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Sunday 30 December 2012

Cave Dale


Next morning the company awoke to the smells of yet more cooking.   Gallons of kedgeree, mountains of snorkers and fresh baked bread attracted small, eager faced children, fed-up with gluten-free muesli, who were beginning to gather hopefully around the field-ovens.   As the aroma of toasting crumpets spread round the camp troopers began to emerge.   Boz an Co. had been cosy in their allotted yurt with its central, pot-bellied stove, but the shrieking of owls, barking of foxes and coughing of feral mountain sheep had intermittently disturbed their slumber.   They rose to be greeted by an infuriatingly boisterous Slasher.
“Are we all fired up for the mission?” he asked, to be answered with general mumblings, scratchings and yawnings.   Ginsbergbear was grabbing a quick fix of catnip shag as Phoebles emerged, wide eyed, from behind the latrine screens.
“It’s disgustingly primitive in there.”
However a good breakfast soon saw the heroes raring to go.
In preparation for their foray into Castleton our quintet disguised themselves as ramblers in heavily dubbined hiking boots, red socks, knee-length corduroy shorts, anoraks and bobble hats. To his outfit Slasher McGoogs had added Groucho Marx specs complete with moustache, eyebrows and nose.   They carried Leki Treckies and Bergen rucksacks packed with Kendal Mintcake, Ginger Beer, a Saturator AK-47 water pistol each and several fully loaded magazines.
“I have put fresh batteries in all the assault rifles.”   Boz took out his one-inch OS map - somewhat out of date, but true enough; the natives of the Dales only reluctantly embrace change - folded it neatly to expose the section covering Edale and the Hope Valley, and slid it into his map-case.   He consulted his trusty Dan Dare Space Cadet compass and waving the others to follow set off on foot over Hollins Cross into Castleton.   It was a tough climb along the winding path taken in older times by the deceased of Edale to the cemetery in Castleton.   But the view from the ridge was spectacular.   The descent was paved for much of the way and easier, though precipitous.
Once they reached the outskirts of Castleton the gang could see that the Goth Festival was still in full swing.   In the centre of town they squeezed their way between blue haired, dark eyed maidens in black lace; shock haired, pale faced youths in black frock coats and dead man toppers; tall vampires with even whiter skin, redder lips and yellow fangs.   They pushed betwixt cyberpunks and diesel punks; noted pale cats with brass goggles, dark glazed in ruby or purple, swathed in white leather great coats, mingling conspicuously with the glum revellers; and veered away from zombies that jerkily lurched in festering groups from one pub to the next.   Once they were over Cross Street, Castleton’s Main Drag, and out of the crowds the ramblers ducked up Castle Street where Phoebles managed to trip over the slumped and sobbing form of a diminutive EMO.   As they lay in a heap together, and she rubbed a nasty bruise that was developing on her ankle, she observed Phoebles through her tears, “You can’t win you know.   We are all flushing headlong down the toilet-pan of existential ennui towards the cesspit of despair.   Our fate is inevitable.   Turn back!   …Oh, and avoid the zombies.”
The gang were disappearing up the road apparently unaware of Phoebles’ absence and the wan and excessively body-pierced creature was inconsolable.
“I’m really sorry.   Wish I could cheer you up.   Try not to fret.   We’re going to do our best.   Got to go now.
“Er… Guys!” Phoebles cried as he rushed to catch up, “There’s a sad heap down here might have something important to tell us.”
By the time Phoebles had caught up with his companions the zebra haired harbinger of doom was out of sight and all but out of mind.   He was gasping for breath but managed to recount a redacted version of her warning.   Boz was the first to reply.
“Don’t worry about the zombies.   The Chats Souterrains should prove more than enough to contend with.   Impending doom is undermining people’s confidence.   Action – that’s what’s required.   Let’s crack on.”
The little group made for Bargate and soon found the claustrophobic canyon entrance to the jagged gash of Cave Dale which, carved by melt water at the end of a long past ice age, climbs south from the town to the moorland above.   The narrow gateway, hemmed in by limestone cliffs had boasted a natural arch well into the age of industry, though it was now but a memory.   The lower reaches of the dale are overseen by the glowering Norman cliff-top castle and Ferdy could make out white-furred and darkly begoggled faces under pickelhaubes and sallets peering down from the crenulated battlements at the jolly hikers so very far below.
Ginsbergbear broke into ‘I Love to Go A Wandering’ in a growly basso profundo.
“Try to look happy.” Wheezed Boz; for theirs was a relentless, up-hill slog.   The party hunched their shoulders, stomped down with their Leki poles and whistled along with the bear.
As they climbed, the dale widened.   Where the steep rocky sides met the grassy bottom tubby, brown birds chattered, fed and fluttered.   Gnarled and stunted trees clung to damp crevices in the moss-cloaked rock.   Meadow flowers buzzed with pollinating bees.   Soon the hiking party had rounded a bare pinnacle and were out of sight of the watchers on the keep.   Pausing to peruse his map and check his compass Boz veered off along an indistinct track and with the gang following as quickly as they could, discovered a low orifice at the base of the cliff.   On reaching the small cave mouth they found the apparently deep but restricted vent was secured by an iron gate which bore a yellow sign inscribed:
Danger of death!
A low frequency hum welled up towards the intrepid group from the depths of the dank cavern.

Ferdy produced his Victorinox Spymaster Multi-tool Swiss Army Ensemble and, utilising the magnifying glass attachment, examined the lock.   He considered for a moment and then folding out two long thin lock-picking tools began to fiddle.   After a fruitless few minutes he re-examined the lock under the magnifying glass, flicked out two more attachments with twiddly bits on the ends and began again.   Several tense minutes of deft manipulation later there was a click, the gate swung back in well-greased silence and they had gained access to a steep ventilation shaft.
 Pausing only to take out their Petzl Pathfinder 21 head torches and fix them firmly over their bobble hats they warily began their penetration of the realm of Les Chats Souterrains.

Friday 21 December 2012

Edale YHA


The track took them over the ridge and zig-zagged down the other side to cross the River Ashop at Haggwater Bridge, in a picturesque and heavily wooded glen.   Having crossed the narrow stone-built 18th Century packhorse bridge they passed beyond the lower end of Jaggers’ Clough and were soon at the YHA establishment of Lady Booth House.   As the company dismounted and began to tend to their horses the warden came bustling out of the towering, grey edifice.
“I fear that we are unable to cater for such a large party as yourselves, just at the moment.”
SubcommandantĂ© Slasher remained firmly in the Spanish saddle of his grey.   He looked down at the fit, but ageing supervisor.
“Fear not, we are totally self contained.   We merely intend to camp for the night in your grounds.”   Slasher’s voice was a little muffled through his balaclava mask and neither the feigned Mexican accent nor the Dunhill bulldog briar clamped between his teeth made his diction any the clearer.
The conversation was punctuated by squeals which came from an adventure playground fenced off in front of the House.   Children in hard hats, knee protectors and safety-harnesses were learning the fundamentals of teamwork around a zip-wire structure.
“What is all that?” enquired Boz as Snowdrop unharnessed the three horses from the techanka.
“Outdoor activities.” Replied the warden.
“In a playground?   You have Kinderscout just up there.”   Boz indicated the escarpment above and behind the house.
“Take them on the moor, are you mad?   Health and safety; their parents would have kittens.   No disrespect,” he added quickly as Boz scowled.  
Ginsbergbear joined them.
“If you ever met The Kittens you would reconsider your clichĂ©.” 
Undeterred, the warden continued to address SubcomandantĂ© Slasher, “And if you could please keep your animals away from the kids too.   Any contact and they’ll all go down with Escherichia coli, come out in a rash, or worse.”
As they talked a colourful encampment of tents, pavilions, yurts and flags had risen up around them.   The Snake Pass Zapatistas really liked their flags.   Smoke was already issuing from stovepipes that projected through the canopy of a large field kitchen marquee and the guerrillas were in the process of erecting trestle tables and laying them for supper.
  
A Digression

The Festival of Britain, on the south bank of the London River, had been a triumphal two-fingered salute to brutalist reality, a barely bridled moment of joy sandwiched between a bleak past and an even bleaker future.   The sole survivor of that forlorn gesture against the post war gloom was the Festival Music Hall, now standing in solitary majesty amidst a spiritual wasteland of reinforced concrete.   Sam and Consuella regularly performed there, though it had so far avoided the misfortune of a staging of the Kittens of Chaos’ Giselle.
They are, however, booked in for a short run during the post-panto season in 2013 – tickets still available.
Some weeks before Slasher McGoogs’ appearance at the penthouse bedsit Boz was visiting the South Bank for a lunchtime concert in which Sam was to play alongside Jools Holland - and after the set he took a stroll along the embankment.   The wide promenade is a venue for second hand bookstalls and he was idly fingering through various shop-soiled tomes when a thin, red cover caught his eye.   It was an Ordinance Survey, One Inch to the Mile, Series Seven map of the Southern Pennines and Derbyshire Dales, Sheet 111.   Printed on almost indestructible fabric-backed paper, it dated very much from the time of the concert hall's inauguration and seemed irresistible – red AND indestructible.   His purchase was to prove serendipitous in ways he could not have foreseen. 

Monday 10 December 2012

The Snake Pass Zapatistas.


“…If you could take your seats, boys, I’ll be putting her down shortly.”
Boz could see the Ladybower reservoir and stone built Derwent Dam ahead.   Woodland rushed by on either side as the Dornier Do X lost height and flew down the length of the lower reservoir.   Dark trees, scattered gorse, sheep grazed pasture interspersed with falls of scree clothed the steep sides.   The twelve Curtiss Conquerors roared as the flying boat pulled up and swept in low over the dam, between the towers, and set down on the Derwent Water.   The view through the portholes was obliterated by spray.   The movement slowed, the plane wallowed and the tortured, piston engine din subsided; a chain rattled.
Beryl emerged from the flight deck.   Ferdy came into the cabin from a stint in the Machine Centre and the Kronstadt Starshina also appeared, moving aft, to report, “Comrades, I’ve dropped the hook and a small craft already appears to be heading out towards us.   It’s moving too fast to be a boat.”
By the time they had stepped out onto the stub wing the silver, dart-like vessel was close, skimming just above the water.   As it neared they could hear it throttle back and watched it settle in the water only feet away.   There was a solid bump as it drifted alongside and the Do X gave a slight shudder.   The pilot emerged, blue striped t-shirt visible at the open neck of his soiled white boiler suit, black star prominent on a red beret, he lobbed a painter to one of the Kronstadt sailors who held the two craft together as the gang stepped aboard.   Before they had time to sit there was a wheeze from a dodgy looking ramjet engine, accompanied by some spluttering, a pulsing blast of orange-yellow flame and the craft hurtled towards the shore.   The pilot scowled over his shoulder and blew a smoke ring through a stub of clay pipe.   Beryl waved them away from the Dornier’s hatchway and the line of Kronstadt sailors broke into mournful song.
Over the hills and through the dales
The Division advances to battle.
Conquer the White Cats, tweak their tails.
Infiltrate the troglodyte castle.

With the dark blood of ancient wounds,
Their fluttering banners stained in red,
Brave partisans who know no bounds,
Swift and dashing, fierce and dread.

The fame of these days shall never dim.
Fade away it never will.
Of guerrilla units, sing their hymn.
They’ll take Mam Tor, the hollow hill.

On the shore Phoebles could see movement within a copse that topped the hillside and a large contingent of mounted irregulars moved into the sunlight, a wolf pack waiting, watching.   Black banners fluttered, there was the occasional glint of sunlight on gunmetal and one prominent figure on a tall grey raised binoculars to his eyes.
“That is Subcomandante Everyman of the Snake Pass Zapatistas.”
The ground effect craft skimmed across the mirror surface of the reservoir, skidded, engine still screaming, up a shingle beach and halted with a soft thud.   Something fell off the hull near the stern and the jet flame popped out.
The quintet clambered, barely shaken, out of the cockpit and onto the beach.   The ekranoplan sat at an awkward angle and an oily scar stretched from its tail back to the water’s edge.   Sensing an affinity between two pilots and offering a fill of Ginsbergbear’s Navy Catnip Shag Ferdy tried to engage their ferryman in conversation, none too successfully.   However, he did get a response.
“It’s not a plane, it’s a boat, just happens to be a plane shaped boat.   And I am a sailor.”   He glanced across the water to the great Dornier and almost smiled, “Still, I suppose that is a boat too.   Come on ‘comrade’ we have to walk as far as the road.”
On the hill a light horse drawn carriage detached itself from the Cossack group and careered down a farm track to meet the newcomers.   It arrived at the roadside as they did, its driver, wearing a Bolshevist budionovka, chosen for its pretty blue and red star, was slender, hyperactive and profoundly impressed.   She looked across the reservoir at the anchored, brightly glittering flying boat with its baroque tail icon depicting Trotsky slaying the counter revolutionary dragon; then down at the boys.
“Wow!”
Ferdy was the first to greet her.   “Hello Snowdrop.   What are you doing with this mob?”
”I’m M/C-Gunner Snowdrop these days.   D’yer want a lift?” she replied, “I’m sorry it’s a bit cluttered, we haven’t really got any suitable transport for guests.   You clamber up here with me,” to Boz, “and Ferdy, Phoebles and Mr Ginsbergbear, will you be OK in the back?”                               
 ‘In the back’ was indeed cluttered.   A heavy machine gun was mounted where the rear seats should have been, there were boxes of ammunition, a bundle of political pamphlets tied with string, a black umbrella, folding unicycle and a large number of crisp packets and empty soft drink cans.   Ginsbergbear cleared a space on the forward bench and sat with Ferdy, their backs to the horses.   Phoebles grabbed the machine gun and panned it around shouting “Ratatatata,” mowing down imaginary Chats Souterrains.   They turned away from the water and set off along the steady incline of a drovers’ road, followed by the company of Snake Pass Zapatistas and with Snowdrop chatting excitedly to an unusually quiet Boz.
Before long the mounted guerrillas had caught up and were trotting past on each side, rough riders on tall horses, in leather double-breasted reefer jackets, sheep skin jerkins, bandoliers, budionovka pixie hats, Breton caps, many in well-worn jungle-green combat fatigues, khaki open necked shirts, olive patch pocketed cargo trousers and fraying forage caps.   All wore ski masks.   There was a seemingly infinite variety of exotic weaponry with a definite preference for the AK-47 and, almost universally, each carried a three or four string guitar.  
As they passed by many of the brigands made jokey remarks to Snowdrop concerning her passengers’ discomfort.   Subcomandante Everyman trotted up alongside and adjusted his pace to match the tachanka.   He was flamboyantly dressed in a black, heavily frogged hussar jacket, open over his blue striped t-shirt, midnight blue jodhpurs sporting a Cossack crimson stripe down the leg and glistening patent leather knee-high boots, with spurs.   His face was hidden by a balaclava helmet topped by a Kronstadt peakless sailor’s cap with “CHAOS” emblazoned on the ribbon.   There were bandoliers of ammunition crossed loosely over his chest, a Mauser machine pistol and Dragoon Colt at his belt, he carried a Royal Navy pattern cutlass and, over his shoulder, an SMLE jungle carbine.   The racket from bells hung from the horse harness and on bangles at his mount’s fetlocks threatened to drown out any lengthy conversation.   Alongside him a young rider carried a black banner sporting a death’s-head of cat skull and crossed thighbones.   He acknowledged Snowdrop with a nod and then addressed Boz.
“We’ll talk properly when we’re camped, but welcome.   Is our machine-gunner looking after you?   He glanced at the crew in the back, who were bouncing about uncontrollably and hanging on tightly to anything that looked to be firmly bolted down.   “This is not the best of roads.”
“Thank you.”   Boz warmed to this imposing dandy.   “Your men look magnificent.”
“My…?”   Subcomandante Everyman laughed.   “Do they really look as if they belong to anyone?”
As the cavalryman prepared to move away Boz looked searchingly into the familiar eyes that smiled behind the balaclava.
“Slasher?”

Saturday 8 December 2012

Ginsbergbear's Poem - aboard the Do X


POEM

Our silver hull rends the sky
Propellers drilling tunnels through the atmosphere
Gautama floats cross-legged over cumulus fractus
Shiva rides the rainbow
Cthulhu calls down the waterspout
Yeshua walks on the waters
The elements are at war within this ethereal realm
Yet Blake’s angels buoy us up
and we luxuriate in Teutonic splendour
Phoebles don’t touch that it will break   …told you
Helios scorched Icarus falls
but the sons of Hermes sail on air
Pale felines of Duat quiver
For captain America comes

The brown dwarf Nemesis lurks beyond the Oort cloud
waiting on his rightful time
Dark Lords
the Merovingian Lizard Kings stir in the House of Snow
Furnaces roar and hammers clash
Titan’s chamber echoes to the clamour of industry
Fata Morgana fashioned in steel and rivets
Mass produced engines of doom
From the bowels of terra
And we…
A muscle-bound and fake-tanned Kronstadt sailor in neat air-stewardess uniform, pearl earrings, crew-cut and high heels enters at this moment, pushing a refreshment trolley.
“Coffee or tea?   Pork scratchings?”
“Tea, please, strong two sugars.”
“Have you got a lattĂ©?”
“Lapsang Souchong for the pilot?”
“Americana please, shaken not stirred.”
…few
we happy few
rush towards our weird
Do we wish to live forever?
In the name of all things felid, what are we getting ourselves into?
Pass the catnip

Enkidu formed of clay
saliva of Aruru
heed my words
Hold the Mayan Apocalypse – till another day

Ginsbergbear, beat poet
Mid air over Milton Keynes
2012

Monday 3 December 2012

Forget the Fish!


“There’s stuff going on we don’t know about.” observed Boz.   “Now, what about those poor coleyfish?”
“Forget the fish.” Snapped McGoogs, “You heard; our Derbyshire venture is officially sanctioned.   We’re doing the caves.”
 Ferdy called up the Silvertown Airways control tower, situated in the Royal Docks, on his smart-phone and asked to speak to his chief pilot, Beryl Clutterbuck.   She was mid-channel, returning a Handley Page H.P. 42 from their aerodrome on Guernsey, but was able to be put through via the radio.
“Beryl, we need the flying boat for a trip up north.”
 Once Ferdinand was off the phone they finalised some of the minor details and Phoebles voiced the reservation of the majority.
“Well, I suppose that’s settled then, but...”
To toast the venture they all downed their tots of single malt and took long draughts from their pints.   Slasher performed an obscure ritual with his salt and lemon before slugging back the shot of tequila.   “I’ll be going up to Derbyshire in the Pontiac.   See you up there”
The 1938 Pontiac Silver Streak Sports CoupĂ©, vibrant GPO red, upholstered in light tan mohair, white walled tyres, was parked, half on the pavement, opposite the Den.   It glistened colourfully against the backdrop of monochrome bonded warehouses and depositories along the narrow highway.   Slasher sauntered unnoticed, as if his Lycra one-piece rendered him invisible, through the growing crowd, drawn by the antics of Larry’s dirigible and its stunning tortoise-shell chauffeur.   Phoebles’ yellow, Multi spotted pantaloons, conversely, were drawing less than favourable remarks from pointing urchins with their noses pressed to the Catnip Den bay window.   A burbling roar of supercharged Pontiac echoed off the surrounding walls; the 8 cylinder flat-head bored out, souped-up and the tank full of jet fuel.
“That thing’s a bomb on wheels!”
 There was a grinding of gears, a high-pitched whine from under the bonnet and the Pontiac sprang forward.   McGoogs was away through the narrow, cobbled lanes of Limehousesailortown.

The remaining foursome returned to the bedsit to pack their kitbags whilst Dark Flo prepared sandwiches of Herrings In, nautically known as HITS, on white bread, piled on a blue and white Staffordshire Ironstone plate decorated with a Flying P windjammer under full sail.   She wrapped the lot – plate and all - in cling film and placed them in a small hamper along with a bottle of Pusser’s Rum and a packet of Russian Caravan tea.
As the boys came down she was adding a sealed tin of Soma Catnip to the supplies.
“How did you get that?” gasped Ginsbergbear, “That stuff’s rarer than rocking horse dung.   Never leaves India”
“The bell-hop in the Eden Hotel in Kathmandu bunged me a bit from under the counter in gratitude for a particular favour.   Cut it with your Black Alamout Catnip Shag or Phoebles’ stash of White Goddess.   There’s not much of it and it’s expensive.”
At this they became aware of the rhythmic thrub of a dozen unsynchronised piston engines.   The Dornier Do X was doing a circuit over Bozzy’s Catnip Den and the gang rushed out onto the balcony to watch it landing on the London River in a shower of spray like an obese drake on an oily duck pond.
The gigantic silver flugschiff had had the clapped out air-cooled Jupiter engines replaced with six pairs of only slightly second hand 610 hp Curtiss Conqueror water-cooled 12-cylinder inline engines and now sported an art deco Silvertown Airways logo below the portholes along the length of the hull.
Beryl’s voice crackled over the Marconi Marine Nautilus transceiver that sat behind the bar.
“Come aboard, when you are ready”
Waving goodbye to Dark Flo they dropped the kitbags into a dumpy clinker build skiff that was tied to a ladder at back of den.   The hamper and crew followed and an invigorating five minutes was spent tugging on a cord wound round the head of a recalcitrant Seagull outboard.   In a sudden cloud of blue smoke and with a tuc… tuc… hick, tuc… tuc-tuc-tuc-tuc-tuc the motor sprang into life and they were weaving their way out into the river, trailing a rainbow scar of two-stroke across the surface of the water.
Beryl met them at the starboard stub and deftly caught the thrown painter.   She was tall, slender and clad, somewhat incongruously, in a sheepskin-flying jacket over her flowered cotton frock.   Neither matched her sky blue fur-lined ankle-boots.   Inside the hull a small crew of Kronstadt sailors was lined up for inspection.   They saluted Boz as he came aboard and their  Starshina (Chief Petty Officer) piped a high-pitched whistle that hurt Phoebles’ ears.
“Commodore Desai, would you like to pilot the old girl for the first part of the trip?   I will operate the throttles in the machine centre,” suggested Beryl, addressing Ferdy, “And we can swap round once we’re over Rugby.”

Wednesday 28 November 2012

Rise of the Lizard Kings


England was not yet an anarchist utopia, but under Larry’s random and light pawed guidance it was becoming co-operative.   Its people were quietly becoming self reliant, involved and innovative – and in some small way, happy.  
Superficially Limehousesailortown was unchanged.   Steamers, clippers and tramps still jostled for a place at the quayside; bars, stews and music halls still spewed rowdy, boisterous, swaying parties of intoxicated matelots out onto the narrow streets; ships’ cats still slunk in and out of dingy catnip dens.   Homesick seafarers still sought temporary solace in companionable, rentable substitutes for their dimly remembered mothers and sweethearts; but somewhere along the line the claustrophobic alleyways had lost their edginess.
The penthousebedsit was pretty much the same as well.   A kettle whistled on the range, the little black and white TV set was showing Land and Freedom – its brown Bakelite case had become loose and an eerie mauve glow escaped around the cathode ray tube.   Monochrome posters of Ernesto Guevara and Albert Camus eyed each other from opposing walls.   Ginsbergbear was lounging in an old armchair, feet up on the mantelpiece and catnip shag dangling from an as yet unlit Peterson briar, Boz was trying to concentrate on the latest, slightly crumpled, copy of International Catnip Times whilst Phoebles pointed out good bits that he had written and Ferdy, having warmed the teapot, was toasting pikelets under a small gas grill.  The pals were relaxing between adventures when…
There came a coded rap on the door.   Phoebles opened it and Slasher McGoogs was standing before him.   He was wearing a pair of St Michael’s aertex Y-fronts over a cerise spandex hooded one-piece.   The hood formed a close fitting mask over his upper face and a serpentine gilded S was emblazoned on his chest.
“B****r me!” expleted Boz.
Ferdy raised an eyebrow, “I know the nation’s dress code is somewhat more relaxed under Larry’s leadership,” He glanced pointedly at Phoebles’ voluminous Smarty-spotted trousers and rainbow bracers, “but surely there are still limits.”
“It’s not easy, suddenly finding you’re a superhero after all those years of covert operating.”   Slasher stalked into the room and perched on the edge of the dining table.
“Er, I’m not sure the table is all that sturdy.” Boz warned, but Slash ignored him.
“Turn up the sound on the telly, I don’t want to be overheard.”   He could barely be heard at all as the film climaxed in a crescendo of gunfire and Spanish shouting.
“My contacts within the Aldershot Ghurkha Community warn of rumours from their homeland that the Merovingian Lizard Kings are on the move and strange discs have been seen in the sky above the mountain peaks.   Agents in the north report of Reivers raiding south of the wall, and Les Chats Souterrains have been seen mingling amongst the revellers at the Castleton Goth Festival – Speedwell Cavern has been closed to the public.   Corsairs aboard black whale hunters with 40mm Bofors or twin 12.7mm DShK’s mounted on the prow have been hi-jacking Arctic Coleyfishtrawlers and holding their cargo’s to ransom!”  
Boz gasped.  “Coleyfish pirates?   Destitute fishmongers?   A coleyfish famine?   This is a disaster!”   Ferdy tried to calm him.
 Ginsbergbear had not really been paying attention during the exchange and was idly flicking channels on the old TV.   Up popped the DOG CHANNEL.
“In lill ole England during the terrible insurgency against democracy their prime minister and some of his aids were cut off and surrounded by drug crazed and heathen anarchists.   Knowing that if they were captured they would be tortured horribly, in ways I cannot describe on television, they determined to take their own lives rather than be captured.   As the screaming demons closed in yelling their blood curdling war cry and the English Gentlemen prepared to meet their end, the baying horde suddenly stopped, stunned into silence, and knelt in prayer.   The astounded British ministers looked about and over them stood DOG in Glory, glowing pink and gold.
And DOG spake, ‘Let my people be!’
“Needless to say, the terrorists fled.
“Although the forces of Anarchy and Atheism are currently in the ascendant, DOG and Democracy will one day prevail.   The Army of DOG is being assembled and we need your donations.   For every $ we receive an amount will be put towards armbands, stickers and Boneos.   Contribute today.   Support the cause.”
“More trouble.” Mused Ginsbergbear.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Slasher, “They’re too busy fleecing their own to really bother us.   The true danger lurks in the caves of Derbyshire.” 
 Phoebles was aghast.   “You expect us to take on the Merovingian Lizard Kings, the Dark Lords of myth, the shades behind all that is twisted in the world?   Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”
“Just a little nibble at the trouser cuffs of their ambition, a tentative toe into the custard bowl of Machiavellian malevolence.   See what we can stir up.”   McGoogs’ eyes blazed behind the mask.   Ginsbergbear had begun to pay attention and Boz swallowed, “We can’t just sit back and do nothing – the coleyfish.”

Downstairs, the lounge-bar was all but empty – two worn out Kittens of Chaos were recovering along a red plush chaise longue over hookahs and tiny cups of treacle-black Monsoon Malabar, Sam was mangling a boogie-woogie improv, flat fingered across the tobacco stained ivories of an aging upright, smoke-grey derby pushed to the back of his head, striped shirt with white collar and cuffs folded back from the bony wrists, breakfast stained flannel waistcoat ruckling as he played.
“Your usual, boys?”
Dark Flo was doing service behind the bar.   She was slight and pallid with sunken eyes and raven hair that hung about her face like dead crows on barbed wire; waif-like, vulnerable and yet hard as black-iron nails.   She could pull a perfect pint, Yorkshire head judged to the millimetre, with one hand tied behind her back and the other skewered to the bar by a Bowie knife.   She might dispense or relish pain with equal measure, quell a riot with her contortions at the pole, or empty the bar with a single, gentle command.   For now she pulled pints of tawny London Porter and served them up with Talisker chasers.   Before Slasher McGoogs she assembled a shot glass of Tres Amigos Anejos, saltcellar and a half lemon on a cracked white bone china saucer.
Phoebles and Boz moved over to their favoured table in the bay that looked out onto Narrow Street and sat on the window bench.   Ferdy and Ginsbergbear pulled up bentwood cane-bottomed chairs and McGoogs perched on a leatherette-padded stool.   They huddled conspiratorially.
 “My plan is that we explore the caves south of Mam Tor and discover what is going on.” began Slasher McGoogs, producing a dog-eared copy of The Potholer’s Handbook for Derbyshire, IIIrd Pocket Edition, 1956; printed on storm resistant paper.   Within the chapter headed Castleton Caverns it included a handy sketch map of the Speedwell and Peak cave system.   It did not show Titan, which at the time of printing was still to be discovered, but Slasher had roughly pencilled in the location of the gigantic chamber.
“Have you cleared any of this with Larry?” asked Boz.
“I have told Larry nothing.   I despise despots and Larry is Gato NĂşmero Uno.”
“That’s hardly fair,” chipped in Phoebles, “We and the Revolutionary Committee did all agree he should be PM.”
“And it’s not as if he’s done any harm since taking office.   In fact he’s done sweet FA.   I’m amazed he doesn’t get bored.” Added Ginsbergbear.
“If I may interject at this point.” interjected Ferdy, “Mr Larry can in no way have ‘done sweet Fanny Adams’ despite the accusations in Mr Fluffy’s Chicken News on US telly.   Firstly she was not all that sweet – she was a grubby little tyke.   Secondly, she was ‘done’ many decades ago and her story has passed into myth.   And thirdl…”
The tail end of a steel wire ladder dropped past their window into the street outside.   It was followed by the descent of a pair of improbably long legs and finally by the top half, only, of a bottle-green chauffer’s uniform.   As the door to the catnip den opened and Barrymore, Larry’s indispensable factotum, entered the inmates could hear the Vwwshsh of the twin VW vectored screw engines of the incumbent Prime Minister’s personal dirigible.   She lifted her goggles and perched them above the peak of her cap as the wire ladder began to drift slowly down Narrow Street.
“Stay!” commanded Barrymore into the discreet mouthpiece that curved elegantly out from under her headgear.   The drifting ceased instantly.
“Blimey!” exclaimed Boz, “Is the Den bugged?”
“Certainly not, Mr Boris.   I just happened to be passing and am graced with unusually acute hearing.   Larry wanted you to know that he has despatched the Coleyfishspytrawler Lord Ancaster towards Antarctica to investigate the rumours.”
“What rumours?” asked a slightly ruffled Slasher.
“Ah, Mr McGoogs, a pie without your sticky paw in it?   Makes a refreshing change.   There’s reports of unusual activity at the US airbase – UFO under the ice – that sort of thing.   Leave it with us.   You have Larry’s full approval for your own little enterprise.”  
“Man… Larry knows of our enterprise?” Ginsbergbear spoke, “I’m not sure even we know about our enterprise yet.”
Sashaying over to the door Barrymore looked back over a coquettishly inclined shoulder, pinned them with her golden, kohl lined eyes  and said, “Carry on.”
Wrapping one leg around the wire ladder with the sensuality of a trapeze artist, she ascended into the heavens.

Tuesday 27 November 2012

Nanny Ludlam's Cave


Once more on the path, the trio turned their backs to the mere and jauntily resumed their journey.   The trail was easy and soon they came to a small stream.   It seemed to emanate from a dark hole behind a curtain of ivy in the steep hillside.   There was also the feint, but distinct smell of something cooking.
“Shall we explore?” exclaimed Potkin.
Josie was about to reply that it would be a shame not to investigate, when they noticed General Gordon had been distracted.   He was watching a figure that approached them from further up the path.   An elegant lady dressed in twin-set, tweeds, green wellingtons and a headscarf was striding towards him, a thumb stick in her right hand.
“There you are Gordon.   Come here at once.   It’s way past your teatime.   And leave those dreadful animals alone.   They probably have fleas.”
“Sorry,” said the terrier to Potkin and Josie, “I think I have to go.”
Before they could reply he gave a little bark and hurled himself towards her, stub tail wagging wildly.   The lady bent down and scooped him up.   Without looking at the two cats she turned and marched back along the path.
“Rascal,” they heard her say.

Josie watched them go and both cats waved.
“I’ll miss him.”
“Yeh, yeh.”   Potkin was following the stream, and about to disappear behind the screen of foliage.   Josie scampered to catch up with him.   Beyond the greenery the entrance of the cave was bricked in except for a pointed archway.   They entered cautiously and both stopped while they got used to the gloom.   Eventually they could make out a cavernous interior.   The stream carved a deep channel across the packed earth floor, emerging from a low cavity in the far wall and passing out via the doorway.   To their right a staircase, cut out of the natural rock, gave access to an upper level.   A window, somewhere up there, let in enough light to pick out the cobwebs that festooned the cavern roof.   Much of the main room was taken up with a large upright loom, warps tensioned by clay weights.   On it hung an unfinished and intricately woven textile.   Countless threads, each of singular colour and texture intertwined in an endless dance.   Silver threads glinted and jewel-like beads flashed.   In the flickering light of an oil lamp the composition seemed constantly on the move.
On a brick hearth, built in the centre of the room, a smouldering turf fire blackened the ceiling and heated a massive iron pot.
“Who’s down there?”   The question came from the balcony above.   “Don’t move. I’m coming down.”
A menacing shadow crawled inexorably across the wall.   A dark shape began to materialise at the head of the stairs, black as a hole in space-time.   Green eyes flashed.   Josie quickly rehearsed a number of responses to the situation and their probable outcomes, in his head.   Nothing came out well.   Potkin wasn’t moving.   Why didn’t Potkin do something decisive?   Josie was still trying to choose between flight and total surrender when the originator of the commands appeared on the stairs.   It was a small, barrel shaped and very black cat.   She came down to ground level and sauntered over to the hearth.
Potkin shook his head and scratched an ear with his back foot.   He considered doing something really cool for effect, but nothing came to mind.
“You have an interesting place here.   Are you perhaps a little bohemian?”   Josie looked puzzled and Potkin was not sure what he meant, but he had heard the word 'bohemian' somewhere and it sounded impressive.
The diminutive black cat explained that she had been a witch in a past life.
“Nanny Ludlam was my name.   All black cats have been witches.”
“I thought they burnt witches,.” said Josie.
”No,” Nanny Ludlam replied “That’s heretics.”   Josie had had hair ticks himself and felt burning was too good for them, but they were notoriously hard to catch.
Nanny Ludlam was stirring at the cauldron of steaming goo, which she promised they could try soon.   It would warm them up.
“What brings you to my cave?” she asked.
“Our journey,” replied Josie “We are trying to discover the purpose of our journey.”
“It’s a kind of adventure really,” added Potkin.
“Have you learned things and met new people?”
“And seen such sights!” said Josie enthusiastically.
“Well there you are,” said the black cat, “Often the purpose of a journey is the journey itself.
“Now come and have some of this potion - er - soup.   Then you can lie down next to the fire and rest.” The slightly sticky fluid was served in wooden bowls.   It was hot and a steamy greenish vapour curled above the surface.   Its warmth spread through them.   Their noses tingled and tails quivered.   As Potkin and Josie curled up on the earth floor the fire and furniture, witch and cauldron shimmered and floated away; the rosy, glowing walls of the cave seemed to close in on them and the tapestry...
"It's the web of weird!"
...folded around them.

"Where's Josiepose?" It was Joy's voice.
As Josie woke he felt a familiar rug beneath him, in front of the familiar black-iron fireplace. On the familiar sofa Potkin lay on his back snoring. In the kitchen beyond the cosy dining room, Joy and Richard were noisily doing whatever it is that people do in the kitchens of Edwardian cottages in such a civilised part of England.

Tuesday 6 November 2012

The Surrey Everglades


Coming towards them along the track was a diminutive and aged terrier carrying a stick over its shoulder with a bundle tied to it in a red spotted kerchief.   The tubby animal stopped in his tracks and growled an unconvincing threat.
“Hello.” Josie tried his friendly approach again, this time with some success.   The little dog’s stubby tail began to wag.
“Ooh!   Who are you?   Where are you going?” the dog asked, ”My name is General Gordon.”
Potkin thrust his large, bushy tail skywards to show how much more magnificent it was than the wiggling little appendage.
“This is Josie and I am Potkin.   We are travelling to the Abbey where we will visit the monks.   Do monks eat tuna?  How far are you going?”
“I’m leaving home.” replied the terrier; “I always leave home when they have guests.   Normally I meet someone around about here, who takes me back.”
"Come along then."
General Gordon turned and three abreast they resumed their progress down the path.
”There are no monks at the Abbey, by the way.   It has been abandoned for generations.”
“Oh dear.” sighed Josie; he had liked knowing where he was going.
“Ah, that's a bit of a bugger.   Can we accompany you home...” asked Potkin, “...while we rethink our plans?   We too, have to get back somehow.”
“That would be nice.” said General Gordon.

Walking and chatting, the trio failed to notice dark clouds tumbling up behind them.   The path descended imperceptibly and their route became increasingly damp.   The two cats vaulted over a fallen tree trunk, dripping with sodden moss, that barred their way and General Gordon squeezed underneath it.   His tummy-fur was stained with sludge and all their paws were becoming caked in sticky mud.   A thin mist crept through the woods below them.   Soon they were deep amongst clustering trees and the light was failing.   The mist thickened and hugged close to the ground.   The three friends hugged close to each other.
“You came through this?” enquired Josie of the terrier.
“It’s quite magical in the sunlight.” replied General Gordon; “I don’t know what’s happening.” They skipped over an oozing puddle and found themselves on a tuft of stiff grass surrounded on all sides by thick, foetid, weed covered water.   Saplings perched on tiny low islands or thrust, spiky and angular, upwards from out the dank pools.   The unsavoury, cadaverous green fluid stretched, motionless, as far as they could see between the trees.   Dying leaves rattled through the branches to settle silently on the slurry.
“How did we get here?” asked Josie.
“It’s a swamp.   We’re in a bothering swamp!”   Potkin’s voice rose.   A silent flash of sheet lightening illuminated the scene and threw horrid shadows across the water.

“It’s very spooky.” observed the terrier unhelpfully.   
Nearby the water heaved up.   They looked, wide eyed, but all was still again.   They were just convincing themselves that their imaginations were getting the better of them when a moorhen splashed, squawked, flapped a wing and disappeared beneath the green crust.   A cluster of oily bubbles struggled to the surface.   The swamp heaved again and something dripping with slime and decaying vegetation began to emerge.   It was the most horrible thing Josie had ever seen.   More horrible, even, than Reiver, the giant black dog from number two.   The cats used to pull faces at him through the gate, till one day he, and they had discovered the gate was unlocked.   Now, that was horrible - and this was worse.   General Gordon choked on a yelp and Potkin shut his eyes very tight.   Perhaps if he ever opened them again it would be gone.   Perhaps the swamp and the storm would be gone too.   He was not going to chance it yet though.  
As the horrible thing towered above them thick sludge dripped back into the swamp and a moaning gurgle rose up through its hideous throat.   It coughed, open mouthed, spraying them with bile.   A frog spewed out with the spittle and flopped onto the turf beside the quivering trio.   Potkin’s bowels gave up the unequal battle for control.
“Ribbet.” said the frog.
 “Hello.” said the swamp monster.
“Hello?” Potkin still had his eyes shut, “What in all that’s swampy are you?   And what’s that terrible smell?”
 “I think that was you.” returned the awful creature, “I didn’t frighten you, did I?”
Josie was staring down at the regurgitated remains of his last meal. “Do you do this a lot?” he quivered.
“I’m not very good with people skills.” said the apparition, as a particularly nasty bit of detritus slid off the end of his gangrenous nose, “I don’t have many friends.”
General Gordon began to yap and jump up and down, his natural reaction when reduced to a state of abject terror.
“I’m Grendel, the swamp faerie.   Is that noisy thing edible?”
“Take it.” said Potkin. His eyes wide open now, though he wished they were not.
 “Just a moment,” cut in Josie, “the dog’s a sort of friend.”
“Only joking.” said Grendel.
“Would you like half a shrimp paste sandwich?   It’s a bit curly and furry.”   Josie’s stomach felt very empty, “I’m going to have some.”
 Grendel burped loudly and looking down at the sad remnant of Josie's picnic declined.
“Want a frog?” he asked.   The frog looked nervous and plopped quickly below the thick muddy water.
General Gordon was calm now.   “I thought fairies were tiny firefly sprites with butterfly wings.”
“Like those?” asked Grendel, indicating the myriad points of yellow-green light scudding over the surface of the swamp and weaving through the toppling withies.
“Well, quite like that.” continued the terrier.
“No, they’re just bugs.” Grendel informed them, “The Victorians invented fluttery twee flower fairies.   Real faeries are mysterious and come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of grumpiness.”

Potkin was still embarrassed at his bottom’s failure to withstand the full rigours of true adventuring, but he was also remembering a story Richard had once told him.   He had counted both of Grendel’s arms several times and something did not add up.
“Ever heard of a bloke called Beowolf?” he asked of the swamp faerie.
“That Grendel was a cousin.   We are not very imaginative when it comes to names.   Anyway, like all Saxon chronicles that was an extremely biased account of events.   You should not believe everything your eyes consume from books.”
Potkin was about to explain that cats read through their posteriors, but decided the less mention of that particular part of his anatomy the better just at the moment.

A cool breeze rippled the heavy surface of the surrounding water, rattling leaves and conjuring scents of a fresher world outside.   The cats looked up and sniffed.   General Gordon tensed slightly.   Grendel glanced over the hairy, matted mass of his shoulder into the wind.
“I suppose you three would like to be on your way soon.”
“We don’t want to appear rude,” replied Josie, “but we do have a long way to go….and probably even further to come back.”
“Let me help.” said the faerie.   He scrubbed a great hand on a grassy tuft until an unhealthy flesh tone began to appear through the grime.   Then, extending the outstretched palm he said, “Jump up.”
The trio perched, somewhat unsteadily high above the water.   Holding them at arms length before him, Grendel waded through the mire, a sticky bow wave rippling around his thighs.   A low sun began to peep through the clouds.   The swamp was brightening and colour was returning to the duckweed.
The open swamp became channels and inlets bounded by grassy dry land.   Eventually Grendel, the water now barely reaching his knees lowered the adventurers onto springy turf.
“At the top of the bank you will find yourself back on the path.”

General Gordon was already scampering up the slope.   Josie turned and looked up into the face of the swamp faerie. 
“Thanks for the lift.   It was very nice meeting you, a very, um, unusual experience.”
Potkin glanced over his shoulder as he followed the small dog, “Give our regards to your Mum.”