Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part seven)

Whilst Part Five made a remarkable recovery, Part Six appears to have foundered upon a literary and photographic reef. Oh dear. The obvious course of action is…er…obvious: post Part Seven!

Fanny was about to slink off towards the door when the first junior RoboSecGua spoke up:

“Oi-oi,” it said in a tone guaranteed to get everyone’s attention, “I’m receiving a plethora of garbled messages from all over the museum. Something really strange is occurring. It seems that earplugs are falling victim to something inexplicable. They are becoming inert and collapsing into a state of suspended animation!”

Fanny and the two senior RoboSecGuas turned immediately to the main view screen…

…which filled an entire wall and produced spectacular pictures in high definition…

EvilRoboSecGua found its voice first: “It appears that I owe you an apology, Miss…um…?”

“Gander.” Fanny replied as she gazed at the swirling fog outside. “Fanny Gander.”

The senior RoboSecGua finally spoke:

“Tell us what you know of the Northern Mist, Fanny. I have a ghastly cyber-feeling that the Museum of Future Technology faces the most grave danger in its entire history.”

Chapter Two

It seemed, to Fanny at least that fate had interceded upon the Museum of Future Technology’s behalf. Of all the people, she reasoned, who might have made their way to the only place inside the vast emporium of doo-dahs and widgets from eras more advanced than the current day, it was she: Fanny Gander; a creator of potions, one of which had given her the ability to shrug off the effects of the Northern Mist…

“It helped that I can hold my breath really well too!” She concluded as she divested herself of her thoughts and ruminations to the listening RoboSecGua squad inside the security suite.

“For sure – for sure.” The senior RoboSecGua replied. “However it is certain that your breath will not hold out indefinitely. If you are to go outside and investigate the origins of this cursed fog, you will require a personal deflector bubble. Oh look, my subordinate has just dug one out of the cupboard for you.” 

Naturally, being an earplug of a simpler culture with an upbringing that placed greater importance upon mosses rather than superconductors: insect juices above microchips, Fanny didn’t have the first idea what a personal deflector bubble was; but she had an uncanny feeling  she was about to find out.

“You wear it like a hat.” The RoboSecGua explained.

“A very large hat.” EvilRoboSecGua added. “An ill-fitting one at that. Try it on.”

Moments later…

“Hmmm, I see what you mean.” Fanny said cautiously. “What does it do?”

“It protects you from your immediate environment.” RoboSecGua replied. “It allows you to perambulate, whilst keeping nasty stuff from affecting you. For example, it filters the air, so you won’t need to hold your breath. You can interact with the outside world, by drawing objects inside with you by means of…well I don’t really need to tell you all the technological stuff: you’re a comparative savage with little understanding of advanced machinery. Suffice to say, it will allow you to go about the Museum of Future Technology; take samples of the gas, and maybe some blood samples from its victims; then return them here for analysis.”

Fanny wasn’t entirely sure she liked being called a ‘savage’, but she allowed herself to be ushered towards the door…

“Okay,” she said as her eyes blinked at the relative brilliance of the brighter exterior lights, “I’ll get your samples for you.”

However, as the RoboSecGuas crowded in the door to wave farewell…

…she did wonder why one of them couldn’t perform the task: they didn’t breathe; surely the Northern Mist could have no effect on them. But she’d already agreed to act upon their behalf (and never went back on her word), so quickly moved to the one location that she was certain she would find both gas and blood samples: the Café Puke…

Little did she know, but the filtration system in her personal deflector bubble had already begun taking air samples. It continued to do so as she entered the café…

Her first reaction was one of horror: after all she had never seen so many earplugs in a state of suspended animation. In fact the only other time she could recall anything similar was when she visited an ethical circus in which the use of animals had been banned. The audience had grown so bored that some of them had self-induced a state of suspended animation. But this was far worse; and it would require a great deal more than a quick kick in the shins to awaken the earplugs that littered the polka dot floor here. However, she quickly pulled herself together and began extracting blood samples…

“Sorry,” she would say to the somnolent victims, “I don’t have any sticky plasters, and I can’t press on the wound, coz my hands are inside my personal deflector bubble.”

However, and despite her lack of dexterity as a phlebotomist, Fanny was quickly finished and gladly upon her way from the virtual mausoleum…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

“foundered upon a literary and photographic reef.” Honestly, to use another maritime  term, I do write some utter ‘bilge’ sometimes. However, if it wasn’t for the ‘bilge’, it wouldn’t really be me, would it? Long-live bilge!

Summer Wallpaper: Approaching Dusk

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part six)

Part five didn’t exactly grab the general populace by the throat and shake them until they appreciated its brilliance, which is a shame because it was fabulous in every way. So let’s hope part six does somewhat better…

Because all public places must be wired into the alert apparatus, the Café Pukes also initiated a serious alert status…

…only, in their case it was known as Alerta Roco.

“What the heck?” One aggrieved customer grumbled, “I’ve just put three sweeteners in this drink. I’m not running off now; I’m gonna finish it.”

However he needn’t have worried. Alerta Roco always resulted in the same thing: the doors locked automatically, sealing everyone inside from any exterior threat…

But over in the yet-to-be-finished Skanki Kaffe emporium, horror reigned when everybody working on the fine details, like gurgly coffee dispensers, granite countertops and futuristic urinals, went completely wonky…

However, in comparison, they got off lightly. Margret Greenhorn and her famous Greenhorn Girls dancing troupe were overcome so quickly that they fell and accidentally showed their knickers to a museum Robot Guide…

Only Margret remained conscious long enough to gag in a most unladylike fashion.

Fortunately for Fanny Gander, who had made her way deeper into the museum, the mist had abated slightly. She could now draw breath and think intelligently. After a quick trip to the loo, she sought and found the Security Suite…

“Oh cripes,” she whispered unnecessarily, “this door is bound to have a combination lock. I don’t know what the number is.”

Meanwhile the Robot Guide was getting its own (metaphorical) knickers in a twist…

“Hey, guys,” it said in its customary cheerful manner, “what’s eatin’ ya? Talking of eating; you want me to show you the way to a nearby restaurant?”

Also meanwhile, the maintenance workers could only watch their screens in dismay as the great edifice emptied of customers…

“Where’d they go?” Rikki demanded. “Why is everything so inert?”

Rikki would have asked several more questions had he known that the seals on several Café Pukes had inexplicably failed, and now their occupants could also be considered inert…

Upon the walkway, the Robot Guide had similar cybernetic thoughts. It didn’t ‘do’ inert. So, as quickly as its caterpillar treads could carry it, the servomechanism raced off for help…

Fanny had no such concerns: she’d not seen nor heard a soul. Her particular problem was one of access to the Security Suite. Fortunately her younger brother had once been a professional ‘hacker’: so drawing upon the knowledge she gained from the few lessons he’d given her, she punched in 1234. In a second the door swung open…

…and she let herself in.

Once inside, darkness greeted Fanny’s eyes…

Naturally she fumbled for a light switch behind the door. She was rewarded by the sudden brightening of the surprisingly small room…

She was, however, somewhat disappointed to find it unoccupied.

“Hello?” She tried timidly. But when this elicited no response she increased her volume by seven hundred percent. “Oi, where the flipping heck are you? There’s a disaster in the making, don’t you know!

This had the desired effect. An interior door burst open, and three RoboSecGuas rolled in. Whilst the most junior Robot Security Guard drove straight to the com-panel, Fanny found herself addressed by the senior RoboSecGua, and its first officer, EvilRoboSecGua…

“I let myself in.” Fanny replied to the stereo question: “How the flip did you get in here?”

She answered the subsequent inquiry thus:

“I’m here with some important information. Your robot security guard on loan to Lemon Stone told me to come here and warn you. This fabulous establishment is being assailed by the legendary Northern Mist!”

“That’s silly, that is.” EvilRoboSecGua replied. “If it’s legendary, how can it exist here and now?

“Yeah,” the senior RoboSecGua took up the metaphorical reins. “Something that’s legendary is just that: of legend. It doesn’t actually exist in the modern era. Legends are all about old stuff set a long time ago. I thought everyone knew that.” 

The cool logic of the cybernetic devices gave Fanny reason to pause and question her rationality. Especially so when a fourth RoboSecGua entered the room;

…regarded a wall-mounted screen that displayed the mist; and said:

“Cor, that’s a right pea-souper out there. It fair gives me the collywobbles. That’ll keep people in their apartments for sure. I wonder what went wrong with the weather controller.”

“Um,” she finally replied to the senior RoboSecGua, “well it is behaving rather like the legendary Northern Mist. But, of course, that doesn’t mean that it actually is the Northern Mist. Come to think about it, I haven’t seen anyone rendered inert and sent into suspended animation with my own eyes. In fact I haven’t heard anyone scream that either. Oh dear, I do believe I’ve wasted a long and arduous journey here. Well if I haven’t broken any laws, perhaps I’d better be on my way: I haven’t had time for my tea yet.”

“You were sent on a fool’s errand.” EvilRoboSecGua replied. “It’s not your fault: you can be on your way without fear of receiving a nasty summons from the courts through your letter box. You do have letter boxes in Lemon Stone, I presume? I mean, you don’t live in caves or something? Thank you for your misguided and worthless assistance: now sod off.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Eject With Alacrity!

The ancient alien lifeboat flees the Drunkard’s Vomit with only seconds to spare before the auto-destruct sequence begins. From Climatic Calamity. Fascinating factoid: Apart from the fact that both vessels are made from products found in Tooty’s bathroom – yes that distant airless planetoid really is a chocolate covered digestive biscuit…from the Waitrose Essential range. Tooty doesn’t use just any old chocolate covered digestive you know!

Earplug Adventures © Paul Trevor Nolan

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part five)

This being my first earplug short story, I’m delighted with the progress. It has taken, quite literally less than half the effort a regular book takes. I think I’ll do this more often. And look – it already has a cover!

But for now  I think it best I don’t get over excited: on with part five…

Farther inside the museum, Rudi Earplug received a text message whilst waiting to be served by the baristas of a local Café Puke…

“Flipping heck, everyone,” he roared – startling twins, Desmond and Anthony Hedgewarbler by doing so, “I’ve just got a text. Something really weirdsville is going on outside. We’d better hang on in here until I get more info. You dig?” 

Of course what Rudi could not possibly have known was that the mist had enveloped the entire building…

Naturally the museum’s electro-magnetic defensive shields had been raised as a precaution. However, and much to the dismay of the maintenance department members on duty, the mist appeared to have multi-phasic properties that allowed it to alter its temporal location at a sub-atomic level, which meant it could move, fractionally, in time. This, in turn meant that it could bypass the mono-chronological screens with ease. In desperation the operative tried to combat this rare talent with additional power to the shield emitters.

“That’s it.” A yellow female End Cap engineer screeched from a com-panel screen. “If that doesn’t work, nothing will stop this mysterious gas from gaining access to the entire museum – including the ladies toilet on level thirteen!”

“What’s so special about the ladies toilet on level thirteen?” The yellow earplug inquired in the hope that it would divert his attention from the fears and trepidation he was feeling at that moment.

“My mother is an illegal immigrant.” The desperate End Cap replied. “She lives there – in a secret compartment behind the cistern.”

The orange maintenance worker shared much the same emotions as his yellow partner: “That’s terrible.” He yelled, “Who does her shopping and laundry?”

Meanwhile, in yet another Café Puke outlet…

…staff and customers wondered why the lights had dimmed.

“Sorry,” the pink barista said to his yellow customer, “but energy levels had dropped below those required to operate the Crappachino machine. I can do you an Iron Lungo. I’ll even throw in a complimentary sausage roll.”

At the precise moment that the yellow earplug responded in the negative, Fanny Gander had gained a pedestrian door that would allow her ingress to the museum. But, as she looked downward disconsolately, she wondered if there was any real point to her efforts: despite her speed and endurance, the mist had overtaken her: it was already too late…

And she might have been right too. Already the Age of Stone exhibit was enshrouded…

Worst still, so was the boating lake, where Gobby and Panta Lonez were enjoying a brisk hike across the undeveloped ‘bad lands’…

Now if Gobby had managed to recognise the threat he might have been able to utilise his minimal time-travelling capability and taken himself and Panta backwards fifteen minutes in time – giving them the opportunity to seek the sanctuary of an air raid shelter. But he didn’t, so this happened…

Poor old Gobby and his new friend.

Meanwhile, all across the museum, customers and staff alike remained ignorant of the ever-encroaching menace. Café Pukes carried on as normal…

But, like Rudi Earplug minutes earlier, some customers were receiving confusing texts from friends and family. It made them look about themselves furtively…

“Do I mention this to anyone?” They would ask themselves. “Or do I lock myself in the lavatory and adopt the brace position?”

Some of them went so far as to put on false smiles and pretend that nothing was wrong…

…which, because they lacked any tangible facts, might have been the actual truth. What would been gained from worrying anyone unnecessarily?

But elsewhere, like on unprotected walkways, earplugs were succumbing quickly…

“Ooh-ur,” this particular individual was heard to say, “I don’t half feel wonky. It’s almost as though…”

But all too quickly the scent of fear permeated the plasterboard walls of the local hostelries. Customers became alarmed…

“By the Saint of All Earplugs,” they would wail in an unpleasant discord, “that scent: its fear. I don’t like it: make it go away!”

No sooner had that occurred, when someone in the Curator’s Suite hit the Vermillion Alert button…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

My apologies for all the meaningless techno-babble during the maintenance control room scene. As my son pointed out, “That’s very Star Trek: Voyager shit from the nineties.”

Portrait of Spring: Sheltered Beneath a Wall

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part 4)

With exactly 150 photos processed for this first-ever earplug short-story, the photographic part of the job is complete. My mouse hand is feeling the strain, I can tell you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to operate my Yamaha’s throttle properly for the next couple of days. My eyes are kind of bleary too. And my bum is of the numb kind. Oh, how I suffer for my art. But that’s by-the-by: it comes with the territory: on with part 4 of Northern Mist!

Meanwhile Fanny raced through the stone corridors upon her self-imposed mission…

As she did so she gave thanks for her decision to test her potions upon herself. She was certain that no one else in Lemon Stone had the strength and endurance required to battle the effects of the mist whilst running like a looney.

Soon she found herself thundering from the citadel through one of several pedestrian gates…

Within moments she had placed a considerable distance between herself and the vast edifice…

However, as she paused to slake her terrible thirst in a mountainside stream…

…she noted the unusual colour.

“Oh flipping heck,” she wailed, “not only can I not drink from this contaminated stream, but these are the headwaters of the river that carries the coolant for the Museum of Future Technology’s Nul-Space power generator. Oh bugger!”

This new situation reminded Fanny of the wisdom she’d displayed when testing her potions upon herself. Now, more than any time before, she would need the strength and endurance her potions would afford her.

“Right then,” she said, “I’d better a get a bloody move on.”

With that she ran all the way down the seemingly endless flight of steps from Lemon Stone; across the valley below it; and up the other side. Moreover she needed to contend with the mist pursuing her all the way…

…which she did with aplomb, if not a little bitterness:

“Sodding mist,” she growled through mandibles pressed hard against each other and acting as a rudimentary air filter. “Thank the Saint of All Earplugs that the cold temperatures have made my nostrils get all bunged up with coagulated snot. But enough of my physical difficulties: onwards to the Museum of Future Technology!”

Meanwhile, deep within the unsuspecting museum, Rupert Piles busied himself filming two members of Las Chicas De La Playas as they demonstrated one of Anton Twerp’s latest works of art…

“Muy linda,” Carmen said to Belen who stood upon the opposite side of the painting, “but what is it supposed to be?”

“No lo se,” Belen replied, “a colon perhaps? Some liver maybe? No mi gusta!”

Of course the girls and the TV reporter weren’t the only earplugs out and about. In fact the corridors and places of interest were absolutely thronging…

However, as the inhabitants and visitors continued upon their merry way in blissful ignorance, poor little Fanny Gander struggled onwards through a thickening fog of Northern Mist…

By now the situation had worsened to the point where she must squeeze her eyes shut and, using her remaining senses – those being hearing, touch, and smell, guess her direction of travel.

In her semi-delirium she imagined herself seated in a Café Puke outlet beside her best friend, Bubbles Gloor…

But despite her low red blood count, she retained enough intelligence to realise that Bubbles was far away with her boyfriend, aboard the Prowler as they investigated an oceanic world many light years distant from Earth…

“Huh,” she grunted – almost dislodging a lump of bogey in the process, “can’t expect any help from her then.”

Meanwhile, the very thing that Fanny had most feared happened. The dissolved mist in the coolant river evaporated out as the water met the warmer air of the museum interior. The first earplugs to notice it were passengers waiting at the mag-lift train station nearest the intake valves…

“Ugh,” the blue-hootered Belinda Noseguard uttered a moment before she recognised the danger, “what a horrible smell. I’m absolutely dis…”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part 3)

Once the first couple of episodes were posted, I kind of ‘got into the groove’ so-to-speak. My rate of photo production accelerated. As of this posting, there are now 130 completed scenes , which may not sound much, but this was only ever going to be a short story anyway, so 130 isn’t too far short of the number required to tell the tale. But that’s for the near future: for now let’s get on with the story…

Moments later they raced through the narrow walkways of the artisan quarter…

But all too quickly Dumper’s physical reserves depleted sufficiently to leave him far behind in Fanny’s wake. So it was Fanny alone who reported the news of the Northern Mist to a RoboSecGua that was on-loan to Lemon Stone from the Museum of Future Technology…

If it was possible for a servomechanism to be startled, Fanny felt confident that she witnessed it that feverish evening.

“Cripes,” it yelled through its tinny forward speaker grille as its cyber-eyes bulged, “I shall instigate an alert instantaneously. But first I must implore you to make your way immediately to the Museum of Future Technology. They too must be alerted: the wind is blowing in their direction!”

By now other earplugs were discovering the horrible truth. Already the first tendrils of the mysterious mist were beginning to make their presence known…

“Run, run,” some would yell, “but try to hold your breath at the same time!”

In their watchtower that overlooked the valley that led from the museum to Lemon Stone, four monks of the Order of the Holey Vest quaked in their sandals as the mist rolled by…

“Shut the window, Augustus,” one of them snapped, “and ram a periodical or some toilet paper into the gaps.”

Monks soon swarmed from the monastery dormitories…

“Honestly,” many would complain, “the order demands that we all go to bed at a ridiculously early hour; and now we’re turfed out by a sodding siren. Despite not being really tired, I was just nodding off too!”

Other, quicker-thinking monks went straight to their closest air filtration units…

“If we only breathe the air that’s coming out of this,” they reasoned, “we won’t be overcome and suffer whatever fate befalls those who encounter the Northern Mist.”

Fanny Gander meanwhile was trying to hold her breath as best she could…

George and Edie Peashuck, who had only recently moved to Lemon Stone, following a lifetime tilling the soil as mountain pea farmers, could only watch in bemusement as the green-faced earplug shuffled by, en route to the giant toad religious icon…

…where she quickly passed on some advice to the Father Superior and his retinue:

“Hide yourselves away in a sealed room.” She yelled. “And, for good measure stick a paper bag over your head too.”

Then she was gone – in the opposite direction to almost everyone else…

When questioned they answered that they were hoping to catch one of Lemon Stone’s emergency hot-air balloons and float above the scary mist.

Meanwhile the monks at the filtration units were beginning to have their doubts…

“Maybe if we sat on it,” one of them suggested, “and breathed through our bottoms. It’s only an idea, you understand: but I think it’s a good one.”

Meanwhile a group of visitors couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about…

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” The shorter of the two purple earplugs was heard to complain. “If everyone wore an atom-proof helmet like mine, there wouldn’t be anything to worry about.”

By now the stairs to the highest towers were being scaled by the vanguard of fleeing earplugs….

Within moments the first emergency hot-air balloon lifted serenely from the ramparts…

“Well that’s us up and away,” the escapees would say to one another, “I don’t give a fiddle what happens to the dimwits who didn’t make it. It’s a plugmutt eat plugmutt world where only the strong survive. If they didn’t escape the Northern Mist it’s because they didn’t deserve to. In fact I bet it was one of them who brought it here – you know, like people bring germs home from holidays abroad and that sort of thing.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Rural Wallpaper: Chill December

Bare trees, frosted roofs, and gently smoking chimneys. Rural England in Wintertime.

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part 2)

I must confess that (when I posted Part 1) I had no idea where the story was going. It is part of the reason that I’ve produced so few photos for the story. As usual I just trusted my imagination to come to the rescue. Well I guess that trust was warranted. Last night I awoke for a nocturnal tinkle – with the story complete in my dreamstate mind. All I had to do was remember it in the morning. Unusually that very thing occured. I now have the story in my conscious mind.  I even climbed into my attic studio and shot more pictures. The tale can continue. Welcome to Part 2…

Meanwhile, a strange sound momentarily wrenched Dumper Collins’ attention from his smelly gourde…

It seemed to him that it originated from an artisan’s workshop several doors along from his own…

Dumper was used to hearing the amber goo stirrer’s gyrations at the ladle; so when it fell silent suddenly, he grew concerned. So concerned that he closed the lid of his gourde and began to climb the ladder to his escape hatch…

He called out to his fellow artisan, but the frightened fellow raced by without acknowledging Dumper’s hail. Intrigued, Dumper dropped into the narrow alleyway…

“What’s come over Ferdie Crank?” He asked himself. “Has his amber goo gone critical and is about to explode? Or did he spot something unusual from his tiny workshop window?”

In order to answer these questions, Dumper dared enter the amber goo worker’s establishment. Darkness prevailed, so he felt his way to the shutter and opened the window…

But what he saw almost made him poop in his pants…

“Argh,” he bellowed, “it can’t be so. No-no-no: surely not. Surely it can’t be the legendary Northern Mist. If it ever existed, it would have been centuries past. No, you silly farting gourde maker; it can’t possibly be the Northern Mist: if it was, it would spell doom for each and every one of us!”

“I know,” he said as he raced to the exit in search of somebody with which to share the discovery…

…I’ll tell that Fanny Gander. She’s smarter than the average earplug: she’ll know what to do.”

During the moments it took for Dumper to successfully negotiate the exit the subject of his sudden interest had just wandered from her lavatory, into her kitchen…

“Honestly,” she muttered, “if I wasn’t a female, I’d swear I had an enlarged prostate gland: I’m always going for a wee – or so it seems.”

Any further thoughts upon the subject were interrupted by a hammering upon her front door. So, squeezing along the narrow corridor…

…Fanny was able to open the door to one of her neighbour artisans…

She was surprised. “Dumper Collins,” she complained loudly, “what the flipping heck are you doing battering down my door, you heavy-handed twerp?”

However surprise would turn to shock and horror when Dumper told her what he and Ferdie Crank had witnessed through the amber goo workshop window.

“Shoot!” she exclaimed, or a word that sounded rather similar to that. “This isn’t good. Come on, Dumper, we must raise the alarm!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

 

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Poolside

Like the Earplug Adventures wallpapers that immediately precede this one, Poolside appeared in a nasty, deservedly defunct blog that should never have seen the light of day.

The Earplug Brothers take some welcome time-off at the holiday home of their Auntie Doris. Naturally the Pong Sisters join them. From The Grand Tour Volume One. Fascinating factoids: The rippled ‘water’ effect was obtained by running a butane flame across a slab of industrial insulation material. Also, Chester appears to be sans important facial features. This is not an error by the creator of the story: it  simply reflects the fact that Chester doesn’t sleep with his mouth open.

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part 1)

With so many subjects clamouring for Tooty’s attention, the great author/ photographer has been pressed for time regarding the Earplug Adventures. So pressed, in fact that he has managed to create a mere seventy-seven finished scenes for the next wondrous project – that being Northern Mist. However, despite this paucity of material, he thought it best that he share it with you. So, although there’s bugger-all story to date, please try to enjoy the opening barrage of literary and photographic glory. Ladies and Gentlemen…Northern Mist.

Earplug Adventures: Northern Mist

Tooty Nolan

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Prologue

It was another pleasant evening as the sun set upon the Museum of Future Technology…

A time for inhabitants of that revered emporium of technology from the…urr…future to open their evening news sheets and read an article concerning something dear to their hearts, if not their taste buds.

Details of a catering merger have emerged that could threaten the continued success of the purveyors of the most vile coffee inside the Museum of Future Technology – Cafe Puke. Secret photographs taken in the undeveloped region of the arboretum strongly suggest that construction of a new cafe is well underway…

Although including a distinctive foyer, the building appears to follow the design of the majority of Cafe Puke outlets. However, as this photograph clearly shows, the hoarding apparently makes mention of the rival cafe chain – Skanki Kaffe…

Despite the fact that leaked pictures of the interior do not support this assertion, workers on-site were tight lipped when quizzed about the new-build. Even Rupert Piles and his huge 3D TV camera, (despite trudging back and forth across the doorway all morning) could garner no information…

Nevertheless rumours continue to propagate, particularly when posters purporting that the endeavour is supported by the youngest of the Earplug Brothers – twins Chester and Miles…

…and the famous Ice World scientist Uda Spritzer…

…appeared inside the half-completed future place of business…

Despite denials from Skanki Kaffe that the company has designs on supplanting Cafe Puke as the cafe of choice within the much vaunted and hallowed walls of the Museum of Future Technology, photographic evidence of a conversation between a representative of Skanki Kaffe, and Mister Pong – owner of several Exotic Food restaurants within the museum and the neighbouring conurbation of La Ciudad de Droxford cannot be ignored…

Further evidence came when the museum’s Avatar and the Angel with a Huge Nose were seen blessing the almost complete catering outlet in the middle of the night…

Apparently only the installation of a whooshy, gurgly coffee machine and a futuristic urinal is required to transform the building from a potential cafe into a proper emporium for the celebration of the humble coffee bean – complete with labels such as Cafe au Belch, Vomitino, and Desalinated – all well-known labels belonging to Skanki Kaffe. When interviewed through the side window of a Cafe Puke concession, general manager, Cool-Dude Plantagenate…

…was quoted as saying: “Couldn’t give a plugmutt’s arse. Bring it on Skanki: your Vomitino aint got nothing on our Crappachino: it’s almost potable!”

We await developments.

Chapter One

As sunset turned to night, high within the distant snow-capped mountains, electric  lights began to flicker into incandescence. The mountaintop citadel of Lemon Stone was pushing back the darkness…

Inside his artisan’s workshop, Dumper Collins was busy developing his latest farting gourde. With his back to the sturdy wattle and daub wall, he pleaded with the gourde to display the ability to produce hitherto unimaginable amounts of noxious gases from its centrally located pseudo-bottom…

At the same time, a pair of Lemon Stone police officers became aware of Fanny Gander, as she exited the public lavatory in the Artisan’s quarter, on her way home for tea…

“Nice bum.” One of them said to the other.

“Best keep that to yourself,” the second officer whispered in reply, “Fanny absolutely hates any sexist talk. If she finds out you’ve been ogling her rear end, she’s likely to yank your helmet from your head and shove it up yours!”

“Oh,” the first officer responded nervously, “she’s that strong, is she?”

“She creates potions.” The reply came quietly. “They include potions for strength and endurance. She always tries them on herself before she places them on sale in the market square. So, yes she really is that strong.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

 

Tooty the Chef and Nazi Goering

Tooty the Chef and his late wife were both born into  the latter part of the Baby Boomer generation. This meant that they spent the first ten to fifteen years of their lives immersed in documentaries and action films that featured the exploits of World War Two – a five year war that spanned the globe, between the forces of the Free World and the might of the Empire of the Rising Sun in the east, and the tyranny of fascism, via Nazi Germany and it’s  ally Italy in the west. The Soviet Union was involved too, but it’s best we don’t mention those bunch of shits: if ever there were perpetrators of an ideology that rejected freedom and democracy and treated it’s people disgracefully, it was the communist arse wipe leadership of the Soviet Union. But enough of that  for now; it’s far too serious. Because she too shared a slighty quirky and irreverent sense of humour, Tooty the Chef’s wife often renamed meals with non-politically correct alternatives. In this case Nasi Goreng became Nazi Goering – named after the commanding officer of the Nazi German Airforce during the late thirties and early forties, Herman Goering. And why not? – it’s silly. Naturally Tooty the Chef has chosen to continue this nomenclature into the second decade of the twenty-first century. And why not again? – it’s still silly, and insults no one from that era because they’ve all died of old age, or are too doddery to give a shit.

“Tooty,” I hear you sigh, “enough of the history lesson and political crap: get on with the cooking.”

Okay. So, to the kitchen…

A good (Tooty the Chef style) Nazi Goering requires that some ingredients are well cooked, whilst others remain al dente. So first into the hot olive oil go diced onions and sliced carrot…

Followed shortly by the sliced peppers – to produce some much needed moisture…

Hot on their heels comes the diced chicken…

This is generously sizzled until its clear that the chicken has cooked through and no longer presents a threat to humanity with its potential salmonella virus content. Zap them bugs – the bastards!

Then, in this case, some greenery should be added. He’s not quite sure what greenery was added on this occasion, but it could have been cabbage, or pak choi, or perhaps spring onions. Anything will do really…

The items that require the least cooking should now be cast into the pit of culinery doom. Here we see sweet corn, baby corn cobs, and snap peas suffering horribly…

Of course, whilst one hand is stirring this conflagration of flavour into a lather, the other has been cooking some jasmine rice in the well-establish Tooty the Chef way, via the Chinese rice cooker…

As fabulous as the colourful  dish may appear, it aint Nazi Goering until the spices have been added. Today Tooty elected to leave his vast repertroire of spices in the cupboard, and instead proceed with this…

It saves so much time and uncertainty. Subsequentally stirring the rice into the meat and vegetables, cookie-boy allowed that lot to simmer for a moment or two. Mean time he whisked up a bunch of eggs, salt, and black pepper and made a simple omelette…

…which he sliced up and lay (like a urine-stained mantle of snow) atop the finished mountainous article…

Ladies and Gentlemen; a complete Nazi Goering. Now proceed to your own kitchen and become as politically incorrect as the great chef himself!

 

 

Kitchen Wallpaper: Ingredients

Portrait of Nature: The Woodland Path

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Vile Coffee: Cozy Chat

This post first appeared in a blog that was so unpopular, it staggered belief. Not like this one at all!

Having escaped the island of Doctor Adolf Weil-Barrau intact, former head of security Slomo Chewings buys a cup of vile coffee from a Barf machine for fellow islander and potential love interest, Daffney DeMauritainia. From Mutant Island. Fascinating factoids; The Barf machine is the lid of a sweetener dispenser. The table is a filter from a pneumatic pump. This is the first occurrence in an Earplug Adventure of a non-heterosexual relationship. P.S If Daffney looks very similar to Bubbles Gloor in The Veil of Shytar, it’s because the same earplug was used in both stories. Waste not; want not – or so they say. They also say everyone has their double somewhere in the world. Well there’s the proof – sort of.

Once More Unto The Breech

Which is another way of saying that the recent tidy-up of these two (old) books…

…has been completed and both are back on sale. Now I can get on  with creating the third book. I mean, everyone wants to write  trilogy, don’t they? These two can be accessed via the sidebar or the Tooty’s Ebooks Available to Buy Here page.

It’s very difficult to find extracts that don’t contain spoilers; but here’s a couple of attempts. Unfortunately they don’t contain any ‘action’ because those segments are guaranteed, not only to include spoilers, but they are (at times) so violent that I was (when I re-read them) slightly shocked at my earler self’s blood-thirstiness. So, no nasty stuff here…

Silent Apocalypse

A stray shaft of sunlight shining in my eye woke me from my troubled slumbers. Straw may look comfortable but it pokes you in places you didn’t know you had, and it can really make a body itch. Fortunately the others had neglected to mention rats the previous night, so, when upon numerous occasions, I awoke to scratching sounds, or the weight of some furry animal running across my back I was greatly alarmed. If I’d known what to expect in advance I’m pretty certain I’d have taken a tent with me – or just slept beneath the stars, and hoped that it didn’t rain.

Now, as brightness attempted to blind my bleary eyes, I knew that I hated living rough.

‘Nature? You can keep it!’

Katherine, on the other hand, was full with the joys of spring. She already had a fire burning outside, and the smell of coffee perked me into a sitting position. I noticed the absence of Lee and Kevin immediately. As I wandered outside I enquired after them.

“My, who’s a sleepy head, then?” Katherine chided. She then answered my question, “They’ve gone hunting.”

“Lee went hunting with our only assault rifle?” I was surprised that Lee would willingly waste such irreplaceable ammunition.

“No, silly.” Katherine replied – offering me a cup of black, watery coffee.

“With Kevin.” She added, “The lad’s very good with snares.”

I admired Kevin: he was worth two of any other boy of his age. “He’s a little diamond.” I said as I sat myself  beside Katherine.

The coffee was awful, but it was wet and warm, and at that moment it was enough. I gazed out upon the silent countryside, and let my brain slip into neutral.

Some unmeasured time later the boys returned with four dead rabbits. They were young. Perhaps born only a week or two after the virus had struck. It seemed such a crime for us to take life when it was so rare and precious. I must have said as much…

“Wanna eat, don’t you?” Lee was slightly miffed. He and Kevin had worked hard to make their catch. I apologized for my foolishness.

“Next time,” Kevin spoke eagerly to Lee, “I can show ya fish tickling.”

“Are there any?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Came Kevin’s positive response, “loads of ‘em. I seen ‘em in the river this morning.”

“Make mine trout.” Katherine put on her cut-glass accent, “Just like my men – I prefer them slightly soused.”

An hour later, with a rabbit each tied to our haversacks, we made our way along a dusty dirt track. It was a fine day, and in our childish ways we had shrugged off our troubles for the duration. This came to an abrupt end when a bullet kicked up the ground beside us. We all dived into a track side ditch. Struggling within the confined space we managed to struggle onto our fronts so that our haversacks might offer some protection. I saw Lee’s rabbit torn apart by an impact. With fear clearly evident in his eyes he looked back to me.

‘Have we walked straight into another war zone?’

Katherine’s voice calmed us:  “You know I almost get the feeling we’re not wanted around here!”

She then shouted at the top of her lungs, “I say, you out there: stop that shooting nonsense this instant: we’re just passing through, for Heaven’s sake!”

Kevin giggled.

A young male voice called from somewhere unseen: “Where ya headed?”

I cringed as Katherine cheekily replied, “What’s it to you? That’s none of your business.”

I detected uncertainty in the boys tone when next he spoke:  “Ya not heading for the island are ya?”

We all exchanged looks.

“Island?” Lee enquired. “What island? There’s naff-all islands ‘round here.”

“The boy’s mad, obviously.” Katherine observed.

“P’raps it’s a secret island.” Kevin offered.

“It’d have to be top secret:” Lee spoke with a sarcastic tone in his voice, “We’re in the middle of the country! Remember Britain? Big island with water all ‘round it?”

Katherine decided it was time to reply, “No thanks: we don’t like islands. We like villages and farms and things like that.”

Kevin added, “We think islands are poop!”

We had to wait a few seconds while the mystery shooter digested this. After what seemed like a very uncomfortable century he spoke again, “If I promise not to shoot, will you stand up?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

Silent Resistence

As I consulted the AA roadmap in the rear seat of the bus I was very grateful for its all-inclusiveness. It showed minor roads that only locals would know about, which I hoped would take us to our destination without the need to travel upon trunk roads.

We’d pulled into a muddy lay-by upon a country ‘B’ road to find our route, but since it was raining outside I’d decided to spread the map over the largest flat surface available.

Karen could see that I was having difficulty reading the map, so she clambered to the rear of the bus, and parked herself opposite me. Following a cursory glance at the map she said. “Wrong page.”

I’d been running a fingertip over the surface of the map – following the coastline. I paused. “How do you know?” I asked.

“You told us that Winston Crag was rocky.” She explained. “The coastline you’re looking at there is low-lying, graduating to limestone, and finally sandstone. You’ll find no rocky prominences there: It’s all been worn down by the sea.” She then flipped the map over and pointed to a completely different part of the coastline.

As she’d been speaking her eyes had been studying the map. “There.” She said as she laid a finger upon the map. “Winston Crag. You’re right, it isn’t too far away.”

I thanked Karen, who promptly forgot me and called Kylie to join her. Together they selected the best route.

‘Suits me; I never wanted to be known as ‘Pathfinder Goldsmith’ anyway.’

After drawing in their route with a pencil Kylie chose to include me in their conversation. “So what will we find when we get there?” She inquired.

With no guarantee that we would reach our destination unmolested I thought it best that only I should know the answer to that question. If my friends knew nothing they couldn’t be expected to tell anyone whether it be under interrogation; hypnotism; or any technique for extracting information.

“The less they know,” I’d said earlier to Tasman, “the less can be forced out of them if we’re captured.”

“Fine,” he’d replied, “but suppose something horrible happens to you en route: they won’t know what to look for when they arrive.”

“In which case it won’t matter.” I countered. “The gig will be up. Our silent resistance ends with our death, capture, or incapacitation.”

So now I found myself unwilling to share my secrets with my friends and allies. “Sorry.” I said weakly.

Both girls shrugged their shoulders. “I’m sure it’ll make the surprise all the more exciting.” Karen said as she passed the map to Kylie, before adding, “Okay, Driver – drive on.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

 

 

Tooty the Chef and Citrus Semolina!

One day, in a kitchen far far away, Tooty the Chef searched desperately for inspiration. The family, sick to death with shop-bought yoghurts and the like, wanted a nice pud. It was down to Tooty to deliver the goods…

Being a ‘chuck-it-all-in-and-see-what-happens’ kind of chef, delivering a nice pud was always going to be a challenge for the pointy-nosed idiot. However, after much deliberation (i,e ten seconds) he settled on these primary ingredients: lemon merigue sauce mix; cornflour; Valencian orange food flavouring; and semolina.

Well obviously (being the heaviest item on the list) the semolina would need to form the bottom layer of a  three-layered delight. So he boiled some up…

…and slapped the resulting goo in several eqally small serving bowls. As it cooled, he bubbled up the lemon meringue sauce and poured it on top…

So far, so esthetically pleasing. But what wonder was he going to conjure up from a jar of  cornflour and a small bottle of food flavouring. Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? Custard! Orange custard…

Actually it went well. The orange didn’t make the milk go all wonky, and it thickened nicely and evenly. Sadly the colouring was somewhat lacking, so – as you can probably see – he added some yellow food dye. It didn’t  work: the finished custard  remained pale and insipid…

But good old Tooty didn’t give a monkey’s toss…

…coz when (that evening) he warmed them in the microwave, they were scrummy! Of course they were. Unfortunately the serving bowls were made of melamine and duly absorbed more than their fair share of the heat created by the microwaving. On the outside he might appear pleased with himself: but on the inside he’s smarting – just like his fingers and thumbs.

Don’t Buy My eBooks…Yet!

When I wrote this 2014 novel…

…it was as a sequel to this e-book of 2004…

Having completed the sequel, it came to my attention that the older book was somewhat wanting in several areas. Not the story: merely the way it was told. As a consequence of this it was re-written immediately after the completion of it’s sequel, and looked all the better for it. Well…when I mentioned to you all, in a recent post that I was planning  a third book, I thought I should re-establish a link with my earlier writing style, the story, and the characters of both books. Guess what: I found them somewhat wanting again. Oh flip! So, if anyone harboured any ideas about purchasing either book – don’t. At least not yet. Yup, I’m re-writing them again! Well not so much re-writing; but seriously tidying them up. Already Silent Resistance is looking pukka: Silent Apocalypse will follow shortly. But, golly, what tales they are: well worth a couple of bucks! I shall endeavour to keep you posted on their progress. When they’re finished (again), I’ll give you the nod. Then you can purchase as many copies as your heart desires. Make it lots.

Rural Wallpaper: Country Counter Top

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: A Monster Farts

This post first appeared in another (ghastly, vile, and hugely unpopular) blog.

Lost and alone in the bitter cold, mountain pea farmer, Frank Tonsils believes that he might be hallucinating. After all, one doesn’t expect to meet a flatulent multi-legged monster on a snowy mountainside. From Natural Selection. Fascinating factoid: The ‘monster’ was created by adding a home-made stick-on eye to a piece of torn nylon weave that had originally protected a 2-tonne pack of processed timber whilst in transit. Obviously the ‘fart’ was added later.

Portrait of England: Seaside Paddle

Is A Third ‘Silent’ Novel Possible?

The original version of this book…

…was written by yours truly in 2004. It took a decade before I was ready to write the sequel…

Unfortunately the sequel’s ending was so convoluted that I found it impossible to get around the difficulties that I’d engineered into the plot. A third tale seemed unlikely. Then, nine years on, I came up with a scenario that might lead to an opening in the canopy of my imagination. I might – just MIGHT – find  myself in a position to concoct another bamboozling story featuring the teen-aged protagonists from the first two books. Gosh, I hope so: they are a joy to write. If my aging brain can fire on all thrusters, I plan to put aside the next Earplug Adventure, and begin the completion of the trilogy with Silent Existence. Wish me luck: the last time I tried writing a third part of a trilogy was the aborted follow-up to Present Imperfect in 2016…

I now include a tiny morsel from the second book. It has to be tiny because almost every potential extract gives too much away about (not only this book, but also) the original story.

“You’re different.” Tasman said to me immediately following our welcome back by the others.

“No I’m not.” I insisted as I watched our arsenal being taken away.

“From each other I mean.” He explained. “The two of you. You and Felicity. If I was in a darkened room with you both, I’d know one from the other.”

“In what way are we different?” I inquired with truthful interest.

“She‘s more…vulnerable.” He answered. “It’s why I urged her to seek out the alternative version of me. She needs his help.”

“Obviously.” I said as I began collecting up all the used harnesses. “I need you; ergo she needs her…” I almost said ‘Tasman’, but I quickly realised that Dexter and Shane were within earshot as they battled with a recalcitrant trolley upon which they were attempting to carry six bombs at once. “…Brian.” I finished.

“Two Brian’s, eh?” Kylie’s head appeared around the door frame. She winked. “I wonder if he’s such a whizz with the alien technology too.”

As remarks go, Kylie’s couldn’t have been more innocuous; but her words struck the same chords in both Tasman and I. We looked at each other; back to Kylie as she entered the room to collect another explosive device; then back at each other again.

“We’ve been so dumb.” I said to him.

“Speak for yourselves.” Kylie said as she passed us.

“I’m not arguing.” Tasman replied to me.

Kylie held aloft a bomb.

“No one’s dumb.” She said. “Not unless they drop one of these on their foot.”

I ignored her.

“We’ve not seen the woods for the trees.” I said.

“The obvious has eluded us all this time.” Tasman said by way of agreement.

“Sorry.” Kylie said as she laid the explosive device down again. “What’s this obvious thing that neither you have missed?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

P.S These books (plus Captive Echo) remain available as e-books. Check out HERE to have a look.

Ye Olde Huawei Finally Comes Good

The buttons on my late wife’s 2005 Motorola had long since lost their silk printed numerals by the time she decided to call time on it and buy a ‘smart’ phone, which (as recommended by the phone shop assistant) was a Huawei Ascend. Well, after battling with the unreliable, counter intuitive piece of crap for several months, she went back to her Motorola, and remained faithful to it  for years – until the week she died. She hung on to the the Chinese phone though because it took quite nice pictures – just as long as she didn’t try taking shots from a moving car: when she did, the phone’s auto-focus simply couldn’t make up it’s mind and often ended up taking pictures of the car interior, a random roadside, or her angry face. She didn’t think of it as an Ascend: more an Ass Hole. But because it cost good  money, we kept it as an emergency device. Then, recently, two and a half years after her passing, my daughter’s old phone finally stopped picking up a signal. Cue  a new phone – complete with new mini sim card. “What to do with her old sim card?” thought I . The answer came immediately: “Put it in the old Huawei.”  So I did, and the Ascend didn’t disappoint: as anticipated it was next to useless. But then I discovered it had a wi-fi setting. Might it be possible that I could access the Internet on my home network? Unlikely, I thought. But after a lot of fiddling, gnashed teeth, and colourful expletives this happened…

Hoorah – it’s my blog. And doesn’t it look smart too? Now, should all my laptops, my never-used mini Mac, or my iPad decide to go awol, I can still admire my great works  upon the Ascend. It doesn’t mean the phone’s any good, you understand: but it’s no longer an Ass Hole:  merely a Butt Wipe!

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Prowler At Sea

I don’t know if this picture of the Punting-Modesty Munitions Company’s finest product will appear in an Earplug Adventure, but I thought this experiment in creating something out of almost nothing worked quite well…

Nature Wallpaper: When Catkins Start Their Dangling…

…it’s for Spring that we’re all angling!

Say Goodbye to ‘The Lines of Tah-Di-Tah’

Due to space limitations on this blog, The Lines of Tah-Di-Tah have become surplus to requirements. The story has been sitting here idle for quite a while now, since it’s appearence in these hallowed cyber-pages in 2021, and therefore had to go. By-ee Lines of Ta-Di-Tah. As brilliant as you were, there is a time and place for everything: and this aint either of them. But fear not, Dear Earplugger (or potential Earplugger), the fabulous photo-novel lives on – in PDF form – complete and unabridged, in all it’s silicon magnificence right here, behind this cover photo…

All you need do to access the story that featured the marriage and honeymoon of Magnuss and Hair-Trigger is click on the picture. Other than me, what could be simpler!

Make of This What You Will Too

In the original Make of This What You Will, posted here shortly after my wife’s passing in 2020, I related the tale of strange goings-on in my house that appeared to relate to her. Well I’ve always been  susceptible to unusual phenomena, and I might well tell the story of my Guardian Angel one day. But that’s for another day: this particular post concerns an event that occured mid 2022. Today I took my Yamaha along part of the road upon which the event happened. My body cam captured the locations most pertinent to the tale, which is brief but inexplicable.  But first let me set the scene. A scene that takes us back to the mid-seventies, and my best pal, Steve…

Steve spent a lot of time in the house I shared with my parents. Like most youngsters we watched very little TV, but if something interesting happened along, he would often stay late to watch it with me. On this particular night he had an early start for work the following morning, so he departed my house half-way through the hour-long documentary we were watching. Riding his motorcycle home, which normally took him ten to fifteen minutes, he found his father watching the same documentary. So he sat himself down to watch the last fifteen minutes of it. To his consternation he recognised the portion of the broadcast. It was the same segment he had watched with me a half-hour earlier. Somewhat amazed he checked the wall clock: it displayed a time that preceded his departure from my house.  He had arrived home before he’d left my house! The only explanation he could conceive was that he had traveled through time. When he told me, I concurred. I have related this tale several times through the years. People suggest that perhaps his father had recorded the show on a VCR, and was watching it a half-hour later. Good idea – if the average Briton had owned a VCR back then. But they didn’t: they were as rare as hens teeth or rocking horse shit. In fact the only video recorder that any of us had seen up until that time, was the example that William Shatner’s character showed Peter Falk in the Columbo episode Fade to Murder. In any case, how could he have recorded the second half before it had aired? Now (to use a VCR term) Fast Forward to 2022. I’ve departed my late wife’s step mother’s house in my Skoda Octavia.,.

I’m on my way home via the country route,  which takes me to this tiny roundabout at the foot of a long , gentle ascent…

Turning left I start up the climb…

Around the corner I pass a side road named Crouch Lane, which separates the urban sprawl of Horndean from the hamlet of Catherington…

A kilometre (approx) later a white Ford Transit pulls out of a side road – forcing me to test the ABS by braking heavily whilst swerving…

Regaining my momentum and reconfiguring my sphincter, I move on – pleased to have survived the encounter. Moment’s later I pass by a flint wall that runs too close to the road for comfort. No room for error – especially when a large lorry passes by in the opposite direction…

What should have happened next is that I continue around the bend, with private dwellings to my left and a public house to my right, followed by a school and a church…

But this doesn’t happen. Instead I get a’ What The Fuck?’ moment. Everything has changed. I’m not approaching the top of the hill anymore: I’m at the bottom again! I’m just around the bend from Crouch Lane all over again!

For the next thirty seconds and an approximate kilometre of road, I’m trying to make sense of the situation.  Then I remember the white van pulling out in front of me. So I slow in preparation. Guess what – it pulled out in front of me, as anticipated: but this time I was ready for it and had no need for sudden braking. But as I continued past the flint wall for the second time, I sincerely hoped that I wasn’t trapped in some form of causality loop: that I would gain the uppermost section of the hill…

Well the fact that I’m writing this and have this photographic proof of my existence in the here and now, my prayers appear to have been answered. But what really happened? Did I travel back in time by half a minute? Or did I dimension-jump from an almost identical reality into this one? Or something else entirely? Hmmm- spooky. And true too!

P.S Is it any wonder that I became a writer of science-fiction and fantasy! I think they call it ‘living the dream’. Or should that be ‘nightmare’?

P.P.S If I did swap dimensions, did the ‘other’ me take my place? Did he have a weird thirty-second moment too?

Portrait of Nature: Last Year’s Left-Overs

Autumn seems to have hung on all through winter.

Earplug Adventures Portrait: Stand Up And Be Counted!

This post first appeared in a now defunct blog.

Having been put on trial at the Galactic Court of Justice for the ‘crimes’ of all earplugkind, Throgennis Frote gives voice to his anger. In fact he tears them off a strip. He’s a mouthy little git. From We Stand Accused. Fascinating factoid: the whole idea for We Stand Accused came from the discovery of this prismatic sunlight on Tooty’s sitting room carpet.

Tooty the Chef Creates: Albondegas!

Okay, Tooty the Chef has done albondegas before, but that was in his bare-buttock’d days. These days you’re spared the spectacle: these days it’s all about the yum-yums. So, anyway, this is how it all began…

So what do we have here? Well there appears to be a jar of mixed spices, a small random tomato-based sauce mix, some toms, diced carrot and onions, chopped olives, and some minced pork  – from Sainsbury’s because their’s are only five percent fat, whereas Waitrose is eight percent fat, and more expensive too. No contest. Naturally some ingredients have been left out in this picture; that is becauseTooty the Chef is a wally and didn’t think to include them. 

What he did  next will not astound you. He tossed the raw stuff into a bowl and added two eggs, which he then blended…

 

Looking at the resulting mess he quickly realised that there was no way on this Earth that any balls created from it would hold together in the frying pan; so (he reasoned) the obvious answer to the problem was to add a binding agent. Something designed to thicken a sauce would surely hold the meat and vegetables together – wouldn’t it? He added cornflour…

Then rolling the balls in regular flour, it began to look as though his genius was proving itself…

…though the carrot and onion had clearly been insufficiently diced and, for a while, it was touch-and-go…

To counter this error, he made sure that the ‘bottom’ of each ball was nicely burnt before flipping them over – for the first and only time. Whilst the balls crackled nicely, tagliatelli was tossed into boiling water and stirred mightily…

It would be repeatedly stirred, every so often, until the very end. The dozy old ladle-weilder hates anything sticking to the bottom of his pans. It’s an anathema  to him. Or an enema.

Whatever, with the balls now sealed and no longer in danger of breaking up like an asteroid en route for Earth, Tooty elected to toss in the chopped toms and olives…

They quickly succumbed to the heat, and before long the sauce found itself sploshed handsomely into the mix…

Gently teasing the resultant goo between the balls, Tooty allowed this to simmer for an indeterminate amount of time. Then, when it looked as though the meal could not possibly be improved by leaving it over the heat for a moment longer, he removed it  and lay it gently upon a bed of pasta…

When I use the word ‘gently’, I mean that he didn’t drop it from a great height.  And just to prove that it really was Tooty the Chef who created this wondrous dollop of edibleness, here he is with his hat on…

He looks pleased, coz now he’s gonna eat it. Who wouldn’t? Well obviously people who despise pig-based cooking upon cultural or religious grounds, and vegans; both of  which Tooty aint. But otherwise…who?

 

 

Tooty the Chef Wallpaper: Colourfully Culinary

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Approaching the Frontier

This post has appeared previously upon a defunct blog.

Ice-World border guards are caught…er…off-guard by the sudden arrival of Clancy Hardnut as he passengers aboard a hover sled – driven by Wendy Earwacks, who is a female member of the enemy’s blue-hued civilisation. They can barely believe their eyes: fraternisation between the races is unheard of. From Cold War. Fascinating factoid: when this story first appeared on the Internet in 2016, a reader was most amused by the ‘hover sled’. He recognised it as being a part from a cannibalized steam iron. He made no mention of the upturned Nescafe Dolce Gusto coffee pods though.

Portrait of Nature: Perfect Winter Morning

Tooty and Total Vindication

When I bought this…

…during the Autumn of 2022, I must admit that I felt some doubt. Not so much about spending £7000 on a mere single-cylinder 450cc motorcycle; but more about how good it really was. I thought it was fabulous and punched waaaay above its weight. But what do I know? What do I have to compare it with? Okay a Yamaha XJR1300 – but that’s not a modern bike: it’s two decades old. And it’s a big lumbering monster with more power than I (in my mid-sixties) know what to do with. I really wondered if I had done the right thing. Should I have cast my net farther afield? Well this week Motorcycle News had a full spread test of the Fantic Caballero Scrambler, in which they compared it with a much larger single – the Mash 650. The result?

Well, to use a colloquial term, the Fantic pissed all over the Mash. Look – they gave it FIVE STARS. I don’t think I’ve ever seen  a magazine wax so lyrical about any bike. They absolutely loved it. Total vindication for Tooty. But I’m  glad I spent the extra on the Deluxe version: I really don’t like the standard bike’s yellow number board.