Surprise Visit (part 15)

It’s hard to believe, I know, but we’re only three and a half chapters from the end of the tale. The good news is – the PDF version is complete and only awaits the completion of the on-line telling of this Earplug Adventure before becoming available for all to read or download, in its entirety, free of charge and utterly gratis. It will look exactly like this…

 

But enough of the future: on with the present…

Meanwhile, the proper leader of Scroton scurried along one of many thoroughfares that radiated, like a spider’s web, through the Museum of Future Technology. As he made good speed for a meeting with the chief curator, Cushions Smethwyke, his retinue followed in his wake…

“You need to be fit.” Walker observed as his eyes took in any number of side passageways and corridors. “It seems that to get anywhere, an inordinate amount of shoe leather must be worn down.”

“Walking is good for you.” Beatrix admonished the military leader of Scroton.

“One could get awfully lost.” The red-faced Julian Prim said between gasps.

“Not really.” Beatrix replied. “One need only ask the museum’s Artificial Intelligence for guidance. If it’s not too busy doing other stuff, it will tell you where you are; where you want to be; and how to get there. How else do you think Nigel knows where he’s going?”

Shortly, having rounded just a couple more junctions, Nigel presented himself and Beatrix to Cushions, who had Cheerful Charlie Chopsticks for company upon her ‘throne’…

“Oh, Golden One,” Cushions gushed obsequiously, “I’m so honoured that it takes every erg of my energy to maintain mental and physical equilibrium and not fall off this huge contraption!

“Hi,” Cheerful Charlie added with a wave over Cushions’ shoulder, “you’ve just missed jelly and cream, sorry. Would you like me to send out for you?”

The behaviour of the two trained, long-term professional curators nonplussed Nigel slightly. “Ah, not for the moment, thank you.” He replied to Cheerful Charlie. To Cushions he said: “Miss Smethwyke, we must discuss the most dreadful situation that currently threatens, not only the Museum of Future Technology and, by extension, my home world; but, ultimately many civilisations across the cosmos.”

It was Cushions’ turn to be taken aback. “Yeah?” She managed. “I thought it was just us who were up Kaka Creek without a paddle.”

“Then Magnuss hasn’t told you?” A mystified Beatrix interjected.

It was time for Cushions to come clean: “He might have.” She answered, “But after the first couple of sentences, I kinda went into panic-denial. What was it, specifically?”

“That the attacking ships are of Scrotonic design.” Nigel answered for his wife. “That they utilise the latest technology to which even I am not privy.”

Cushions’ mouth opened and shut several times before her brain caught up. “You mean,” she was finally able to annunciate, “that we’re being bullied by ethernet cable ends? I can’t believe it. It’s too much for my silicon mind to accept. Surely no cable end would destroy an entire city, just to prove how powerful they were – would they?” 

Nigel dismissed the notion with a careless gesture. “No.” He replied adamantly. “No cable end would ever do that. It runs contrary to all our beliefs. But we must consider the possibility that another race – as adept at manufacturing hi-tech equipment at speed and in volume as we of Scroton – has purloined our designs and now uses them for their own advantage.”

“Oh, good.” Cushions responded. “So what do you want us to do? All our ships are half-way across the Galaxy, doing all that exploration and diplomatic stuff. We can’t call upon them. In any case, if those ships are half as good as you say, our old bangers might get blown to pieces!”

“We ask only one thing of you.” Nigel replied. “By whatever means, you must not allow them to defeat you. You must not surrender. I have ordered a fleet of similar ships built. Ships that fly the right way up, I might add. The first elements will arrive here by the end of the week. The remainder are due at approximately the same time that the aliens return for your answer to their ultimatum.”

“Excellent.” Cheerful Charlie piped up. “We’ll make sure we have plenty of jelly and cream in.”

Nigel ignored the resident buffoon. To Cushions he said: “Is there anything you require in between times?”   

“Power.” Cushions replied. “Energy. Our batteries are depleting too quickly. We have a manually operated charger, but no one has sufficient leg strength or endurance to operate it.”

“Leave it to us.” Beatrix replied.

Five hours later…

“Can you see the power level read-out, Faati?” Fermin asked the Queen of the Pygmies.

“Yes.” Faati snapped back.

“How much longer do we have to keep doing this before the batteries are fully charged?” Fermin inquired.

“Long enough,” Faati answered, “to prove your boast to Walker that you can run and run and run without the need to sit down for an hour afterwards.”

Five hours later…

…the museum’s maintenance crew informed the exhausted cable ends that they could prise themselves off the charging machine and allow themselves to be carried to a hot soapy bath to recover.

However, a minute later, but half way across the Galaxy, Phruten Vedge was on the brink of entering a public lavatory, when Anders Dumbell unceremoniously accosted him…

“Phruten! Phruten!” He yelled and tugged at the biker gang leader’s shoulder epaulettes. “Something unthinkable has happened. Something that, under normal circumstances I would say was impossible on Scroton. But, look at the wall screen over there: the one showing the state-run rolling news channel.”

Phruten did as he was bid…

“Argh,” he yelled, “What am I looking at?”

“A fire-storm.” Anders wailed his reply. “It has destroyed the space ship factory. No one knows how it happened: but the Bingbonger, the Clutterbuck, the Plankton Regis, and another one that doesn’t have a name yet, have all been destroyed!”

“This is terrible.” Phruten yelled at a higher pitch than was normally acceptable for such a tough guy. “I’m so glad I’m standing directly outside a toilet right now!”

But just when both cable ends thought that the situation could not worsen farther, the screen switched to another view…

The voice of a reporter followed immediately. It said:

“Holy carp: did you see that? Two missiles have taken out the lemon curd factory! Oh-no, this is disastrous; they were using the surplus manufacturing capacity of the lemon curd factory to produce the extra vessels for The Golden One’s space fleet! Everything has gone up in smoke. This is the worst day in cable end history. Someone hand me a café Cortado – heavy on the brandy!”

However even this was not the final act of infamy. Another screen displayed the image of the space ship design studio in flames…

“Cripes, Anders,” Phruten spoke in a hushed tone, lest his voice break with sorrow and fear, “arson, obviously. Who is going to tell The Golden One?”

The answer flew daintily to Anders’ lips: “Ena.” He replied.

By the strangest of coincidences, Nigel received the news of his proto-fleet’s destruction at the same moment that he planned to enter the Buggeram Bay’s toilet…

“I’m not sure I can accept that.” He said quietly to Walker. “I don’t have an appropriate response.”

“Give it a few minutes to sink in, Sir.” Bertram Hisscod suggested. “Allow yourself the chance to absorb the information slowly.”

“Yes, thank you, Bertram.” Nigel said gratefully, as he turned to enter the toilet…

…”If I have a really long wee, it’ll give me time to compose myself. I just hope that in my moment of despair I don’t lose control and miss the urinal entirely.”

“Best make it a sit down job then, Sir.” Walker said as he made to follow his leader. “I’m sure Bertram will hustle you up a cup of tea.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

You have to feel sympathy for poor old Nigel: he has to contend with so much. Perhaps he should do as he suggested at the beginning of the adventure. That is quit and go live in a cave. 

Surprise Visit (part 14)

Response to Part 13 was a tad muted. Perhaps Part 14 will be more to your liking. Here goes…

It was bright outside – whereas the interior enjoyed a cloak of shade. They didn’t know it, of course, but their guests had made a decision, and were preparing to leave…

It was only when their eyes adjusted to the gloom that the Baristas realised that they had arrived too late…

“Oh, my apologies.” Nigel said when he spotted his ungracious hosts…

…but we won’t be requiring the sugar now. Um, perhaps you can sprinkle it on some doughnuts or something. We need to be moving on. By-ee.”

However, as they left, Magnuss – never one to waste anything, especially when people had gone to such lengths to accomplish something so trivial – took the sachets and (along with his Cossack hat) poked them inside his back pocket. “Thank you.” He said. “I’ll be writing to your manager: you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

Moyst ran straight to the lavatory to wash the smell of plugmutt pee off her hands. But Jungle-Jake and Mary-Sue, both of whom were far less fastidious in their hygiene, merely watched their guests depart  –  to be replaced by alternative clientele – such as a vacationing Ice-Worlder, Uda Spritzer, and the morose Poncho Warmonger – eager to sample their vile wares…

“Huh,” Jungle-Jake grunted, “and they didn’t even leave a tip on the table. Cheapskates!”

Chapter Five

Far, far away, upon the planet Scroton, part-time government officials, Phruten Vedge, Ena Large, and Anders Dumbell were returning to the council chambers following a short break for mince pies and custard…

Phruten’s mind was on nothing in particular. His eyes wandered the anteroom without really seeing anything. Ena and Anders, conversely, had very important matters troubling them. Both had consumed far more mince pies than was recommended by the state-run organisation Be Kind to Your Guts, and were experiencing a sensation that suggested that their bowels would soon explode. Both tried crossing and uncrossing their eyes many times in an attempt to ward off the inevitable. They were still doing so, when a pair of Civil Service officers approached at speed…

Quickly regaining his awareness, Phruten turned to face them. Ena made a pretty good fist of looking interested too. But poor Anders spent the following moments trying to release the internal pressure by emitting copious amounts of gas and praying that it vented naturally through the open portal to his right. So he didn’t hear the Civil Service officers inform Phruten and Ena that a message had arrived from Earth.

“It’s The Golden One!” The grey cable end yelled. “He’s sent a message for you.”

“You have to act upon it.” The purple cable end yelled even louder – bordering on shrill. “This is not the time for conservatism. No more maintaining the status quo. You must act.”

“And act with alacrity, determination, and forthrightness.” The grey cable end continued. “Contrary to what Beatrix said in the council chambers before they went on vacation: make waves!”

“But what is it?” An increasingly nervous Phruten demanded. “What is it we must do?”

“Sign the authorisation.” The purple cable end half explained.

The grey cable end completed the explanation:

“To complete all of the new space ships by the end of the week, and begin constructing a further fifteen – to be completed in seven days. No expenses spared. Twenty-four hour operation. Overtime at double pay. These ships must be ready for battle within thirteen days, fully crewed, and on-site in Earth orbit with armament primed and ready for action.”

Anders heard this. For a moment it required all of his intellect to understand the significance of the instruction. Consequently, he had nothing in reserve, which meant that his iron control slipped and his bottom erupted so violently that everyone were sent scurrying from the anteroom by the subsequent gale of moist particles…

“Let’s go.” He shouted. “Let’s get this Executive Order signed!”

“Then,” he added in a mournful wail, “someone hand me the key to the Executive Toilet. Damn those mince pies!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Ah, you see there – I’m on safer ground. Blowing off.

Surprise Visit (part 13)

Are you enjoying Surprise Visit? If so, please leave a comment in the ‘comment’ box. It should go something like this: “Yo, Tooty, what a groove.” or “Hey, man – I can dig it!” Or something similar – such as “Divine, darling!” or “Absolute bloody genius.” Or, “I nearly wet my pants, it’s so good.” The choice is yours. Now on to the next extract…

Meanwhile, in the arboretum Café Puke franchise…

…the heroic earplug duo and their allies from Scroton were still in deep conversation. Outside – shooting in through a window in the back wall – Rupert Piles caught everything upon his mighty TV camera…

“This is good.” He said to himself. “I’ll be able to stretch this into a two-part docudrama. I might even win an award for it. Heaven knows I’m overdue one. Let’s hope no one gets the drop on me, like the aliens did on Nigel and his gang.”

Whilst important discussions were taking place in one Café Puke outlet; in another, which happened to be located at the edge of the nearby Wide Blue Yonder…

…a surprised pair of Baristas were…ugh…surprised to see Jungle-Jake lead Mary-Sue and Moyst into their workplace.

“Hey,” the taller of the two Baristas – both of whom were cleaning spilt coffee from a table near the back – cried, “what are you guys doing here? Has your café burned down, fallen foul of the Health and Safety Executive, or something?”

“Or have you been fired for rudeness and overt gum chewing?” The shorter earplug inquired.

Mary-Sue explained.

“I smelt some sugar cane.” Jungle-Jake added. “The pong led us here.”

“Oh yeah,” the first Barista said as comprehension dawned. “We had a load of sugar cane crystals in sachets: but no one bothers with the real thing, not when they can have nice white refined sugar. It was past its sell-by date. We’ve been burning it in an incinerator out the back.”

“If you wanna look around out there,” the second Barista said helpfully,” you might find a few sachets on the ground. We were having fun flicking  ’em at each other, and we couldn’t be bothered to pick them up. But, watch it, people take their plugmutts ‘round there to have a pee, so they might smell a bit iffy.”

Meanwhile the autofocus of Rupert’s camera found it difficult to see clearly through the futuristically pseudo-opaque glass in one of the café’s side windows…

More fortunately, the microphone experienced no difficulty picking up what the occupants of the café were saying to each other.

“Let me get this right.” Nigel was saying to Magnuss. “You never actually saw the aliens: they spoke through a vocoder-like apparatus, so you have no idea what they really sound like; they destroyed La Ciudad de Droxford as a demonstration of their power; they want your unconditional surrender; and they’ve given you two weeks to make your decision – and left you to think it over?”

Magnuss was happy with that summation. Then he thought of something else:

“Oh yes, they also left a huge ovoid ring. It’s hanging in the air, over the sea, just off the coast, near the sewage outlet. It’s heavily armed, has multiple layers of electro-magnetic defensive screening, and is the means by which the semi-fleet departed this region of space.”

Beatrix picked up on one of Magnuss’ terms: “Semi-fleet?” She inquired. “Might an alternative nomenclature for a small number of armed invasion ships be termed a ‘flotilla’?”

Magnuss thought about it for a second. “Yes, I guess it would.” He answered. “Yes, the ovoid ring was the means by which the flotilla departed this region of space.”   

Beatrix turned to her husband. “There, I told you so – when we blew up that shape-shifting sausage roll: there is a flotilla of our latest ship out there – and it’s kicking ass!”

Nigel didn’t need to be reminded. All his fears were taking on corporeal form. “Do we know where they went to?” He asked Magnuss. “You know, when they left via the ovoid ring?”

Magnuss fetched out his cell phone. He spoke as he did so. “We sent a drone in after the…flotilla. Before we lost contact with it, the drone sent this back.”  Quickly searching through its library of images with deft movements of his pinky-orange fingers, he produced this…

A collective gasp escaped the seven sets of Scrotonic lungs. “Weird Space!” The seven owners of the seven sets of lungs exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Recognise the planet?” Magnuss inquired. “It’s brown all over, with no surface water.”

No one did: but Julian noticed something pertinent:

“It has an aura.” He said. “A glow, if you will. It could indicate a substantial cloaking facility. Large enough to hide the entire world, maybe. You said that their ships evaded your sensors? Perhaps this world is evading Scroton’s.”

Nigel’s fears doubled at these words. “You mean that there is a hidden planet in Weird Space that we don’t know about – that has a capacity to develop technology as well or better than we can? If I had any pants on, I’d probably be pooping in them as we speak”

Beatrix looked at Nigel. “You don’t have any pants on?” She inquired quietly.

“Forgot to pack any.” Nigel explained. “That’s why I chose the kilt. But enough of my wardrobe disaster: We need to act – and act decisively. “

Talking of acting decisively, in the Wide Blue Yonder Café Puke, Moyst, Jungle-Jack, and Mary-Sue had thanked the Baristas for their help, and were leaving the café – their pockets burgeoning with vaguely unpleasant-smelling sachets of unprocessed cane sugar…

So, the difficult facet of their task completed, now it was merely a matter of retracing their steps back to the arboretum; past the bamboo plantation…

…and finally to the café where Nigel, presumably, awaited his sugar…

“Pity we couldn’t find a mortar and pestle.” Jungle-Jake lamented quietly.

“That’s old tech.” Moyst snorted derisively behind him. “No one can expect a Barista to find ancient stuff in the Museum of Future Technology. I mean – it’s counter intuitive, aint it!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Right then, now it’s time for you to do your bit. Comment. Comment. Comment!

 

Surprise Visit (part 12)

No preamble: just story. Look, I didn’t even bother putting ‘An Earplug Adventure’ in the title. So on with it!

Chapter Four

After all seven Scrotonites had taken their turn at peering at the tiny picture upon Magnuss’ cell phone…

…six of them stood back and awaited their leader’s response. It wasn’t one of several they might have expected…

“I don’t like this coffee.” He said. “The sugar is refined. It’s very bad for me. I want pure cane sugar – freshly hacked and processed by hand, using a mortar and pestle. Barista’s go fetch it for me.”

Of course, by now, all three Barista’s had consulted the Internet on their cell phones: they knew exactly the degree of power Nigel might wield, and how important he was. Fearing he could have had them beheaded or excluded from social media, they begrudgingly complied with his somewhat unorthodox demand…

The small, mauve Barista – Moyst Towlet – led her colleagues from behind the counter. “Hey, this is great.” She said. “We’re getting paid to go outside in the sunshine. I can top up my tan. I used to work as a trainee manicurist and lipstick applicator in the arboretum’s artisan village: I know exactly where we can cut down some sugar cane. Let’s go!”

Once the staff had disappeared out of the door, Nigel whipped off his plume and tossed all the coffees into the sink, like the first-rate basketball player he might have been, had fate not decreed that he would lead a world out of ignorance and a dung-for-brains existence, into a technological and prosperous era, and said:

“A ruse, my friends. I had no wish for witnesses to what transpires hereafter. And I don’t like the coffee either. If anyone feels the need for refreshment, I’m sure Magnuss can oblige from his hip flask of ginger beer. Now to business.”

With that, Magnuss cast aside his Cossack hat and joined the others as they crowded around Nigel’s table…

Both Magnuss and Hair-Trigger smiled as The Golden One took control of the discussion:

“Those ships are of Scrotonic design.” He stated.

“Undoubtedly.” Walker Crabtrouser concurred.

Bertram Hisscod raised a hand. “They appeared to be flying inverted.” He said.

Fermin Gusset required clarity: “What, like upside down, you mean?”

“Exactly.” Julian replied for Bertram. “I knew there was something odd about that picture!”

“Why were they flying upside down?” Beatrix inquired, reasonably enough.

Faati thought she could supply the answer to that difficult question:

“They must have held the blueprints upside down when they photocopied the original design.”

“Of course.” Nigel bellowed as his fist slammed into the table top – threatening to shatter it’s futuristic melamine surface. “It must have paid merry hell for their engineers, when they tried to shoehorn in the interior of the ship. Imagine turning every deck through one hundred and eighty degrees – especially the waste pipes from the lavatories. If I had a hat on, I’d take it off to them!”

He paused for a moment. “Walker,” he said, “you looked shamefaced. What is it?”

Walker Crabtree’s inner embarrassment became visible. “I spoke falsehood, Sir.” He explained. “Earlier I told you that it was impossible for any species to develop and build a spaceship quicker than the engineers of Scroton. I was wrong. It was sheer racial hubris. The facts are undeniable. Other than their upside-downiness, those vessels on Magnuss’ cell phone are exact duplicates of the ship we arrived here in. I feel decidedly wrong-footed: I should have seen this coming.”

“Me too.” Bertram’s professional horror surfaced like a boiling mud geyser in an active sulphurous volcanic region, though less aromatic of course. “If anyone should have been on top of this horrendous security break, it should have been ‘yours truly’!”

“Self-recrimination will do us no good, gentlemen.” Nigel spoke loudly, but kindly. “We need intel. Magnuss, have the aliens made any demands of the museum’s curator elite?”

“Well…” Magnuss began.

Meanwhile the three Baristas had reached the region in the arboretum in which Moyst insisted sugar cane grew freely…

However, now they were there, her confidence waned alarmingly.

“Here we are.” Mary-Sue said cheerfully. “Did anyone bring something to cut it with?”

“I’ve got sharp teeth.” Jungle-Jake volunteered. “I can bite ‘em down.”

Moyst decided that it was time to ‘fess up’. “Er,” she began with less than total confidence, “I aint so sure this is sugar cane after all. I think it’s bamboo. My Uncle Chantra’s got something very like it at the bottom of his garden. They look very similar. We’ll have to look somewhere else.”

To her surprise, neither colleague appeared worried in the least by this information. “That’s alright, Moyst.” Jungle-Jake said. “It’ll give me the chance to live up to my name. You stay here; I’ll go sniff us out some sugar cane.”

With those words reverberating off the hollow bamboo canes that grew all around them, Jungle-Jake stepped from the walkway and descended into the foliage…

Immediately his sensitive nose began twitching – searching out the characteristic ‘spore’ of sugar cane. Unfortunately, Jungle-Jake had no idea what Sugar cane smelt like. “Oh bugger,” he said, “why couldn’t I have been raised in the West Indies – they’ve got lots of sugar cane there. Bananas too. I could have taken some banana extract back with me: that would have impressed that guy from Scroton. Not a lot of sugar cane in the Welsh valleys though. Hmmm, maybe I aint quite the right dude for the job I thought I was. Oh, darn it: why do I have to play the big ‘look at me, I can do anything’ wally? Whatta am I gonna tell the girls?”

Of course he had no answer to that. However, a split second into a huge raspberry-blow of self-loathing…

…he discovered that he could taste sweetness in the air.

“On the other hand,” he said to himself.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

P S: It may not seem it, at this juncture in the story; but the sensitivity of Jungle-Jake’s taste buds will become very important later on. Stay tuned to find out why!

PPS: Did you notice the coffee cups in the Cafe Puke? Attention to detail or what!

 

Surprise Visit (part 11): An Earplug Adventure

Well, if you’re an Earplugger, the good news is – the story is complete. Done. Over. I didn’t need to shoot any further shots to do it either. It runs to eight chapters, so it’s not quite as short as I’d anticipated. But we don’t care about such things do we? Just as long as it’s fun. So now on with Part Eleven, with plenty more to come…

No one had noticed Rupert Piles on a coffee break – his camera resting quiescent beside him. His ears pricked up. Moments later those same ears heard the distinctive ‘tromp’ of Scrotonite hobnail boots outside…

“Do they have waitress service?” Beatrix inquired. “Or do we go straight to the counter?”

Beatrix found out soon enough…

The Baristas were very young, working to pay for their university tuition: they knew very little of worldly affairs. Of off-worldly affairs, only ignorance reigned. They had no idea who Nigel – the Golden One – was…

“Yeah, whatta ya want?” Mary-Sue asked impudently.

“What do you have?” He inquired.

“Ya didn’t see the sign outside the door?” The Barista spoke around a wad of bubble gum.

“The wind must have blown it down.”

Mary-Sue sighed loudly, before reciting the menu.

“That one.” Nigel interrupted the flow of noise. “The last one you said.”

The young female seemed surprised. “Caramelised Onion? You sure? No one ever buys caramelised onion coffee. Our regular stuff is crap; but caramelised onion is…well…”

“Um…yes…it’s my favourite.” Nigel – feeling every bit the country hick on his first trip to the big city – replied.

“Mine too.” Beatrix added. “I can’t get enough of it – though the last one on this counter menu looks interesting. What is it – decaffeinated?”

“Defecated.” Mary-Sue corrected the ruler of Scroton’s wife, “coz it tastes like…”

“Whatta ya want on your caramelised onion?” Jungle-Jake interrupted as his coffee machine gurgled and spat.

Beatrix looked to Nigel for guidance. She found none.

“Try sponge fingers.” Hair-Trigger suggested.

“Sponge fingers.” Beatrix replied to the male Barista’s question.  

“Take a seat.” He responded. “Someone’ll bring ya coffee to ya.”

Shortly, after everyone had ordered and found themselves a table to sit at…

…the coffees began arriving, though not necessarily to the correct customer. The sheer size of the table menus amazed Nigel…

“Is everyone myopic in the Museum of Future Technology?” He jested. “Wish I’d chosen the Iron Lungo now: sounds delicious.”

Closer to the door, Rupert Piles grabbed his opportunity to catch some footage of the Café Puke’s illustrious guest…

“Oi,” Jungle-Jake yelled. “No cameras: you know the rules. You might steal our secrets!”

Rupert’s professional activity and the reaction of the Barista gave Magnuss pause for thought. Perhaps it was unwise to begin an important discussion with a foreign head of state in such a public place, and with no many prying ears and eyes. Hair-Trigger caught his look and dutifully joined him when he took centre stage…

“May I have your attention?” He bellowed like a plugmutt giving birth.

“Shut your noise!” Hair-Trigger added like an ill-balanced lathe loaded with pig iron

Everyone present knew exactly who the great heroes of the museum were. Silence descended like night in the desert.

“Sorry everyone,” Magnuss said through a cherubic smile that was enough to melt the heart of any old grandmother, “but you’re all gonna have to down your coffee and sod off. These guys are from Scroton, and they’re gonna help us with those aliens who destroyed La Ciudad de Droxford. So we gotta have some peace and quiet. Understand? Baristas can stay: we need you to keep loading us up with caffeine.”

Hair-Trigger turned to Rupert. “Mister Piles: you need to record this for posterity. However I wonder if you might do it from outside? You have a personal aroma problem. You can shoot through the window.”

Shortly the slightly disgruntled customers made their way out of the café through the main entrance…

“Oh look,” one of them said, “the wind has blown the menu sign back upright again. What a wonderful place the Museum of Future Technology truly is.”

Once the café was their own, Nigel adorned himself with his plume of office, whilst Magnuss put on his famous Cossack hat…

“Right then,” Nigel said without preamble, “show me some pictures of these flying saucers. I don’t think I’m going to be overly surprised at what I see.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

That Cafe Puke set was a labour of love. Unlike other cardboard creations, this one is not going in the recycle bin. Expect to see that ‘fifties diner’ decor in another Earplug Adventure!

Spend Spend Spend – What Some More – Again?

It’s been a while since I lasted reported upon my Back Lane Behemoth…

Of late there seemed to be a indefinable ‘something’ wrong with it. It just didn’t feel quite so smooth and effortless as normal. Something mysterious amiss. Cue Andy – of Earle Brothers Motorcycles (of Warnford, Hampshire) to knock at my door and ask to see the bike. Well it didn’t take long for him to diagnose a knackered final transmission and book the Yamaha in for repairs. That, in itself, would be expensive enough, but sadly your favourite literary and gastronomic genius made the fiscal situation considerably worse when the time came to transfer funds from his account to that of Earle Brothers. My machine was waiting to be returned to me – looking all refreshed and wonderful…

…when suddenly, as I was in the middle of an on-line bank transfer, Windows decided to update. This meant that the system slowed to a crawl – eventually stopping all together mid-transfer. Now my Toshiba laptop – the one I create my Earplug Adventures on – has been known to drive me to distraction before: but this time it over-stepped the mark. It was late in the day: the bike was loaded in the van: the shop was on the phone- wanting to know where the payment was: and my poxy laptop had decided to go on vacation. I couldn’t even use another computer because I was already logged on. Something had to change. I saw only one recourse open to me. I needed to do to this computer what I’ve done to every other computer I’ve owned. It was time for the Toshiba to die! In a split second it was dashed to the floor. As you can probably imagine, laptops and concrete floors are not a match made in heaven….

But at least it logged me off the Internet banking site, and I was able to complete the transaction in the nick of time on another computer. As a result of my impetuosity, it became necessary for me to spend a further £450 (on top of the bike repair) on a new laptop…

But at least I managed to get a fifty pound discount on the new HP, so it wasn’t all bad. But that’s a total of three quarters of a grand up in smoke. It’s expensive – having a temper like mine. I wonder how long this laptop will last.

Surprise Visit (part 10): An Earplug Adventure

Into double figures. These extracts just keep coming. At least they will do all the time you want to read them. Thank you for that, by the way. Without readers, what would be the point of writing these tales? Especially since I do so enjoy doing it. Keep up the good work. Tell your friends. Let’s spread the word. Enjoy Part Ten…

Five minutes later Magnuss and Hair-Trigger stood upon the truncated Wide Blue Yonder, pressed up against their visitors…

“Sorry about this,” Magnuss said, “but we don’t want the aliens to detect our use of the matter transmitter. We’re using just one to carry all nine of us. Squash up. Squash up!”

Moments later…

…multiple flashes lit up the fake surroundings. A split second later, multiple flashes did likewise in a subterranean bunker beneath the real Museum of Future Technology…

“Okay everybody,” Magnuss said after everyone had felt themselves from head to toe, “let’s go!”

And, boy, didn’t they go! Magnuss set a blistering pace…

So fast that he and Hair-Trigger were soon gasping for air…

…and poor little Faati – the Queen of the Pygmies – was in danger of being left behind. But what she lacked in outright speed, she more than made up for in stamina. So by the time the flagging forerunners had reached the sole exterior viewing window, she had caught up…

“You gotta run really fast to lose a pygmy.” One of the earplug engineers present on the shop floor below said. “I always bet on them in a marathon.”

“Me too.” Another replied. “I bought my apartment with the winnings.”

Naturally, Nigel was more than interested in the alien saucers. Already an idea was forming in his illustrious head. “Can we go somewhere quiet where you can show me images of these alien swine?” He asked, yet managed to make it a command.

“Sure.” Magnuss replied. “I was rather hoping you’d say that. Just follow the signs.”

“Are you sure you want to take them to a Café Puke?” An uncertain Hair-Trigger asked of her husband…

“Can you think of a better place?” He responded. “The coffee is crap, but the ambiance can’t be equalled – especially with their latest Fifties Diner décor.”

At that moment, a short distance away, in the arboretum Café Puke…

…three Baristas awaited their next customer. It had been a quiet start to the morning, and thus far clientele had only occupied a few tables…

“Oi, can we really afford to keep that air-con running?” The pink female, Mary-Sue Wassack, said to the others. “And I don’t mean that in a fiscal sense: the museum is running on battery power you know. Okay, they’re very futuristic batteries, but they don’t last forever. Then this job’ll get really hard and sweaty. I do don’t hard and sweating – not unless I’m down the disco with a can of lager in my hand.”

One of the others – possibly the sole male Barista, Jungle-Jake Johnson –  might have argued that if they turned up the heat, what few customers they had would leave. However all three Barista’s attention was soon drawn to a face at the door…

“Ah-ha,” they heard Magnuss say cheerfully. “Stay right there. Don’t shut up shop, and don’t turn off the air-con: you’ve got V.I.Ps incoming.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

PS The cover to the free PDF e-book version is ready. It looks like this…

Judging from the cover image, that looks like a surprise visit we’d all like to avoid. Next time phone before you arrive: we can make sure we’re out!

Surprise Visit (part 9): An Earplug Adventure

I think, for Part Nine, we’ll dispense with my usual rambling introduction, and get straight to the action. Actually, speaking of rambling: in this extract Magnuss and Hair-Trigger finally conclude their huge exposition. Now straight to the action-ish…

“Of course, we were trying to conceal ourselves, so we couldn’t tap into Nul-Space for energy. We needed to plug in the back-up battery packs…

…whilst our passive sensors tried to make sense of what was happening beyond the shield. Fortunately, Rupert Piles was able to film some stuff with his three-dee camera through a small window in the downstairs Gents toilet…

…so we had some inkling of what was going on outside.”

“Yes,” Hair-Trigger confirmed, “he was able to zoom-in on our neighbouring town – La Ciudad de Droxford. Their lights went out too!”

“Naturally visitors to the museum panicked.” Magnuss continued. “Several Baristas left their posts in the Café Puke outlets. The Zombie population all huddled together in the sub-strata upon which were built successive museums before the current one…

Of course, some fell to pieces and resorted to religion. Well the ones who believe in Ballington, the Cork God did…

“Meanwhile,” Hair-Trigger replaced her husband whilst he took a nip from his hip flask of ginger beer, “engineers in La Ciudad de Droxford couldn’t maintain control of their power generation plant. The colour just drained from their faces…

Something was affecting it from the outside. Some advanced technology with which none of us are familiar.”

“Yeah,” Magnuss retook the reins, “that’s when we found out who was causing all the grief. It was the alien ships that chased us through hyperspace. We hadn’t shaken them off at all: they were cloaked and hiding from our sensors!”

“But your vessel has sensors designed and built on Scroton!” Walker exclaimed in horror.

“I know, I know.” Magnuss wailed. “It’s impossible, but they had something that blinded the Scrotonic sensors completely. But enough of that for the moment. The aliens aboard then ordered everyone in the city to walk into the distant hills. It was a long and arduous task. Rupert Piles could see that some of them had really painful feet. Others – wonky knees and chilblains.”

“We would have given them some soothing cream.” Hair-Trigger piped up, “but we couldn’t give away our position.”

“So the alien sensors couldn’t detect you through your Chameleon Cannon Cloak?” Beatrix inquired.

“We’ll come to that.” Magnuss replied. “Anyway the earplugs took longer than the aliens liked for them to leave, so, when they reached the foothills, the stragglers were fired upon to speed them up…

When the last of them had finally clambered from the plain, the leading alien saucer fired the first shot at Ciudad de Droxford…

…which took all the tiles off the roof of a popular nunnery. It was the first of many. Shots, that is: not nunnery roofs. The aliens had a rare old time. You could tell they were having fun…

As morning arrived, so the saucers departed, leaving the city a flaming ruin…

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Beatrix commiserated. “But why did they destroy such a lovely city? And why so close to the Museum of Future Technology?”

“We’ll come to that too.” Magnuss replied. “Anyway, inside the Chameleon Cannon Cloak…

…all we could do was to wait until the fires had burned themselves out. Then we went to see the result of the attack…

It was pretty thorough.”

“I suppose you couldn’t help defend the city with your defence fighters?” Nigel said the words that could have sounded recriminating had anyone else spoken them. “But, then I imagine they only work using your broadcast power system, which, of course relies upon Nul-Space energy. Ah, I see…such a quandary.”

“There was something else too.” Magnuss explained. “Long ago the curator elite proposed that we build a duplicate museum. One that could be activated when the real museum came under threat, and draw any unwanted attention from would-be invaders and the like. Unfortunately, the museum’s coffers have always been paltry. Work has been slow and haphazard – relying on donations and volunteers…

But, we have been getting there, though it does mean a few corners had to be cut…

An awful lot of plaster and chicken wire was used. And, of course, we had to build it to scale – only one-third the real size.”

It was at that moment that the truth finally dawned upon the listening trio of Scrotonites. “This isn’t the Museum of Future Technology!” Nigel boomed joyously.

“It’s just a putrid facsimile!” Walker exclaimed with happiness.

“You’re not a bunch of scheming little gits after all!” Beatrix screamed, with relief evident in every decibel.

“When do we get to see the real museum?” Nigel inquired.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Surprise Visit (part 8): An Earplug Adventure

When I wrote the introduction to part 8 of Surprise Visit, I was pleased to announce that photography had ended – with 229 shots completed for the photo-story. Well I was a tad premature. I should have realised that there was no way on Earth I was going to keep to my script. As the written tale progressed, I was getting little side-ideas. Scenes that improved the story. So, guess what: it was time to clamber back up into the attic studio and shoot some more. The total is now up to 238. Would anyone bet against it rising higher? Anyway, here’s the latest extract…

It led to the arboretum…

“Hah!” Nigel scoffed. “I’d always believed that the arboretum was vast and filled with all sorts of wonderful plants and trees from all the different ages of Earplugdom. But look at that: it’s a travesty.”

Naturally, their hearts sinking to new lows, Nigel and Beatrix turned away from the distressing scene…

In doing so, they failed to notice a yellow eye open in the flowerbed. And, when they were out of sight the same flower bed reared up to reveal itself as Susan – the amorphous blob from the Age of Stone exhibit…

“This is terrible.” She wailed. “Nigel, the Golden One, has lost his faith in earplugs and the Museum of Future Technology. I must warn Magnuss!”

Chapter Three

Meanwhile, the head of the military joined a disconsolate Nigel and Beatrix…

He too looked sad and beaten. When they spoke, it became clear that he had drawn the same conclusions. “Well they certainly pulled the wool over my eyes.” He grumbled. “I bet all this subterranean concrete is really modelling plaster painted with grey pre-school safety paint.”

Although Nigel believed what he believed, there was still a nagging doubt smouldering within his soul. He prayed for any sign that he was wrong about the earplugs. He got that sign…

“What was that? All three cable ends yelled in unison. “The flash of a matter transference device in operation?”

Seconds later there was no doubt…

Nigel, Beatrix, and Walker raced to greet their favourite earplugs.

“Hiya, guys.” Magnuss called as they approached at breakneck speed.

“Sorry about all this.” Hair-Trigger added as she shrugged and indicated their immediate surroundings. “But it was necessary.”

The married couple then proceeded to explain the situation to their unexpected guests…

“It’s been awful.” Magnuss said as he spat out imaginary bile.

“It still is.” Hair-Trigger added mournfully.

“It’s like this,” Magnuss continued, “a couple of days ago Hair-Trigger and I were followed through a hyperspace conduit by a huge alien ship, with a bunch of smaller ones riding shotgun…

We thought we’d shaken them off by diving through a multiphasic wormhole that the Tankerville Norris conjured up out of the local interstellar material. But we hadn’t. Oh-no. However, just to be sure about the museum’s continued safety, we raised the Chameleon Cannon…

…which, when activated, placed a bubble of nul-space around the museum. It effectively took us out of the normal space/time continuum and hid us from view.”

“It was as well we did.” Hair-Trigger said as she screwed up her nose.

“Why, Magnuss?” Nigel implored. “What’s afoot?”

“I’ll get to that.” Magnuss replied; then continued his tale: “We sent the RoboSecGuas to secure the perimeter. No one could enter, and no one could leave. We were in total lock-down…

Then things began to happen that went beyond our control. First, the lights went all funny…

Then they went out…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Don’t forget to return to hear more from Magnuss and Hair-Trigger about what happened previously. It’s a tale of true horror!

Tooty the Chef’s Quick Tip: Sell-By Date Due

You’ve noticed that a packet of sauce in your cupboard is in danger of becoming obsolete overnight: whatta ya do? If you’re anything like Tooty the Chef, you’ll smile with eagerness…

…coz that means you can use up that freezer-burnt fish in the bottom drawer, and those floppy veggies in the fridge…

In this case Il Maestro placed some equally ancient American long grain rice in the  rice cooker…

…and steamed the rest  on top.  Then, following the customary ‘ding’ from the rice cooker to indicate that it had done it’s thing, it was simply a case of mixing up the fish sauce with milk; boiling it stupid; then pouring it over the rice / veggies / fish combo. The result? Well the result was so good that it got eaten before the camera came out of the bag!

PS If you don’t have a rice cooker – get one!

Surprise Visit (part 7): An Earplug Adventure

The thing with these Earplug Adventures is…the preliminary work  takes so long that when it comes to the actual writing of the story, it all seems to pass by in a flash. I don’t get to enjoy the pleasure of creating my little alternative reality for as long as I’d like. I’d compare it  with sex, but I’m not sure that would be appropriate: my long-term memory is failing me right now. These short stories are even worse of course –  or better, depending on your point of view. They don’t drag on like…for example A Tale of Three Museums, though, of course that is a silicon masterpiece that should never be denigrated. But back to the present: Part Seven already: I can hardly believe it. Oh well,  on  with it then…

Elsewhere, Fermin had joined Julian upon an approximation of the Wide Blue Yonder…

“What do you think, Fermin?” The political attaché inquired of the super soldier.

“The fabric is fine.” Fermin replied. “There’s just not enough of it. Over there, the futuristic concrete floor’s been painted blue.”

In a moment of inspiration, Nigel suggested that he and Beatrix visit the very top of the Red Tower, and go outside on to the roof.

“We can see the whole place from up there.” He said. “It’s the highest point. But we’ll need to be careful: it’s very high, and the oxygen levels are correspondingly low.”

But when they stepped out on to the roof…

“I dunno,” he said, “it doesn’t seem as high as it once was.”

“And I can breathe fine.” Beatrix added. “This is damned peculiar.”

On the way back down to ground level, they encountered a bemused Walker Crabtrouser…

“I tried looking out of the penthouse window.” He told them. “But the glass was too grimy to see through. Normally the glass would be sparkling and totally transparent. I’m all of a flutter.”

Meanwhile Julian had stepped on to a public stage. From a side room he heard Faati’s voice calling to him…

He expected to find her rummaging through props and costumes in a changing room of some such. What he found was the blue cable end standing on top of (what appeared to be) a nul-space power generator…

“What?” He bellowed in bafflement and frustration. “They keep a spare nul-space generator in a room behind the public performance stage? I think that highly unlikely.”

“Unless,” Faati said quietly, “it’s not a nul-space power generator at all – but actually a prop. A fake. A pretend power generator.”

Julian’s mouth fell open. “But, but, but,” he managed. “Why?”

Whilst bafflement reigned in the room behind the public performance stage, in (what Walker and Fermin assumed was) the not-so-secret UFO hangar…

…the two military operatives – or ‘Militarians’ as they were known upon Scroton – made a discovery that was almost as unexpected.

“Ugh?” Fermin ejected the pseudo-word from his powerful chest in an ascending tone that made it sound like a polysyllable. “Where’s all the flipping UFOs gone?”

Walker didn’t reply immediately: he was too busy looking for signs that there had ever been UFOs present. Scratches or gouges in the floor. Dents in the curved roof. Oil stains. Stray cigarette butts in dusty corners. He could find none.

“Dunno.” He said absentmindedly. “I’ll have to think about this.”

Fermin couldn’t stand to watch his superior officer’s face as it contorted grotesquely from the strain of putting all of their discoveries into some semblance of order in his mind. “I’ll be back in a minute: I think I hear Bertram’s puzzled tones emanating from an adjacent corridor.”

Though faulty in their operation, the soldier’s ears had, indeed heard the security chief’s voice…

“What is it, Bertram?” He cried in alarm when he found the yellow cable end hobbling along a narrow back-alley.

“I just hurt my knee.” Bertram wailed. “And the bit where the top of my leg meets my buttocks. As I stepped upon an iron grating in the floor, my foot went straight through it. Whilst extricating myself painfully from the hole, I discovered that the iron grating wasn’t metallic at all: it was three-dee printed plastic – made to look like iron. What the flip is going on, Fermin?”

The young soldier recognised this discovery as a major development. Without replying, he took to his heels in search of Walker. He found him at a fire escape door with Julian Prim…

Before he could say anything, he realised that they too had made yet another inexplicable find. The expression in their eyes told him everything he needed to know.

“This isn’t really a fire escape at all, is it?” He said. “When you opened it, you found a brick wall: right?”

“Not quite.” Julian replied. “There is no door. It’s just painted on. And whoever did it didn’t even bother painting on a push-bar!”

Whilst the ramifications of this filtered through the three cable end’s brains, Bertram had limped off into a seldom-used corridor. Cushions Smethwyke would have recognised it in a heartbeat: it was her secret access tunnel to the arboretum…

However, instead of a cheery welcome from the museum’s Artificial Intelligence, all Bertram could see on the multitudinous view screens was meaningless data and poorly discerned images of he knew not what. “Oh, I don’t like this.” He whimpered. “I don’t like it at all. I can hear squeaking noises coming from the rear of my underpants. Potentially most embarrassing. Thank goodness I’m all alone. ”

It was with great relief, five minutes later, that he made contact with Fermin, who himself, had only just met Faati…

“Look, it’s eight o’clock in the morning.” The blue cable end said – her tongue distended and lolling. “There’s a Café Puke outlet around the corner. Let’s get a drink before we collapse with dehydration.”

But, when they rounded the corner…

…they found the café entirely empty. Not a stick of furniture. No coffee machines or cup dispensers. No scuff marks on the walls where café users had pushed back their chairs to leave. No chewing gum on the skirting board. No baby snot. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Faati put a call through to Nigel on her walkie-talkie. When he received the news, he made straight for the penthouse Café Puke outlet…

He hadn’t expected to find much there, but upon entering the aforementioned establishment, best known for it’s vile coffee…

…the sheer emptiness of the beautifully decorated room stabbed him through the heart. Moreover, when Beatrix reported that there was no bucket under the sink, and that all the toilet tissue was gone, he couldn’t find the words to report back to his assistant.

“Doesn’t anything work here?” He complained. “Is this all the Museum of Future Technology is – a sham? Has it been trading upon falsehood and lies? Is that why everybody is gone – because they’ve been found out and face prosecution? Oh, I’m so crestfallen. Everything about earplugs that I’ve always believed – destroyed, torn apart, belittled. I feel such a fool.

So, it was the shadow of a world leader who, with his sad wife, descended to the ground floor…

“I wonder where this leads?” Beatrix said, only half-interested.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Beatrix may only be half-interested, but I hope you remain fully interested. Interested enough to visit again for Part 8!

PS The three-parter, mentioned in the intro,  is available to read or download in three separate PDF files right HERE.

Tooty the Chef Wallpaper: Armario Rústico

Not all that a chef requires to produce culinery masterpeices perhaps, but my rustic cupboard is a good place to start…

From left to right. Top row: flaked rice, lemon peel powder, chopped figs, couscous, italian mixed herbs, black chocolate. Bottom row: brown basmati rice, dried onion, egg noodles, brandy, pasta, white basmati rice (twice).

P.S the brandy is for medicinal purposes – making cafe cortado!

Surprise Visit (part 6): An Earplug Adventure

Well the good news for me is…I don’t need to shoot and process any more pictures for this story. They are done and dusted – all 229 of them. There, I told you it was going to be a short story, didn’t I! Well shorter, anyway. So, without further ado, welcome to part six…

It was a kind offer readily accepted. So, shortly after flying back to the Museum, Nigel stood nervously outside the disco entrance, whilst Private Fermin Gusset checked out the foyer for, trip wires, snipers, mines and suchlike…

“Looking good, not a soul in sight, Sir,” Fermin said upon his return. “The disco leads into a corridor that allows ingress to the rest of the museum. We can go straight in.”

Just to play safe, Walker Crabtrouser had Nigel remain outside with Fermin and Faati, whilst he, Julian, and Bertram made a preliminary reconnoitre ahead. “After all,” he explained to the complaining leader of Scroton, “Fermin may be the best; but he isn’t infallible.”

Beatrix, despite complaints from both her husband and Walker, joined them…

“Nice shade of pink,” she observed. “Very feminine. I think I like this place already.”

Walker cast his gaze this way and that, but found no evidence of hidden automatic machine gun ports in any of the walls. “Hmmm,” he hummed in a considered manner, “not sure I’m entirely happy with their security systems. This would be a perfect killing zone; but all walls appear to have been constructed from a near perfect plaster board  and emulsion paint from the future.”

His initial concerns satisfied, Walker then allowed Nigel into the building. Naturally he adorned himself with his blue plume of office. But as the group investigated the first main corridor beyond the disco foyer…

…puzzlement was their only companion.

“There’s absolutely no one anywhere.” Beatrix called through from a side corridor.

“Same here.” Bertram Hisscod shouted from somewhere aft of Nigel.

But Nigel wasn’t listening: he’d noticed that a pot of black paint had been dropped upon the floor. Although the pot itself was absent, the paint it contained had not been cleaned away. Moreover, when he sniffed at it, he could detect molecules of an oil-based residue. Clearly the paint was still in the act of drying. He felt sure that it was important, but he couldn’t figure out why. He made a mental note of it, and carried on… 

Walker looked back as Nigel approached him. “Notice anything odd?” He inquired of his leader.

“It’s very rough and ready.” Nigel replied as he inspected the huge timber ceiling supports. “Do you suppose it might be a new exhibit that hasn’t been finished yet?”

Walker hummed, as he often did when deep in thought. “Well something hasn’t been finished.” He said finally. “What it is, I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.”

The puzzling situation didn’t improve when they entered the Zona Azul residential area…

“Hey,” Julian Prim shouted from across the square, “there aint no furniture in these apartments. The light switches work though.”

When Nigel suggested they visit the Woven Expanse, he expected a wide, open area of brown fabric that stretched into apparent infinity. What he found was…

…a football field-sized area, followed by mound after mound of dirt that continued until it came up against a Wide Blue Yonder that was much closer than it should have been.

Walker’s voice cracked slightly when he whispered to Nigel:

“Time Storms, do you think? It would explain much of what we see here.”

Nigel didn’t want to consider the possibility that everyone in the museum had been lost so tragically. “The last time I was here,” he whispered back, “the Tunnel Temporale was disconnected from the power grid. And they’ve a PO9 2LY energy dampener in action as a failsafe. Think of something else.”

So Walker did. He thought about trying the Omnipresent Scanner…

But no one could find the ON switch, so they marked that up as another bad idea. So Walker suggested that they break up into multiple search parties. Naturally Beatrix joined her husband. But all too soon they discovered a corridor that was partially blocked by building materials…

“Let’s try another direction,” Beatrix suggested.

In response to this, Nigel whipped off his plume and shoved it in his back pocket. Then, together they turned off into a narrow curved linking corridor…

“Look at the walls, dearest.” Beatrix said as she eyed a rough, unfinished, surface.”

“Very rustic, darling.” Nigel replied. “The floor is modern though. Very smooth and almost compliant.”

Julian and Bertram were finding no such anomalies. The thoroughfare down which they strolled appeared perfectly normal…

“Maybe this section is older and better established.” Julian suggested.

The situation for Faati Rueda was much the same…

“Nice suffuse lighting.” She said to herself. “A lavatory, which works – thank the Saint of All Cable Ends: but no one to use or appreciate it.”

Nigel and Beatrix felt more comfortable, having found an established thoroughfare of their own…

Once again, it was the lack of a population that made them most uncomfortable.

“I can’t even smell any lingering aromas.” Beatrix observed. “Not a trace of a fart anywhere.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Figured it out yet? Well whether you have or have not, come back again for the next enthralling extract from Surprise Visit.

Surprise Visit (part 5) An Earplug Adventure

This story is being written during the month of July. It’s Summer, here in the UK. There really should better things to do, rather than create scenes for a silly story about earplugs. Getting an all-over tan would be nice. In fact yesterday suffered the highest temperature in the UK since records began. Nevertheless I soldier on valiantly. Can’t keep those discerning readers waiting any longer than necessary for the latest development. Photo count now reads 212 by the way. Feels like the story is getting near the end already. Won’t require the usual 400+ shots this time. But it was always going to be a short story – at least by Earplug Adventures standards. Definitely a single volume. Talking of which; let’s get on with Chapter Two…

Chapter Two

The Buggeram Bay had swept through the Galaxy at supra-light speed for several days…

…before automatic systems slowed the vessel sufficiently for those aboard to see out of the windows…

“Oh, look at that, Nige.” Beatrix said in wonderment as the ship passed by a blue giant star. “Is that Sirius?”

“No, dear,” Nigel replied, “that’s the unstable blue giant that threatens the planet known as Worstworld. It’s chucking out all sorts of nasty radiation. The population has all gone underground. Eventually it will go nova. The bang will be so big, we might just spot in from Scroton – if we screw up our eyes and stare really hard. It’s also a sign that we’re approaching the region of space that contains Earth.”

This news delighted Beatrix. She really liked earplugs, but she had never visited Earth or the Museum of Future Technology. “Oh goodie.” She said. “Are we nearly there?”

A few hours later, everyone had returned to the rudimentary ‘bridge’…

“There’s something weird going on.” Julian informed Nigel, Beatrix, and Walker. “I know this is supposed to be a surprise visit, but we can’t just waltz in unannounced; there are air-traffic protocols to follow. Strange thing is…we can’t raise anyone. No one is answering our hails. Look at the main screen: the lights appear to be on, but no one seems to be home. Worse still, the museum isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Either that or our space map is wrong. But that can’t be so; the cartographer came from Scroton!”

“What did I say?” Nigel roared with frustration. “I bloody well knew something would go doolally on this trip. There’s always someone or something causing mayhem at the Museum of Future Technology. Can you get a remote visual on their interior CCTV system?”

As head of Security, Bertram Hisscod was already on the job. “Got it.” He said…

Julian turned to Nigel. “Sir, there’s no one there. They’ve all been abducted or something. Surely we can’t continue with the vacation. At the very best, there’ll be no one to replenish the lavatory paper!”

Nigel took a few moments to think. He elected to go for some out-of-the-box thinking. “I know,” he said finally, “we’ll fly off somewhere reasonably nearby and see if we can find someone to ask.”

By chance, the former fantasist, Don Quibonki and his amiable aide, Panta Lonez, were sitting across a campfire from one another upon the dusty plain that leads to the pea-growing region…

“Isn’t this fun?” Don said to Panta.

“It certainly is, Don.” Panta replied earnestly. “And the really good thing about camping out only a hundred metres from your front door is…we can go back indoors to use the toilet.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Don concurred. “I hate roughing it. Do you recall that time – before I regained my senses – when we rode Gargantua and Tepid up into the mountains and planned to conquer the mountain kingdom of Lemon Stone?”

Panta shivered at the thought. “All that snow.” He said. “And the cold: I was always desperate for a pee. Oh-no, no more roughing it for us: we like our beds too much for that.”

Don chuckled lightly at this. He was about to say something in response, when he was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a large space vessel landing nearby. So, leaping quickly upon their plugmutts, they raced for home. It was short journey, lasting perhaps fifteen seconds. Don chose to remain aboard Gargantua, whilst Panta crept up to the vessel and peered in a side window. To say he was surprised by what he saw was an understatement…

Nigel knew there was no way that the earplug could hear him through the transparent hull section, so he signalled that he would meet the bug-eyed being outside. Shortly…

…a conversation struck up between the creatures of two totally different worlds.

“No,” Don replied to the question ‘Do you know where everyone in the museum has gone?’ “Don’t have the foggiest notion. Haven’t been there since the debacle of my intense embarrassment there years ago. You should just let yourselves in. The door into the disco is usually left unlocked. If it helps any, you can always tell them that I said it was okay to let yourself in. My name’s Don Quibonki, by the way. You’ve probably heard of me: I was once a would-be conquistador. I wrote a book about it. I think you can still get it on the Internet.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Ah, what a mystery. Where is everyone? Tune in for the next extract, and you might find out – possibly.

P.S Does anyone remember the tale of Don Quibonki and Panta Lonez? It was called Return to the Museum of Future Technology. Should you fancy a look-see, you can click HERE for the entire e-book in PDF, to either read now or download for later.

Surprise Visit (part 4): An Earplug Adventure

The photo count is creeping up. 194 now. How many shots will it take to complete this tale? Who cares? Just enjoy it!

Below, in the central plaza, early-risers watched nervously as the ship climbed into the dark sky. One even put a word in for its occupants with his chosen deity…

Before long, the prayed-for occupants of the Buggeram Bay found themselves given a birds-eye view of Scroton Prime…

“Oh, isn’t the view splendid!” Beatrix yelled. “I’ve never seen the city lights from above before. And, oh look, we’re banking to starboard, but you’d never know it: I can’t feel a thing. I’m totally nausea-free.”

“Pitch and yaw compensators, dearest.” Nigel explained. “They iron out all the bumps.”

Shortly after that, Beatrix discovered that the ship also compensated for acceleration. Before she knew it, they had left the planet far behind…

…and the visual glory that was Weird Space greeted her gaze…

 Everyone was still in the throes of ecstasy when the long-range sensor detected an object dead ahead…

“What is it?” Nigel demanded. “Is it an asteroid? I’ve heard all about them: they cause extinction events.”

“I…I…don’t think so.” Julian Prim said hesitantly. “It appears to be vaguely sausage roll shaped.”

“I’m running it through the Strange Space Objects Recognition Computer.” Security Chief, Bertram Hisscod informed his leader. “But I think I know what it is.”

“Elucidate.” Nigel snapped.

Bertram began his explanation with a question: “Do you recall what happened on the Earplug’s Ice Planet, a few years ago?”

Nigel was no expert, but he could remember that a cold war had existed for generations upon that world, and that it had ended when the crust broke up and both sides united in a bid for racial survival.  “Not specifically.” He replied.

“Well, as the planetary crust reformed, they set up a research station at one of the poles. An alien ship crashed there – releasing a horrid shape-shifting creature that could take on the appearance of anyone and anything.”

“That sounds scary.” Beatrix said into the nanosecond Bertram took to grab a breath. “I think I would have pooped my pants. What happened?”

“They electrocuted it. In an attempt to flee, the monster changed itself into thousands of sausage rolls, and rolled away to many different locations across the ice sheet.” Bertram replied. “Some sausage rolls must have stowed away aboard robotic ice freighters, and escaped back into space. I believe that this is the daddy of all shape-shifters. This is what remains of the monster that terrorised Ice Station Nobby!”

This alarmed Nigel badly. He felt shaken to the core. “And…and…and now,” he stuttered, “it has found its way to Weird Space. Next stop: Scroton!”

“Destroy it!” Beatrix screamed shrilly. “Ram it amidships and set off our self-destruct charges if you have to; but destroy it!”

“Nah, that’s okay,” the blue, diminutive, Faati Rueda – Queen of the Pigmies, responded. “We have some defensive capability: you want me to use it? I’ll try it on five percent energy yield and see how it goes.”

Moments later…

…a searing blast of incandescent fury transformed the alien shape-shifter into widely dispersed constituent atoms.

With the exception of Nigel, everyone aboard cheered uproariously. However, all the display of firepower did for the leader of Scroton was cause him more concern…

“This is not a warship, is it?” He asked no one in particular.

Walker felt unease embrace him like a soggy duvet. “Er, no, Sir. It’s a personal luxury transport vessel – but with big guns. The cosmos is a dangerous place: it’s very important that we can kick ass from time to time.”

“But that is not what Scroton is all about.” Nigel argued. “Scrotonites don’t swagger about the Galaxy, kicking ass. We build tech stuff and sell it to worlds all over the place. Now I’m even more concerned with the fact that other eyes have seen the basic pre-production plans of this vessel. Suppose their photocopier didn’t jam: somewhere, someone else could build one of these. Maybe they already have.”

Beatrix screamed at the thought. She then added a metaphorical question: “How long has it been since the plans were lost in the back of the copier?” Of course, she answered it itself: “Too long perhaps. Maybe there is a flotilla of these killer-ships out there somewhere.”

“Oh-no,” Nigel wailed in perfect harmony with his wife, “maybe not a flotilla at all – but an entire fleet!”    

Walker Crabtrouser shook his head in negation. “No one,” he said, “no species – is capable of developing and constructing ships faster than we of Scroton. We are the acknowledged masters of R and D. Believe me when I say – there cannot possibly be any ships of this design anywhere in the entire Galaxy. This is the sole complete example.”

“Oh, do you really think so?” Beatrix, suddenly calmed, inquired.

“I do.” Walker said as he nodded solemnly and affirmatively.

“Jolly good.” Nigel managed a smile. “That means we can continue with our holiday. Julian – carry on: destination Earth.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Golly, would you believe it – that’s Chapter One complete. Now prepare yourselves for the opening salvo from Chapter Two, next time!

Surprise Visit (part 3) An Earplug Adventure

Photo count for Surprise Visit has risen to 186. You would not believe the hours I put in to get up to that number. Stiff neck and aching mouse-hand, I can tell you! Moreover, those are the completed, processed, usable shots, which can include up to ten elements in each to complete. Just guessing, but I figure it probably took at least 300 to make those 186. But enough of my creative laptop heroism and aching body parts: on with the show. The prologue is finally over, by the way. If there is such thing as an average prologue, mine is longer. I have a long one, and I”m hanging it out here for everyone to see!

Chapter One

Several hours passed before Nigel showed sufficient confidence in his new government to depart with his retinue for the space ship landing zone…

Having passed through the Departure Lounge, Beatrix lay a restraining hand upon her husband’s arm…

“Are you sure this is wise, Nige baby?” She whispered, fully aware that their bodyguard wouldn’t hear a word she said. “It’s just that when I went for my last-minute, pre-flight wee-wee, I felt a nagging doubt in my waters. Something might go horribly wrong.”

Nigel had always listened to his wife’s well-considered council. “Here, on Scroton?” He asked in a slightly more resonant whisper. “Or the vacation?”

Beatrix sighed. “Not here.” She replied. “I’m absolutely certain that Ena, Anders, and that Phruten guy are perfect for the job – after all, it was your hat their names came out of. No: it’s something about your choice of destination. Of course, if its fate that we go there, who am I to argue? But I thought I should mention it.”

So, as the others made their way towards the boarding gate…

…Nigel made a decision and reanimated…

He said; “Fear not, beautiful wife of mine: we will be on our guard against anything and everything. And, most importantly, we have Fermin Gusset at our side: what could go wrong?”

With that, they strolled out into the strange early-early morning light…

…of Scroton, whereupon Beatrix began complaining about the lack of air-conditioned transfer conduit to the space ship’s airlock. Fortunately for some unnamed underling, once they had seated themselves in the super-comfy flight chairs beside Walker Crabtrouser…

…that omission was forgotten utterly.

“Nice,” she said. “My botty has never felt so cossetted.”

“This is a new class of ship, isn’t it Walker?” Nigel inquired.

“First in the line.” Walker informed his leader. “There are four others in various stages of construction. This is the Buggeram Bay. It was named after the company that sponsored the development of the design – the Buggeram Bay Oily Fish Company. Buggeram Bay is on the southern continent, quite close to the pole, I believe.”

“That’s a little worrying, Walker.” Nigel said without turning to face the military leader. “Surely all space craft development must go through government channels?”

“Ah,” Walker responded slowly, “yes, that would be the case, normally. But the designer’s blueprints were lost in the back of the office copy machine and got all chewed up. No one wanted to take responsibility, so they just conveniently forgot all about it. The designer took his design elsewhere. Who knows who else has seen the design: but we have control of the manufacturing now, so no harm done.”

“Did they get a new photocopier?” Beatrix inquired.

“Not sure, Ma’am.” Walker replied. “Didn’t bother asking.”

Nigel’s disquiet remained. “So this is the only ship that actually flies?” He asked in a slightly nervous tone.

“Oh, assuredly.” Walker responded effortlessly. “The Plankton Regis is weeks away from completion: the Bingbonger is little more than a metallic skeleton: and the Clutterbuck is barely off the drawing board. If you have any reservations about this ship, Sir, we can always dig out the old Goosewing Grey: It still goes like the clappers, and, when you get used to it, the grey décor really isn’t as dull and depressing as you remember it.”

“I think not.” Beatrix responded upon her husband’s behalf. “When Magnuss and Hair-Trigger Earplug were given the choice of the Goosewing Grey or the Tankerville Norris, they chose the latter unequivocally. We’ll stick with this ship: I like the seats.”

Beatrix was further impressed by the ultra-high definition main screen…

“Oh look, Nige,” she gushed, “it’s the lemon curd factory. I remember opening that. We hadn’t long been married: it was one of my first civic duties. Lovely toilets, I remember.”

Nigel didn’t much care for lemon curd. “Who’s flying this ship?” He enquired of the cable ends that appeared to be manning the controls beneath the main view screen.

“Ah, that would be no one, Sir.” Julian Prim replied. “The ship flies itself. We’re here to manually override the A I in the event that it goes bananas and tries to fly the ship into the Sun or something equally catastrophic.”

This news placated Nigel’s concerns slightly. “Oh, that’s alright then.” He said. “Okay, take us up. Let’s go.”

Moments later the Buggeram Bay lifted on invisible columns of energy…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Right then, that’s the slow bit out of the way. Now it’s time for action and mystery – on the vacation from Hell!

 

 

Surprise Visit (part 2) An Earplug Adventure

The photo-count for Surprise Visit is up to an almighty 138. Hardly enough for an Earplug Adventure: but a bloody good start. So, without further ado, let’s go there!

THE PROLOGUE CONTINUES…

A short while later, Walker Crabtrouser visited the catacombs beneath the council chambers and met with a soldier…

“Private Fermin Gusset reporting for duty, Sir.” the soldier snapped as he stood to attention before the military leader of Scroton. “Ah, what do you want me to do?”

“At ease, Gusset.” Walker replied. “Would you like me to call you Fermin?”

“Ah, not sure, Sir.” Fermin answered. “Depends on what happens next. I’ve never been alone with a superior officer in the catacombs before. Not quite sure what the protocol is.”

“Don’t concern yourself, Fermin.” Walker tried a smile. “Nothing underhand or dodgy; just want the right cable end for the job of protecting our fabulous leader on his vacation in the Museum of Future Technology. Now I believe that you can see in the dark jolly well; is that right?”

“It is, Sir.” Fermin responded instantaneously. “Inherited it from my mother, Sir. I can also punch people really hard. I’m a crack shot with a bow and arrow. I have boundless energy – physical, mental, and spiritual. I can think on my feet, so to speak. I can run and run and run without getting so tired that I have to sit down for an hour to recover. I can eat anything, up to and including coal. I can blow down doors without the need for explosives. I can go for days without having a poop. And I hate anyone who threatens this wondrous civilisation into which I was blessed to be born.”

Walker was impressed, though he did wonder how Fermin was able to blow down doors without explosives. He assumed gastric gasses were involved in some way. “Then I was well informed.” He responded to the litany of skills. “Clearly you are the ideal candidate for the role of bodyguard to our glorious leader. Just one thing: you don’t get space sick, do you?”

“Never, Sir.” Fermin replied. “Cast iron gut. Which reminds me, Sir: I have acidic bile – strong enough to burn through pre-stressed concrete. If someone were to imprison the Golden One in a hardened bunker or suchlike, I could probably get him out with only third degree burns.”

Walker couldn’t help but show how impressed he was with the young soldier’s talents and enthusiasm. “Remarkable.” He said. “Just for that, you don’t have to address me as ‘Sir’ anymore: call me Walker. Or, if we’re in company, Field Marshall. ”  

He would have said more, but he thought he heard movement nearby…

“Did you hear that, Fermin?” He whispered.

“Sorry, Walker.” Fermin replied. “The batteries in my deaf-aids have gone flat: but I can lip read with the best of ‘em.”

“Oh well, no matter.” Walker concluded. “We’d best be on our way. Make yourself available at the drop of a hat. Okay?”

With those words reverberating off the ancient walls, they went their separate ways…

However, Walker hadn’t been mistaken when he thought he’d heard something moving in the catacombs nearby. Two mysterious figures loitered beneath the lighting panel next door, in Bay Ten…

“We must inform the chief,” the red cable end said to the pale grey cable end. “This is a most unfortunate happenstance. Perhaps our plans will require tweaking slightly. Who would have guessed that Nigel would choose now to visit the Museum of Future Technology?  What a complete git he is!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

What’s this – spies in the bosom of Scroton? Surely it can’t be true! To see what happens next, tune in again next time.

Surprise Visit (part 1): An Earplug Adventure

Despite the unfortunate fact that I have so far taken only one hundred and eleven photos for the next Earplug Adventure, I simply can’t hold back the flood gates of creavity any longer. My urge to entertain must be sated. It is imperative I share the opening of the latest tale with you. Ladies, Gentlemen, Things: lend me your eyes and intellect. Welcome to the first instalment of Surprise Visit…

Earplug Adventures: Surprise Visit

By Tooty Nolan

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Prologue

Far from Earth and the Museum of Future Technology, lies a region of the Galaxy known as Weird Space…

It’s not that it possesses strange properties, malfunctioning laws of physics, or that the rules of cause and effect are skewed: it just looks weird, with both the stars and the ethereal bits and pieces between them, having unusual colouration. It’s a bit…you know…splodgy. Deep within this realm, the planet Scroton orbits its primary star…

As almost everyone is aware, the planet Scroton is ruled by a wise and trustworthy Ethernet Cable End by the name of The Golden One – or Nigel, as he prefers to be known…

Having held this position since his species was gifted intelligence and self-awareness by an ancient, beneficent alien race, Nigel was well on his way to becoming extraordinarily bored with the humdrum, day-to-day life in the prosaically named capital city of Scroton Prime…

In fact, he felt sure that should he be compelled to cross the Central Plaza to his office beside his blue assistant, Faati Rueda – Queen of the Pygmies, one more time, he would scream. Worse still, if he had to endure the quasi-military early-morning parade ever again in what remained of his corporeal lifetime…

…he wouldn’t hesitate to hand in his resignation and go live in a cave. He said as much to his Security Minister, Bertram Hisscod.

“Perhaps The Golden One should take a break from state affairs.” The yellow cable end suggested. “A few days in the desert, perhaps. Get away from all the excitement and stuff.”

Nigel had no love for the desert. He preferred desserts. He liked moist environments that didn’t make the skin on his heels crack open. Sadly, his wife, Beatrix – formerly known as Gloria – held a deep-seated aversion to wet places because they reminded her of a birth defect that had required surgery. Even now, all these years later, she could still feel the non-existent webs between her toes.

“I know,” he bellowed above the Drill Sergeant, as he instructed a group of Sea Cadets, “I’ll make an unexpected call on my old earplug chum, Magnuss Earplug, and his adorable wife, Hair-Trigger.”

Naturally, Nigel couldn’t just call his private space yacht and bugger off into the void: leadership required temporary transference. As is the way of Scrotonic government, Beatrix summoned the leading counsellors of Scroton to the committee chamber…

“Hear this, hear this, hear this,” she announced. “The Golden One wishes to announce something of great import. Lend him your ears.”

At this point Nigel entered the room…

“Guys,” he said informally, “After careful consideration, it’s been decided that Beatrix and I need a break from overseeing this fabulous planet of ours. To this end I’ve elected to go visit my pal, Magnuss Earplug. It’s a long way away, and there’s bound to be some kind of shenanigans taking place when I get there, so I’m taking a retinue with me. Nothing ostentatious, you understand: just me, the wife, Military Leader – Walker Crabtrouser, my assistant – Faati Rueda, my political attaché – Julian Prim, Head of Security – Bertram Hisscod, and a random soldier whom will be selected at…er…random. Any questions?”

It would be considered rude to question the Golden One, so every cable end present remained mute, their expressions betraying nothing of the emotional turmoil that most of them must have been feeling at that moment. This silence prompted Beatrix to take centre stage once more…

“Right then,” she said loudly, as per the rules, “now to install an interim leadership. Obviously we can’t put any old Tom, Dick, or Harry in charge of a technologically advanced society such as ours; so we’ve placed some names in a hat, and picked three of them. I call upon Ena Large, Anders Dumbell, and Phruten Vedge to make themselves known and to present themselves here within the hour.”

To the three ‘lucky’ recipients of the honour of ruling Scroton in Nigel’s absence, Ena, Anders, and Phruten, the clarion call could not have been more unexpected. Ena, a slurry-stirrer by trade, led the way towards the council chambers. She had no idea what to expect when she got there. Just behind her, Anders felt exactly the same way. He wondered what a pedicurist knew of planetary leadership; but he knew better than to question the Golden One’s choices: he was yet to choose poorly. In their wake came Phruten Vedge. Phruten, as a biker gang leader, knew exactly why he had been chosen to act as a stand-in for Nigel: the Golden One had once seen him ‘pop a wheelie’ along the promenade at a popular beach resort, and was very impressed. Nigel had particularly liked Phruten’s loud, after-market exhaust pipe too. Moreover, if he hadn’t twisted his knee recently whilst riding motocross, he would be well ahead of Ena and Anders in the race to arrive at the council chambers first…

Shortly, after having arrived to negligible fanfare, all three newcomers accepted an invitation to mount the dais…

…where they were sworn in and told that if they screwed up and did anything that upset the status quo, they would all be taken out to the swamp, and summarily fed to the slimy things that lived therein.

“So no stupid ideas, savvy?” Beatrix concluded the affair with a growl. “Don’t make waves.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2022

Please feel free to leave charming comments concerning my creative genius: you know you want to.

Flip Me Over and Transport Me to Spain!

Anyone who frequents the excellent road system of Spain will immediately recognise this as one of those light industrial / retail areas that are found on the outskirts of most medium-sized Spanish towns…

Only they’d be completely wrong. Having taken a wrong turning in the sweltering summer-sun-drenched English coastal city of Portsmouth, I thought I’d shifted into another reality in which I still lived in Spain. Only the fact that I was driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road brought me to my senses. This is how it actually looked…

Yes, I flipped the picture. Boo, I really love driving in Spain: I feel so relaxed there!

Summer Portrait: Mad Dogs and New England Patriot Fans Go Out in the Midday Sun

It was a blisteringly hot day. The sky was blue and almost cloudless. So I decided to take an MP3, a camera, a mug of coffee, and go catch some rays. Here’s one of the snaps I took from my sun lounger…

Making Art Out of Doo-Dahs and Thingamabobs: The Cafe Puke

The Cafe Puke has been mentioned many times during the saga that is the Earplug Adventures. Sometimes, during a tale, we might catch a glimpse of the interior of that most reviled emporium of the coffee bean, but never have we really been INSIDE an average Cafe Puke franchised outlet. Well that situation has been put to rights; and it all happened because I didn’t take enough shopping bags to Sainsburys. I shall explain. Quickly realising that I wouldn’t be able to pack all my goods into the solitary bag that nestled daintily in the bottom of my trolley, I took the display box in which the yoghurts I wanted  lay. The cashier didn’t mind, so a half-hour later this sat upon the kitchen table, which doubles as my writing desk…

Immediately I saw the possibilties. Ideas began fermenting in my aging brain. Quite a while later, and following lots of trips to the attic and shed, this was the result…

Want to look inside? Go ahead…

Look, it even has an air conditioning unit! Obviously that is why – when word got around the earplug world – it became populated very quickly..

Why, isn’t that Nigel, the King of Scroton, ordering for his wife Beatrix, Magnuss, and Hair-Trigger? Hob-nobbing or what? It can’t be the coffee that draws them in: it must be the decor!

And the late opening hours…

 

Nature Wallpaper: Sharing

Before I share my ‘Sharing’ wallpaper with you, please allow me to share the following image with you…

I suffer for my art, you know. Despite the fields and paths of rural England appearing benificent, don’t be fooled. For all the waving grasses and spirited swathes of clover, there are always brambles laying in wait amongst them for unwary picture-snappers like me. Bastards.

So, anyway, on to the subject of this post. I put this picture up on my Flickr page. In the first 36 hours it received about a hundred hits and a couple of ‘faves’.  Then, whilst I slept blissfuly, trying to ignore my itching shins, the picture went ape-shit. By the time I posted this version of the picture here, the original had already gained over 3700 hits and a hundred ‘faves’. Someone likes it. I hope you do. It is quite nice…

 

Tooty the Chef and the United Nations Trifle

Coloured blancmange was becoming increasingly difficult to find in the highstreet shops of the dear old U.K. Sick to death of yellow custard in his trifles, Tooty the Chef embarked upon a mission to find an alternative, by shopping in lesser emporiums that featured ‘stuff’ from all over the planet. Stuff such as this…

Mango jelly and pandan custard. Yellow and green. Pakistani and Thai. Perfect. When he informed Number One Son, Number One Son responded with:

“Make it now! Make it now!

But there was a problem: no canned fruit in the house. How could the hatted one have become so lax? But fear not; there were a couple of apples in the crisper…

From France and South Africa respectively. Oh, how international. So, without further ado, he set to boiling them down a bit. Once cooled, he added the mango jelly and some UK sourced sponge fingers, and placed it into the fridge…

Sadly the pandan custard, although arriving in a large satchet, created very little green custard. Just enough, barely, to cover the apple/jelly/ sponge fingers combo…

“Shit, arse, and bollocks!” the great chef was heard to utter beneath his breath and from behind his greying beard. This called for emergency action. And what action it was. He found this in the back of the wall cupboard…

Crema Catalana – from Spain! It was out-of-date, but he didn’t let that small fact worry him. “They have to put dates on stuff,” he assured anyone within hearing range, “they have to by law. It doesn’t mean anything – unless it’s chicken, of course.” Moments later…

…it was blubbing nicely on the stove. But when added to the trifle…

…still came up short. Why are these portions so darned small? So, once more he delved into the larder – discovering, in the process…

…a satchet of butterscotch flavoured Angel Delight. Not, perhaps the obvious topping for a trifle; but the Dream Topping that he swore lived behind the Waitrose breadcrumbs and Sainsbury’s boil-in-the-bag Basmati rice, had fled the scene. The result…

The surface of a planetoid from an Earplug Adventure. But when dished up…

…it was. to quote the formerly-mentioned Number One Son, “The best yet.”

Tooty Triumphs once again!

Scroton News Report: No Coffee At The Cafe Puke!

Scroton’s first (and only) leader – Nigel, the Golden One – has discovered the penthouse Cafe Puke outlet in the Museum of Future Technology abandoned utterly…

“There wasn’t even one of those satchets that you add boiling water to left.” Nigel was heard to complain. “Or a bucket under the sink. Even the tables were gone. It’s as if everyone fled, and took everything with them… Yes – including the toilet tissue!”

 

Gastronomic Desperation, with Tooty the Chef

When it’s the end of the week; your supplies have dwindled alarmingly (probably because you hate shopping); and you are a reluctant cook, chances are life has become almost intolerable. Or at least rather annoying. If you could afford to eat out, you would; but it’s that time of the month again, and the coffers are somewhat less than bulging. Step in, Tooty the Chef…

…He can make something fabulous out of almost bugger-all. Just follow his lead and you won’t go far wrong. For example, on this particular occaision he found all he had available to cook were a few slices of frozen pork. Not choice cuts at all, but with lots of fat that he needed to cut off and chuck in the bin. So what could he do to make them palatable? Well veggies were required, obviously. In this case he rustled up these…

Already, in these early stages of culinery desperation, an idea was forming in his aging brain that would result in a meal that, should he pull off his daring plan, could thrill the masses; excite world leaders; and have most chefs dashing their ladles to the kitchen floor in abject defeat. So he dug out the remnants of two different colour types of rice and held them aloft in expectation of triumph…

Success was certain, he was…er…certain – especially when he withdrew the famous Chinese Rice Cooker from the cupboard – along with the aluminium seive-like thing that sits above the rice – that is assuming anyone would desire to cook more than rice alone – like veggies, for example – and want to do it cheaply and efficiently by utilising just the one cooker…

See, Tooty the Chef even has green credentials. But, anyway a few minutes later progress had been made…

Now the wonderful thing about rice cookers is…they need no attention, and they turn themselves off! Wonderful for morons and genii alike – and everyone in between, of course. Then it was a simple matter of chopping the pork into tiny squares and frying them gently in olive oil. Oh yeah, I forgot, he also sprinkled a bunch of mixed Italian herbs in with the veggies before switching on the rice cooker. A small, but vital ingredient.

So, slightly later than Tooty had anticipated, the cooker went “Ding”, and he was able to mix the rice and veggies together in an amalgam of wondrousness…

Slapping portions on to individual plates, he placed the cooked pork artistically upon top of the pile…

There, does that look nice – or what! Exuberant colours too. Then, in a moment of gastronomic brilliance, he remembered a pot of apple sauce in the fridge that was on the brink of going out-of-date. The result?

It dosen’t come much scrummier. And you can do exactly the same. It’s not difficult, even if you hate cooking. But you will need a rice cooker. First rule of Tootiness: Never be without a rice cooker!

Escape to the Country(side): The War in Ukraine

Recently I thought I’d slipped into a sort of alternative reality. You see my local magazine – the one produced by inhabitants of my home village, for consumption by whomever wants to peer inside it’s shiny pages – slipped into my ‘in’ tray (the one attached to the door to stop the dogs from attacking whatever pops through the letterbox, that is). When I unfurled it, I was confronted by this image…

“You what?” I was heard to whine. And, upon opening the magazine at random, my confusion increased…

Then, having looked through the remainder of the pages, it dawned upon me: the Ukrainian flags that flutter throughout the village weren’t there merely to show support for that war-torn land: they’ve been hung there to make the families that have been invited to share our village feel at home. It made me feel good to see that women and children of Ukraine walk among us. Sadly their menfolk could not join them though: they are too busy fighting the Russians.

So, until the aforementioned enemy of the free world start flinging their nukes in our direction, welcome to our rural haven.

Tooty the Chef Wallpaper: Lasagne!

The secret of his success? Heavy on the Mozzarella!