Rhythm and Beans.

Bikle lives in a squalid abode, with his idiot brother and a rather large toad.

In the cupboard a couple of old tins of beans, on the hob a saucepan that so often steams.


And why does it bubble and steam on the hob? To help pass the time, for he has not a job.

He eats own brand beans until a pittance the government pays, then gorges on heinz for a couple of days.

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 4:23 pm  Leave a Comment  

Blossom’s Miserable Day.

Yolanda:           In wellies and an outdoor coat. “I’m off to take Blossom to the blacksmith to have her shod, I’ll be back for tea ok Morris?”

Morris:              “No no my little cherokee pie, I will not hear of it, Johnson will do it for nowt and you can put your feet up for the afternoon.”

Yolanda:          “Are you sure he’s up to it Morris? those things can be a bit ham fisted?”

Morris:              “I do not know about a ham/fist combination, but I am sure Johnson is up to the task.”

Yolanda:           “Well if you’re sure then yes that would be very nice. She’s just round the back.”

Morris:              “You heard! See to it Johnson!”

Johnson:            “Mwaaerk!”

Yolanda:            “Afternoon on the sofa when I though I had to go out in the wet, what a treat.”

Yolanda settles herself down when suddenly she is startled out of her novel.

Johnson:          “Mwaaerk!” *BLAM*


Yolanda:          “Morris! What’s happening out there?”

Morris:              “I imagine my dear, Johnson has shot Blossom as you requested.”

Yolanda:            “Shod! not shot! Shod! not shot! Oh for fucks sake poor Blossom!”

They go to inspect the corpse.

Morris:            “Ho ho never fear my little automated traffic control system, Necromantic Horse Whisperer Johnson will soon have her up and about again. Well he has hasn’t he! Look!”

Blossom:         *Neiighsssss!”

Yolanda;         “Aaagh! Morris! She’s biting me! Stop her!” etc etc etc.

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 12:15 pm  Leave a Comment  

Hobson’s Choice- Finale (Please note this is the final sequence to Trevor’s Breakfast Quest).

Everyone sits around looking glum, when suddenly a band of festively attired Thompsons burst into the room, bearing sundry home made instruments, drums, gourd maracas and conch shells, and burst into an upbeat calypso style version of the Treasure Quest theme. From Clancy’s renewed howling, and cries of “Not now Thompson!” it is apparent that this triumphant musical extravaganza was prearranged prior to his recent reversal of fortune.

The Nolans are delighted and begin an appallingly uncoordinated dance routine. Morris grabs two femurs and joins in, playing an accomplished ragtime xylophone solo on Jackson’s denuded ribcage.

Morris:          “Ho ho, this is more like it shipmates! One more time for the cheap seats!”

With a tearing and rending sound the prow of an old fashioned galleon smashes through the wall of the room. Sat behind the wheel is our old friend Cap’n Flint. The decks and yards are manned by a crew of Johnsons in immaculate sailor suits. Morris breaks once more into his raucous sea shanty;

Morris:         “Oh a long way from my parlour we surely have sailed, where with the Turkey’s sad story we all were regaled, and my schemes for pepper mill acquisition they sadly have failed, O, and the narrative thread it has been oft deraiiiilleeeed!” He waves a femur as if it were a conductor’s baton! “CHORUS! Sing you turkey bastards!”

An awful cacophony of Mwaerks! Wakarks! Nolan Sisters songs, gallic cursing and avian weeping ensues, all accompanied by the Thompsons Calypso combo, before he resumes

Morris:           “O, o’er the oceans together we’ve come, to a land where parrot men beat on the drum, I’ve consumed the roast carcass of an old canine chum, and Johnson got lucky with the Turkey’s old mum!”

The assemblage do not need to be told again, and the godawful discordant cacophony swells once more, augmented by the squall of Morris’ Northumbrian pipes. Fireworks explode, Coconut brassiered Thompsonettes cancan past, interspersed with Buckle and Pasta Chef Johnson, Leonard glasses Alfonso viciously in the left temple, Cap’n Flint’s vessel fires a broadside of glitter which cascades over all concerned. All turn to Morris, awaiting a final verse, only to find him quietly slumped in a chair, leafing idly through the dog eared pages of an old Exchange and Mart  and sipping a shandy bass. There is a knock at the door, and at the same time, it is clear that they are all somehow back in Morris’ living room. He gets up with an irritated grunt and walks across and opens the door. Outside stands the hooded figure of Executioner Johnson, clutching a paperback copy of “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.”

Morris:          “Oh, evenin’ Johnson. ‘Landa! Yer book club’s here.”

He looks round and a mildly surprised expression briefly crosses his grim visage, “Coo, lot of ’em turned up this time haven’t they? Good read is it? Anyway, I’m off to fix that Lawnmower for the Hobsons, I’ll be in the shed if you need anything,”

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 12:01 pm  Leave a Comment  


Gentle reader, as it says in Squirrel Nutkin, it looks like the end but it isn’t, there is one final instalment to come.

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 11:57 am  Leave a Comment  

Trevor’s Breakfast Quest.

Yolanda:               “Morris are you just going to sit there all day? I’m trying to do the hoovering.”

Morris:                 “Indeed I am my dear, I am taking the day off. At least I am taking the day off yet also however also hard at work. In another time and another place I ensuring the painful fiery demise of a dozen Veronese harlequins. In the meantime , cease that awful hoovering my robust little centrifuge and bring me a wagon wheel and a carton of Old Farmer Johnson’s Traditional Ham and Piccalilli  Potato Style snacklets. I am keen to see what daytime television has to offer.”

Yolanda:               “You’re not going to mess around with all the programmes again just because you’re bored are you Morris?”

Morris:                 “What was that my little Crimean Tartar? I was just incinerating a brace itinerant Portugese clam handlers. No, no nothing could be further from my mind. I am merely dipping my toe into the choppy waters of popular culture. You have previously in an unguarded moment suggested that I spend too much time with monsters, entities and birdmen, so my poorly maintained veloicipede, I am going to immerse myself in the world of human affairs and what better barometer of a society could you suggest than daytime television?”

Yolanda:               “Er well actually dear, perhaps it would be better if…”

Morris:                 “No no my little anomalous phenomenon, there is no need to thank me, now hand me the remote control and my decanter of Olde Englsih and the odyssey begin. Although while you are up I think Coco would be all the better for another of those Spanish onions, he seems a little skittish.”

Yolanda:               “That bloody coconut creature, I wish you’d get rid of it. It’s nasty Morris, it bit a hole in my tights the other day.”

Morris:                 “Did he indeed, hmm hoom, no onions for you today then Coco. Now then my little chargrilled husk, how many gymnosophists does it take to change a light bulb?”

Yolands:               “I don’t know Morris, I don’t really care, I just want to do the housework and you’re in my way.”

Morris:                 “One to change the lightbulb, one to hold the chair, one ring to bring them all in and in the darkness bind them, one for sorrow, one unus mundus, one long lonely existence through which you must tread, despairing event following despairing event, fearful happening upon fearful happening, tenebrous foulness gripping every step, longing long for a cessation that never comes…”

Yolanda:               “Morris! Stop it! You said you were going to watch day time TV!”

Morris:                 “Eh?”

Yolanda:               “Daytime television! That’s why you said you’re still here today!”

Morris:                 “Of course I am still here today, where else would I be? Though I am also on a distant planet in the crab nebula mastering new and awful kinds of incineration as taught to me by the dread denizens therein –their names I shall not even whisper. Hmm coco does seem a little skittish, would you mind passing him an onion from the onion bowl?”

Yolanda:                 “Just watch the television Morris and be quiet for a bit!”

Morris:                    “as you desire my pendulous appendage, I shall commence my social research. Now what shall we have? Granny loves cataracts? Let’s give it a whirl.”

The TV reveals a scene with a youngish reporter asking an elderly woman questions.

Reporter:            “so when was the first time you went in a cataract granny?”

Granny:                                “Eh?”

Reporter:            “The boat, when did you first discover you love of boating?”

Granny:                                “oh sonny that was a long time before  the war…”

She talks at some length, Morris begins to lose interest.

Morris:                 “This isn’t quite what I had in mind. Is this really what people are watching?”

Reporter:            “and when did you first discover you had cataracts in your eyes?”

Granny:                “well sonny that was after the war after I crashed my boat just off the shore of Orfordness, a terrible time that was…”

Morris continues to stare but clearly is displeased.

Reporter:            “So granny in your opinion is a cataract cataract a good or a bad combination?”

Granny:                “It’s a bad combination sonny make no mist…”

Morris can watch no longer.

Morris:                 “This is not my idea of fun! I would be better off in the abyss of Gehenna watching devilish Johnson toasting marshmallows. Come Yolanda let’s leave this dreadful abode, with its rancorous odour and loathsome crocodiles, its poisonous snakes! Yes beware my sack of effluent! Behind that curtain even as we speak is Dr VS Johnson who still seeks to fill you will deadly narcotic! Flee my sweet or you will surely die!”

Yolanda:               “Morris Stop it! It’s frightening!”

Morris:                 “It is indeed frightening! Nay terrifying! Grab your coat Debbie, we’re off out for brunch!”

They leave the house

Morris:                 “Fire inspector Johnson was kind enough to leave his vehicle here so we do not have to walk. Now where shall we go? Kooky’s Cookie hole? All day breakfast, all day breakfast, all day breakfast…”

Yolanda:               “Morris! It’s only twenty five to nine in the morning. We’ve just had breakfast. You had a bottle of port and something that looked like raw chicken but smelled awful like old fish.”

Morris:                 “Ah yes the swan tartar, I remember it well, and you had the all day breakfast.”

Yolanda:               “I had some toast and half a grapefruit. I don’t want to go out Morris. I’ve got the house to see to. I’ve been over that living room carpet half a dozen times with the vax and I still haven’t got all the amphibian out if it and  it’s my Thursday to host book club.”

Morris:                 “Thirsty ghost duck club? What on earth are you going on about Yolanda? This is no time for Chinese vampire wildfowl conundrums. Now why are you standing around out here? Don’t you have housework to do?”

Yolanda:               “Jesus! You made me come out here Morris! You wanted an all day breakfast remember?”

Morris:                 “At this hour? You need to watch the calories my little limescale deposit. You don’t want the boys to start calling you Porkohontas do you? Ho ho ho.”

Yolanda:               “For gods sake! Are we going out or are we going back inside? I’ve ironing to do as well.”

Morris:                 “That is a poorly worded query my little drought stricken archipelago, for if we have the option of ‘going out’ surely we are in a state where by definition we are ‘in’. How then do you propose to go about going ‘back in’ should that be my desired outcome?”

Yolanda:               “Oh do piss off Morris. I’m going to get on with the chores, you can do what you like.”

With that Yolanda storms back into the house in high dudgeon, slamming the door behind her. Seizing her vacuum cleaner, she lugs it into the living room, only to be confronted by Morris, with his feet up on the sofa seeming engrossed in television programme about antiques.

Morris:                 (potato style snacklet halfway to his mouth) “Alright ‘landa? Where’ve you been? Out for breakfast no doubt? You’re missing a fascinating programme here you know. Apparently two gits are given a certain amount of money and then have to scour second hand shops and car boot sales for bargains. Whichever team makes the least money is burned to death or something.” He frowns at the screen. “Hmm a couple of these clowns look familiar now you mention it.”

On the screen a man in late middle age sporting a wilfully aggressive set of tweeds is saying something about meeting our next set of contestants.

Tweedy:              “And on this edition of Treasure quest, we have Michael from Lincoln and his partner today, Leonard from France. So Michael, do you know a lot about antiques?”

Bikle:                     “Dow but I’ve got an Aunt Bavis! And we dow all about her eh boys?”


Tweed man nods and smiles

Tweedy:              “And Leonard you’re from France, do you think you’ll be able to *chuckle* cut the mustard today?”

Leonard:              looking at him blankly “What!?”

Tweedy:              “Bit of a language barriers eh? I was just saying, being French doubtless you’ll know your onions!”

Leonard:              “Yes. Of course I am familiar wiz ze onions. What the *the word is drowned out by the tooting of a passing vintage car horn* ‘as zat got to do wiz ze antiques?”

Tweedy:              Laughing nervously and handing over £100 to each of them “Er yes well, there you go, I’ll leave you to scour the stalls for real steals! Ah ha ha, and we’ll see you back here in 15 minutes with your treasures!”

Leonard is off like a whippet. Bikle stalks the off amongst the tables piled high with ornaments, paintings etc.  and starts poking about amongst the things. As the camera pans back, Leonard can clearly be seen scaling the perimeter fence and heading for an adjacent public house.

Inside a gloomy bar, a gaudily dressed man is knocking the white ball badly round the pool table. His attempts to pot this singular sphere fail with unnerving regularity. At each failure he attempts to retain his composure whilst clearly internally becoming more and more frustrated, swearing under his breath in secretive French. Around the near empty pub seating, the odd Johnson is scattered nursing some kind of murky drink. A mentally ill looking man with a stained t-shirt and a pair of somehow striking old brown trousers sits twitching clutching a j20. Barman Johnson is drying a pint glass with a stained rag. Suddenly the door is flung open.

Leonard:              “Alfonso! Alfonso! I ‘ave ze cash!” The frippery attired man looks up

Alfonso:               “Ah marvellous! Let’s ave a drink then!”

Leonard:              “No mon amis you misunderstand, listen ag’an! ‘I ‘ave ze cash!’, you Comte de Bersierneaux ‘ave nosseeng! Eh Wanker!” He heads for the bar, “Two pants of snak bite, two double vodkas please Johnson.”

Barman Johnson sets about the task

Alfonso:               “but Leonard, you still owe me 20 quid from last Wednesday!”

Leonard:              “Eh?” Leonards snarling visage turns to face the count “what?! A’ll give you 20 quid you fuckair!” And he knocks him down with a sharp elbow to the forehead. The drinks appear and Leonard starts to quickly drink them “And a soda wata an’ slops for fuckface down there!”

Johnson nods and tips so some trayed up liquid into a glass, tops it up with the soda tap

Leonard:              “Come on Alfonso, get up you fuckair! Ah got you a drink anyway! Drink up quick, ah’ve got to be back at that show in 5 minutes, Johnson give me the Vodka bottle!”

He hurls some notes at Johnson who hands him the optic. Leonard finishes most of the snake bite, throws the last quarter of a pint over Alfonso, knocks back the vodkas and lurches off with the optic bottle

Leonard:              “Ah’ll see you later Comte de Bersierneaux!”

Back on set the tweedy gentle man is talking to Bikle and looking perturbed

Tweedy:              “Hmm what’s this you’ve found it certainly is err unusual. On the table in front of them is a strange ebony black enormous rolling pin esque object.

Bikle:                     “It is rader large isn’t it Tweedy!”

Tweedy:              “Err quite, didn’t you get anything else?”

Bikle:                     “Just dese old dvds, they look barvellous!”

Leornard staggers into camera view, clearly horribly drunk, clutching the nearly empty bottle

Tweedy:              “Ah Leonard, back from your bon voyage, what do you have for us? Oh a pub optic, that looks quite recent? Hmm and it’s still got drink left in it.”

Leonard:              “Hehe not for much longer fuckairs.” And he lifts the bottle up but has to keep releasing it by the dispenser as he hasn’t figure out how to remove it. Vodka goes partially in his mouth and partially all over his beard, dripping down his front, he looks a fucking state. Out of nowhere he cries “fuckeeeng ‘ell zere is Napoleon!”

Bikle and Tweedy look round and Leonard smashes the vodka bottle into the back of Tweedy’s head. He crumples on the floor amid showers of glass and vodka.

Leonard:              “And what are you looking at fuckair!”He shouts at Bikle before, rifling through the felled presenter’s pockets, finding in the process the rest of the money for other contestants. Then the screen goes blank.

Morris:                 “Why did that program stop?! That was marvellous! No wonder people like daytime tv if it’s like that eh Bernard?”

Bernard brown is now in Morris’ living room clutching a can of 7up and looking no less mental

Bernard Brown:                “Eh ooh, well if it sits still for long enough, then the poorly cow can post a right packet.”

Yolanda:              Wanders in and looks despairingly on “Morris what is he doing here?”

Morris:                 “Are you the poorly cow my little horsechestnut?”

Yolanda:               “Morris! You could at least have sat him on some newspapers or something. He’s absolutely filthy. I’ve had just about enough of this today, I’m going to do my ironing in the utility, and I want that, whatever he is, gone when I come back.”

Morris:                 “Very well my little tattered silken parasol, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I shall try another of the programmes, to see if it is as amusing as the previous one. Now what have we here ‘one burned every minute’, what’s that about  ‘a frank, behind the scenes look at the countries busy crematorium’.  Hmm not quite what I had hoped for, what about this? ‘Ready, Steady, Mwaaerk!’  don’t like the sound of that much to be honest . ‘CSI Johnson’?”

Yolanda:               calling from the utility room “Remember dear, you got the box set of that from Johnson last Christmas?”

Morris:                 “Oh yes, most scintillating… What about ‘hardcore prawns’ Cornish fishermen brave the stormy waters of the North Atlantic to find and catch the eponymous crustaceans. I do not care about that. NEXT! ‘The spud the bad and the ugly’ a candid look at a rehabilitation project for young offenders in a baked potato outlet.  I DO NOT LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT EITHER. It all appears to be pointless behind the scenes documentaries or repeats. This TV guide needs to raise its game Yolanda or I’m getting the boys round for a game of cards.”

Yolanda:               Looking visibly distressed. “No no dear, no need to do that, I’m sure that there is something nice on the television! Let’s see, what about this? Er ‘the Egg Files’ in this week’s episode  of the award winning look at life in a late night omelette shack…”

Morris’ face darkens, she hurriedly continues the search.

Yolanda:               “Oh, here’s another episode of ‘Treasure Quest’, you quite liked that didn’t you Morris”

Morris:                 “I have no idea what on earth you are talking about woman. Trevor’s quest? Who is this Trevor anyway? What’s he after? Is he in your book club? Give me one good reason not to burn him to death!”

Yolanda:               “No Morris, ‘Treasure Quest’! The programme about antiques. You liked it.”

Morris:                 “Did I? That sounds most unlikely Yolanda. Nevertheless, wheel it on my little mildewed garden swing, it can’t be worse than that terrible program about antiques you made me watch earlier.”

Yolanda sighs and selects the programme. The man in tweeds has been replaced by a man in an equally disagreeable faux eccentric linen suit which he has augmented with a risible moustache. He is addressing familiar gangly becloaked figure.

Julian:                   “So Michael, you are our reigning champion, how do you feel about that?”

Bikle:                     “Rather sbug actually Juliad!”

Julian:                   Laughing, then looking round nervously. “and you have a new team mate I understand?”

Bikle:                     “Ho yes Juliad, this is Sibod. Dot up to buch but de best I could do at such shord dotice. It was either dat or brig Buckle!”

Curiously Julian and the rest of the contestants guffaw loudly at this, as if they know all about Buckle and can envisage the chaos which have ensued had he been brought along. After a little more grim bandinage, into which Simon repeatedly tries to interject himself, only to be ignored, the cash is once more handed over and the pair head off to seek bargains. As they trot along the tables set out in a field, stopping to admire an old steamer trunk or ivory shoe horn, the camera pans out revealing in the middle distance, a catering caravan emblazoned with the legend ‘All Day Breakfast’. Sat in front of this on a lawn chair busily plying his knife and fork is Morris.

It zooms in closer. There he sits cutlery in hand. A kind of caravan kitchen set up can be seen at the rear with Expert All Day Breakfast Johnson plying his trade with panache.

Morris:                 “Hmm *chomp* oh oh hello there boys and  girls and welcome to ‘all day breakfast’ all day breakfast, all day…’”

Another Johnson from off screen can see he has stalled and hurls a baked potato at him. It lands comedically on the end of his fork

Morris:                 “Ho ho, now I didn’t see that one coming, but who eats baked potatoes for breakfast? I don’t think we need to answer that one, eh Johnson?”

Johnson:              Cheerily and from off camera “Mwaaerk!”

Morris:                 “Anyway today on ‘all day break fast…” clearly he is trying not to get stuck but after pausing it is too much “all day breakfast, all day break.. What the fuck! Who turned out the lights?”

In a panic and resisting the urge to throw something hard at Morris, Johnson has launched a dirty tea towel through the air, initially in a scrunched up ball, it unfolds itself mid-flight and lands squarely over the top of his conical hats before sliding down over his face

Morris:                 “Eternal darkness, the demise of the world of vision, cursed cursed woe, the lot of the wizard faces a terrible end” he bemoans his situation before the cloth slides off his face and right into the remains of said ‘all day breakfast’. Morris looks down at the dirty cloth in his esteemed morning comestible “Johnson, you have ruined, the breakfast and the show and in doing so you have undone yourself and brought about your fiery demise!”

With a flick of his wrist the cloth and plate ignite, hurtle fiercely through the air, off visible  camera scene and clearly –from the scream and explosion- straight into Johnson, who now blunders inferno like back into shot, crashing into the temporary breakfast kitchen, causing it to also quickly catch alight, EADB Johnson just manages to escape the blaze by leaping out the serving hatch. With smoke billowing around, a serious fire raging, and the incinerated remains of Johnson still just visible on the floor, Morris turns to the camera.

Morris:                 “Join us next week for another episode of All day breakfast, all day…” a strange bagpipe tune starts and the repeat breakfast mantra can be heard fading slowly away, the credits roll with every name being  Johnson.

Morris:                 “Ho ho ho! That was marvellous Yolanda! I especially liked the burning bit”

Yolanda:               “Morris! You’ve been fucking around with the programs again, that was supposed to be Trevor’s quest!”

Morris:                 “Trevor’s quest my dear? I can assure you it was in fact Treasure quest! You must have been out in the sun for too long, well you have been out in the sun for too long haven’t you, what is more you have not read the packaging on the sun cream correctly and as such have applied only cheap shoddy suncream which does not protect you from the full ultraviolet spectrum, burnt, sunstruck and tired your body gives up its feeble defences against cancerous growth look” He signals with his head to the utility room out of which flies what seems to be the remains of an omelette, it lands on Yolanda’s forearm, Morris looks on unimpressed “Hmm I know you are fresh out of your old breakfast job Johnson but I still expected the faux cancer to be a little more convincing.”

Johnson:              “Mwaaerk!” comes the apologetic cry.

Yolanda:               “MORRIS! I have had enough of this fucking madness, you can do the housework or whatever the fuck you want to do, I’m going out for the day!”

Morris:                 “Calm yourself my little aperitif, if you insist on going on a quest for Trevor, please take a packed lunch, this omelette cancer could forge its foundation. Maybe also something light and refreshing such as swan tartare perhaps, washed down with a bumper of eggnog, then I’d recommend a more robust course, perhaps some kind of smoked fish with new potatoes and a dill sauce accompanied by a bottle of Spanish wine.”

Yolanda has in the interim gone and got changed. As she walks towards the door Coco launches an onion at her head. Ducking she raises two fingers at him and slams the door behind her. The onion bounces off the doorframe and slams into the skybox. As we hear the whine of fire inspector Johnson’s milk float accelerate away up the street, once again the cheery jaunty them of Treasure quest burst forth from the TV as it returns from an advert break. Bikle is holding some kind of outsize monkey wrench as an elderly stall hold attempts to expound upon its provenance.”

Stallholder:         “Yes I suppose it is rather large too…”

Bikle:                     “Ho, we dow all about does eh viewers? O o o dow what’s dat under dat sheet den old lady?”

Stallholder:         becoming cagey “Oh nothing nothing. What sheet? I don’t see any sheet.”

Bikle:                     “Done of dat dow! Come od Sibod help be get dis sheet off.”

Simon:                  “Ho h’yes h’sir! H’anything for a h’chum!”

Stallholder:         “No no gentlemen, please not that! Have a look at this interesting old fishing rod…”

Bikle:                     “Dot likely! Let’s see what we have here, why it’s just ad old bangle!”

Stallholder:         “Yes yes, just a silly old mangle gentlemen, nothing mystical about it at all. Probably doesn’t even work, now about this fishing rod…”

Simon:                  “Ho h’doesn’t h’work, heeey? H’I’ll soon h’see h’about h’that!”

And with that Simon gives the handle and experimental turn. The rollers spin slowly at first, then seemingly with a life of their own. The old woman tries to halt them, but instead is drawn between the spinning  drums with an awful shriek.

Yolanda enters a familiar looking pub and weaves through a handful of lunchtime drinkers to the bar.

Yolanda:               “Give me a large Cointreau and lemonade Johnson, he’s really doing my head in today!”

Johnson puts his appendage in front of his beak in a warning gesture before pointing to a corner booth where a figure is seated applying himself to a plate of sausage, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash  browns and fried bread.

Yolanda:               “Oh for gods sake!”

Downing her drink, she turns and storms out again. Across the road the spies a banner advertising an ‘Antiques Fayre’. Hesitating, she notices ‘Beer tent’ listed as one of the manifold attractions of said event and plunges into the crowds. Twitching slightly as she passes the still smouldering wreckage of a catering tent, she pauses to throw the milk float keys to FI Johnson, who is standing nearby looking solemnly at his clip board before heading into the beer tent. After some seeking she finds the place and enters. The musty tent greets her with a familiar voice sounds from a table nearby.

Leonard:              “So ah said to ‘eem Comte de Bersierneaux eh?! Wankerr!” Followed by various raucous ‘Mwaaerks!’ and other assorted laughs.

She looks over to see a table with Leonard, son of Dracula Johnson (looking much the worse for wear), captain flint, rough whisky Johnson (dangerously attempting flipper tricks with a 45), the Comte de Bersierneaux himself (looking huffily on as Leonard continues with with unpleasant tales about him), Frosty’s Badger slurping on a pint of stout and the Judge Bikle action doll (drinking vodka out of a thimble). She tries to hurry back out but it’s too late

Leonard:              “Eh Yolanda! Eh Cherie! Come over ‘ere and see your Uncle Leonard!”

Johnson:              “Mwaaerk! Mwaaerk! Mwaaerk!!” says Rough whisky Johnson excitedly.

JB:                          “Ball right dere Yolanda! De court is in session! Eh Boys?!” and they all fall about laughing.

She looks disgustedly on at the bawdy crowd before noticing a screen set up above the bar. The same strained bagpipe jingle emits from it yet now a new presenter conducts the show.

Clancy:                  “Bllblblbp so Bikle three rounds and your still in the lead, blblblbp let’s review your winning purchases.” Clancy leers over a table sporting the strange ebony long object and the giant monkey wrench “really! Blblblbp! Rather large objects, ehh Bikle?”

Bikle:                     “Ho yes dat’s right, you could berr call it by speciality!”

Clancy:                  “Blblblbp, I understand you’ve lost your last partner too in a mangle incident now blblblbp”

Bikle:                     “Berr yes ballegedly, poor old Sibod, still perhaps for de best eh Clancy?”

Clancy:                  “Blblblblbp yes, there is something to be said for having your essence squeezed out, eh Bikle??!  Bblblblblblbp!”

Bikle:                     “Berr, yes by suppose so…” Looks uncomfortably on at the Turkey’s interested stare

Clancy:                  “Anyway blbllblp last round! New partner”

Buckle:                 “Ho hello dere Bikle fancy beeting you here!”

Bikle:                     “Ho by God! What are you doig here! By thought you said you were staying at hobe?”

Buckle:                 “Bohh silly old SB! B’im not at hobe, I’b right here! Look!”

Bikle:                     “Do do! I can see you’re right here, I thought you were goig to stay at hobe!”

Buckle:                 “H’what are you goig hobe Bikle! I thought you were doig well, ho well I can always take over!”

Bikle:                     Looks very fucked off with proceedings “I’b dot goig hobe Buckle, I’b widdig here! You deed to go hobe! I don’t want you spoiling by day!”

Buckle:                 “Silly old Bikle, he geds quide confused bister Butterball! Why don’t you have a bug of cocoa and settle down for a bit.”

Bikle:                     “Fuck off fuck off! Stop dis! I’b de widdig constestant and I reject dis partner choice!”

Buckle:                 “Blblblblblp really!? Well viewers it’s all kicked off here. We’ll be back after this short commercial break!”

The bagpipes start up again. Yolanda looks down, then turns around to be greeted by son of Dracula Johnson who has sneaked up behind her “Mwaaaaaerk!” He shouts as fiercely and vampirically as he can muster.

Yolanda:               Screaming “Holy Fuck!”

The table of of uncouth joke characters erupt into raucous cachinnation once more. Leaving the tent huffily she walks –though coming out the same way- not back to the tent exterior but into a sleek coffee bar looking saloon, plush booths line the sides and elegantly curved table dot the space. Various Johnsons litter the seating. Unperturbed by the spatial shift she relaxes into these pleasant surrounds. Until that is, she spots the mentally disturbed figure of Bernard Brown perched on a shiny swish breakfast bar set up. The plate in front of him is large and filled with a certain collection of early morning foods. J20 in one hand fork in the other, he peers at the dish with anxiety pushing bits of it around. The next thing she spots is the sign above a payment serving area which reads , in an elegant font:  ‘all day breakfast saloon’. Another glance in this region reveals there is what appears to be a dead swan lying on the serving bar top with a Johnson bending over it with a knife.  All the relaxation drained out of her she seeks to escape the eaterie but is sudden accosted by a familiar voice.

Morris:                 Wearing a ten gallon hat “Howdy partner glad you could pop by what do you think of my all day breakfast saloon?”

Before Yolanda can do more than sigh heavily, there is an almighty crash, and two figures hurtle into the saloon through the batwing doors, knocking Bernard Brown from his lofty perch in the process.

Bikle:               “Give dat here! Dat’s by bloody bargid!”

Buckle:                        ” Do, I wod’t! I found it! It’s bide!”

Bikle:               “Dot bloody likely! It’s bide! Get your fridiotic hads off it!”

Buckle:                        “I’b goig to wid de prize!”

Bikle:               “I’ll cripple you id a bidit you ditwit, leggo!”

The two fools appear to be engaged in a tug of war over a cylindrical object of some dark yet lustrous wood, wrought with intricate carvings, and sporting a crooked handle at its head. Bikle makes a supreme effort and wrenches free from Buckle’s grasp.

Bikle:               Victoriously “Ho ho! Who’s goig to wid de prize dow?”

He turns to flee with his trophy, only to plant his pixie boot squarely on a J20 soaked round of black pudding, sending him flying. “Boohh!” He cries as he slides unstoppably across the parquet floor, arms windmilling, until he crashes into one of the wooden walls with a hollow thud. The impact jars a stuffed moose head from its mountings and of course, following all the laws of comedy, said relic of moose falls squarely atop Bikle’s head, wedging itself securely. Buckle takes this opportunity to renew the tussle, and soon he and Moose head Bikle are falling about the place on a floor made treacherous with hash browns, tomatoes and J20. Morris is initially amused by their antics, pointing and jeering with a coterie of Johnsons, until, as they sprawl past him he gets a closer look at the object of their struggle. His eyes narrow and gleam with a malevolent avarice. Motioning to his entourage he shouts.

Morris:                        “The fabled Pepper Mill of Quetzapocatl! Grab it boys!”

Johnson:          “Mwaeerk!”

Yolanda shakes her head as the Johnsons wade violently into the melee, sighs again and pushes her way out of the saloon. Again, instead of the humdrum reality of the antique fayre she finds herself in a strange dreamlike environment. She walks along a path of rich, dark peat which weaves in and out of a forest of weird, outre trees with bulbous bases, slender, ridged trunks and glossy, palm like fronds. Around the trees grow a profusion of luxuriant ferns, iridescent butterflies of topaz and emerald flit daintily, spiralling around the shafts of golden sunlight which pierce the canopy. Yolanda relaxes. A deep unspoilt peace seems to hang in the warm, scented air. She continues to stroll through the primeval forest, pausing to pick a strange…orchidlike bloom, which she fixes in her hair. Eventually the trees and ferns begin to thin out, being replaced by broad leaved shrubs and flowers. More and more the azure sky can be glimpsed through the leaves overhead. A faint rythmic sound gradually impinges upon her consciousness. Curious, she follows the sound, which gradually becomes clearer. A primitive drumming, four beats, pause, and repeat. Soon enough a suggestion of chanting is heard. Heart sinking, she recognises the cadence as it grows louder and nearer. “All. Day. Break. Fast. All. Day. Break. Fast.” Emerging from the verdure onto a rocky plain she spies Piltdown Johnson, clad in a bearskin loincloth, trying to keep Sabre Toothed Johnson away from his baked potato. They pause and wave at her cheerily. Involuntarily she returns the wave and the resume their standoff. From out of nowhere there is suddenly an electronically tinged horrific roaring noise accompanied by the sound of small wheels squeaking very quickly. Turning to espy the cause of said noise she is greeted by the rapidly hastening towards her of Tyrannosaurus Johnson. This consists of Johnson in a shopping trolley, with a faux (but still very large tyrannosaurus head on, with a laptop hooked up to a large speak out of which he plays the ‘roaring’ sample on repeat. The confusion of not knowing whether to laugh or scream stalls her for long enough for the beast to be on her. That is of course to say she tries to leap to one side but the trolley catches her viciously on the ankle and she bangs her head on a rock. Tyrannosaurus Johnson comes of worse as the trolley bounces onto a small rock catapulting the whole affair over with considerable force. The trolley flips over encaging Johnson before then slamming him into another nearby boulder, whilst the Tyrannosaur head flies through the air.

It is at the moment that a shoddy fibre glass part of the scenery gives way and Moose headed Bikle, Buckle and various Johnsons come piling into the scene once more. Through idiotic chance Buckle has wrested the prize peppermill and is just raising himself above scuffle when the inevitable happens and the Tyrannosaur head lands squarely onto his.

Buckle:                        “Boohhhh!” comes the muffled cry and he half collapses under its weight.

Seconds later, Buckle come Tyrannosaur is butted to the ground by the Moose and the whole madness continues.

Morris:                        booming from the all day breakfast saloon“Get that peppermill this instant!”

Clutching her wounded leg and nursing a bleeding temple, Yolanda watches on in stupefaction before spying another familiar figure. A strange bipedal dog is niftily making its way across the rocky ground towards the commotion. With exquisite timing it leaps through the legs of the Moose, rolls, nips a Johnson on the flipper, who lashes out knocking the peppermill out of the dust cloud and to the edge. Quick as a flash the dog has the mill in its mouth and is capering through the rent scenery and back to the A D B saloon. Moose at least has some sense that the mill has gone and attempts to lumber back through to the saloon after it. Tyrannosaurus however is much less clueless and barges into his back as he tries to leave. They both fall over in a heap and the Johnsons –who have by now stopped as the mission is over- stop and laugh.

Yolanda’s head swims. Looking on at the trying to right itself moose her vision goes and it seems the moose has now not one but three heads. Pincered arms hanging limply aside of the heads look sinister and tentacular. The body of the creature seems to elongate and morph until she now fancies she can see a three headed grinning moose with a gigantic scorpion’s body and hideous venomous tail sting looming over her. Loosely aware that this is a product of dislodged toxins from a previous encounter she is still unable to rationalise everything and screams for all she is worth. Pulse pounding, poison blood coursing through her veins, Yolanda bravely tries to regain control of her spud addled mind. “It’s perfectly ok, it’s ok, it’s not a monster, it’s just Shit Bikle in a moose head, nothing unusual.” The tragic truth of what she has said hits her, ludicrous as the situation is, it is, for her, nothing out of the common. Johnsons, Dinosaur Head Buckle, carbonised newsagents, all of it part of the familiar daily round. She looks again at the tentacled scorpion creature, which now seems to pulse and sway, leaving trails and traces as it undulates menacingly, and her eyes fill with tears. “I just want to go home!” Looking down, she sees that her comfortable own brand trainers have been replaced by shoes of a carmine crystal. Bowing to the inevitable, she bangs them together, “Just take me fucking home you stupid shoes!” There is a “parp parp!” noise, and a small yellow taxi pulls up beside her, driven by half a dozen rodents in flat leather caps.

Yolanda:          “SHOES MORRIS! Not shrews! I want the shoes to take me home!”

Even as she says it, she realises that it sounds absurd. Morris peers at her with concern. “Are you all right dear? You appear to be somewhat agitated. It must be all the excitement on an empty stomach. As you will recall, I did suggest that you took a pack up with you.”

His image seems to advance and recede, his voice distorted and tinny, as if coming from an old transistor radio with the volume up too high.

Yolanda:          “AAAGH! For fuck’s sake Morris! It’s the bloody toxins again! This is the worst Sunday ever! I’m going home!”

She sets off, striding angrily through the wreckage and the delusions, treating both with equal contempt. The hideous octoscorpion briefly bars her way. A ruby slipper lashes out, and it crumples to the floor. “Bouch! By godads!” stepping over… the recumbent idiot she walks quickly back through the ruins of the All Day Breakfast Saloon, through the beer tent, through the crowds at the Antiques Fayre, past the smouldering catering tent, past the pub, and on through the streets. Impossibly soon it seems she is walking back through her front door. Morris is sat in front of the television with a can of skol, gnawing a swan leg. Coco, looking furious, is wearing a cute little apron of red and white gingham, and is plying a feather duster among the ornaments on the mantelpiece. The room, except for a few feathers and gobbets of swan flesh around Morris’ feet, is spotless and orderly.

Morris:                        “Oh hey ‘Landa. Had a nice walk? Did you find Trevor?”

On the television screen a florid complexioned chubby man of late middle age, sporting a red velvet smoking jacket is speaking enthusiastically about the rarity value and remarkable state of preservation of an antique moose head. Yolanda does not trust herself to speak. Shaking, she enters the kitchen, which, the inevitable swan carcass notwithstanding, is sparkling clean. She is just about to attempt to brew herself a calming cup of peppermint tea, when the door opens and in bustles Clancy, accompanied by a film crew consisting of two curly haired idiots.

Clancy:            “Blblplp! Don’t mind me! Documentary! Blplblp! Behind the scenes look at typical suburban home!”

So saying, he and his crew surge past her and into the living room. Yolanda turns off the kettle and seeks solace in the drinks cabinet. As Clancy appears in the living room, Morris is watching events unfold on the television.

Morris:                        “Here Yolanda, there is a woman on the tv who looks just like you.”

Clancy stalks up to Morris and thrusts a microphone under his nose.

Clancy:            “Blblblp! Lance Battenburg. Ace reporter. Blplp! Few words for the folks back home?”

Morris:            “You is it you turkey bastard? What are you doing here?”

Clancy:            “Blplplbl! Mind your language Morris! Day time television!”

P&P:                “Uh huh huh. We’re making a documentary.” The second idiot holds up two reels of videotape. “Uh huh hu hu. With our spools.”

Morris:            “Documentary is it? I don’t quite like the sound of that. I prefer a nice romantic comedy, or perhaps a good documentary.”

Clancy has sidled up ever closer to Morris’ coffee table, now, with a swoop he snatches the pepper mill with which Morris has been seasoning his swan.

Clancy:            “Blblblp! I’ll take that! Blplplb! Got it! Leaving!”

The Turkey leaps across the room with a nimbleness which belies his corpulent stature, and rips aside the curtain preparatory to making his triumphant getaway through the window. In doing so he wakes Dr V.S Johnson, who has been stood there waiting for Yolanda for hours, and has consequently nodded off. With a startled “Mwaaeerk!”  he instinctively plunges his syringe full of distilled potato venom into the plump form of an equally taken aback Clancy.

Clancy:                        “Blblblp! V.S Johnson! Poor Clancy is done for!”

Morris:            “Ho ho. Nice one Johnson!”

Clancy:                 “blblbblblp poison coursing through veins!  Feel dizzy…” he flounders theatrically around the room crashing into sundry ornaments. Blbllblblbp who would have thought an injection of a liquid would be my undoing blblblblblp! Really….”

And with the faltering word he crashes to the ground, foaming at the beak with his eyes bulging. Yolanda is visibly distressed.

Yolanda:          “Clancy!” she screams cradling his head “Clancy! Stay with us! Morris quick do something!”

Morris:            “Very well my dear what would you like me to do? I have some Northumbrian pipes I’ve been practicing, possibly you would like a tune from them!”

Yolanda:          “Morris!!”

Morris:            “My dear, I am not a stupid man. If you are insinuating that I should save that evil Turkey bastard from his due then the answer is assuredly in the negative. The Northumbrian pipes offer however remains open. Indeed I might know a fitting number, the music is said to describe a man who accidentally poisoned his favourite pig after he poisoned his wife and fed her body to the pig. His woe was terrible as you can imagine and the dirge like notes reflect this state. I can also play the tune to Treasure quest, which as you may noticed is also played on a  traditional piped instrument, not the Northumbrian pipes though, however this aside there is enough similarity between the two instruments to effect a decent translation. Listen!”

Yolanda:          “Morris just fucking stop it. Johnson help me get him up on the sofa!”

Johnson makes to move but Morris casts a malevolent eye upon him

Morris:            “Venture not upon your life, for he is my near deaded strife!”

Johnson stops in his tracks and Yolanda heaves Clancy onto the sofa foaming and twitching.

Morris:            “Sofa so good! Ho ho this is better than Trevor’s quest eh my dear. Now then I’ll be having that.”

He picks up the pepper mill and suddenly eyes it suspiciously.

Morris:            “Do you know what Yolanda, this is not the real pepper mill of quetzacoatl, it is a cheap copy probably made by counterfeit Johnson. He’s always up to tricks like that, as befits his monicker I suppose. This faces me with something of a conundrum for I was fairly sure earlier that it was in fact not a copy and hence the possibility arises that the mills were switched somewhere along the way. Hmm so let me think.  Who do I know with sufficient magical dexterity to switch a mystical peppermill for a fake in the twinkling of any eye?”

Morris’ gaze falls upon the venom stricken fowl with sudden frustration and disgust.

Morris:            “Hmm I had rather set my heart on a tortellini lunch with a grinding of the finest south American black  pepper inspired by the twist of the gods own mill.”

Yolanda:          “Yes Morris and it is your favourite waitrose tortellini” Yolanda implores to the sudden ray of hope.

Morris:            “Very well my sweet. Johnson chain up the Turkey bastard! Now where is poison antidote Johnson when you need him? Possibly he has sloped off to the Northumbrian pipes folk festival just a milk floats drive from here my dear if you fancy it? They’re doing the one about the poisoned pig later on.” “

Yolanda:          Morris!”

Morris:            “Oh look here he is replete with the antidote. Johnson, it is truthfully said that often antidotes are quickest absorbed through the eye, so we had better save our colleague in the most expedient manner possible.”

A Johnson:       “Mwaaerk!” says antidote Johnson before planting the needle firmly into the bulging eyeball.

There is rank popping sound as sickly vitreous humour oozes out of the stricken globe. The contents though is still injected. Within moments the Turkey’s breathing regulates somewhat yet he still presents a sorry figure shuddering and sweating with his one turgid and one rent eye oozing slowly. Yolanda views the leaking humour with disgust as it begins to trickle onto the upholstery.

Yolanda:          “Johnson get a cloth quickly!”

Morris:            “Yes Johnson get a cloth quickly!” joins in Morris, but then begins to drift “A cleft sickly, a pile of hefty pickles, two dozen oysters piped into the mainframe. Hoist the mainsail Pirate Crewmember Johnson! Me old shipmate Captain Flint is languishing becalmed in the doldrums, set a course for the Sargasso Sea at once and bring me a panikin of rum and lime juice, I am fully cognisant of the dangers of scurvy in the course of such a marathon voyage.”

Pirate Johnson appears with the requisite beverage, and then, stymied by the lack of a mainsail, fucks about a bit with the curtains in an affectedly nautical manner. Yolanda and Antidote Johnson in the meantime have been bustling about making Clancy more comfortable. Soon he is sat shakily sipping peppermint tea, with a tartan travelling rug thrown over his shoulders. Pirate Johnson has thoughtfully donated his eyepatch to cover his outraged eyeball. Morris takes a large swig of the grog, smacks his lips and looks across suspiciously at the Turkey.

Morris:            “Oh aye. You is it? What are you doing here? Get lost on your way to the Northumbrian Pipes Festival did you? Well it’s simple, left out of the front door, straight on for half a mile, take a sharp right at the omelette shack, stay in the left hand lane for 200 yards, then burn to death you dreadful Turkey bastard.”

Yolanda:          Mopping Clancy’s brow with a tea towel. “Morris! Poor Clancy is very poorly. Can’t you put aside your petty feud just for once? We must be gentle with him, he’s had a dose of toxins.”

Morris:            “Toxins is it my little fridge magnet? A very serious business. Perhaps he would benefit from a sea voyage to aid his convalescence? I am about to sail for the derelict strewn reaches of the fabled Sargasso Sea, and could do with a handy lad who knows a spinnaker from a top’sl.”

Yolanda:          “Morris! Ignore him Clancy, you just drink your infusion and ignore him. How do you feel?”The Turkey’s voice is shaky and strained,

Clancy:            “Blplblbl! Oh Yolanda, Johnsons, it was terrible! Hideous agony! Blblblblp! Hideous I say!” His voice drops, “But that wasn’t the worst of it! Terrible nightmare! Blblplblb! Don’t know if I can bring myself to tell.” Yolanda leans forward and takes his wing consolingly.

Yolanda:          “You poor dear. Don’t excite yourself, but perhaps if you were to tell us about it, it might make you feel better. Let me just refresh your tisane, and you take your time.” Clancy pats her hand with his free wing.

Clancy:            “Thank you Yolanda, yes, perhaps it would do me good to blplblblp, get it off my chest after all these years.” Hesitantly at first, then in a rush, he begins. “Blplblblp! It took me back years. Back to when I was just a little gobbler.” He pauses and dabs at his eye. “I had a… a difficult childhood. Blplplp. Mater died when I was very young…Dreadful conflagration. Rangoon’s largest newsagency. Blplplblp! Lost everything!” He recruits himself with a sip of his tea before continuing. “Pater was a very distant man. Blplplbl, strict disciplinarian. Never showed affection. Disappointing child. No good at games. Awful bookworm. So very lonely.” Yolanda is hanging onto every word, even the Johnsons are listening intently. Morris, after an initial flicker of interest, has grown bored and is now contentedly puffing on a roll up whilst watching “Britain’s Deadliest Chimneys” with the sound on low. Clancy pays him no heed and continues to pour out his story. ” We had a half holiday from school. Fresh spring day. Sky clear. Scent of newly sprung greenery in air. Blplblp! Me, best shorts, neatly pressed shirt. Fair held. Neighbouring village. Excited. Intending to watch tug of war. Ride swing boats. Nibble sugar plums.”

Morris:            Snorting derisively…at this, “Ho ho, nibbling sugar plums indeed!”

Yolanda:          Shooting him an angry look. “Don’t mind him Clancy, go on. That sounds like a lovely day out.”

Clancy:            “Blpblblp! So I thought. Coconut shy. Ladies in aprons. Boyish larks. Picture it now. Off I set. Whistling. Country lanes. School cap. Jaunty angle. Soon be there! Blplplblb! Skipping along, merry as a cricket! Here we are!” Clancy is clearly lost in his tale now, he continues, a faraway look in his remaining eye. “So charming! Maypole! Fresh faced lasses! Bunting! Blblplp! Anyway, there I am, enjoying the gay scene enormously…”

Morris:            Chokes on his grog. “Ho Ho, you hear that Johnson? He said…”

Yolanda:          “MORRIS!”

Clancy:            Heedless of the interruption, the Turkey rambles on, “Pater didn’t believe in pocket money, but good at maths! I’d been helping the fellows at school with their equations for a few coins. Sometimes the older boys would give me sixpence… if I’d tackle an exceptionally hard one that they had…”

Morris sprays rum and lime juice out of his nose. Yolanda doesn’t even bother remonstrating with him, just pats Clancy’s hand soothingly.

Clancy:            “So, blplplblb! I’d saved and saved and had 3 whole shillings to lay out! Thought best plan, walk round, see what’s what, before spending hard earned. Careful child. Blplplblp! Off I go. Look here! Home made cakes! Hook a duck! Sixpence for a ride on a horsey! What’s this? Bony cove, burlap sack, something wriggling! A puppy! Oh such a puppy! Little wet nose. Pink tongue lolling. Eyes full of mischief. Fell for little chap. Boy’s best friend. No more loneliness. No more weeping in scullery. Blplplp! How much mister? Everything in pockets? Good bye sugar plums. Of no account, hand over hoarded coins. Puppy is mine! Such happiness!…Called him Pepé. Couldn’t wait to romp with him. Blplblplp! So very happy! A friend at last! Unpopular you know. Bit of a swot. Pepé didn’t care! Off we gambol. Fair old news now. Off we trot! Pepé sniffing the spring air, frolicking at my side. Through the sunny lanes and green fields, throwing sticks, not a care! Blplplblp!” Clancy’s face is radiant with joy, but then a shadow seems to fall over his visage. Yolanda waits with bated breath for him to go on. Morris is snoring softly in front of the afternoon movie: “Bad Combination 2” Clancy shivers and pulls the rug closer about his shoulders. “Blplblplb. Cold now. Growing dark. Had not noticed passage of time. Going to be late. Beaten. No supper. Where are we anyway? Don’t recognise place. Muddy lane. Stunted trees, warty, gnarled trunks. Twisted branches meeting overhead. No sunshine. Chilly wind blowing. Blplplblblp! Pepé cowering. Senses something…dark here in shadows, Poor Clancy’s scared. Heavy footsteps. Blplplblblp! Trying to run! Footsteps growing closer. Gaining. Hand over mouth! Blow over head! Everything going black!” Clancy is shaking now, and as he continues a racking sob comes into his voice, and he breaks into a desolate wail. “And when I woke up, Pepé waaaas goooone!” He breaks down into helpless, hopeless weeping. Yolanda too is crying softly. Tears are also coursing down Morris’ cheeks, his shoulders heaving.

Morris:            “Oh ho ho ho ho. Oh marvellous. That brings back some memories that does. Me and Dennis used to work that dodge at all the village fairs.” Yolanda looks over at him, red eyed from weeping.

Yolanda:          “What?”

Morris:            “The old puppy selling dodge. Spot some lonely little kid with no mates… give the little mug an eyeful of the cute little pooch, sure as eggs is eggs, he can’t fork over the boodle fast enough. Give ’em 5 minutes head start, and then send Loutish Ne’erdowell Johnson after them with a stout stick and the sack. Quick whack on the back of the coconut, and we’re off to fleece the next sucker, with chummy’s shillings jingling in our pockets. Ho ho that was the life. In fact…” He rummages around behind his armchair and produces a sack. Reaching in, he pulls out an adorable snowy white puppy. “Look familiar you Turkey bastard? Now ante up with my sodding pepper mill, or Nile Crocodile Johnson’ll make short work of Pepé here, eh Nile Crocodile Johnson?” There is a lengthy pause. “Eh Nile crocodile Johnson?” he repeats with a more agitated edge.

This time in from through the adjacent door –to the kitchen- comes what is in fact Nile crocodile Johnson but yet where the crocodile head should be is now a stuffed tyrannosaurus head. He crashes through the room clearly blind as to where he is going. Following cautiously though now comes Buckle with a Nile crocodile head on. He too can barely see where he is going and pokes the crocodile head into the room

Buckle:            “Bohh has anywod seed by brother Bikle anywhere? Oh hello dere Borris, fancy beeting you here.” The voice is mumbled but comprehensible

Morris:            “What have you got Nile crocodile Johnson’s head on? You are ruining my set up here. No wait a moment this can still work. Hand over the mill or tyrannosaurus Johnson will make short work of Pepe here!”

In truth Tyranonsaurus Johnson doesn’t look like he’ll be making short work of anyone anytime soon as he haphazardly veers around the room, the weight of the massive reptile’s head is clearly excessive to him. Still Clancy looks suitably disturbed.

Clancy:            “Blblblblbp no give Pepe back! Anything Blblblp!” he whisk’s his hands and the mill reappears

Morris:            “very well you Turkey bastard, here is your beloved puppy.”

Morris hands the puppy to the one eyed turkey who in turn passes the pepper mill over.

Clancy:                        “Blbllblblp thank you Morris”

Morris:            “No problem you Turkey bastard.” Clancy sets the beloved Pepé down in his lap and is about to administer a loving stroke when Pepé is suddenly and once more (remember Koth Hotep from our last escapade dear reader) somewhat implausibly found to in fact be disguised as Pepé the puppy Johnson.

Clancy:                   “Blblbllblblp! Tricked! Johnson instead! Blblblblllblblp! Better check the pepper mill Morris Blblblblblbp!”

Morris looks down at the mill in his hand to discover in fact he is holding a bowl of trifle.

Morris:                        “You Turkey Bastard! Give me that pepper mill!”

Clancy:            “Blbllbllblblbpp! Not likely! Toodle oo!! Off to the Northumbrian pipes festival for the afternoon!” and he leaves by the patio doors quick as flash, wary of the presence of VS Johnson

Morris:            “Quickly first mate Johnson we’ll cut him off in the south atlantic! Set sail immediately! Some other Johnsons who have been busy in the background leaving the kitchen tap on see their work come to fruition as a widening puddle begins to seep into the living room

Yolanda:            “Morris my carpet!!” She startles him out of his rambling he and lets loose with the trifle which flies through the air and lands perfectly on her head, the bowl crowning the custardy jelly cream combination which lies atop her noggin.

Yolanda:          “Morris you twat!”

Morris:            “Ho ho ho my dear! Trifle on your head! Mouse in your…!”

Yolanda:          “Don’t you fucking dare!”

Morris:            “Calm down my little long play record, just getting into the swing of things there. Now what’s next? Ah yes! The Sargasso, land of the eels we come!”

The patio doors swing open wide to reveal a maritime vista of awe. Endless deep indigo blue sea, swelling and waving in terrible mass stretches as far as the eye can see. Gulls cry their piercing shrieks and a Johnson attached to few lengths of hose pipe can be seen waving around therein occasionally. The sodden carpet somehow melds with this in an ineffable manner and everyone is forced to leap onto the sofa which now resembles a curious cross between a cataract and a sofa

Morris:            “I wish you hadn’t spilt that trifle Yolanda! It’s a long way to the Sargasso you know and that was our only supplies!”

Johnson:          “Mwaaerk?”

Morris:            “Good idea Johnson! A rousing sea shanty will raise our spirits, I’ll begin, you turkey bastards can join in on the chorus.” Morris plays a few introductory notes on a penny whistle, then launches into a raucous unmelodic shout, “Oh the anchor we’ve weighed, and the ropes off we have cast, and we’ve said our farewells to the all day breakfast! We’re heading due west to the Sargasso Seeeea! To get my revenge on that fucking Turkeeeee!” He wheels and fixes Yolanda, Buckle and the various assembled Johnsons with a maniacal glare, “CHORUS! O ho yo ho, let the wind blow high and never low, over the sea on my couch we go, to catch that gobbling so and so!”

Johnsons join in rather self consciously, Buckland with gusto.

Buckle:            “Mwaerk mwaaaerk, Ho a sailig we a go, row row row your boat eh Borris?”

Morris:            “That’s the spirit shipmates! We’ll soon be at Devil’s Reef, and there’ll be a very nasty surprise for you all.”

Johnson:          “Mwaaerk!?”

Morris:            “I mean ice cream. Ice cream for you all. Who wants rum and raisin?”

Johnson:          “Mwaaerk!”

Morris:            “There you go then Johnson.”

Buckle:            “Cad I have badada flavour please Borris?”

Morris:            “Certainly you may, there ye go shipmate. And for you my little gyroscope?”

Yolanda:          “I don’t want any sodding ice cream Morris, I just want to go home.”

Morris:            “That is hardly the spirit Yolanda, besides, the sea is our home now, the tang of briny air, the endless shriek of gulls, the spume flecked bowsprit, the protesting creak of seasoned timber, these are your reality now and forever. Or at least until I get bored of it.”

Yolanda:          “But Morris, I hate the sea, and I’ve got book club later.”

Morris:            “No no my little gravel strewn bridlepath, the sea is your book club now. Who wants this cone? For some reason it has chunks of uncooked biscuit in it, which renders an otherwise plain but perfectly edible ice cream slightly unpleasant and chewy, which in my opinion is not what you want from an ice cream. What do you think Pirate Crew Member Johnson?”

Johnson:          “Mwaaerk!”

Morris:            “Exactly! Over the side with it, I shall indulge myself with this traditional mint choc chip in an artisanal biscotti cone.”

As Morris eats his ice cream with obvious relish, the skies begin to darken. A cold wind springs up and the waves begin to crash against the sides of the bizarre craft with increasing force. The other occupants. with the exception of Buckle, who is messily eating his banana cone whilst singing “Row row row your boat”, look at each other concerned. A particularly large wave slams into the hull of the couch, sending all but Morris and Pirate Johnson sprawling in a heap. Pasta Chef Johnson, who is aboard for some unknown reason, is looking very green about the gills. “Mwaeerk-A!” He groans. The rain begins to lash down in ferocious torrents, the wind howls and the strange craft is in danger of being swamped.

Yolanda:          “Morris! Can’t you do something about the weather? We’re all soaking, and poor Johnson looks as though he is going to lose his tagliatelle.”

A woebegone looking Johnson nods his head vigorously.

Morris:            “Never fear my little unauthorised overdraft facility…We should be reaching our destination any moment now.”

Yolanda:          “What bloody destination? The Sargasso Sea? The Northumbrian Pipe Festival? None of this shit makes any sense at all. It’s as if we were just being shunted about the place by madmen.”

Morris:            “No my little calciferous deposit, no time for that now, your destiny awaits! Well it does doesn’t it? Look!” With a dramatic sweep of his arm he indicates a nearby tropical isle which has just sprung into being. “Behold! Trevor’s Island! All ashore me hearties.”

The boat/couch craft grounds gently on a beach of white sand which slopes gradually upwards to a fringe of jungly growth. Brightly coloured parakeets swoop and whirl through the air, chattering gaily as they go. From within the jungle comes the ominous beat…of drums, and also, a strange wailing, droning sound. Yolanda and the others look around. Some way along the beach are a number of rude huts and tents. The noise grows louder and louder. The undergrowth at the edge of the beach is suddenly parted, and a strange procession emerges. In the vanguard are a troop of creatures reminiscent of Johnsons, but with the goose element replaced with parrot, and accordingly, much more garish. They are wearing grass skirts and carrying spears. Behind them come more of the same, beating large gourdlike drums and in several notable instances, attempting to play the Northumbrian pipes, an enterprise in which, hampered by their hooked bills, they are not frankly, overly successful. A further phalanx of these avian…personages brings up the rear, bearing upon their shoulders a palanquin upon which perches a familiar figure in a lightweight khaki suit and pith helmet.

Clancy:            “Blblplp! Welcome to Trevor’s Island! Glad you made it! Blplpblblp! Hook, line and sinker! I am master here! Blplplblp!” Clancy turns to his henchmen. “Blblplplb! Thompsons! Seize them!”

Yolanda:          “Morris!” begins Yolanda, but turning, she sees that Morris and Pirate Johnson etc. are nowhere to be seen. Looking behind her, she sees the good ship sofa being paddled rapidly away from the shore.Buckle however is still very present.

Buckle:            “Ho look at all of dis, Barvellous!”

Yolanda:          Distressed “Morris don’t leave me here!!”

But it falls on deaf ears as Morris is now involved in some kind of strange boat race in which he is cox. He sits with his back to her on the receding couch shouting orders to pirate, pasta chef and Dr VS Johnson through a megaphone whilst they try to row as brisk a stroke as possible in competition with another identical sofa manned by a few overweight Thompsons with Simon as Cox. “ho h’come on you two!” he shouts ineffectually through a rolled up copy of a certain periodical. But they cannot sustain the pace and Morris’ craft soon leaves them behind. She stares in stupefaction at the spectacle, half seeing who won, half utterly confused and horrified at her desertion. Buckle meanwhile is arranging shells into patterns and making sandcastles with his hands. She can feel another presence now close by

Clancy:            “Blblllblblblp! Come with me my dear! No harm will come to you here! No more madness on this isle, Morris’ influence ends 100 meters form the shore line!”

Yolanda:          “Really?” she says quizzically

Clancy:           “Blblblblp! My line! Watch it lady! Hospitality could sour!”

Clancy:            “I’m sorry Clancy, I didn’t mean anything…” “Blbbllblbp! Just watch self! Really! Come along Thompsons, back to the settlement!”

And off they trot, Yolanda and Clancy ride in the palanquin whilst Buckle ambles alongside. Passing deep into the island through dense jungle, the Thompsons carry them on for at least an hour, clearly the huts of the beach having been just a peripheral outpost. Breaking clear of the thick foliage they emerge into a clearing just into which a thick wooden fence rises in front of them with massive gates. But towering above the gates in the dwelling behind is an ancient teocalli.

Clancy:            “Open! Blblblp!” and the gates swing open.

In side is a massive settlement of huts and primitive houses of various kinds, crude streets creep between them and Thompsons unearthly chatter fills the air. True to the joke world, the marketplace is lined with stalls selling all manner of crackers, which the Thompson haggle over and consume voraciously throughout the scene. Many plastic cracker packets are strewn all over the floor and the incongruous looking parish council bins are filled to over flowing with them as indeed is the even more incongruous dog poo bin.

Clancy:            “Come along! Thompsons decent servants, blbllblblblp, but messy creatures! Trying to source biodegradable cracker packets! But for one blblblblblbp they’re hard to get hold of and two they don’t like the packets when I can get them, blblblblbp say they’re sacreligious! Blblblblp! Stupid creatures really! Blblblblblp! Tried them with baked potato but they’ll have none of it!”

The transport is set down near an impressive stone house, near the pyramid.  He ushers her out and into the residence.

Clancy:            “Blblblblblp! Make yourself at home! Blblblbllbp! Not you Buckle, mud hut for you, cheese in there somewhere off you go!”

Buckle:            “Cheese, ho Barvellous!” and the idiot capers off towards the hut Clancy indicates towards.

Clancy turns a large ornate key in the stone house’s door and they go inside. The interior is somewhat  unlike the culture outside, indeed it is just a house like back on the various estates and villages of home except with maybe a slightly grandmotherly feel. Floral wallpaper, antiques and other trinkets line the various book cases.

Clancy:            “Blblbllblbp! I’m home mummy!” Clancy calls “Blbllbllblblp and I brought a friend!” An even higher pitched voice returns from somewhere within

Mummy B:      “Blblblblblblblp! That’s nice dear! Cooking soup! Blblblblp! Bring some through to the living room! Makes yourselves comfy on the sofa!”

Removing a number of crocheted cushions, Clancy ushers Yolanda to a seat on the old fashioned velvet sofa.

Clancy:            “Blpblplp! Soup soon! Must be famished! Ocean voyage! Blplblblp! All that sea air! Mother makes splendid soup! All homemade!”

Indeed the soup does smell delicious, and Yolanda realises that she is indeed hungry, having had a long and emotional day.

Yolanda:          “That sounds lovely Clancy. I hope it hasn’t got too much pepper in it!”

Clancy:            “Blplblp! Amusing! Referring to masterful acquisition of mystic condiment dispenser! Blplplblp! See what you’ve done there!”

They both laugh, and Old Mother Butterball bustles in bearing a steaming tureen. Clad in a cardigan and a neat print dress, she has a very strong family resemblance to Clancy, more wrinkled of course, and with a kindly expression and a twinkle in her eye.

Mummy B:      “Blplblbl! Delighted to meet you! Chat later. Blplplblp! Soup first!”

Just as Yolanda and Clancy are about to sit down at the polished mahogany dinner table, there comes an urgent hammering at the door. Removing his napkin with a “Tsk Tsk,” Clancy crosses the room and opens the door. Outside is a deputation of worried looking Thompsons, led by the most brightly plumaged of them all, clearly their chief. At the back stand a number of slightly smaller Thompsons, their female status denoted by their half coconut shell brassieres. Clustered around their feet are a clutch of juvenile Thompsons of various sizes.

Clancy:            “Blplplblp! What is it Thompson? Better be important! Soup rapidly cooling!”

Chief Thompson steps nervously forward.

Thompson:      “Wakark! Wakark! Wakaaaark!”

Clancy’s face takes on a serious expression.

Clancy:            “Blplblblp! What’s that? Monster loose in the jungle? Mrs Thompson terrified? Little Thompsons off their crackers? Prize orchids trampled? Knocked over oil lamp? Bamboo newsagency burned to the ground? Blplplblp! Most grave! I’ll deal with this! Keep soup hot mother! Blplplp! Monster at large!”

Mrs Butterball wrings her hands concernedly.

Mummy B:      “Blplblplp! Be careful! Monsters dangerous. Cousin Lawrence! Large Omnivore! Tragic end!”

Clancy:            “Blplblp! Don’t worry! Duty calls!” Settling his pith helmet firmly on his head, he picks up a stout cane and heads purposefully out of the door.

Yolanda sighs mournfully and traipses after him.Followed at a distance by a whispering, jumpy crowd of Thompsons, the two make their way through the village. Passing the still smouldering ruins of the newsagency and the carbonised remains of its former h’occupant, they reach the edge of the jungle, where in fact, a trail of broken and crushed vegetation can be descried leading into the forest’s dark interior. Brandishing his cane, Clancy issues determinedly down the trail, Yolanda trailing despondently behind. After several hundred yards the Turkey pauses and cups a wing to his ear.

Clancy:                        “Closing in! Blplplblp! Listen!”

Sure enough Yolanda can discern a distant bellowing and crashing. As they press on the noise grows louder and louder. The bellowing has a strange echoing, muffled quality and is almost reminiscent of speech. Indeed as our intrepid pursuers and their attendant flock of petrified parrotmen approach the source of the commotion, Yolanda begins to think that she can actually make out words.

Bikle:               “GED BE OUD OF DIS FUCKIG THIG!”

Yolanda:          “Oh. No need to worry Clance. It’s just Shit Moose Head Bikle. I wonder how he got here?”

Clancy:            “Blplplblp! Moose Head Bikle? Not a monster? Reeeaally!”


Clancy and Yolanda laugh uproariously, as do the now contemptuous Thompsons.

Clancy:                        “Blblblplp! Imagine being frightened of that! Amusing!”

Still laughing they turn on their heels to return to the village, leaving Bikle still blundering about in the forestbanging into trees, tripping over roots, being winded by protruding stumps and clouted by low hanging branches, his pitiful cries growing fainter.

Bikle:               “Why are you laughig at be? Dod’t leave be! I’b geduidely fucked off with dis dow!”

Arriving back at his residence, Clancy hangs up his solar topee and cane in the hall.

Clancy:            “Blplplp! Home again mummy! No monster! Ready for tea!”

There is no answer.

Clancy:            “Blplblplp! Mummy? Where are you?”

Morris:            “Last time I saw ‘er she was sharing a bottle of scotch with Drunken Anally Fixated Gerontophile Johnson.” intones a familiar voice from the corner of the living room, “I’m sure she’ll turn up sooner or later. Most of his victims do. Anyway. Nice place you’ve got here you Turkey Bastard. Can’t say I think much to these Thompsons mind you, a bit derivative don’t you think? Then again, imitation, sincerest form of flattery innit?” he settles himself deeper into Clancy’s favourite armchair and takes a drag of his roll up. “I wonder if there’s anything nice on the television. Pass us the remote ‘Landa there’s a doll.”

Clancy:            Flabbergasted. “Blplblplp! Morris! Here! Impossible! Blplblplp!”

Morris:            “Au Contraire beakface, not impossible, in fact, inevitable.”

Clancy:            “Blplplblp! But how? Inviolate sanctuary! Ruined!”

Morris gestures at where the tureen sits forlornly on the table.

Morris:            “As soon as dear old Mrs B opened that catering tin of No Frills mulligatawny your doom was sealed. Your goose was, if you’ll pardon the phrase Johnson, cooked.”

Clancy:            “Blplplplp! Don’t understand!”

Morris draws himself up to his full height and his countenance takes on an imperious look.

Morris:            “Haven’t been paying attention have you then you feathery fucker? Or you would be aware that I AM LORD OF SOUP! WHEREVER THERE IS SOUP, THERE MY POWER SHALL BE UNTRAMMELLED! LORD OF ALL SOUP! MONARCH OF BROTHS, CONSOMMÉS AND CERTAIN POTAGES! Anyway, cheers for the pepper mill pissbag, now pipe down, it’s the grand final of Treasure Quest. Anybody fancy a skol and a bit of swan tartare?”

Morris is about to put on the telly, when a gobbling and bustling can be heard from the adjacent room. Startled he looks round.

Mummy B:      “Bllblblblblp! Oh you are a one Johnson, blbllblblbp naughty boy!”

Mummy Butterball peers into the living room, tipsey but in good fettle (owing to her terrible alcoholism) whilst the obviously inebriated gerontophile Johnson holds sheepishly onto her pinny with a big smile on his beak

Mummny B:    “Blblbllblblbp! More guests!”

At this moment there is a loud crash and a “Boooohh!” as Bikle sans moose head flies backwards into the house, whilst from outside can be heard

Buckle:                        “Is dat better Bikle?”

Mummey B:    “Blblblbp! Party time! Soup won’t feed everyone!”

Son of Dracula Johnson sidles in to make up the numbers and a few assorted Thompsons wander in, some of which place bottles of Bersierneaux and packets of crackers on the dining room table.

Leonard:          “Zis is the ze place Alfonso you puff!”

Leonard wanders in and starts to open a bottle whilst Alfonso glances nervously round the door.

Clancy:            “Blblblbllbp! Serve the special food Mummy!”

Mummy B:      “Blblblblblblp! Right you are Clancy! Blblblblp! You get the napkins!”

Soon a rare old family style house party is in full swing. Various characters sit around chatting to each other holding a polite glass of some of something whilst eating the occasional crisp. Morris and Bikle in a moment of rare harmony sit on the sofa together watching the Treasure Quest grand final, which can be seen to be featuring Uncle Bikle and antiques expert Johnson. They are neck and neck at the break.  Both the onlookers want Johnson to win.

Bikle:               “By can’t stand dat sbug bastard!”

Morris:                        “Do not worry SB, Johnson’ll do ‘im you’ll see.”

Bikle:               “By don’t dow, did you see how he recogdised Geoff Baxter Ashtreagh’s old flying goggles in dat pile of socks!  Pretty difty!”

Elsewhere Leonard is urinating in the corner of the living room, Buckle is marvelling at the cheese and pineapple on sticks, pasta chef Johnson is in the kitchen doing a spaghetti making workshop and Yolanda has fallen asleep in the armchair.

Clancy:                        “Blblblblblblblp! Special food time! come and get a plate everyone!!”

Mummy Butterball Turkey comes bustling through with an enormous platter on which is some kind of roast animal, possibly a goat. Its skin a crisp golden brown is littered with rosemary. The edge of the dish is lined with various other sumptuous if strange looking foods: olives, fried mice, boiled eggs, sliced coconut and crackers. Morris nose, twitches and he raises himself from his seat.

Morris:            “Hmm you know what Butterbastard, that does smell good, I think I can forgo the old swana-tata for a plate of it.”

Clancy:            “Bllblblbllp! Certainly Morris! Mummy, carve Morris a helping!” “I’ll have the head if it’s all the same to you, unless SB would like it, it is after all a great head, eh SB?!”

Bikle shoots a scowl back at him and goes back to staring at treasure quest.

Clancy:            “Bblblllblp head it is Morris, with a little extra meat and two boiled eggs there you go!”

Soon everyone is tucking into the mystery feast and its strange garnishes. Pasta chef Johnson has made a mound of spaghetti but it is largely eschewed in favour of the meaty dish, except for Buckle who has put a pile of spaghetti on his head and his saying he’s one of the Nolan sisters. Some of the younger Thompsons think Buckle is marvellous and also want to be Nolan sisters, joining in similarly with the spaghetti but nobody minds and the merriment is enjoyed all round. Gnawing at the skull of the beast  with vigour Morris is clearly taken with the meal.

Morris:            “This is fantastic, your mother can’t half cook, what am I eating? I’ll give ‘Landa the recipe.”

Clancy:            “Blblllblblblbp! Dog meat! Delicacy!”

Morris:            “Dog meat eh? serve with rosemary and boiled eggs” he scrawls down on a piece of paper “I didn’t see any dogs on the island, is it a local meat?”

Clancy:            “Blblblblblbp! No, only dog on the island, found it earlier, sniffing around the house, looking for the pepper mill!!! Blblbllblblblbp!”

Morris looks startled, almost disturbed

Morris:            “You don’t mean??”

Clancy:            “Blblblblblp yes Albert Jackson PI! Blblblbp gnawing on his skull! Blblblbllblbp! Eaten prize dog, proper juggins!”

Morris looks at the skull and does look a bit, not exactly sad, just a bit quizzical

Morris:            “Oh dear, you Turkey bastard, I have indeed it would seem consumed my prize Jackson, not just a dog, let’s get it right! I am quite distressed by that as it happens” he takes another bite “but it does seem a shame to waste *chew* I see you’re enjoying it too”

The turkey has been nibbling on a leg section.

Clancy:                        “Blblblblp mother prize cook! Blbllblp delicious!”

Morris:            “Yes exactly how I feel, though after that performance earlier I don’t know how you can!” The Turkey looks on suspiciously

Clancy:            “Blblblblblp! What do you mean?”

Morris:            ”Well I knew him as Albert Jackson, but I believe you knew him by another monicker.”

The Turkey begins to choke

Clancy:            “Blblbllblbp surely you don’t…”

Morris:            “That’s right you Turkey bastard, what was his name again pepper? Or summats?”

He grinds a helping of pepper on the nearly gnawed bare skull from the fabled pepper mill.

Clancy:            “Blblbllblbp! Pepé! Blblbllbp!” The Turkey looks absolutely aghast, horrified and bursts into tears and runs off to the kitchen “Blbllblbp Mummy! Morris made me eat Pepé!” can be heard as he sobs off.

Morris:            “Now then maybe  I can see the last of Treasure quest , it must be nearly finished.”

Bikle:               “It is Borris! Buncle Bikle will deed to pull subthig special out of de hat to beat dat twelfth cendury Bersierneux vase.”

Uncle Bikle:     “Dow let be see!” says the smart gothic gentleman as he rummages in a pile of wooded objects in the dying moments “aha! Goddit!”

The scene cuts to a table, the two contestants and tweedy (who is now back again with a bandage on his head)

Tweedy:           “Well what a contest it’s been, these have been two outstanding antiques collectors but the winner of this year’s Treasure quest is…” Morris and Bikle look on from the edge of the seat “Uncle Bikle with his last minute find of this astonishing ancient south American pepper mill!”

Uncle Bikle:     chipping in “Yes and it’s rader large too!”.

Morris looks down to see the pepper mill is indeed no longer in his grasp but is on the TV in uncle Bikle’s pincers. Bikle starts swearing and the screen, Morris throws Albert Jackson’s skull at the TV causing it to combust. The Turkey can still be heard sobbing in the kitchen whilst his mother fails to console him.

Only the Nolan sisters remain happy in their ignorance…






Published in: on August 26, 2015 at 10:33 am  Comments (1)