capt Kit Soonie aboard the pirate vessel Bacardi Breezer and his crew have been pursuing Capt UT and his crew aboard the Flossie Jetsam eager to capture the Flossie's precious cargo - namely one very knowledgeable Rear Admiral Sir Reggie Radish who lives most of the time in Capt UT's head and who has in his long memory details of many sunken treasures around and about the coast of the Americas.

Capt Kit has succeeded in temporarily capturing Sir Reggie, who led Kit on a wild goose chase to retreive treasure that wasn't off the coast of California. Sir Reggie has now escaped and is back aboard the Flossie Jetsam with Capt UT. Capt Kit is not amused at being tricked out of his prize and has given chase cornering (can you corner in a galleon?) Capt UT and giving him an ultimatum to return Reggie forthwith, and is even now aiming the Breezer's cannon at the Flossie.

Luckily, Capt UT has just discovered a secret portal that links the Flossie with the Breezer via the Powder Room of each ship (a favourite haunt of Cheyenne), and Capt UT is about to board the Breezer via this invisible 'passage-way' accompanied by a crack team of naval walrus's (they didnt have SEALs in those days!) drawn from the Flossie's crew .

In the midst of all this mayhem, Brianna's man-servant, Flint, has spent the last three months or so in the Breezer's hold awaiting Capt Kit's decision as how best to deal with him, something that has been trying his ingenuity throughout this entire fiasco.

Our story now (hopefully) continues.... (where are you Mari....??)

And J.K. Rowling made hundreds of millions while you were peddling your ass around France. :lol:

Well, I do potter around occasionally, if that makes any difference...

Probably not to your bottom line. :D

sadly no - it's all too often a case of hanging on by the seat of my pants. But I have made a recent investment which appears to be making a marked improvement on that situation.

No sign of Mari - may have to make an executive decision about how to move the story along - will prepare a proposal over the weekend in case needed....

Mind you, if anyone else wants to write a chapter, please go ahead, just don't end it with everyone being trapped at the bottom of the ocean.....! Please!

I've tried to reach Mari without much success so far - could be down to connection problems (I know from my own experience how painful it can be getting a phone line installed from new), and so it will be difficult to know when whe will be back and posting again.

So, a few suggestions as to how to get the story moving again.

1. I will add a new entry within the next 48 hours.
2. Anyone wishing to take over with an entry after that - pls go ahead - I'll wait another 48 hours before acting on next suggestion, which is
3. Pls send me a PM with an event or activity you would like to see included in the story at some stage forwards (PM route so as to add a certain amount of suspense and secrecy to the enterprise) and I will endeavour to build them in as the story continues.

Once Mari is back I'll involve and task her with adhering to this 'wish-list' also.

Let's get these sea-dogs sailing again!

Night fell, as night does on a daily basis when the sun goes down – even off the coast of California. A moonless night as well, this one, hard even to see the outline shadow of a man that moved stealthily across a deck, which suited our four intrepid heroes as they moved stealthily across the deck of the Bacardi Breezer.

It was very quiet, save for the creaking of the boards (as the ship tilted oh so slightly from port to starboard, and back again, encouraged by the light current), the sound of the occasional mid-snore snort, a slapping of lips and, of course and more often, the inevitable sound of wind vibrating its escape through a sailor’s buttocks.

The lone watch, Lumberjim, was slumped against the wheel – another fellow enjoying the after-effects of a generous helping of rum – and not alone was he, as the rest of the crew seemed also to have been well–treated in this respect.

Each of the Flossie crew carried a sack, and heavy it was too, containing, as it did, a good two dozen of Brianna’s Monster Hamburger Burger Portuguese Man-o-War Style Churrosco Meatballs (the large variety), each as big as a cannon ball, which might give some clue as to their intended purpose.

Silently, our four brave men went about their task, quietly slipping two MHBPMoWSCM(tlv)s into the mouth of each cannon, until all 48 guns had been properly attended to (and my mathematics double-checked).

Mission accomplished without so much as a mutter from any of Kit’s crew. They were all enjoying a smiley, smug-faced, sleep-inducing, alcoholic contentment. All that is except one….

UT and his crew slipped quietly into the powder room, Cheyenne’s mirror still in hand, and, with a quick turn of the door handle, returned back aboard the Flossie Jetsam.

Dawn broke, and so did wind throughout the ranks (an appropriate word) of Cap’n Kit and his crew.

Kit looked across to where the Flossie Jetsam still lay anchored – so she hadn’t tried to sail away during the night as he had expected she might. But in all honesty (well, pirate honesty, anyway) UT had had enough time to help. Time to send him another warning shot across the bows.

‘Prepare to fire a warning shot across the Flossie’s bows!’ Kit barked out the order.

There was a commotion below decks, and a lot of banging and screaming it was too. Flint was making himself heard.

‘What on earth is he making all that fuss for now? – go and bring him up here on deck and let’s see what he has to say. I hope it’s something of value, if only for the sake of his continued relatively good health…!’

Flint was very agitated: ‘Don’t fire the cannons. They were here last night, Capt UT and some of his crew. They put something in each of the cannons, I heard them moving around…’

‘What rubbish is this. How could they come on board? We would have heard them when they drew up alongside in their boat at least…’

‘No, no. It wasn’t like that they came out of the powder room over there, and went back in it. I don’t know how they got aboard, but they did and I could just seem them through the holes in the hatch-cover grating go back in there. They must be in there now..’

‘Well, if this is true - and I don’t believe for one moment that it is – then there is one easy way to find out!’ Kit drew his cutlass and pointed it towards Flint, at the same time directing him with his free hand towards the powder room door. ‘Off you go, You can see if they're inside or not. And make sure to close the door behind you…!’

Flint, somewhat wishing he had worn his brown trosuers, entered the door which Spexxvet was kindly easing open just enough to allow Flint to enter, but not enough to let UT and his crew out… As soon as Flint was inside he slammed the door shut. There was a brief moment of silence, and then all the crew burst into a spontaneous combustion of laughter.

Five minutes passed. All sounded quiet within the powder room. Kit motioned to Spexxvet to open the door, and opened it was. The room was empty. No UT, No Flossie crew, and most of all… NO FLINT!

‘I have no idea what’s going on here,’ said Kit, ‘but I don’t like it at all. Prepare to fire the cannon!’ Seemed he had forgotten all that Flint had warned about the cannons. But what had become of Flint? Was he now aboard the Flossie Jetsam? Appears not!

‘I have no idea what’s going on, but I don’t like it at all’ Flint murmured very quietly to himself. It was dark inside the powder room once the door had closed, and Flint remained still… then nervously and in a small voice: ‘Is anbody there….?’ No reply. I’m getting out of here! Thought Flint, and he opened the door….

…only to find himself stepping out from a small wooden building into bright sunlight on a golden sandy beach on which were frolicking several rather attractive and scantily clad young ladies of Caribbean origin…! Flint’s eyes almost left their sockets! It seemed that he had somehow crossed paths with another portal that had an exit at one end on this rather nice Caribbean island. So that’s the information that Reggie must have imparted to UT just before they went into the powder room to board the Breezer - portal routes could cross in certain circumstances. And why should this have affected Flint? Well, it seems he had his grandfather’s pocket watch with him, and that acted quite differently on the portal from Cheyenne’s mirror…

The girls suddenly noticed Flint and came rushing towards him, giggling all the time. Then they grabbed his hands and led him to the ocean’s edge where they began to strip him and bathe him in the clear blue water.

Well, lucky old Flint! He wasn’t going to be in a hurry to go back into that old wooden building that was for certain!

And the girls even had a gramophone player (how handy!) and this was even now playing, an old Harry Belafonte number…’This is my island in the sun…..’

I need some help here, my creative brain cells are wilting under the strain of trying to expand their limited sources of piratical opportunities ...:

1. Anyone wishing to make an entry after my last - pls go ahead - I'll wait until Friday before acting on next suggestion (of course provided that you act on it!), which is
2. Pls send me a PM with an event or activity you would like to see included in the story at some stage forwards (PM route so as to add a certain amount of suspense and secrecy to the enterprise) and I will endeavour to build them in as the story continues.

Once/if Mari is back I'll involve and task her with adhering to this 'wish-list' also.

Working on next entry - will try not to keep you in suspense too long - another 48 hours maximum - will try sooner. There, that should make Monday seem a little better!

No outside suggestions received, by the way, so have overdosed on Robert Rankin over the weekend to induce some suitably weird content in order to be able to continue... YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Meanwhile back on the ranch, er Bacardi, Kit was just about to drop his hand with the order to fire when he remembered Flint's stange story. The man HAD just up and disappeared! Something strange was certainly going on. "Inspect the mouths of the cannons just in case, boys," he ordered. The pirates put their hands gingerly into the cannons.

"Yuck!" shreiked First Mate Tonchi. "There's something cold and disgusting and greasy in there!" The other pirates were making the same discovery and giving cries of horror or shouting loud Pirate's cuss words which can be very nasty themselves.

The cannons would have exploded from their lethal dose of Brianna's hambuger burger recipe. A pirate tasted a bit of the stuff and exclaimed, "Its not so much sour as it is just not very good. Blech!"

"I have an idea!" exclaimed Tonchi. "Let's give them a taste of their own back! Clear that gunk out of the cannons and make it up into shot sized chunks. We can then sweep the Flossie's decks with a nice dose of food poisoning!"

"AArrrrggg!" shouted the pirates. "Agreed!"

The pirates quickly went to work constructing their new lethal ammo. T' Pau, Queen of the Universe went around and spat up a ceremonial hair ball on each load.

UT had been dreaming of the Caribbean Islands and scantily clad laughing girls and for some reason, Flint, when he was rudely awakened by shreiks of disgust and horror from the decks above. He scampered quickly out to the the poop deck just in time to be hit in the eye with a chunk of disgusting substance.

"I say" he exclaimed, "that was no smilie. In fact its just not really very good. Its like hamburger burger with cat gaack added. How perfectly disgusting!"

The Bacardi raised signal flags.

"We have lots more where this came from. Now what about that map?"

UT sighed and was then hit by another obnoxious glob. Some days it just didn't pay to get up in the morning.....

(Hooray! She's back! - but clearly the absence has affected her memory...)

Not only that - there was no music! ‘What was the place turning into....?’ wondered U.T.

‘What was the plaice turning into…?’ wondered Winston Deuteronymus Whale. The Sea Creatures Annual Reunion and Evening Dinner (or S.C.A.R.E.D. as it had somehow now become called) was in full swing. Winston had been running S.C.A.R.E.D. (it's all right - you can groan if you want to!) for five years now, and this was by far the best evening yet. But Percy Plaice seemed to have gone over the top this time. Turning up in that seahorse-drawn conch as if he owned the… place, wasn’t the way to go about pleasing your host, after all. Still everyone seemed to be enjoying the dinner and were about to tuck into the main course. Even the Sharks twins were eating the food (as opposed to three of the guests, as had happened last year), and Bertram Barracuda had overseen the choice of wine – always a difficult task, being, as they were, underwater.

But this year it was the cabaret that everyone was looking forward to. Coached by Winston’s brother Melvin, the whelks choir had learned to sing a medley in whalesong from the famous Sing-Along-a-Whalesong book. In fact, it was such a splendid event that most of Winston’s family and relatives had insisted on attending this year and that meant the whales numbered some 25 in all. And everyone was assembled to hear the Whelk’s Mel Voice Choir (one for the Brits there!), plus, of course everyone present had a copy of the words and music, so that after the whelks had finished their rendition, all the others could join in with the reprise - because it is well known that on events like these everybody sings in Whales (number two for the Brits! – they really are being spoiled!).

Winston‘s thoughts were interrupted. Something had landed on his head. He took it off and examined it (no, not his head - don't be silly - the thing that had landed on his head!). It looked like a small fragment of meat, only there was a bit of … well, it looked like fur to him. Winston took hold of the morsel and popped it into his mouth, swirled it around a bit, and promptly spat it out again, spluttering and grimacing in one movement. MY god! What was that – it was DISGUSTING!. Then he felt another piece of meat land on his head, then another, and another…. hang on, it seemed to be falling… everywhere…. and especially into their food!

Things were taking a turn out for the worse. The Sharks had just taken a mouthful of their main course, now laced with this strange debris. Next moment they spat it out, as in unison. A badly fed shark is not a happy shark, and before you could say Jack Jellyfish, the twins had swallowed two sea bass sat either side of them.

Chaos ensued. Winston looked around him in total shock at the scene that met his eyes. Bits of fur-covered meat rained down upon them like some tropical storm. Fish, crustaceans and mammals were either being sick, or were fighting, or were taking great chunks out of each other. No, no. no, no, NO! This could NOT be happening!

Winston summoned Melvin over: ‘Go and find out what’s causing this, please, for goodness sake - and DO be quick!’

Melvin swam off immediately towards the sea’s surface, and it took only a matter of seconds before he saw that the hideous downpour had come from a ship parked right above them. Melvin swam back….

Whales may appear to be big lumbering creatures, but when decisions are to be made, they move pretty fast – and this occasion was no exception! A decision WAS made and in record time. Winston, Melvin and the other 23 members of Winston’s family made their way towards the Bacardi Breezer…


‘Right! That’s it!!’ Kit had clearly reached the end of his exceptionally short tether.’ I’m not waiting any longer. Prepare to fire-…. What the- !?!’

The Breezer suddenly lurched sideways, unbalancing the crew and sending them as one towards the port side of their ship. Then she lurched the other way and the crew lurched towards starboard, then back again, then the other way – it was like some surreal form of the Okee-Cokee, to the point that they were indeed being shaken all about. You might even say they were having a whale of a time!

For just below the surface and either side of the Breezer, the whales were banging their weight first against one side and then against the other side of the vessel, creating a rhythmic swaying motion, then a group of ten whales moved to the stern of the ship and started nudging her forwards. She began to move through the ocean. Slowly at first, then gathering momentum until the whales had achieved a good swaying speed of about 8 knots.

On board the crew were still being thrown around – left right, lurch forwards… left, right, lurch forwards. Some of the newer hands, which naturally included Squeedler and JayMcGee, were even beginning to feel a bit sea-sick! The Breezer moved further and further away from land and into the deeper seas of the Pacific Ocean, and with each lurch the record on the gramophone jumped from its groove – it was making no progress at all: ‘You put your left side-…., you put your le-…. You put your lef-….. you put your-….!!’

Capt'n Kit looked over the side of the ship and saw the cause of the phenomenon. He turned to First Mate Tonchi. "Quick who do we have on board who can speak whales?" he asked.

"You mean Welsh, don't you?"

"Whales, Welsh, whatever. This is not the time for you to turn into the grammer police," said Kit irritably as the Bacardi gave another lurch.

"Well, Kagen speaks Australian," Tonchi replied.

"Close enough," said Kit. "Get him up here!"

A few minutes later, a bewildered Kagen listened to what Kit wanted. "But Capt'n," he objected. "I don't speak whales or Welsh. I speak Aussie."

"Well, give it a try, ordered Kit. "Ask those whales what they want."

Kagen shrugged his shoulders and leaned over the side of the ship which wasn't very hard since it was already leaning at quite the angle.

"I say mates," he hollered at the nearest whale. "What say we throw a little something on the barbie and discuss this situation over a nice cold glass of Fosters?"

The whales who just so happened to quite fluent in Aussie, thought this one over. It had been hard work pushing the Bacardi so far and their banquet HAD been interrupted and they were quite hungry. They were also inordinately fond of Fosters but had difficulty procuring it what with being in the ocean and all (see chapter above).

Well, if you stop killing every fish and sea creature for miles around with that horrible glop, we'll think about it," they responded. "You don't have any nice plankton on board do you?"

Kagen thought furiously. He had never had to plan a dinner for 20 or so whales. He turned back to Kit "What can we give them Capt'n ?"

"How about Welsh rabbit," said Kit.

"How does some tasty Welsh rabbit sound, mates?" hollored Kagen at the whales.

"That sounds like the very ticket," the whales chorused back (they were still in fine singing fettle).

"Go down to the galley and tell the cook to prepare Welsh rabbit for 20 very large guests and tell him to hurry," ordered Kit to Tonchi - "and no hair balls this time!"

An hour or so later the stuffed whales (and a stuffed whale is an amazing sight to behold) were floating on their backs with cans of cold Foster's in their flippers.

"Let me tell you a little stoory," began Kit...

The grammaphone began to play Jimmy Buffet's "A pirate looks at 40."

Kit narrated his story via Kagen to the whales, naturally using a good dollop of piratic licence (which is not dissimilar to prosaic licence except there’s no need to write it down).

‘So,’ boomed Winston. ’You are saying that this evil Captain Undertow has captured our good friend Sir Reggie and is even now threatening him with French dressing and a thoroughly good tossing if he doesn’t reveal where all the treasure sites are. That IS terrible!

‘And on top of that it was Undertow and his gang that spiked your cannon and ultimately spoiled our feast. Just not on, simply not cricket… I think we will have to make amends straight away. Without a doubt. Absolutely.’ (Whales tend to go on a bit when communicating with humans)

‘That Welsh rabbit was splendid, especially washed down with the Fosters - although Castlemaine would have been a tad nicer – still, no harm done. I’ll round the family up to get us back to California pronto, without the sideways lurching this time, naturally….!’

++

Back off the coast of California, UT and his crew were feeling pretty pleased with themselves. Kit was gone, and with him the Bacardi Breezer and its crew. The Flossie raised her sails to set south and find another of the treasures that Reggie had located.

Brianna and Cheyenne were happy exchanging information on recipes and hairstyles, the sun was shining and a fair breeze was filling the sails. This was what life at sea was supposed to be all about. No worries about being attacked by pirates and cannon-fire. At last a chance to relax and enjoy the roll of his ship as she ploughed in and through the waves, spray dancing like diamonds in the bright sunlight.

‘Yes, I was just thinking the same…’said Reggie….

++

If the Flossie was making 12 knots then the Breezer was making 20! Winston and his fellow whales were working in formation, like a number of relay teams. First 8 whales would push the galleon forward with all their might for about 30 seconds, then they would drop away and another 8 would take their place, these then followed by the final 7. And so they would rotate, the breaks between pushing permitting them to regain their strength in time for when next it was their turn to push again. Kit had never known his ship move so fast, and all the time they were gaining on the Flossie. It wouldn’t be long before they caught them. If they sailed at night by the stars, then they should be upon them by dawn the next day…

++

UT was woken by Reggie sort of shouting in his head. ‘What is it, Reggie?’

‘I’m not sure. I think it was a bad dream, but it seemed too real. It was as though there were many whales coming for the Flossie, and they were angry. I was trying to communicate with them, because whales use the same type of communication as I do, but their emotions were blocking out any attempt I made. I don’t like it UT…!’

‘What’s the time? Hmm, it’s getting light. Maybe we should have a look on deck. I’ll send Lookout123 up to the crow’s nest…’

The Flossie was still sailing well, as Lookout123 climbed the rope ladders leading to the crow’s nest. His telescope (checked for unwanted smilies) hung diagonally across his back attached to a lanyard. Lookout 123 heaved himself the last few feet over the ledge that formed the floor of the nest and pulled himself upright. He extended the telescope and placed it to his right eye, and in one smooth and continuous move scoured the distant horizon. Nothing. Another sweep, Still nothing. One last scan and….

A spec, but a spec growing bigger and bigger at an unprecedented rate. A minute and the masts of a galleon could be clearly seen. Another minute and he could just make out the familiar flag of the Bacardi Breezer.

Lookout123 called down to UT: ‘It’s Kit! I don’t know what wind he’s following but he‘s making some phenomenal speed and heading straight for us!’

‘The whales!’ Reggie’s words resounded inside UT’s head. ‘He’s being pushed by the whales. It all makes sense now. Kit must have spun them a yarn. God knows what he’s made them believe. Certainly not good news for us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s even convinced them that I am enemy as well. They won’t communicate with me even now!/

‘How long have we got?’UT shouted, looking up towards the crow’s nest.

‘About half an hour at the most I’d say.’ Lookout123 was already making his way down through the rigging, passing Jaguar on the way, who was busy sewing up a large tear in one of the sails.

‘This could be very nasty.’ Said UT.

‘There is one thing, though,’ Reggie interjected. ‘Not many people know this but farks and whales don’t get on at all – in fact they really, really hate each other…’

The gramophone whirred – Rolling Stones – the title just being heard: ‘It’s all over now….’ I hope not! thought UT…

Then UT remembered the Welsh Corgi's. There were ten pure bred Cardigan Welsh Corgi's in the hold that some foolish American had shipped as a gift to The Queen. As everyone knows except Americans, The Queen prefers PEMBROKES NOT Cardi's.

"Bring the Corgi's on deck NOW", shouted UT. "You know how these whales folk stick together. They'd never harm any of their own!"

The Corgi's scampered madly about the deck, wild with joy at the first taste of freedom they'd had in 3 months. Everyone on board the Flossie began to trip over the excited Corgi's who were giving barks of happiness over their escape.

The Bacardi pulled even with the Flossie Jetsam. UT raised the signal flags. "We have ten Welsh Corgi's on board. If the Flossie Jetsam goes down, they will, too!"

"Damn!" exclaimed Kit, "We've been farked by Corgi's!" The whales paused in mid stride or rather mid-tail flip and began to circle the Flossie in a bewildered fashion.

The Corgi's began to (f)bark in unison. One would almost think they were trying to speak, but no one had thought to teach them to do this trick, although an irreverent crew member had taught them to shake hands. This is one of the most absurd things to behold - a little short legged dog extending its paw sideways in an effort to shake hands and get a treat. But I digress.

Jay McGee, the Cardigan wearing man, had his head cocked in the direction of the Flossie Jetsam. The Corgi's unison barking was quite loud. "You need to hear this, sir, " McGee announced to Kit. "The Corgi's say to continue with the attack. They say they've been kept in the hold for three months and they'd rather take their chances doing the dog paddle in the ocean than ever go back down there. They say that UT and the rest are no friend to the Welsh Corgi, be it Pembroke OR Cardigan, and they're willing to go down with the ship, as a result."

Ooops!

UT's clever plan seemed to have backfired on him. Winston and the other whales gave spews of rage, and a ship of PETA fanatics suddenly appeared on the horizon.

"Well, now what you stupid radish?" UT thought to Sir Reginald.

The grammaphone began to play "You ain't nothing but a hound dog." The pirate, Ibram, strummed along on his guitar in smirking unison.

The commander of the secret British garrison on Cedros Island, some short distance from where our fine two (sorry, THREE) fine vessels were now located, woke with a start. He checked his watch. 4.35 am!?! What the hell was that racket?! It sounded like several Welsh corgis being strangled by a Fark which itself was trying to impersonate a school of whales practising the Sing-Along-A-Whalesong Book!

It was all getting a bit too much. There’d been enough cannon fire and noise these past few days, not to mention that god-awful looking minced meat with cat fur in it that had been washed up on the beach in quantity for a good two days. After all, it was a secret garrison and simply by virtue its name, everything was meant to be hush-hush, and this certainly wasn’t!

Vice-admiral Horatio Hornpipe extended an arm out from under the bedcovers and picked up the little bell he kept on the bedside table. Stern measures were called for. No point in just moaning like the rest of his countrymen, who ended up doing that and nothing else, especially when a nice cup of tea was shortly to be delivered.

‘Ere I be. Nice cuppa rosy, me darlin’, just as ‘ee likes it!. A strange mix of South London and Somerset accent filled the air as Hornpipe’s maid CzinZumerzet edged into the room carrying a tray with a teapot, cup, saucer, milk jug, sugar basin, tea strainer, slop bowl, four slices of wholemeal toast, butter dish and a pot of marmalade on it: ‘and a slice or two o’ ‘ee favourite toast and marmalade as well!’

‘Thank you. Just pop it over there, and be a good thing, go and fetch me my loud hailer…no, on second thoughts, fetch me my extra loud hailer.’

CZ shuffled off out of the room and down the stairs, returning a few minutes later with something resembling a cross between a digeridoo and an over-sized ear trumpet. Hornpipe was now out of bed and sporting a bright red dressing gown, a pair of tartan slippers poking out from underneath, each slipper embellished with a golden, fluffy pom-pom.

‘Oooh, yooz duz look nize, Mr. Hornpipe, gawd blimey yooz duz.’

‘Why, thank you my dear. Just bring it over here, will you.’ Hornpipe took the hailer from her and opened wide the window, and then rested the hailer on the sill. The noise from off-shore was even louder now.

Horn pipe pressed his mouth to the small end:

‘I SAY! YOU OVER THERE. ON THOSE SHIP THINGIES. HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT TIME IT IS? CIVILISED PEOPLE ARE STILL TRYING TO HAVE SOME SLEEP YOU KNOW. WOULD YOU MIND QUIETENING DOWN A BIT PLEASE. AND FOR GOODNESS SAKE TRY TO STOP THOSE DOGS BARKING . OH, YES, AND YOU WHALES AND THAT FARK. YES, THAT’S RIGHT, I’M TALKING TO YOU. THE SAME GOES FOR YOU TOO. JUST QUIETEN DOWN ALL OF YOU. YOU DON’T WANT ME TO GET HEAVY-HANDED NOW DO YOU?’

Aboard and about the ships they all stopped what they were doing and looked at each other a bit sheepish. Then almost all together, but very quietly:

‘Oh, all right, sorry…’

‘WHAT WAS THAT? SPEAK UP NOW SO I CAN HEAR YOU’

‘We said we’re sorry….’

‘WELL THAT’S A START. AND ARE YOU GOING TO STOP ALL THIS FIGHTING AND NOISE NONSENSE FOR GOOD NOW?’

‘Oh… all… right…..’

‘WHAT WAS THAT?’

‘We said: All right.’

‘OK. THAT’S BETTER. AND BE SURE YOU DO NOW. I’VE HAD QUITE ENOUGH OF THIS THESE LAST FEW DAYS, I CAN TELL YOU!’

And with that Hornpipe pulled in the hailer and shut the window.

At sea, the whales slinked off with their tales between their…. (well you know what I mean…. ), the corgis huddled together in a bunch and set about going to sleep, while the Fark farked off.

The Peta vessel turned around and went back to the shore, and Kit and UT looked at each other across the decks of their respective ships and shrugged their shoulders at each other. Well, that seemed to be that!

‘Oh what a fool I am!’ Reggie was doing the equivalent of slapping himself on the head in frustration.

‘Sorry?’ said UT. ‘I don’t quite understand….’

‘There I’ve been, all this time, trying to work out where it might be, and the answer’s more or less been staring me in the face. And I just couldn’t see it until now..’

‘You’ve lost me, my little pal.’

‘Look! Over there. Kit has just taken his shirt off. I sort of noticed it before when he took me prisoner, but it didn’t register. There, across his right shoulder blade. That strange tattoo. Like half a map.

‘Yes?’

‘Well you’ve got one as well, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’ve never taken much notice of it. I mean it’s only half a map, and I could never understand the writing on it anyway. I just thought the tattooist was having a bit of a joke.’

‘Well the jokes on you – well, all of us really. Sir Francis told me that the most sought after treasure was that of Blackbeard the pirate. He went down with his ship and all his crew, and never a sole knew of the whereabouts of his treasure. Except it was rumoured that he had made a map and had then made a sort of coded copy of it by transferring it on to another piece of paper, so the process meant the map was now back to front – like when you look at a reflection in a mirror, He then tore the map in two, and left one piece each with a barber in two different ports. Now where did you get your tattoo done?’

‘Why, in Bridgetown, Barbados. In the little barber’s shop – are you suggesting that I have half the map and Kit has the other half?’

‘I certainly am. And, if I am not mistaken, it looks to me like it might well be time to form a truce with each other - that’s of course if I am right, and I certainly think I am. If it is Blackbeard’s treasure map, then we are all going to have the chance to become very rich. If we can find it that is, because the journey will be a treacherous one frought with many dangers. Blackbeard wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone else to get his treasure, was he now! Let’s signal Kit and hold a meeting – and I think we might just need Cheyenne’s mirror!

The gramophone creaked away, an old Sonny and Cher number: ‘I got you, babe…’

Out of deference to Sir Hornpiper (eerrr-harumph!); the Flossie Jetsam raised signal flags to the Bacardi. "About that treasure map - maybe we can come to an agreement."

"Its a trap, Capt'n! Don't be taken in by 'em," whispered the pirate, Ibram, into Kit's ear.

Kit thought for a moment. Signal flags were hoisted on the Bacardi. "Send over the Corgi's. Jay McGee will translate."

UT conferred with Sir Reginald. Do you think you can explain this matter to the Corgi's in a way they will understand?"

"Well, If I can communicate with the British government, I don't see why I can't communicate with a Corgi," replied Sir Reginald, somehat irritated by this question of his skills.

UT went over to where the Corgi's were sleeping on the deck, their little paws blissfuly extended up toward the sky, and their tummies starting to turn pink from the sun's bright rays.

"Sir Reginald wants a word with you lads," he whispered. The Corgi's made little corgi noises in their sleep and blissfully slumbered on.

"TREATS!" whispered UT, "but no barking." The word "treats” awoke the corgi's at once. They rolled over and sat up, their fox like ears perked expetantly. MaggieL hurried over to present them all with milk bones.

After the crunching was finished. Sir Reginald adressed the Corgi's. He explained the situation is some detail and finished up with, "Well, lads, that's the problem. Would you mind going over to the Bacardi and explaining what I've said to Jay McGee?”

"We'd love to get off THIS stupid boat,” the alpha Corgi growled softedly. “ We'll do it on the condition that we never have to return to the Flossie Jetsam."

"DONE!" exclaimed Sir Reginald.

Presently, a skiff filled with Corgi’s was launched from the Flossie Jetsam. Bewildered pirates helped the small dogs scramble aboard. T’Pau, Queen of the Universe was NOT pleased.

“Alright” said Jay McGee to the Corgi’s. “First you must swear to take the Pirate’s Oath. If you do that you will become permanent members of the Bacardi’s crew; you will never again be placed in the hold; you can have all the milk bones your little tummies can hold, and a tot of rum everynight.”

“Make that TWO tots of rum,” said the outlaw Corgi, Belle Starr, “and you have a deal!”

“TWO tots it is,” agreed Jay McGee. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Starr. Now the oath.”

The Corgi’s swore horribly, one after another in Welsh. Even Jay McGee’s pirate’s ears turned red to hear some of the language they used.

“Aaarh, matey’s. You may be short, but you have true pirate’s hearts. Welcome to the Bacardi cruiser!” The Corgi’s all stuck out their right front paws sideways and Capt’n Kit solemnly shook all ten little paws.

The Corgi’s then explained about the two halves of the treasure map with Jay McGee excitedly translating their soft barks and growls.

“What?” exclaimed Kit. “I got that tattoo one night in the Canary Islands at a barber’s shop when I had a bit too much rum. Always thought the bloke had cheated me, but we had to sail after a prize the next morning, so I let it go. You’re telling me that UT has the missing half?”

All ten corgi muzzles nodded up and down in agreement.

“Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish!” exclaimed Kit. “ I have to coperate with UT to get Blackbeard's treasure?”

The Corgi’s nodded again.

The grammaphone began to play “Strangers in the night.”

‘We just have to decide one way or the other whose ship we use – we have both at least agreed that we can hardly justify having two of them, so we have to reach a decision somehow…!’ UT and Kit were talking (more like arguing) while bobbing up and down in the small tender boat that they had decided would be suitable neutral territory on which to have their discussions about the ensuing voyage to locate Blackbeard’s treasure.

‘Well,’ said Kit, ‘it’s obvious that the Breezer is far superior in terms of speed and firepower…’

‘Yes, but the Flossie has the better cargo space – and that to my mind is more important than the advantage of speed or firepower…’

The two Captains fell silent once again. They had given numerous reasons why one vessel was better than the other, from crew accommodation to galley facilities, from size of cannon to number and volume of sails, size of anchor, height of crow’s nest - they seemed to have covered almost every conceivable angle, but so far they still hadn’t come to any satisfactory conclusion. And the little boat really wasn’t helping that much – it was hard to think straight when bobbing around all the time, but they’d resorted to using the small boat after having even a worse time trying to communicate across the sea from their respective galleons. It still didn’t seem to be working though….

‘Look,’ UT decided on making one final effort to break the deadlock. ‘The Floss– hang on a minute, are we rising out of the water, or am I imagining things….?’ Both UT and Kit held on to the sides of the little boat as it was lifted clear of the sea and elevated some 15 feet above the water’s surface.

‘What the…!!’

Both captains peered over their respective sides of the little boat. They seemed to be perched on some large strange metal contraption, shaped a bit like a fish, but definitely of man-made construction. It had these two round windows either side of the central bridge (the place they seemed to be situated) – they looked a bit like fish eyes – and running between them down to the bow of the ship was a long barbed expanse of metal, looking like some giant saw. Whatever next?

A small hatch opened on this strange craft, just to the left of where Kit and UT were perched, and out popped a neatly-dressed bearded little man. He moved as if to speak, but Kit stopped him in his tracks:

‘You, you…I’ve seen you before… well, certainly seen a picture of you anyway… you’re….no, don’t tell me… your name’s on then tip of my tongue….’

The little man went to speak again.

‘No, no, hang on a minute… it’ll come to me, I know it will. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me…’

‘All right, I won’t!’ said the little man. And promptly stepped back inside the hatch and closed the lid.

‘Now look what you’ve done.’ Said UT. ‘You didn’t give him a chance…’ UT jumped over the side if the boat and on to the metal deck to which the hatch was attached. He tapped on the hatch with his knuckles.

The hatch opened and the little man popped his head out: ‘May I speak this time?’

‘Of course, I apologise for my…… hmm, friend.’

‘Right, well I’d just like to know who sent that Fark down to attack my vessel, please. I know it must have been one of you…!’

‘ I’ve got it, You’re that Captain Nimble…., no, hang on, not Nimble…, Numbo…, no, that’s not it either… ah, yes now I remember – it’s Nemo. You’re Captain Nemo.

‘Nemo? Not me, I’m not Nemo, oh, no! Nemo? Ha-ha, No, no, no. Not Nemo, not me. I’m No-me’

Well if you’re not you, who are you then?’ Kit’s head was starting to spin.

‘I am me, No-me! Are you some sort of idiot. I know who I am, and Nemo was my cousin by the way, but I don’t see much of him these days, not since he retired. Anyway, you’re avoiding my question, which of you sent down the Far-’

‘Oh, I get it, you’re Nemo’s cousin. So what’s your name then – and I suppose this is the Nautilus.’

‘No, not the Nautilus – it never was the Nautilus – it’s always been the Naughty Lass. That’s the trouble with people, they never listen or pass things on properly. And as I’ve told you already, I’m No-me, Captain No-me – now will you please stop all this nonsense and tell me which of you sent down the Fark, although I think I might have a good idea who it was anyway….’

‘Actually it wasn’t either of us.’ UT decided he ought to take control of the conversation. ‘The Fark was attacking us, and if anyone is to blame for it coming after you then it really has to be Vice Admiral Hornpipe at the secret garrison on Cedros Island. He interfered in our arrangements, in no uncertain terms. The Fark must have taken exception to his instructions and sought you out. I trust he did you no harm. You seem to be in good shape,,,’

‘Nothing 20,000 volts couldn’t sort out. I doubt that I will be seeing him again. It’s just a bit of a nuisance as it takes a while to get the batteries up to strength again.’ No-me seemed to be quietening down a bit.’ If you like you can come on board and have a look at the Naughty Lass – she’s quite something, you know.’

And so they did - and so she was! Compared to their wooden boats she seemed light years ahead – she hardly seemed to fit into their century at all, but then that’s prosaic licence for you. And No-me was a good guide. He showed them all the interesting bits of the Naughty Lass (and I’m sure you won’t need telling in detail what those might be!), and even introduced them to the crew, one of whom, the Navigating Officer, looked remarkably like Elspode (but then there’s always someone who looks like Elspode, isn’t there?)

No-me ushered Kit and UT into his luxurious suite – as they might have guessed, it sported those two large windows that from the outside looked like fish eyes….

‘I can see you are impressed with my fine Lass. And She’s fast as well, both underwater and on the surface - and she has an amazing capacity for cargo, superb accommodation, an excellent galley, unmatched firepower, a large anchor – you name it, she’s got it!. Yet it seems such a waste – to be honest, it’s just so boring wandering around the seas and oceans these days, with nothing more than the odd pirate ship to scupper and the occasional Fark to electrocute…’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking…?’ UT whispered quietly in Kit’s ear.

‘I’m well ahead of you this time, UT…’

And so it was that Kit and UT took No-me into their confidence, explaining their mission to find Blackbeard’s treasure. And so it also was, that No-me agreed to accompany them on their adventure, which they would undertake in the Naughty Lass, with crew drawn from the Breezer, the Flossie and the Naughty Lass in equal numbers.

‘A toast, I think is due to seal our great adventure!’ No-me poured three large measures of the best rum and our three captain’s signed their deal as all the best deals are signed – with ample amounts of alcohol!

They all lounged back in the soft leather sofas in No-me’s suite and listened attentively to his amazing stereo system as it chose and played a record at random from the vast selection available, and an appropriate choice it was too: ‘This is the captain of the ship….’

Soon, they would be making their way back to the Caribbean Sea.... and at a phenomenal speed as well, naturally....

My God - they've been quiet getting on board that sub! Who'd have thought it would take that long? But then, I suppose there were all the crew to sort out, then who had which cabin, the obvious complaints about claustrophobia, and the fact that Lookout 123 had to be trained to stop wanting to go up to the crows nest when they were submerged...

Still, they should be well ready to sail now, and will do my best to recount some more this motley crew's ongoing escapades over the weekend....

I haven't forgotten - just too many people wanting me to do odd jobs (well one in particular), that I haven't been able to devote the time to do the next entry yet (yes, dear... just coming...)

I have just discovered this ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT thread ! Excellent . Now I understand your earlier sibylline reference to Martinique , Cyclefrance . Do not be swayed . Your literary oeuvre is far more important than odd-jobbing for Mrs Cyclefrance . May I make a request ? Try to incorporate H.M.S. Diamond Rock into the next installment .

instalment, even