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.

Lynton Limpet Festival

Good evening, my little coddled eggs. I am writing to you from a very plush holiday hedge in Devon, which is most satisfactory. Within the windswept twisted twigs, I have a USB socket and WiFi, a luxury bed and a buggered toaster. I’m staying with Aunt Vom, Aunt Bench and Folly for the grand event of the Limpet Festival in Lynton, North Devon. It’s been a mite fractious getting here, as Aunt Vom borrowed (later found out nicked) a motor car and drove us here at speeds that have lifted my eyebrows a whole inch. The upside is I look 15 years younger, but resemble an owl on crack.

Lynton is a curious place, and should be famous for tortoises, as the pace is so crawly. I began to feel very, very old simply by looking at other people. There was, sympathetically, a Cobweb Shop, for the young at heart, encouraging people to slow down and mix with the general ambience. For those who have a fair walking pace and avoid dawdling in the middle of roads or stopping dead in the middle of paved areas, or for those who can decide what they would like for lunch within forty minutes, it’s possible to buy cobwebs to place over oneself in order to blend in. I gather it is also possible to buy a pill that has the power to make one appear on the brink of death within fifteen minutes.

The festival commenced this morning with a marvellous opening speech from a local Limpet name Gabriel. Apparently he is marvellously clever, and his vocabulary is unrivalled even by Stephen Fry. He spoke passionately at length about the life of limpets in the area, their plight in facing the building of tidal defences and the imminent eviction of rock families. He also touched on issues concerning the rise of flat-earth theory followers and the demise of good manners. This was all highly commendable, and apparently other limpets clapped loudly, but regrettably and suddenly, I noticed Aunt Vom clenching her teeth. It was about to kick off.

Local disgruntled limpets, they want justice not cream teas

The fraccas started when Vom began talking under her breath, someone had come over and Shshshh’d her. Her top lip blanched beneath her beard (this is one clue that she’s really pissed), and she reached into her portmanteau for a Chinese throwing star (this is the other clue). Vom launched into a diatribe about how we’d all paid good money to travel to see this spectacle of wonder, only to find that it’s a speech by a Gastropod and nobody has a clue what he’s saying. The organiser tried mansplaining that although you can’t hear the Limpet speaking, his words speak directly to the subconscious, so you walk away with an invisible gift to the soul. I quite liked this and tuned in perfectly. Vom didn’t.

She chinned him. The organiser began shouting about abuse in the workplace and fished out a clipboard. That was the last straw. Clipboards are like a red rag to a bull where Vom is concerned, at which she swiftly flung her stool at him and the whole crowd whipped up into a brawl. There’s still a folding chair on the roof of the Rising Sun pub, and someone’s cockerel weather vane is well buggered.

Notwithstanding, we did have a very pleasant afternoon. We got Vom out of the nick by fibbing dreadfully about menopause and the effects on the female temperament. The fact that it was recently International Women’s Day helped, I feel, at the very mention of menopause, the rozzers just opened the cell door and stood back, stunned.

Later, we decided we’d take the Cliff Top Railway which was like a bone-shaking water-powered lift providing the traveller with issues of altitude sickness and alarming perspective. I managed to keep things jolly while Vom orated that the whole system is designed to dupe the visitor. She claimed it’s solely for thick people to stand at the bottom, squint up with mouths open like dead fish, pay thruppence, then stand at the top only to squint down with mouths open like dead fish, then be conned out of sixpence for tea and a bun without the pleasure of ‘feeding dangerous gulls’. We almost avoided a fight in the carriage, when Vom stated nobody who lives in the Midlands should be allowed to travel outside the Midlands. Mr and Mrs Ivor Merkin of Edgebaston were restrained while she rambled, and their sudden fall over the side will thankfully remain a mystery. All in all, it was a lovely view and all was going well. Then, an hour later, we had to take Folly to the Poison Unit. She’d eaten something in someone’s clifftop garden and began hallucinating and frothing. To be blattidly honest, I didn’t notice for twenty minutes.

Clattery thing that attracks people who say ‘Ooh look Stan!’

I am baffled as to three questions, however, which I feel need answering. With regards to North Devon, why are there fudge shops every ten paces? And why do people walking in front suddenly stop without warning to take a picture of something totally irrelevant, like their own feet? And why in the name of Saturn’s Arse do couples decide to walk like a one-man-band with heavy weather clothing, crampons and walking poles when they’re only moving 30 feet from the car park?

Oh, and one more. We were a party of four. Where in the name of Zeus’s Nutsack is Aunt Bench?

Grand Tortuga Flinging Festival

Hola! Mantequilla! Zapatos! Orificio Nasal!
‘Tortuga’ is Spanish for tortoise, I hear, so it’s my new word. I’m back home after a whirlwind surprise holiday in sunny Gran Canaria. I won a prize after entering a competition on a box of Aunt Bench’s fly papers and answered the following question correctly….’When is it considered acceptable to electrocute a sleeping relative?’. And would you believe…. Jolly Dee! I won! (Aunt Weevil is fuming as my victory was gained only by copying her answer and burning her entry. No doubt she’ll get me back…my Wart Insurance has lapsed and I fear this is an omen..)

I flew out from St Swivel’s airfield on a sort of pedaloe with wings, and sat next to the gunner. It was a pleasant flight, with insects hitting my goggles and a flagrantly crap view of the sea. I landed in Bahia Feliz in the early hours of Sunday 14th. The temperature was very warm, and I found a new level of stench in my sack attire. Nice.
My company was fabulous, a collection of ten of us who thoroughly enjoyed annoying other tourists, eating everything in sight, and drinking almost anything that was labelled (and some things that weren’t). We haggled in markets with looky-looky men selling dreadful sunglasses, swam in crystal blue pools (a far cry from the ditch I live near), and poked fun at people changing awkwardly under small beach towels.

Well, the bonanza was fabulous. Juan de la Vega (above) was there with his matador act. He is my hero. I obtained his autograph, and he shook my hand. I shall not wash it again, although he washed his very quickly after. He was mildly impaled by one tortoise, but it was only a flesh wound. We were hoping for something more, as the Arguineguin Tortoise Flingers were late to arrive, and the act was getting a little stale.

The Arguineguin Tortoise Flingers finally appeared, and broke not only a Canarian record, but a World Flinging record of 320.8ft. The longest fling in history since Edward II had a go, and a man in ballooned trousers wrote it down before it became known he’d fibbed about the measurment.
After the tortoises are launched off the cliff, they gather at the bottom to come back up and take their places for the next flinger. The picture above is a birds-eye view of the lift coming back up after the first round. The tortoises pictured are multi-lingual, and are all sponsored by Speedo and San Miguel.

This was the picture I took of Juan de la Vega’s tortoise, after it went on the rampage. It is a Midlothian Thurible Tortoise, a particularly aggressive species and broke free of its moorings several times. It ate an old lady called Renata. The x-ray I saw clearly shows her in the beasts stomach, still knitting away. Bless.
The story was that it had been fed peanut kit-kat in addition to breakfast, and that is not a good idea.

Then we had music. First were the Fataga Reptile Orchestra accompanied by a small singing gecko from Sioux City. Next up was a variation on ‘Lip Up Fatty’ from the Maspalomas Naked Singing Troupe….nuff said – a little twee for my tastes. Then we were charmed by these two delightful children, Maria and Miguel Vileda, they played the tortoise for us. Maria is pictured tuning the tortoise, while Miguel is on standby to hold the legs and begin playing.
Although this picture seems full of jollity, I was suspicious that it was a case of the children fulfilling the dream of the parents. Maria confided to me that all she wanted in life was ‘a bloody Nintendo DS’.
Miguel didn’t comment. His face says it all.

So, I finally flew back in to good old Blighty on Sunday, and they didn’t even bother to land. Just pushed me out over the airfield, with only my double chin as a parachute. Charming. Passport control below became very crabby when I ‘didn’t look like my photograph’, and it appears that my unshaven appearance had fooled them. I usually keep a smooth chin (despite the odd habits of my sisters), and a three inch of growth like pampas grass meant I was immediately whisked off to an office for interrogation as to the whereabouts of thirty pounds of semtex. At that point, I remembered last month that I couldn’t find my passport. At the same time, Aunt Vom had been on a ‘weapons run’ to somewhere, and I just feckin’ knew she’d stitched me up like a kipper. I found some luck after a bribe with some Honey Rum laced with cuckoo spit, and a naked picture of Jeremy Irons in sepia – the Customs Bugger let me in.

I hope to be back in good old G.C. soon, and take my perfected shrieking act to the Spanish masses. You never know, if you’re familiar with the island, you may well see a haggard, warty, stinking old bat shrieking professionally one day from the top of Roque Nublo. Pip pip and glad to be back with you all! Missed you like buggery….well, not quite like that.

Aunt Vom’s Poem From Worthing Nick

This is Aunt Vomica. She’s the next sister below me. I am posting on behalf of her as she has been writing poetry to pass the time in Worthing nick after an altercation with an MP. We’ve always been close, but her behaviour is volatile and trying at times. Vom doesn’t like our youngest sibling, Aunt Mary-Jaffa. Her distaste is due to Mary-Jaffa being weak-willed and delicate – and she has a huge satsuma phobia. So Vom pelts her with them at Christmas and loves hiding them in her stocking. Mary-Jaffa faints, and the only thing that can bring her round is the smell of satsumas. Well, on waking, and being faced with a satsuma, she faints again. This goes on for months sometimes. It’s a pain in the arse quite frankly but we love her dearly, you see. However, I digress, the altercation came about as a local MP asked her for a certain kind of ‘favour’ in relation to a grand townhouse in Flange Street with lots of ‘benefits’. Vom kicked off, and left him with a flat bugle.
Anyway – this was the poem she sent me, apparently it’s called ‘MP Scum and Violence Pays’.

I’m stuck in Worthing nick,
After lamping an MP.
His way evoked sharp anger
So his knackers got my knee.
He wanted special favours,
He got a Glasgow Kiss,
He also got a shooing,
And a crossbow bolt that missed.
Notwithstanding I was cross,
As he called in the Fuzz.
They dived and pulled us both apart,
I got an amazing buzz.
‘Shut yer mouth , yer poncy twat’
‘Who checks your expenses’, When rozzers are on your tail, however,
You run and jump some fences.
I pulled forth a chinese throwing star,
From underneath my skirt.
The constable didn’t clock it,
And fell and hit the dirt.
But here I am in Worthing Nick,
Paying dearly for my crimes,
But I’m breaking out at midnight,
As soon as the town clock chimes.
I’ve got some rope and semtex,
I have a blade or two,
I’ll be on my way to Bumstead,
And in Thrupp by half past two.

She is a marvel, isn’t she? So eloquent and stylish. Aunt Gourd, however, disagrees strongly. She keeps sending her gifts wrapped in pages of the Bible, in the hope the highlighted sections will instill some moral fibre in her. Gourd also feels that taking part in the Easter celebrations in East Bumstead will do her the power of good. They make you take your shoes and socks of and carry a full size granite statue of Jesus up a tall hill, then make you run back down while a training member of the clergy kills your soul with constant criticism and another batters you with a shinty stick. I’m sure it’s all good clean fun in the Vatican but it’s not Vom’s scene.

Right, I must away and check my traffic warden spleens that are drying on a sunny branch. With any luck, they’ll be ready by evensong and I can begin making my time-slowing pouches for the W.I. stall. I’m sure they’ll be glad, parking outside the hall is at a premium.

Pip pip, and may the Sun’s rays warm your bare thrackles, always.