Tag: Ivy Fowlpest

Aunt Vom and the Great Feminist Uprising

What a week. Dear Vomica came to visit at Yuletide and never left. She is now a permanent resident of Clopton Mandrill, which is making the locals uneasy. Vom (we call her Vom for affectionate purposes), is the slightly younger, fiesty one that has a habit of being collared by the cozzers. Early on Sunday morning, she clubbed on my front door with the wooden leg of a local man, who happened to be lying unconscious in my garden. I decided I didn’t want an explanation, and thankfully, she didn’t offer one.

Her mood was so foul, I could see it in a fine mist around her, hissing and fizzing as she walked in. It appeared that our local parish council had had a collective conniption fit when she put her name forward to stand as councillor, and issued a letter claiming such an idea was not welcome after a unanimous vote. What had got her emitting blue lights from her bottom was that it was on the grounds she was a woman, despite her marvellous beard and criminal record.

I note that the gentlemen on the council are stuffed shirts and all moustache, but this was something else, and I feared it was darkly connected to our involvement in the theft of the Library Trolley, which is rather brilliantly documented here. It seems the main objector was Mr Stanton St. Bladdery-Bowhurst (below), an unpopular, flatulent, rotund man, feared by the village, and unequivocally hated by most dogs. You can tell the sort – all money but no desire to buy a decent ‘syrup’, instead favouring this dreadful barnet. His main passtimes are lying, penalising decent folk for plain speaking and bloody trousering the rewards. He’d once tabled a motion to reroute the Severn due to a bizarre phobia of eels that flared up during the Spring.

We gathered the Sisterhood of the Library Trolley just after dusk that evening. By lamplight, we spoke in hushed whispers, wrote things on bits of paper, burned them in case anyone found them, then couldn’t remember what we’d decided. We broke off for refreshment, I cracked open some 30 year old Stretched Weasel I’d been saving, and we finished the last of a chicken bhuna. Rolos and half a twix were thrown in for afters. But then, once more, the discussion returned to clandestine matters, and I’d had to swear the toads in, just for total secrecy, you understand. The bats didn’t give a flying fornication and never listen. A quick weapons check was called, and from beneath skirts and fished from within seams in corsets, a splendid array of pointies graced my table. Between just six of us, we managed to gather the following:

  • 9 swords
  • 12 daggers
  • 4 sets of Chinese throwing stars
  • 11 kukris
  • A stool
  • 3 sets of knuckledusters
  • 2 sets of nunchucks
  • 5 shovels
  • 2 cutlasses
  • 1 sabre
  • 4 sgian dubhs
  • 2 sword sticks
  • 1 wooden leg from earlier in the day
  • Vom’s forehead (weapon of choice along with the throwing stars)

The council were due to sit that Tuesday evening, so we mobilised and set to training with the forty-eight hours we had at our disposal. We had no time to waste, Vom put herself in charge – a most logical decision since she has been involved in more bundles and bruhahaha’s than most sailors. I correct myself, she has started more.

It went swimmingly, Turdina Scroteman-Smythe (above) found her niche with punching people, which she practised on her local constabulary and the Verger from St Swivel’s church – nobody reported her thanks to concussion and ensuing amnesia. While in the dining room, Ivy Fowlpest’s daughters (below) gave a workshop in swordsmanship, thanks to East Bung College For Young Ladies and their progressive curriculum. We were ready.

By five o’clock on Tuesday, we gathered to form up by the village hall, and waited for the arrival of the council members. Running down the village green tooled up to the nines was not the most comfortable or quiet arrival, we sounded like a one-man-band cast down a flight of stairs followed by a buggered harpsichord. Mrs Fowlpest sustained a mild injury to the left buttock from a throwing star that broke free of it’s moorings. I kicked myself in the shin with the wooden leg. But, I digress.

As the men waffled and plumped their moustache’s at one another, we waited outside the hall. There was much haw-hawing from the men who were sharing a joke about women cart drivers, at which point the mist of rage began to descend on Vom.

As the walrusy men strode around the corner, the signal to attack was given. Mrs Edwardia Flax-Battle shrieked the battle cry while standing by some pants in a nearby garden. She then vaulted the rhododendrons with a stool in one hand and a cutlass in the other, and set on the nearest man. She chinned him with the stool, and the beggar went down like a sack of dung. We all clapped before drawing our various weaponry.

It was thrilling indeed. Never before have I smelled the raw fear of local politicians, cornered. I clouted a junior councillor with the wooden leg, then caught the secretary round the lughole with the foot. Ivy Fowlpest gave a Glasgow kiss to the little shitehawk who wanted to scrap the Women’s Violent History Month on the wireless. Vom had already thrown three chinese stars and was charging the Chairman with the member for Picklehampton-on-Severn Unionists under her arm, using him as a battering ram. She had a personal beef with both, one was the son of an incontinet chisel maker, the other was a thieving git.

I picked up a sabre and challenged the first person I saw, and to my surprise it was Stanton St. Bladdery-Bowhurst in front of me. As I lunged, I tripped over the member for the North Gribley Green Party and accidentally, ever-so slightly, might have snicked his head off. Not really an issue for the area, unless you’re obsessed with cow farts and tofu. And he was the one who proposed the Canal Licence being raised by a thousand pounds for women with beards. Shysters, the lot of ’em.

We heard bells in the distance, which meant the rozzers were coming. We left the bruised, battered and slightly headless council and ran straight for the pub at the end of the lane. The Clown’s Pocket Inn was very empathic toward Women’s Rights and were happy to hide our weaponry behind the bar. Vom downed a pint of Absinthe, then ordered a Vodka Um Bongo to celebrate. I chose a nice stout with a packet of badger scratchings. As the rozzers entered the pub, we turned our conversation to fine needlepoint and fainting, at which point they tipped their helmets and apologised for the intrusion. We’d hidden Vom under the table, no officer in the land hasn’t seen her mugshot, and she’s done some serious bird for something to do with semtex, and kidnapping a circus man and his pyramid of dogs.

Interestingly, a snap election was announced the following day, and saw an overwhelming turn out. Each member we’d fought lost their seats. Curiously, women are now allowed on the local council. Vom and I are both sitting, I as secretary, she as the member for Clopton Mandrill Ladies Combat Party. Below, is the member of the exiting council who was made to swear us both in as an apology. He was also ordered to take his portrait down, paid for by the people, and badly etched by Hercule. Honestly, the arrogance and vanity of these buggers.

My apologies to the member for North Gribley Green Party, Mr. Peregrine Filibuster. I’m sure it’ll grow back. Maybe you’ll think twice about breaking Plague Lockdown rules in future,

And that, my little tunicles, is how this warty old hag, found her way into local politics. I’ll say pip-pip for now, as I’m very busy of late – men’s safety has been mooted at the last meeting for urgent debate. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled – we’re implementing a 4pm curfew for them, and a 25 metre roaming allowance outside the home, enforced by a tethering system. It’s pleasant and satisfying, this ‘delivering change’ business.

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.

Image result for thick fog

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.