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.

The Grand Gloucestershire Cheese Roll and the Women’s Anti-Picture Protests

Good morning, my little tuning forks! It’s my birthday this week, and I have been truly blessed with an invite to England’s most prestigious and solemn sporting event – The Cheese Rolling. This splendid tradition dates back to the times of the Venerable Bede, and possibly as far back as a gentleman called Reg, who lived in Morocco, circa 23 AD. It involves a huge cheese being flung off a grassy precipice, followed by people running after it. Those short on wits or secure screws, plummet down the hillside like Catherine Wheels in the slim hope of winning the 8lb Double Gloucester. They also have the opportunity to win a variety of fractures and abrasions, and perhaps death for the unskilled runner. We had a marvellous time.

Aunt Vom entered, and caused an uproar. She refused to enter the Ladies’ Race (for blattidly obvious reasons). On the start line, she heard man call another man a rude name. So she pushed him. Another man pushed her, and called her a rude name. The line up suddenly descended before the signal in a ball of arms and legs, bumping their way to the bottom. I was impressed that during the descent, Vom managed to lamp the original offender and issue a swift kick to the chibleys.

After some debate by the Cheesemaster, it was a contentious issue that actually, more than one woman (even a bearded one) had entered the man’s race. It was agreed that she had no right to the 8lb cheese. While important, waffly men discussed this, Vom nicked the cheese and hid it in her beard. The second woman, pictured below, was still on her way down, wailing that she’d left the iron on. The police were summoned, and she was accosted in the crowd. The tussle resulted in the cheese falling out of her beard and breaking a constable’s foot. No charges were pressed after Vom offered a three-way split with the cheese and a good time in a nearby rhododendron bush.

This altercation distracted me, during which time I lost all sight of Aunt Bench. She’d entered the Ladies’ Uphill race, and didn’t see the finish line. She can be blessedly thick at times. A lone hiker in the Malverns found her babbling about cheese and realised she’d wandered slightly off course. After wrangling her to the ground and reading her name tag, they made contact and all was well.

On an interesting note, the Women’s Lib Movement is just as active within Gloucestershire as in Trebollocks, and I am thrilled. There is a tendency to glamorise women at sporting events, and urge them to look pretty for photographers. In my new county, a group of women have rebelled against this rampant exploitation, by posing for the camera in the style of long dead corpses. We all clapped at this, as one woman fell to the floor just as an oily representative of local the local Rennet Society sidled up for a photo. The ‘death shot’ is to commemorate the lost time that men have stolen from women for hundreds of years. For centuries, women have not achieved their potential in favour of ‘standing and looking pretty’ or fruitless searches in cupboards that men can’t be arsed to look in. I am posting these photos as a testament to their stoic fight against repression and widespread arsery.

After the excitement of the day, I ventured back to my hedge. It’s a beautiful spot and I am feeling very lucky indeed. The bats are enjoying school in Clopton Mandrill, and I am giving a talk to the Frampton W.I. (Witches’ Institute) on the healing and culinary uses of the cow pat. But first, I shall relax at the waterside with a chilled glass of cuckoo spit wine, the ’64 vintage is the best. May the Gods of Unneutered Cats shine upon you all.

Gloucester, here I come!

A plethora of local children bathing at the Cow’s Drink. Thank God Folly wasn’t born here……

Well, after the bizarre predictions evening, I had word from the Gloucestershire witches that my hedge is ready to move into. And not before time – the rozzers are still investigating the theft of the Library Trolley, and there is a manhunt afoot. It seems an old and buggered librarian was out walking her ball of wool, and managed to describe me perfectly, so I’ve packed up and done a runner. After a fifteen hour carriage journey with a travelling magician and the bottom half of his assistant, I am now within the confines of a sympathetic county. Thank the Lords!

The local sisterhood have found me a new hedge, with a twig router (4G), and I can get Netflix. It’s not too draughty, and it’s near the pub, which will please Aunt Vom when she visits. I now reside in Hedge 2, at the Cow’s Drink, near the smelly bit of the ditch, in a charming village named Clopton Mandrill. The bats have settled well and are fraternising with the locals quite happily, and I’ve enrolled them in the local school. Aunt Claymore is dubious about the move, she’s anxious for me to keep the toads away from the local toads, she fears they may pick up an accent. They croak with an extra ‘R’. Aunt Gourd fears the canal may bring about unwanted tendencies, such as swimming and pointing at things.

I have discovered, in two short days, that most things in this county revolve around three things: bread, cheese and beer. Not necessarily in that order. Most local witches have a romance for cheese, and people with beards are marvellously skilled at baking bread. The bigger the beard, the better the bread. Dehydration is measured locally by the lack of froth in a blood sample.

Aunt Gourd rang on the yogurt pot telephone before I left. She is alarmed by the lack of beards among women on the canal. Her stern warning came with the claim that they are either satanists or deviants. It transpires that the Canal and River Trust issue a separate license to women with beards, amounting to £2,568 per year. Moustaches on men, however, is discounted at £2 per year for life. Typical. I’ll keep ped-egging my chin.

I am most happy to live closer to the Quedgeley Toad Balancers, whom I mentioned in an earlier post. They are very clever and skilled folk, but I need to pass an initiation into their clan. I must think very carefully whether I want to embrace ‘toad’ for a night on the the village green, and eat flies. Mystical journeys are never an easy path.

I am also interested in the Saul Weasel Copiers, they are fascinating. They venture out during different hours and impersonate weasels running across the road. There is a talk on next week on how to run like a pencil on four legs. It really is the hub of excitement here. I may overlook the Berkeley Badger Feelers Group, badgers can be pretty crabby at the best of times, and if felt too much, may incur injury. A gentleman called Jonty, who runs the society, is smattered with plasters and bandages.

Thrupp Medical Society piqued my interest, until I realised it’s a society dedicated to treating people with Thrupp and raising awareness. It sounds deeply unpleasant. A local boater told me that it’s a local illness and the only cure is a change of diet and cold compress to relieve the itch and burning. Thankfully, as a chimney sweep, she is immune.

I have joined Fretherne Cowpat Club, however, as I am very interested in their annual Frisbee Day. They have a monthly meet in the local hall, and an important man comes to talk about cowpats every bi-month. The hikes through local farmland sound good, with the possibility of bringing something home for the ‘finds table’.

So, I’m sitting in my little hedge, writing these words on my wooden tablet to you. I do love Gloucestershire – it’s the most odd county of all. Anything goes here, and nobody cares. It will certainly do for me. The view is beautiful, all is quiet. I just hope the county can cope when my relatives visit……

Madame Widdershins Beltane Prediction

Saints preserve us! Not content with a simple Wiccan ceremony this Beltane, my elder sibling has insisted that this swaying, rolling-eyed, seventh-daughter-of-next-door’s-dog-of-a-psychic is foisted upon us all.
Aunt Gourd (pictured above) has gone extremely wispy and mystical at the first sign of a fat moon, and decided that she shall follow in the footsteps of our witch clan. She became all premonitious on Wednesday, and went to see Madame Widdershins McMunter (pictured below with Uncle Nancy, reading his palm and telling him he’s got Buckley’s chance of finding a bird unless he shapes up and moves out of his mothers). Shrieks and wringing of hands claim that the woman is a marvel and totally accurate. (I’m not so sure, as the neighbourhood urchins say – chinny reckon…)

Not content with this spectacle, Gourd invited her to my hedge, along with a plethora of others for a group reading. I shall be truthful, this was foisted upon me and I was not pleased. My plans involved ped-egging my chin, a good nettle bath and getting ready for my simple ritual. I’d settled the bats down to watch ‘Live at The Apollo’ via my twig router, while I made a modest feast for my seasonal observance. I gathered a fresh brew of goats rue tea, and a fresh weasel flatbread (straight from Jamie Olivers’ ‘Ritual Recipes and Hedge Cooking’), but my ritual evening was not to be. In fact, that idea has been utterly buggered. I’ve stepped out of the excitement to post this as I’m bored and frustrated, so my readers are carrying the great weight of being my comfort in time of stress. That’s both of you, by the way, so don’t either of you sneak off.

It started at six, when they all arrived. Aunt Vom reckons the whole thing is bollocks but she filed in with the others and took her place on the bench out of sheer amusement (not on Aunt Bench, I might add). Folly is blessedly quiet at the moment, I’ve given her some hemlock and some dead stag beetles to play with. If she likes them, I might make her a gift of it for her 34th birthday next month. Bench has told us we’re not to purchase any flammable gifts or weapons grade explosives.
Aunt Turgid is cross, as she couldn’t bring her lizards in, apparently lizards interrupt the mystical signals and attract negative deities. The lizards seem oblivious to this, but didn’t mind waiting in the motorcar.
Aunt Mary Jaffa is perfectly calm this evening, there are no satsumas (I won’t even recall the Christingle service episode).
Aunt Bench is sitting worrying about whether she’ll ever have another child. God help us….
Cousin Girda isn’t here. She said, if they psychic was that good, she’d have known she couldn’t make it and would have sent her a telegram with any relevant bits.
Aunt Claymore is not impressed, and boycotted the event under allegations of ‘wickedness’ and ‘horror’.
So dear friends, my simple ceremony of offerings, blessings and a little feast, has been hijacked and turned into a circus. The only genuine witch at the table is despondent, bored and can’t wait for them to go.
The toads are fed up, too, and are quietly playing ‘snap’ in the corner with my special edition ‘007 Quantum of Solace’ playing cards. They are so well behaved when Mummy’s busy.
Madame McMunter started by getting us all to place a personal object on the table that she could grope in the slim chance of finding any vibrations. I doubt this charlatan would find any vibrations from certain catalogues, but never mind. In my opinion, she’s all jingly bangles, rings, a woolly barnet, gin breath and bugger all else.
I went first, and put my wooden teeth on the table. Apparently, I am a woman, I live in a hedge, and I have a predisposition to living in draughty places. My two children are ugly (I suppose you could count the toads). My three lovers are warring for my affections (!), and I am about to win the lottery. I have a strong connection to ‘Albert’ (a bat who lives locally) and a yen for chicken bhuna. I hope she doesn’t know it was my bhuna that killed Folly’s tortoise, but she then lost credibility when she said I would be on the cover of Marie Claire having beaten Lea Seydoux as the prettier option. Hmmm.
Aunt Vom put a set of nunchucks on the table, and the mad psychic said she is about to be repaid for her kindnesses to the community, she is viewed as an angel amongst sinners. I suffered difficulty with this explanation, and nearly peed my sack dress – Vom’s only just out of the nick for nutting a copper.
Aunt Mary Jaffa put a thimble down, and it was said that she is ‘special’. Well, we knew that.
Aunt Turgid put her bicycle on the table, which really ticked me off as it’s leaking oil. She is about to get a degree in astrophysics, and pioneer research into the function of the nostril. Actually, I could believe anything where that woman is concerned.
Aunt Bench put a Wankel Rotary Engine on the table, and the woman got lots of messages from it. Unfortunately, they were all for ‘other people’ except one that stated she is to only have the one child (we all clapped at this bit). Sad for her, but when Folly starts setting fire to your feet under the table, this is no joking matter. What made me laugh was Aunt Gourds ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ when Madam McMunter voiced quite accurately that the spirits told her that her name is Gourd. (It was on her name tag).
The upshot is, after a lot of guessing, and waving and wailing, was that the woman is a fraud. I did have a premonition when she arrived, which has proved to be correct. That was a hard earned £50 down the shitter.
I’ve booted them out, I’ve missed ‘Live At The Apollo’, but my ugly children are on my knee and we’re watching ‘Murder, She Wrote’. It will have to do.
Bugger the prayers and blessings, I’ve got a weasel flatbread on the hot plate…..thankyou Jamie.

(By the way….Madame McMunter’s premonitions are not that good it seems. On leaving us in a clapped out motor decked with all manner of pentacles, gods, goddesses and owl talismans, she failed to predict an oncoming steam roller at the Trebollocks M5 roundabout and was promptly flattened. Rescue workers peeled her off the road, intact, and tucked her into a giant jiffy bag to be posted to the lab for investigation. With the postal strike, I doubt she’ll get there before next Wednesday.)

Beltane blessings to you all, and may your gibbon snibblings be fruitious for the coming Summer….

Aunt Vom’s Great Library Trolley Theft

Firstly, I must give my sincere thanks to both my readers who most kindly offered me an invisibility cloak after my night of clandestine shenanigans. I finally got back to my hedge at a little before dawn and tried to find the iron, but I’m buggered if I know where I’ve put it. The upshot is, the rozzers called, I didn’t need the iron, and due to my warty ugliness, they think they are looking for a man. Off the hook.

Other breaking news in Trebollocks is that the break-in and disappearance of the letter has caused uproar among lots of important, jowly men at the College. The sisterhood (pictured below) has increased it’s efforts and is now planning disruption and sabotage. You can clearly see the vengeance in Ivy Fowlpest’s face (far left). The sisterhood want a quiet, subtle attack. Surprisingly, Aunt Vom, has been made operations leader….

Then came the call. I was informed, by a muffled anonymous voice, over the yogurt pot telephone, that I am to be outside the Clown’s Pocket at 9pm on Thursday night, and to wear something inconspicuous. I raced back to my valise, and fished out a gown of hessian with something stiff stuck to it, and my shoes made of underpants in case I need to run about. I added a cloak of fake weasel and a cowpat beret.

At 9, I found a group of women in the same costume, sitting outside on a bench (not Aunt Bench), drinking pints of Nun’s Chough. I recognised a few of the leaders, and saw Aunt Vom at the back, mooning at a passing motor car. Ivy Fowlpest hushed the rabble to silence, and we gathered around. This was the plan. Under the guise of weak-willed and silly women, we are to break into the College library again, and steal it’s most coveted and precious item – The Library Trolley.

Gasps flew about the table. The prestige attached to the Library Trolley is without rival. Those entrusted with being it’s custodian, are not only interviewed deeply, but on appointment become a total jobs worth and wheel it around as a way of claiming authority. This would need careful coordination. Aunt Vom is to take out the guards, with some Chinese Throwing Stars that she keeps under her skirts. Ivy Fowlpest will hit them with a pan (if they’re still alive) just in case. We then steal the keys, get in, and remove the Library Trolley under the cover of darkness.

This all sounded splendid, but a few of the sisters needed clarification on several points, which resulted in a two hour discussion. A woman called Urticaria rode roughshod over the conversation, leading around to her suspected pregnancy. She was angry that the doctor wouldn’t prescribe her a toad to wee on for a conclusive result. Another, named Flan, ranted about her divorce proceedings, and the way her husband blames her for setting light to him while he slept. By the time we left, Aunt Vom had had eleven pints and thrown a stool at a man frowning at her, and a woman only known as ‘Squits’ had exactly that. I must admit, I was five sheets to the wind myself, and openly weed in a shrub container in the pub garden. It was only a hebe, and they’re a fairly hardy species.

We arrived at the Library, and all went according to plan, eight armed guards taken out on sight, no hit with the pan needed. Urticaria cut the keys free with a sabre and we were facing the entrance: The Library. There was a huge sign saying ‘Women Forbidden’. Instead of using the keys, Aunt Vom had an illuminating notion and kicked the door in. Our little shoes scuffled across the highly polished floor and we found the Library Trolley. (In case any of you are wondering why I keep writing Library Trolley, and put it in first letter capitals, it is because it’s terribly important and people frown about it and keep a clipboard on it at all times. The phrase is also highly amusing to me. Reverence and Mirth…)

We wheeled the Library Trolley two feet, then realised it squeaked dreadfully. We had to get out before the alarm was raised. A thick mist had descended as the evening made way for night, and the chill set in. Footsteps and torch beams arrived at the far end of the building, so we set of, squeaking across the floor. Squits couldn’t walk fast as she was drunk and reciting lumps of The Lady Vanishes (the Angela Lansbury version, of course). We reached the porch and realised she was a dead weight, none of us could carry her, but we couldn’t leave her behind either.

Vom hoisted her onto the trolley (and hit her with the pan, just in case) and we made a run for it. Unfortunately, at some speed, we hit a pothole halfway down Clunge Hill. Aunt Vom fell, we all let go, and watched Squits and the Library Trolley disappear down the hill into the fog, leaving only her fading wail behind her. Then a crash.

You can’t see her in this photo, but I feel the plaintive note she left is echoed by the fog amid the trees. Squits was arrested, so was Aunt Vom. Urticaria fled the scene, and Ivy Fowlpest decided to have a conniption fit, resulting in arrest. This was made worse by the fact that she’d stolen a book from the library – ‘Rare, Infectious and Amusing Diseases Through The Ages – a Photographic Guide. She will receive 19 years at least. If she’s good, for the last two she serves she might be hung up the right way. To be honest, it shouldn’t distort her current appearance.

I witnessed one of the party’s arrest, a woman I didn’t know but I instantly knew it was her voice on the yogurt pot phone. Every time she was asked a question, she clutched a dead squirrel to her mouth. I like a mystery solved.

I’m still hiding. Today’s papers are full ‘Woman on Flying Library Trolley Reads Book And Causes Mayhem’. Squits has to face a panel of people who will bollock her for hours over the Library Trolley hitting a level crossing at the same time as the 01:35 from East Bumstead and a motor car driven by a man with a stuffed toucan in the back. It goes on to say there’s a warrant out for a man seen wearing women’s finery (?!), and weeing on a hebe in a pot. I need to think of my family honour at this time, be brave and do the right thing. So at this point, I’ve packed the toads, the bats are hanging off the airer, and I’m doing what is delicately called ‘a runner’. The witches in Gloucestershire owe me one, so I’m fleeing. Pip pip, and I shall write again from my new surroundings. Thank Gods for the Gloucestershire Massive.

Women’s Rights In Trebollocks

I received a letter this morning from Professor Crispin In The Meadow St. Bollow, informing me that my Shrieking Classes are no longer required at Trebollocks County College. I am simply livid. I’m tryping (yes, tryping) away furiously on my wooden laptop, out in the open air, with only a twigless router to guide my words. Having replied to him with the British form of a death threat (I typed kind regards, then scribbled it out), I thought I would turn to my readers for solace – so sit up both of you and pay attention. I fear we’ve uncovered an evil ploy to remove the female teachers from the faculty. Men have played a huge role in setting up the college, and I conclude they are threatened by our female colleagues growing popularity and stature. This windsock of a man is shelving me under the excuse that Level 2 Shrieking is not acceptable to be chosen on the same line as Advanced Chemistry or Grade 6 Leaping. In my humble opinion, there are too many social skill classes in the modern day, and others that shall be sadly dropped include Papier Mache for the Nervous, Hiding Grade 3 & 4, and Working With Semtex: From A Creative Standpoint. I sat there and politely thought….f**kers. All these classes are run by the women above, Ivy Fowlpest (far left) has been wise to this skullduggery for 18 months, she alerted the sisterhood and formed a plan, as you can probably tell from her sinister glare.

I did some detective work, and put on shoes made from underpants to muffle my footsteps. Then in the dead of night, I shuffled to the library in the most shuffly of steps. I cunningly broke in through a window by throwing a brick. Any stealth factor attributed to my special shoes was at once rendered utterly pointless by the sound of shattering glass. Deepest Bugger. After a long chase with the rozzers and their sodding blue lights, I hid and fought off a conniption fit. I calmed myself and examined a bunch of papers I’d grabbed just as the alarms were going off.

Well, the document I found is very interesting. And if I dare resurface and risk arrest, I shall submit it to the Board of Long Discussions and Frowning next Tuesday. It reads as follows….

Women have long been a part of building Trebollocks County College, and in the early days when they knew their place, this was a positive and welcome part of our team. The offices had fresh flowers, home made cake to eat, and I had a new tank top every christmas. However, recent developments within the voting system have allowed such females to have a voice in how our political system functions. Women are now allowed to openly drive a motor car, own up to two goldfish, and we find they have been campaigning behind our backs to be allowed indoors at lunchtime when it is raining.
The woman in the photograph below, has been happy to squat and kneel for the last seven years of her employment, and she was thankful for it. But other women, like the one standing in the background, has filled her head with hormonal nonsense. She has been encouraged to learn to read and write, and not simply just fish cards out of a draw haphazardly and offer it to an important man at a desk. Women have formed a secret committee within the area, where they try hard to have their own ideas, develop them whilst drinking tea, and write them down on some sort of doily, probably. Due to the horribly liberal attitude of local councillors, no less than three women are now teaching in the college. This must be stopped. Have they no dignity? Have they no self-control? Have they no housework to do?

In Ireland there was an even more worrying case. It seems the gentleman in charge of the local library left the door unlocked one evening and two women got in and got hold of a book.

This picture shows the two females and their curious and bewildered expressions as they grab the book and try to understand it. Security showed them taking forty two minutes before they turned the book up the right way. The shocking thing to note, is that the woman on the right clearly thinks the situation is amusing. They were jailed for three years each, after they were found in the homes of other women, telling them what they had seen in the book. Had the book been about babies or cookery, the sentence would have been less. But the book was about money, and investments. One of the women later went to the bank for advice (I ask you!) on an account for her family savings, thus shaming herself and her husband in the process. Her husband has cut all ties with her, branding her hysterical and unbalanced. The library is now locked at all times, except for the entry of gentlemen with special members keys. A gun sentry has been set up in the event of more women trying to gain unlawful access to the library.

I therefore am taking an axe to these female teachers careers, and their fluffy-headed classes. I am sure, Sirs, that you are in agreement and that I can count upon your support. I have an article from Dr. Unctious Moog, stating that women are a danger to themselves and others when in the possession of information. He is submitting the brain scan results of a woman studying for a degree, which clearly shows extensive damage to the brain cells, and shows an overload of information stored in the Piffle Gland. This overload causes hysterical outbursts of logical argument, solitary decision making, answering back, witchcraft and a terrifying state of something called self-confidence among other alarming symptoms.

Yours,
Crisp.

So, I’m dreadfully torn between blowing the whistle, and risking arrest. I decided to use my finest hiding skills and lurk somewhere they would never look. I am sleeping tonight on the roof of the local nick. My dilemma is, it’s started to rain and I need a wee.
If any of you dear people are nearby, could you pop down with an invisibility cloak? I’d be most grateful, I could run back to the hedge and pretend to get the iron out in case the rozzers arrive….

Ilfracombe Women’s Fight Club

Since the christening of dear Ruprecht, the aunts and Folly and I have returned to Devon to continue our holiday. The christening took a toll on us that only the musings of Pluto could cast a darker shadow upon. The ambience in our little holiday hedge is a fraction from becoming maudlin. The aunts are restless, and I wish Bench had brought the storm straps for Folly, her movements badly need to be restricted. But we decided to have a day out.

This descended into Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell when wandering around Ilfracombe, we finally found Aunt Bench (we’d lost her after the Limpet Festival) – she’d found a fisherman. We gently informed her that she need not be a fisherman’s friend. Especially not this one, he has a third eye, and I do not mean this in a spiritual sense. Vom put an end to it. So Bench is now moping about, still oblivious to Folly, who has found some deviants. But that is another matter.

The good news is that it’s Tuesday, and we go home tomorrow. I’m anticipating the arrival back to my hedge home and seeing the toads once again. But for tonight, we are on a ladies’ night, and there is an establishment in the harbour that is sensitive to ‘women of my ilk’. Apparently it is a pagan themed bar with much symbolic imagery. I shall offer my patronage with an open mind….I’m as good an earthy pagan as anyone but if it’s full of bloody fairies and glitter and shit, I’m off. Can’t stand fairies – they drop bits everywhere.

We walked into The Wizard’s Sleeve at half seven, it was like a coven meeting after the discovery of a new cheese. They had wonderful musicians playing, who called themselves ‘Matted Thatch’ – the music was heavy metal and it was loud. Coincidentally, I put two cubes of emmental (the only thing it’s good for) into my ears to cope with the volume, so I could stand at the front for what the youth call headbanging. I discouraged Vom from bodysurfing, as she tends to over-egg and use it as an excuse to start brawls. We ordered pints of something called Druid’s Fluid. It sounded dubious, but it was a lovely dark pint with tones of treacle and dried weasel. Vom was a hit with the locals, comparing broken noses (or flat bugles) and they had a contest to see who’s had been broken beyond repair. Vom won hands down. We then found ten pints of Neptune’s Arse on the bar and suddenly, women were squaring up and bets were being taken.

Vom is on the right – she was already in fighting mode as the rules were no beards (it encourages pulling and unbecoming conduct). The woman on the left is Blanda Stent-Coddler, a trapeze artist from Aylesbury. She is a tough nut, and used to live in Plumstead where she’d fight anything with a pulse in an alleyway. Her skills are spitting, biting, and the Quarter-Nelson – she has that much attitude she can’t be arsed with the full half. Vom’s skills are slick, deadly and brutal – the woman could kill someone with a jar of Marmite in the blink of an eye. I was just sipping a fresh pint of Flaccid Bishop when the whistle blew and the crowd whipped up into a frenzy. It was a vicious fight, lasting only 30 seconds. Vom beat her hands down – with the nostril fling and a kick up the jacksy. The prize was 10 guineas, and a trip up Lynton Clifftop Railway (we gave the ticket away).

All in all, a marvellous evening. As we exited the Wizard’s Sleeve, a stool shattered through a window, and a woman punched a random man coming out of the public toilets. I wrote a rude word on somebody’s motor car window, and Bench uncharateristically told a seagull to f**k off. We stopped at the harbour as it was nearing the hour of high tide, and a popular time for people to stand near wooshy bits and get caught out. We were thrilled as four thick people stood low down on the slipway and were surprised by the ferocity of the tide. We left for the Hunan Palace and ordered a giant spring roll each, which was extra crispy, then flopped into bed for a dreamless sleep. Apart from Bench. She woke up at four, screaming about giant ants. Vom chinned her, and we all slept soundly.

Christening And Other Joys

Well, the day went off without any arrests, no ambulance and dear Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus was named. Aunt Vom and I were a little crestfallen, to tell you the truth, it was a rather stuffy affair with ridiculous bonnets and snakes-bum-in-a-sandstorm smiles. So, to water down my ascerbic tone, I’ll describe the christening in verse. And hopefully it will come out sounding as though I am ‘nice’.

Are we not the happiest bunch,
All dressed in black and grey?
All clipped and preened and washed and plucked
For a happy, jolly day.

Aunt Bench conditioned her little beard,
And I ‘Ped-Egg-ed’ my chin.
Folly brought along a dead hedgehog,
Which Aunt Bench placed in the bin.

Aunt Mary Jaffa fainted at once,
Aunt Turgid read books to some dogs.
And Cousin Girda threw an absolute fit,
When Vom pelted the Bishop with clogs.

Aunt Claymore thought the whole affair seedy,
Aunt Gourd did not come at all.
‘It’s the work of the Devil’ she cried down the phone,
And folded her arms in her shawl.

I’d finally pilfed the christening robe,
Made of stuff of which I am vexed.
It’s all lace and silk and embroidery things,
I swear to god we’ll be hexed.

We walked to the barn with the phoney priest,
A one-man-band led the way –
Playing ‘Lip Up Fatty’ on harmonica,
And an excerpt of ‘Whip-Crack-Away’.

When the childs name was first read out,
A snigger came forth from Aunt Vom.
Then Aunt Blenny spun round glaring,
So she quickly sat up with aplomb.

Amazed I was at the Godmother –
Folly’s name was called out by the priest.
What possessed this lunatic pair?
Entrusting her with their young beast?

Uncle Truss was snivelling proudly,
Wiping his nose on his wife.
And worst of all, on their family side –
Scrofula is awfully rife.

Mrs Stiff Black Hat with her earrings,
Cried “Decorum!”, with one finger jabbing.
A knife then appeared from under Vom’s skirts,
What bash doesn’t end with a stabbing?

At the end of the day, the photo’s were done,
But we were not asked to join in.
The pious-clan gathered together in black,
Looking like they’d all sat on a pin.

Back to my hedge for some drinkies,
And their noses turned up at the door.
They didn’t approve of my hovel,
Or Vom’s friends lying drunk on the floor.

Stiff Black Hat hates cuckoo spit wine,
And ‘the hessian crackers weren’t nice’.
But the Old Earwig’s Reserve went down lovely,
And stopped their complaints about mice.

After six dreadful hours they all left,
Ruprecht was screaming away,
His beloved moustache was shaved off,
He’d pined for it most of the day.

My patience, I feared wouldn’t last,
Thank Heavens they chose not to linger.
As their car drove off down the lane –
Us girls held up one middle finger.

(For those unfamiliar with the product, a ‘Ped-Egg’ is the cheese gratery thing you use for extra hard skin on your feet. No affiliation.)

A Newborn In The Family – Ruprecht.

This is what happens when two people are attracted to one another from opposite sides of a crowded room…….
Last week, the yogurt pot telephone was ringing it’s string off, only to convey the cheery news (really?!) that there is a new addition to the St Vitus clan. This means I must walk into John Lewis again and nick another christening robe. After the problems I’ve had with the filth, I fear they have a bloody cheek asking.

Aunt Blenny and Uncle Truss (pictured), met two years ago at a Wasp Hiding Course in Hemel Hempstead. Apparently, their eyes met and, after his spastic colon pains subsided and Blen stopped singing, they got on like a house on fire. They married in a coal-hole three weeks later, overseen by fifty-six chimney sweeps (St. Vitus has the highest population of chimney sweeps per square foot, rivalled only by Frampton-on-Severn with seven every twenty yards). I was allowed to be bridesmaid with my bestest brown sack cut on the bias, and pretty wooden shoes. I even had some goose grass fashioned into a lovely Sticky Bob ball to hold, and a plantain in my hair. It was rather sickly affair, the bride and groom are both a bit wet to be blatantly truthful. And there is nothing manly about Truss.

They had a bloody baby. A boy. They’ve already got one boy, Dimity Ariel Simba St. Vitus – a child with far too much snot, in my opinion. And now we have Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus. Aunt Vom nearly choked when they announced the name, then cacked herself laughing. Aunt Mary-Jaffa thinks it’s sweet. I don’t know what Aunt Turgid made of it all, she was faffing about with her lizards. Aunt Weevil reckons the baby will turn out to be a deviant….? I must ask her on her reasons behind that thinking. Aunt Gourd thinks it’s unnatural, as there was no presence of a bread van to deliver the baby – thus, she’s written the whole affair off as the work of the devil and shan’t be attending the christening.

Great Uncle Colobus will be pleased as he often said marital couplings should involve BOTH parties.. He thought Truss wouldn’t produce a child, as he always did it on his own so that Blen wouldn’t have to down tools (pardon the pun) and cease cleaning.

The family are coming over from Crackton-on-Butt in the next hour, I’ve got 62 baps to butter and a vat of Old Earwigs Reserve. It will simply have to do. Aunt Bench is feeling broody apparently, and spent a lot of time at the docks in hope of something called “jiggy-jiggy”. My palms are slick with dread at the thought. Just as I asked if she could cope with another one, Folly managed to blow her feet off in the garden after playing with some cotton reels and some old gelignite. I rest my case. The only time Bench ‘rode the hobby horse’ with anyone, she became infatuated, wrote him six love letters a day for three months, and followed him everywhere until the rozzers told her off. And that was thirty-two years ago.

But I couldn’t let you go without seeing Ruprecht. The little darling. We will be welcoming him to the town, by marching in a line behind a one-man-band. Then when we get to the barn, the backstreet bishop will perform the service. He’s not a real bishop, but he’s good at fishing, and Uncle Colobus slipped him a bit of bunce for his troubles. Ruprecht takes after his mother, with a fine moustache already in place.
Born at three years old, he can already tie his shoes (which he came out wearing), and is a marvel with quadratic equations. In anticipation of being asked to babysit, I’ve filled my spare hedge-room with wood and purchased a hemlock plant for the front garden.