Folly – And The Druidic Order…

Well, it’s been an eventful few days, I’m posting this from my temporary hedge accommodation provided by insurance, as we’ve had a little disaster. The company have been very nice, keeping me wrapped up with lovely itchy blankets, and provided a special box for the toads. I get fed three times a day (no hessian crackers here, though, and no Lungwort soup) but it’s better than an iron boot up the arse in thick fog.

It all started two days ago…..

Aunt Bench, in a desperate plea, left a note, pinned to her daughter, on the doorstep of Mrs Coddy, who lives in the village. Bench is suffering episodes of ‘funny ideas’ and ‘wistful notions of sailors’ again. Apparently she is in desperate need of a break. So at six in the morning, yesterday, she put Folly on Mrs Coddy’s doorstep with the note saying ‘Wait here until she opens the door, darling, and don’t be impatient and ring the bell’. Mrs Coddy finally surfaced and opened the door just after luncheon, and found Folly eating the cow parsley. Of course, she was reluctant to take a renowned disaster magnet to her bosom, so she tactfully came to my hedge on the grounds that ‘family is better’. I could have quite cheerfully kicked Mrs Coddy in the colon…but she’ll keep for now. This woman has been the SS branch of the neighbourhood watch for too long. She has been known to scale the facing wall of a home, only to shine a blast of torchlight at bedroom windows in the hope of catching someone with substandard window locks. No villager will bother to look for her under her own patio.

I managed to keep Folly entertained and out of trouble for the first night. While she was distracted in destroying a perfectly good piano with grandfathers’ mace, I had time to hide the matches, flammable liquids, and anything that could be set alight or detonated. Once my task was completed and I’d taken the bolt cutters off her for the third time, I tried to teach her counting, which failed after she ate the flageolet beans I was using for demonstration purposes. I then decided a game of Ludo would be nice, but she’s eaten four green counters and two yellows, and Lord knows where the red one went. So, I switched tack and we watched ‘Snatch’ on my new wooden DVD player that Aunt Weevil made for me. It’s marvellous, a little grainy in the picture, but great for what I need. And Brad Pitt was in his most handsome, refined role….I digress.

The following day, Folly became bored and wandered. It transpires that she stumbled upon a ceremony in a field, and became engrossed in the proceedings. The group she found was none other than the Order of the Golden Woodlice, a local Druid grove, whom I’m cursing with the Square of Mars as they’ve bloody taken her into their fold. Pictured below, is Grand Priestess Elsan and her two sprogs, Tristan and Crispin. There are many others, including a local man, Simeon St. Gribble, a wealthy financier and general shite.

Folly came back after dark, covered in twigs and stinking of Prinknash Abbey incense, claiming to have ‘found her path’ and ‘realised life’s true meaning’. Part of me was encouraged, if this meant she’d stop blowing her feet off while playing with semtex, maybe there was a glimmer of hope? She did appear to be speaking sense for once, harping on about the death of the Oak King and seasonal observance. She even spoke about the value of hemlock in tea for unwanted visitors. Had we finally turned a corner?

It seems I am rather naive. We hadn’t. I went to bed happy……

I slept fantastically, putting Folly’s new found spiritual path out of my mind, and only vaguely remember noises in the kitchen first thing. As soon as my subconscious shouted to me to arise and check on Folly, there was the most almighty ‘BOOM!’, followed by a cold wind and a rushing sensation.
The rushing sensation turned out to be my bed-bound airborne journey from my hedge, across the fields and byways of Clopton Mandrill, and onto the roof of St Crapulent the Martyr’s church in St. Grundy, seven miles away. If I hadn’t looked down on Aunt Vom fighting a bloke outside The Chuffing Nun in the Parish of Stroud, I would have thought I was dreaming.

According to the police, the fire department, and the bomb squad, a unique chain of events happened that defies human comprehension. But they gave it a title, and my heart sank when I read the heading of the report. It just said….’Folly Made Breakfast – NATO Class III Alert’.

Forensics said the damage was caused by three things:

1. Trying to cook a gas bottle in a pan on a gas cooker (she’d even seasoned it with my Jamie Oliver Lemon & Thyme salt mill)

2. Poking dynamite into the toaster.

3. Baking some petrol soaked halibut in the oven at gas mark 8 for 30 minutes. (The fish had a chilli and flat leaf parsley rub, and was garnished with roasted shallots and peppers – all of which she claims were the real culprits).

Apparently, her Druidic experience had an elemental side to it, they said Folly is too ‘Water’, and needs to balance herself with ‘Fire’. I’m mildly curious as to their vetting process. Apparently she’d set fire to two of them with a flaming torch before they’d opened the Quarters, and they still let her in. It just goes to show some groups will take anybody. As for the fire balancing, my neighbour, Mrs Coddy, is still wailing about her eyebrows.

I now have to find Aunt Bench and tell her that Folly is being ‘counselled’ by a nice lady with a big cardie, chunky beads and a tasselled skirt. She’s informed Folly that ‘there are no real Druids’, at which point Folly had to be restrained as she became dreadfully fractious and totally kicked off.

The police have also told me that Folly is a death trap and must not be let out into the community again, at which point I was hopeful, until the social worker whined on about her rights. I was gutted. She’s been released into my custody, even after licking the face of two policemen. This is why I never spawned my own kind. The dear bats are so easy to care for.

Aunt Vom turned up and took her way, thankfully. When Vom got her home, she hung Folly up on a coat peg by the loop in her school blazer, and is leaving her there until the morning. I like to picture her like this, with her little feet dangling below. I’m so grateful to Vom, but furious with Bench. My hedge is ruined, Mrs Coddy is livid as the blast flattened six of her geese. They’re unharmed, but you can only see them when they turn side-on.
Clopton Mandrill has issued a state of emergency, and tens of people are homeless or living in dangerous conditions. The Royal Marines are being called in to clear up the mess. The mess was so scary, the Coldstream Guards ran away and told their Mums.

The Home Secretary and the Ministry of Defense are monitoring Folly, and instructing Aunt Vom on her care. the Russians have already been on the blower to Number 10 and said whatever the bribe is for Folly, they don’t want her. Even Donald Trump, who labelled her misunderstood in his Tweets, now claims ‘America is Full’, and won’t take her. The social worker popped in with advice on sharing and issues. Vom showed her her knife collection, gave her a Glasgow kiss, and the woman retreated with mumbled apologies.

So, no Fawlty Towers omnibus for me, no quiet teas by the canal, no crackly leaf carpet, no more hedge until it’s been checked and sealed by men in plastic suits with ‘creaky things’ that read radiation. I’m only able to write this thanks to the emergency dongle, kindly provided by Major Ponsonby-Goppin, of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. They play nice music as well. As I was being airlifted off the church, they did a drum display to keep us entertained. We all clapped, except the Vicar, who’d lost a hand in the blast.

Sadly, most of my spiders didn’t survive, but the Marines rescued Peadar, my best spider, and have housed him in a little box of his own. They also rescued Leopold and Erica, the tortoises, although, in their escape they’d only moved two feet in six hours.

I will report more when Clopton Mandrill is a little better restored, and I’m safe in the knowledge that Aunt Vom has nutted Aunt Bench for her stupidity. Meanwhile, any ideas on how to re-decorate my hedge? Do I go rustic again, or street chic? Hedge chic is very fashionable, but I do like to buck the trend. Maybe I’ll go post-modernistic punk/flapper. With cushions. Peep peep to you all, and sleep well, and may your week be filled with really nice upholstery.

Clopton Mandrill Village Fayre

Good evening, my little pogo sticks! I trust you are hale and hearty (both of you). Today has been a grand occasion. Since moving to my hedge in Gloucestershire, I am now accepted as a local within the village of Clopton Mandrill. Today was the Village Fayre, we all attended in our best finery (I wore my best sack dress which I nicked from the docks, and wore cow parsley in my beard). Aunt Gourd visited for the day, and brought stories to read to the cattle and sheep. I just let her crack on with that….

It was a marvellous sight by the canal, men and women flocked to the waterside and pointed at things. Some people stood on the bridge and pointed at the people pointing at things. The spotty youth in the foreground became fractious about the woollen bathing suit he was wearing (the Wool Rash has only just gone). He dispersed the crowd by shouting. He’s a frightful boy, with breath like a boar’s arse.

On a high note, we gained entry into the fayre in the big manor house by handing over our worldly possessions and the monetary equivalent of a black market kidney, in exchange for very little information on the event timings, and no social graces. This pleased me no end. It seems this yearly extravaganza is popular with folks (not local) who are as thick as month old cowpats. Apparently walking straight at someone while not paying attention is a marvellous sport here, as is stopping in the middle of a thoroughfare without warning. Both sports require vacant eyes and mouth breathing. I must look into the health benefits of this.

I did encounter a problem at one of the minor arenas. Cotswold Morris Dancers. Now, please don’t misunderstand me, every man with his hanky and long socks needs an outlet for the rage and misery of working in accountancy. But we’ve just seen the demise of the worst dictator who came hotfoot from the Cotswolds to beat us into a life of morosity, and I fear their jolly dancing may be a little too soon for comfort. But there is another threat – behind this band of leaping buggers there is a far greater threat to my sanity. The Accordionist. A gentleman, in my opinion, is a man who knows how to play the accordion, but doesn’t. I shall post further about this problem, as I don’t feel it prudent to vent my spleen on an otherwise joyful day.

It is a well known fact that every single dog in the UK attends this event. Aunt Gourd was thrilled and read Hansel and Gretel to seventy-four labradors, ninety-two spaniels, two thousand and fifty one Jack Russells, and the Berkeley Hounds. I’m not convinced they were all listening, although it was nice to sit with them, as they were intellectually more stimulating than their owners. Later in the day, she tried reading The Little Match Girl to an Irish Wolfhound, who ate the book then yacked it up on the path to the beer tent.

In the Crafts area these charming children were selling jars of poisonous things and all manner of noxious plants and substances. Part of their sales patter was reeling off the efficacy of their wares by listing the number of people who’d dropped off the census since they’d begun making them and ‘disappeared’. The display was fascinating, I purchased two jars of hemlock preserve and a spike imbued with digitalis (I have an awkward neighbour). I do champion industry in the youth of today. Sardine (on the left) is of French origin, and is hoping to find a career in holistic medicine.

On another stall were the once-wonderful Quedgeley Toad Balancers, who in my opinion, have become very elitist. They now have a uniform of white suits and have an air of superiority they don’t deserve. By the time they performed in the arena, they were too far gone on pints of Matted Thatch to balance themselves, let alone toads.

After wandering for hours, taking in the marvels, we visited the refreshment tent. I wish Aunt Vom was here, she would have enjoyed the company very much. On the above left photo, is Blandula Flap, a local woman who prides herself on holding two cups full of vodka on her bosom. She can do this even when running for a tram. The dear woman is using it as vital medicine, as she has politicians boarding with her. The woman on the right is Gert Sponk, and her sole aim in life is to turn her eyes a full 360 degrees, just by staring inwardly. Curiously, she also seems to need a good deal of vodka.

At the centre arena, we found the marvellous six-headed woman. Her name is Mary-Ann-Bette-Penelope-Violet-Colin. She’s the only six-headed woman in the UK with one male head. Bizarrely, the one thing that makes her unusual, is the head called Colin who saps the living energy out of you just by talking. Colin is a traffic warden, against the girls wishes, and he is a bellend. Thus, the other five heads drank the refreshment tent out of vodka.

Next to the Tudor Catflap & Toasting Fork Society, and just in front of the Order of the Sacred Bedpan Dangerous Sports Arena, was the Duck of Philosophy Eventing. This young man typically shows what is involved in the process. The duck seized firmly but calmly, then held above the head. The duck, in a series of resonant and meaningful quacks, orates at length about the tenets the individual could embrace in order to gain a life of fruitfulness. It’s a marvel, however the only soul present that can interpret what the duck is speaking of, is another duck.

The Order of The Sacred Bedpan were not to be missed. Women from all over Clopton Mandrill flocked to the arena to take part. The notion behind it is that you make a pancake for one of the menfolk who wait at the finish line, then put the pancake in a bedpan. You dress in Victorian finery, charge toward the menfolk, and if they’re found incapable of eating the pancake in fourteen seconds, you are permitted beat them to within an inch of their lives with the bedpan. Exhilarating stuff.

This is my personal favourite – The Urchin Death Run. Men are invited to run the length of the sports field, on which several hungry and deadly sea urchins are placed. The full length of the field has to be run without being caught by an enraged urchin. If caught, one is eaten alive from the foot up, though there is a consolation prize of five guineas for the close members of the family.

We took a gentle stroll back to the refreshment tent before home. Blandula Flap was ferrying vodka to and fro upon her bosom, and the carnage that lay about her was astonishing. Most of the unmoving bodies that slept among the table legs appeared to be members of the local clergy. One was awake, Rev. Hillary Mountford-Poon, who’d just tried cheating Vom out of fifty quid in a game of shove halfpenny. Given the state of the man’s trousers, you can image where she shoved his halfpenny.

Well, after a tiring and thrilling day, I’m back in the hedge now, the bats are asleep. They’ve enjoyed hanging about at the fayre with their local friends, but I don’t like them staying out too long. There’s a local gang by the bridges, and they are quite rebellious. It’s an early start for me tomorrow, I’m going to teach Shrieking Grade 1 at Gloucester College as a trial for a new teaching position. Wish me luck, and may a local goat stare at you for many minutes.

The Great Woolrash Outbreak

Hello, my dear tea cosies. I do hope that you are well. Kind gratitude to you, for reading my writings, both of you. Life in my hedge in Gloucestershire is splendid, and I adore the canal activities. I have found a new job at the Alternative Thinking College of Thrupp, where I shall be teaching Shrieking for Spritual Connection, Advanced Hiding, and Pointing for the Unconfident. I’m overjoyed.This week has been a trial. There has been a strange occurrence in our community, people began scratching and itching in a random fashion. I feared my hessian sack dress would soon follow this trend, but no, I am all well. It was a mystery. Farm hands and boat people were rendered incapable of moving machinery and water craft due to the incessant itch. I asked where has this come from? Some agricultural mite? A spaceship? Swindon? (wouldn’t surprise me)?

This is a pictogram, drawn by a local gentleman, Mr Dave Epiglottis. We don’t have cameras in this neck of the woods so he quickly sketched a throng of local boaters clawing at themselves to relieve the dreadful itch. Either that, or it’s an orgy, I’m not quite sure. Most look distraught, but Mrs Enid Rumpeter at the back, has that “look” of a woman in the throws of, well, something.

Anyway. I did some research. I googled itchy things, and no information was forthcoming. So I invoked the Sheep God and asked her advice. Baaarbara. An ancient woolly deity, with eyes the wrong way, and a killer kick. Amid a fog of incense smoke, she told me the itchy plague was wool rash. And….dun, dun, derrr, the root of the issue was a man from Bourton-On-The-Water. A bloody buggery weidron of a man who decided to plague Gloucester so he could step in, render the inhabitants incapable, and absorb the county in his own in preparation for world domination where sheep would be used to herd people into submission. Shocking. But world domination, as we know, often starts in the Cotswolds.

This is he. His name is Rabularia Stanton McFrog. He’s a ruthless git. He really does plan to take our lovely county. I trod the worn floor of my hedge wondering what to do and elegantly wringing my hands in a suitable Jane Austin manner. Then I ditched that and began swearing and cursing him for eternity. However, to curse a man fully, you need to sacrifice toads and have enough mugwort to mug a wort. And I didn’t. And I like toads. Satan once again is a seagull shitting on my breakfast flakes.

So, Plan B. I rang Aunt Vom, on the yoghurt pot telephone. She’d heard the news already, the canal bridges were shut as the bridgekeepers couldn’t keep still. Half the boaters were marina locked for the same reason. The other half were in the nick, for getting lairy and kicking off over substandard wool.

A week later, the writhing, itching population was ordered by sheep to attend a rally, where Rabularia Stanton McFrog was to issue a statement. The crowd were uneasy, as was I, as four sheep walked among the throng and passed us propaganda. The sheep were particularly agressive breed, the Cotswold Lion, which made them look like sheep but underneath was a different story. They emitted roars so loud it made your ribs rattle, and huge claws protruded from their feed. Any soul trying to leave or making seditious remarks earned a swift headbutt to the chibleys, before being dragged off and eaten alive. It was terrifying.

One man saw a window of opportunity, when a gate was left open, and he tried making a run for it. A head sheep, bolted after him and had the man return. We have no notion of what the sheep said to him, but he arrived back, ashen in complexion, muttering about torture. It later transpired that there had been a threat of making him watch Quantum Leap on repeat. Evil, pure evil.

I had no idea where Aunt Vom was, and the blood was beginning to pound in my ears. Is it possible that this regime could have wiped the old girl out? As Rabularia came to the podium, there was a deathly silence among the crowd. Women knitted awful cardigans in protest, children wailed, and men bit their own trousers in anger. Rabularia gave is dreadful manifesto, the Woolrash would be cured in five days, only if we completely surrendered to living picturesque villages of Cotswold stone. Cream teas at 3pm would become law, that drew a gasp or two. He said he would also install little bridges every hundred yards over attractive but shallow rivers in town, and our lovely hills had to be replaced with rolling hills, so they could be moved about easily if he fancied a change.

Just as Rabularia became crazed and began talking about Bibury Trout Farm, there was a commotion to the left of the stage. He ignored this at first, and issued further threats of death at the hands lethal trout, trained in close combat fighting. Then the commotion seemed to surge forward, and an explosion knocked him from the podium. Aunt Vom was here! When the smoke drifted away, she appeared on stage with her crossbow and took him out. One arrow struck him in the stifle, another caught him in the swim bladder, and he died shortly after. We all clapped and cheered, and became joyous again as the sheep bought single bus tickets for Moreton-In-Marsh and were never seen again.

Vom’s on the run but she’s quite safe, I had a carrier pigeon saying ‘All good, in a B and B in Temple Cloud. Quite at home, they’re all mad. Love you lots, don’t tell the rozzers. Love Vom x’.

The rozzers are dubious. though thankful. A county domination has been averted, and the Army has air dropped a plethora of calamine lotion for the itch. We have thwarted his plans, and I do love a good thwart. So all is well again, and I will say goodnight. It’s a schoolnight, and the toads are up past their bedtime. Pip pip, my dears, and may your tunics always be starched, and your coddlers ever be warm.