Bozmag #5

Bozmag #4

Bozmag #1

The Search for Slasher

Under instruction from Strawberry Aunty Stella's large and diverse family of cats split into small groups and fanned out across Surrey, sniffing under bushes, peering into windows and enquiring at fishmongers and dairies.   Ferdy made a daringly low level aerial survey of London in the vague hope of spotting the infamous signature grey homburg of McGoogs.   Boz had found YouTube footage of the Angel Alley address along with snippets showing someone very like Slasher McGoogs sharing a catnip spliff with pickets around a brazier outside the gates of St Katherine's Dock, ascending the steps between jet black monolithic guardians into the dread quarters of the omniscient Fluffy Media Corp, and sneaking round the back of Number Ten.   In the snug of the Town of Ramsgate, a trawlermen's riverside tavern in Wapping, Phoebles discovered that not only was the pub, originally the Red Cow, named after a particularly popular copper haired and deeply freckled barmaid from a time before juke boxes when executed pirates hung from gibbets above the London River mud, but that Slasher was to be seen regularly, in the company of les Chats Souterrains, disembarking from a Chris-Craft Cadet,  finished in richly varnished walnut, at the neighbouring Wapping Old Stairs, invariably after dark.   The trio of amateur sleuths was also repeatedly made aware that they were not alone in pursuing the spectral grey moggy.   Where-ever Boz and Phoebles went it seemed detectives or journalists had just left.

Montgomery  Manlove McGoogs died in the early hours of this morning in a random and bizarrely incongruous collision with a runaway milk float.

www.guardian.co.uk.   

Later in the day Radio 4 ran an obituary  for Slasher McGoogs.   It was brief and short on hard detail.   He had no traceable early life, arriving in the East End with a preformed reputation for dodgy dealing and a shadowy, ephemeral persona.

The KGB, it transpired, believed him to be a double agent who had been turned by British Intelligence.

MI5 reluctantly admitted to his indeed being a double agent, but suspected his allegiance to lie with the KGB.

The CIA thought he was a minor film actor with Mafia connections who had died of a drugs overdose in the late 1960’s.

Various East End Underworld snouts reported that he was definitely in the employ of Special Branch.

Whilst a police file, withheld despite the Freedom of Information Act, but obtained through Wikileaks, listed him as a criminal mastermind.


"And now he's dead."
"Hmm, very conveniently... with no witnesses to the accident and his body identified by two white cats with thick Occitan accents.   Perhaps we'll keep looking for a bit."
"But if the BBC..." Phoebles was by nature a little too trusting.
Phoebles, Boz and Ferdy met in the Town of Ramsgate to prepare for yet another nocturnal vigil, sipping milk-pale green fairies and surrounded by society’s jetsam.   At closing time they purchased a large bottle of ginger-beer, emerged onto the cobbled street and melted into the shadows.   Soon they were alone and as the night wore on the ever resourceful Ferdy took out his pack of sandwiches and thermos flask of Earl Grey.   There had been the gentle slap as tide mounted the worn stone stairs and, now, the splash and trickle of the waters receding.   The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon from the spice warehouses nearby, the sky was starless and overcast, there were distant rumbles of thunder.   With dawn approaching and the gloom around beginning to lift, a thin mist crept in from the river.   Twice during the night they had heard the gentle knock and creak of rowlocks, the drip of oars, but no-one had landed.

Phoebles knocked back the last of the ginger-beer. "Home then... again?"

Boz was just considering the possibility that he might have been wrong about Slasher's survival and wondering if this was the time to admit it to the others when a rope ladder landed in their midst.

"If you could pop up here for a moment, please, Mr Boz.   You will be able to rejoin your companions later."

They looked up and, hovering above them, saw a small, cigar shaped, bronze coloured airship; the canopy was banded with aluminium straps, it had a single broad-bladed propeller and a compact gondola from which dangled the precarious ladder.   In the open hatchway stood an impossibly tall, slender tortoise-shell in bottle green chauffeur's uniform.   She had huge dark eyes, possibly made up to enhance them even further.
"Please... It will be alright."
"I'll see you back at the pad." said Boz, beginning to climb.   Dangly pilot ladders are not the easiest things to negotiate for anyone but the most practiced of pilots and Boz didn't really do climbing.   However the dirigible had descended as low as it dare and eventually, somewhat puffed, he was allowing himself to be helped aboard by the torti chauffeur.    The cabin was fitted out in midnight blue velvet plush edged in gold cording, a large chandelier hung from the deck-head, a panel door with brass fittings led through to the bridge.
"Good morning, so at last I get to meet the famous Mr Boz."   A tabby cat wearing a red white and blue rosette sat in a deep tub chair holding a large brandy glass,   "I'm sorry, do sit down" he indicated towards a similar, but vacant seat.   "I am Larry from Number 10."
Boz sat.
"Barrymore, see to a drink for Mr Boz, would you."   The airship had ascended, turned west-nor'westward and was flying above the City.
"Is she driving AND waitressing?   Is that safe?"
"Let's not worry about Barrymore, very competent young lady.   Let's talk about you.   You're still looking for the recently deceased Mr McGoogs."   It was not a question and Larry did not seem to be expecting any form of answer.   "You appear to suspect that Mr McGoogs is some sort of secret force for good, with a plan.   He is not.   He is a despicable profiteer and we are better off with him dead."
Boz was feeling very uncomfortable.   The cabin was warm, he had not slept, the brandy gently burned in his stomach and this cat was terrifyingly confident.   "How do you know all this?   Did you have him killed?"
"People tell me things, Mr Boz.   And I don't kill... as a rule.
"We are on our way to make a hospital visit.   There's something I want you to see.   Do agree to come along."
They were crossing above the seeming random tangle of railway lines into Euston Station and soon began a descent into a tight courtyard outside the entrance to an apparently abandoned hospital.   Larry took Boz by the arm and led him into the building whilst Barrymore tethered the craft, above the entrance decorative brickwork spelled out 'London Temperance Hospital'.  The entrance hall was deserted, fallen plaster littered the marble floor, but along a corridor things began to bustle.   Nurses came out of doors striding efficiently in starched pinafores and black stockings, hurried past or plunged through other portals.   There was businesslike chatter.
Larry opened a door and encouraged Boz into a long Nightingale ward with two rows of identical, cream, iron beds.   On the edge of almost every bed sat, motionless, a cat in striped winsiette pyjamas; most stared vacantly beyond their inner space into the vacuum of eternity, some shook.   In the centre of one bed was a bulge under the bedclothes which twitched uncontrolably.   Another cat stood to attention at the bottom of his bed.   Larry ushered Boz towards him, but they were waylaid by a ward sister.   Boz could not take his eyes off her chest, where she had pinned a wonderful little upside down watch.
"Best leave him.  He will settle eventually."
Larry turned to Boz, "These are all here because of your Mr McGoogs.   All they needed to help them cope with the stresses of catlife was a little catnip at the right moment, something to layback the troubled soul, hush the cacophony.   And what did they get?   Krapola.   Honestly, that's what it sells as, Krapola Katnip, and it's rubbish.   It's force grown under artificial lights in vast sheds in Milton Keynes, it's thin and weedy with virtually no psychedelic properties, and it's not even cheap   He's flooded supermarkets and pet shop chains with the stuff and it affords no relief.   All these cats needed was a little break from reality and McGoogs denied it to them - for profit."
The nurse kissed Boz lightly on the forehead, "The monster is dead, and good riddance.   Go home and forget about him."

"A LITTERATE IRON

All Along An Algerian Alley…

Boisterous Blue Birds Bury Bulbs.

Cats Can Cry, '¡Caramba!' ‘Cos…

Dogs Do Dirty Deeds Down Drainpipes."

Ginsbergbear’s i-phone vibrated silently in his pocket.   He finished his recitation, but cut short the Question-and-Answer session.   Back in his bell tent he read the text message.

"Ferris wheel In half hour"

Interesting Times

Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk, probably a little too loud in the earphones of his i-pod - Googleberry was lying on his back on the lawn, legs akimbo, soaking up the rays.   An over excited Strawberry was urgently trying to get through above the pounding strains of Pink Floyd, "We've had a semaphore from Limehousesailortown.   Boz says there's a mood for revolution on the air."
"Googleberries don't do revolution.   Someone feed me a grape."   Someone did.   It tasted unexpectedly fruity and he spat it out.   "Perhaps a fishy-snack-treat would be better... and a glass of sherbet."


Something came between Googleberry and the sun, its shadow growing as it descended.   Gently a shiny new, royal blue Cierva C.19 with a white saltire painted on its tail landed on the grass a safe distance from the sunbathing cats.   It's engine coughed into silence and down clambered a slightly tubby, snub winged bird in leather flying jacket and helmet, goggles, short legged jodphurs and tight fitting lace-up boots.   The autogyro was a gift from the grateful Scottish people and Ferdy wanted to show it off.
"You two coming to the big festival in Hyde Park?   I can squeeze you both into the front seat."
"Norralf!" cried Strawberry, sensing another adventure, "How about you, Googleberry?"
"Too much effort, old man." replied the recumbent feline, "Just leave the cool-bag of ginger beer within my reach, and bring me back an ice-cream."
Strawberry was already scrabbling into the passenger seat as Ferdy kicked the engine into life.   Pulling his goggles down, he engaged the clutch to start the rotor turning.   Opening the throttle and accompanied by a satisfactory roar from the single Armstrong Siddeley Genet Major radial engine they bounced briefly across the lawn and were airborne. Ferdy piloted the little craft high above the M3 into West London and then headed for the patch of green that was Hyde Park.   They dropped down into the gyro park close by the Serpentine.   The festival was vast, a riot of colour and incredibly noisy.   It had been organised by the government to arouse a patriotic fervour in the population at a time of uncertainty and no little hardship.   The newspapers were full of praise for the enterprise; on the television and radio, programme after programme covered the events; and the weather had, so far, been perfect.   There was a steam fairground with flashing lights, competing music from wheezing mechanical organs and squealing teenagers.   A central arena hosted displays by motorcycle teams, police dogs and, currently, stiff, black uniformed soldiers mounting horse drawn field-gun carriages that wove and scissored with thundering hooves and clanking harness to yet more music.   At a safe distance there were ornithopter rides and balloon rides, once round the park for five guineas.   A military marching band in white pith helmets played... marches, in front of a stage from which, periodically, politicians, dignitaries and popular celebrities gave rousing speeches.   Almost everyone in the crowd had a small union flag on a stick which they waved whenever it seemed appropriate.   In fact the national flag was to be seen everywhere, across the stage, flying over marquees and stalls, painted, it seemed, on every flat surface.   Even the hot dog sellers, attracted to this event from all over the European Union, flew union flags above their stands.


Strawberry made a bee-line for the fair, closely followed by Ferdinand.   The Whees, Aahs and Oohs grew in intensity until they swamped the senses and somewhere a steam calliope squeaked out a confused rendition of Jerusalem.   The duo rushed past the big wheel, which was not all that big - a small wheel in fact - and past two garish, guilded carousels with freshly painted and fierce eyed gallopers, past the Wall of Death to the new and experimental steam dodgems - only to find they had been shut down indefinitely since a boiler explosion on one of the cars had led to injury and the threat of litigation.   Ferdy was crestfallen, but Strawberry spotted a Helter-Skelter towering in red and white candy stripes beyond a gently idling showman engine.   Clutching a mat he dashed up the inside and whizzed down the outside, and then he did it again, then went again, and went again, and again, and again, and again...   As he landed at the bottom of the slide, slithering and tumbling for the umpteenth time Ferdy snatched the mat from him.
"Enough!"
"There's the Shamrock, lets go on the Shamrock."   Strawberry pointed towards the Steam Yachts, the ultimate adrenaline ride.   It was rumoured that a steam yacht had killed, more than once, towards the end of the nineteenth century. 
"Lets find Ginsbergbear, he is giving a poetry reading at one of the fringe events."   But on their way they saw that the prime minister was making a speech and stayed to hear it.  It was bland.
"Look," Ferdy nudged Strawberry. "now that's interesting."
Behind the speaker, unobtrusive, yet seated where he would miss nothing, was The Media Oligarch, infamous subject of one of Slasher McGoogs' more colourful broadsides.   He had, in his youth, been the white persian cat playing alongside Donald Pleasence in You Only Live Twice and his real name was rumoured to be Mr Fluffy.   He did not notice the pair (Why would he?), but his chilling, cold eyed smile set the fur and feathers bristling along their spines.


To the east, out beyond the city, a very different form of gathering was taking place.   And this had been the subject of Bozzy's now forgotten warning. 

Phoebles' Story

Right...   Well...   First off it's PHOEBUS, not Phoebles.   BUS as in red, two storeys, not BULLS as in horns and poo!
So, this thaw thing was really inconvenient 'cos we gorra sledge anna Brockhousecorgisnowmobile thingy an' down in the valleys was all slushy snow and melting ice an' the skid things dunna work proper.   An' we wuz forced up onto the ridgeways wot woz nice cuz we could see all about and where we woz goin', burrit woz a bit windy.   An' the streams woz all swollen an' surging with melt water an' some of the bridges had got swept away so we had to go a long way round.   Anyway it woz fun sittin' up on top of the sledge an' luggage and everything an' real excitin' 'cos we was doin' a real rescue.
Anyway, somewhere north of Edinbugh Ginsbergbear's i-Phone GPS stopped working 'cos it was broke, burrit dinnermarrer 'cos Boris still had his Dan Dare compass an' that told the way... somehow.   But Boris said we wuz running out of fuel 'cos of the Brockhousecorgisnowmobile having to work so hard an' that woz a real problem.
So, there we woz, pootling along on top of some hill, tryin' not to run out of fuel an' a bit worried, but not a lot.   An' Boris woz concentratin'  very hard 'cos he said we woz runnin' outta snow an'all an' would haffta do summat about it soon an' Ginsbergbear woz huddled up in a rug, wiyya hotwaterbottle, readin' Moby Dick 'cos he are nesh, burreye has got very woolly warm fur wot is impervious to the cold and wet and I woz lookin' around and enjoying everything and I sees it.
Down below us woz a road and on the road woz a van wot wern't movin' an I jumps up an' down an is shouting 'cos Boris canna hear above the chuggin' of the engine an' he says,
"What's up?"
An' I says,
"Look there's a van an' it might have some wheels an' we could make the sledge an' stuff work wiyout snow."
So we stops and discusses the practicalities of my idea an' Boris and Ginsbergbear aren't very optimistic an' Strawberry wanna joinin' in 'cos he were being ockard.   An' then Boris says that the van looks a bit like the Vicecream van an' there are people millin' about down there.   So we go for a closer look.
An' guess wot.   When we get closer we can see Aunty Stella, in a boilersuit anna leather jerkin like a lorry driver an' one of the van's wheels is off 'cos it has a flat tyre an' Aunty Stella is rolling a new wheel up.   An' Ferdinand is there too, workin' the jack, only he is a bit little an' the jack is very big.   Still he doin' all right.
An' we run down the hill shouting,
"Aunty Stella, Ferdy, Aunty Stella, Ferdy Aunty, Stella!"
An' they look up an' they shoutin' too.
An' we get to them and stop, an Aunty Stella wipes her swarfy hands on her overalls before she hugs us all.
Then Ferdinand tells us all about crashin' an' polar bears an' wullufses, in an excited sort of way.   An' we tell them about losing my atlas wot woz old and dogeared, an' about losing Bert who were old and dogeared too, but we woz sad.   An' we all says,
"Ah, well..." an' all mucks in fixing the van.

So anyway, when the van's mended Aunty Stella says,
"Stow your gear in the back." an' there will be plenty of room for all of us too 'cos she has had a clear out.   An Strawberry jumps in the cab wiy Aunty Stella and Ferdinand an' we all climbin' in the back 'an WE ARE OFF!
An' we are all singin' Ten Green Bottles.

Phoebus,

Extraspecial Ginger Cat,

Somewhere in Scotland.

Wolves in the Woods

Ferdinand trudged on.   It was a clear, cold day and he felt almost joyful as he strode into a pretty, mixed deciduous wood.   A gentle breeze blew showers of fine snow off the branches above him, his foot falls crunched crisply, and small creatures dashed from tree to tree leaving tiny footprints in the snow.   Birds were twittering in the thin canopy and despite being footsore and running low on supplies Ferdy joined in, humming a selection from Vera Lynne's greatest hits.
On trudged and hummed Ferdinand.   Almost imperceptibly the woodland turned foresty, the chill north wind backed sou'westerly and turned milder.   A thin mist began to form and an occasional drop of water fell from arching branches.   The sky darkened.
Past the road, into the woods, shadows were intensifying, undergrowth thickening.   It really was getting quite dark and a little spooky.   The diminutive woodland creatures had all fallen silent, but out there something padded.   There were rustles and snorts and heavy breathing.
Ferns twitched and Ferdy thought he could see dark shapes keeping pace with him, slinky, lopey, probably howly sorts of shapes.   And they were all around him.
In the deepening darkness there were yelps and snarls.   Ferdy searched his knapsack and produced a small, but brilliant flash-light which he panned about the forest edge.   Emotionless, golden eyes lit up and although not visible he was sure there were fangs and dripping jowls too.
The things closed in on him.   Ferdy flashed the torch, which only seemed to make them playful.   He shouted, which they ignored.   He threw a stick and for a moment it looked as if one of the fiends would run after it, but it's companions glared it into shame.   Ferdy needed a really good plan, quickly - but nothing practical came to mind.   The whole situation was becoming extremely unsettling, when...

Was that distant music?
The encroaching creatures heard it too.   It was growing louder, stirring, Wagnerian.   The pack backed away.   Ferdy recognised The Ride of the Valkyries, not orchestral, more jingly, but deafening.   By the time two lemony beams of light flashed over a rise the thumping waves of sound were blasting the forest.   Terrified golden eyes peeped from behind the trees.   The source of the onslaught, a black van, careered along the road, slewing from side to side, horn blazing, two flashing ice-cream cones glowing eerily above the cab.   It skidded to a halt some yards from Ferdy, the door flew open and out scrambleded a Hollywood fantasy, Russian countess.
"Aunty Stella!" exclaimed the terrified bird.
The tall, slender creature stood before him, clad as last time he'd seen her, in greatcoat, piped and brass buttoned, tall boots of black leather. still the tall Astrakhan hat, but the muff was gone.   Over one shoulder was slung a cartridge belt and she carried a Browning B78, falling block, 45-70 hunting rifle, which she fired, once, into the air.   The wolves departed.
"Oh... Aunty Stella!"
Ferdy rushed at her and they stood hugging for a longtime.
"I think I might be able to rustle up some ginger biscuits, do you fancy a fortifying snack?"
"I've had rather a lot of ginger biscuits just lately," replied Ferdy, hoping he did not sound ungrateful.   "You don't have a bag of millet around do you?"

In the back of the van they partied well into the night.   There were finger snacks and tiny triangular sandwiches and a variety of sweet meats deep fried in beer batter which Aunty Stella insisted was a Scottish delicacy.   There was pop in abundance, liberated from the Strathbogie supplies  and "The Shadows Live at Doncaster Coliseum" on the Vicecream van sound system.
Next morning they had a barbecued full english, assessed their situation and surveyed the local geography.   The first signs of a thaw were now unmissable.
The Vicecream van was looking much more serviceable than when it left The Land of Green Ginger.   It now had heavy duty tyres, the more trivial pieces of baggage were missing from the roof rack, abandoned along with their owners to the music halls of Northumbria, and replaced by jerry-cans of diesel and two spare wheels, strategically placed brackets held towrope, snow-shovel, flares.   The ice-cream maker had been removed and stored in a barn somewhere north of Berwick-upon-Tweed, making room for supplies, a small primus stove and an Elsan Visa model 268.   Ready for anything.
"Last leg.   Lets get this rescue wrapped up." proposed Aunty Stella.

Death on the Ice

Ferdinand Desai was making good time.   He had crossed the coast some time ago, somewhat north of Craster by his reconing.   He could make out Banborough Castle rising above the snow, way off to starboard.   The air was still, and a watery sun gently illuminated the chill landscape below.   Things were going to plan, and for Ferdy that was near perfection.

...And (as always) this blissful state was not to last.   Apparently without warning, he was in thick and freezing fog.   His windshield froze, the fuselage sparkled, his goggles misted over and his beak tingled with the sudden chill.   He tried to coax his craft upwards above the fog, but the build up of ice was making her heavy.   The engine began to splutter, parts were binding and the fuel turning to mush - the prop ceased to turn.   Slowly the autogyro began it's gentle descent, buoyed by the free running rotor.   Then there was a screech of locked and tortured metal, frozen rotor bearings.   The descent turned into a plummet.

There was a jarring thud, some pings and boings, a pop and a small puther.   Ferdy found himself sitting at the centre of a snow crater surrounded to a distance of ten feet or so in every direction by disassembled and slightly bent aeronautical parts.

Having checked that all HIS bits were in place and full working order, he packed a stash of ginger biscuits into a knapsack and removed the compass from its gimballed mount.   He would continue with Plan A (no-one had appraised him of a Plan B) and follow a line towards Edinburgh.   It would just take a little longer without his airborne transport.   Adjusting his goggles firmly he trudged blindly into the total white-out.

Trudging can be tiring and flying boots are not the best hiking footwear.   After what seemed an age Ferdy halted and partook of two well earned ginger biscuits.   It was whilst resting thus that he noticed a small, indistinct black blob out in the whiteness that enveloped him.   As he watched it grew larger, and blacker, and really large, and distinct, and nose shaped.   It stopped, hovering some way above him, in close formation with a pair of coldly intense eyes.   A large mouth also appeared, and spoke.

"And what exactly are you?"

Peering hard, Ferdy thought he could make out the outline of a massive white bear.

"I am Ferdinand Desai, dodo... on an important rescue mission.   Can I assist you in any way?" he added, politely.

"Not just now," replied the polar bear, "I have already eaten, and at the moment a duck is out of the question."

Tentatively Ferdinand explained his situation, without much hope for a happy solution.   The bear however was feeling untypically sympathetic.

"I could give you a lift as far as the Great North Road.   I probably won't get hungry before then and you might be able to cadge a lift from there."   Not waiting for a reply the great bear scruffed Ferdy by the collar of his flying jacket and set off at a speedy lope.   Dangling, limp limbed from the jaws of a polar bear the dodo did not feel dignified, or comfortable, or particularly safe.   He had just about got used to the gentle swinging when they approached the tops of a bus-stop sign and a row of telegraph poles, peeking above the snow.   The bear dropped him at the bus-stop.

"I can't see an omnibus coming any time soon, but you may be able to hitch a lift on a passing snow-plough.   I'm afraid I'm getting peckish and you are starting to look tasty so I'd best go find a MacDonald's, or a baby seal or summat." ...and without looking back he loped off across the icy wasteland.

Ferdinand sat for a while, then rose and resumed his trudge, 

Meanwhile...

Progress across the sea-ice had been slow for the snowmobiles.   They had picked their way though the jumbled blocks and jagged teeth of ice, forced upwards by the pressure of the surrounding shelf, thawed, weathered, and refrozen, time after time.   They had manhandled the machines over blockages, experienced moments of terror, hours of tedium punctuated intermittently and increasingly annoyingly by, "Take the next turn left." from Ginsbergbear's i-phone.

And, "Recalculating." when they didn't.  

"It will work better when we are on land." announced Ginsbergbear, without undue concern.

Travelling some way into the mouth of a wide, frozen river they eventually found a steep and tortuous route up onto the snow plateau that covered the land.   They sat on their machines astonished.   As far as they could see the snow spread before them, flat and featureless but for the occasional spire, pylon or rocky outcrop pushing above the carpet of snow and ice.   They should make good time over this terrain.

Boz eased the throttle open on his snowmobile and moved off.   From behind there was a, "Waheee!" and Strawberry wheelied his Corgi into a madcap dash, overtook Bozzy's combo and accelerating ahead, disappeared.

"Did you see that?" shouted Phoebles.

Boz stopped, drove slowly forwards and stopped again.   The trio dismounted and walked cautiously towards the black hole that marked the spot where Strawberry and Bert Wold had last been seen.   They peered over the edge.

Someway down the upturned Brockhouse Corgi was jammed between the walls of a seemingly bottomless crevasse.   A large orange fur coat lay spread-eagled across the machine and from beneath the collar a pair of wide eyes, black with terror, peered back at them.

"He's gone." a thin voice quivered, "It just kept falling, the sledge, supplies, Ber...    The atlas has gone, everything's gone... and I don't feel very safe."

"Hang on!" shouted Phoebles.

"That's what I've been doing."

"We need a volunteer to go down to him." said Boz.   He and Phoebles glared at Ginsbergbear.   Ginsbergbear glared back.

"Me... do I look like a volunteer?"

"You must be the lightest - your stuffed with horsehair.   And the vet says me and Boz are erring on the pudgy side." explained Phoebles.   "No time to waste, I'll find a rope."   He produced a stout length of manila from the back of the sledge and a bowline was tied around the bear's middle.   The other end was secured by a round turn and two half hitches to the frame of the skidoo, a means of attachment highly recommended in Phoebles' well thumbed copy of A Boy's Bumper Book of Knots.   

"Prepare to be lowered."  Boz mounted the quietly idling Corgi and as Ginsbergbear hesitated on the edge of the chasm Phoebles gave him a gentle shove.

It was as close to abseiling as dangling at the end of a rope with all limbs thrashing wildly can be.

When he alighted on the upturned machine, close to Strawberry, there was a scraping noise and several chunks of ice detached from the crevasse walls.

"Don't hang about.   Tie the rope round the two of you and wave when your ready."

On Ginsbergbear's signal Phoebles shouted, "Go!" to Boz and the Brockhouse Corgi began to inch forwards.

By the time the pair eventually popped over the edge of the hole and flopped onto terra firma it was hard to judge who was the most traumatised.   Hot, sweet tea was quickly brewed up and Strawberry wrapped in spare blankets and woollens.   He was worryingly subdued.

"I'd quite like to get away from here as quickly as possible." he shivered.

"OK, well press on till dusk before we make camp." declared Boz, "Shame about Bert... and the atlas.   Still, that's life."

They re-stowed the gear on the sledge, mounted their one remaining rig and set off once more, somewhat cautiously.

Next morning Boz put his head out of the tent and noticed something dark protruding from the drifts out to the west of their bivouac.   After a breakfast of sardines on toast they steered towards it.   An hour or so later, as they drew close to the object they could see that it was the tilted bust of a gigantic metal man with something like the wing of an aircraft projecting from its shoulder.

"At the next roundabout, take the third exit." barked the GPS.

Ginsbergbear studied the little map on his i-Phone screen, "I think it wants us to follow the Great North Road."

"And where exactly is that?" asked Phoebles.

"Somewhere below us." suggested Boz, turning the skidoo northwards.

Base Camp

                                                                                                                    

The Ancaster's bow was held on the engine, against the edge of the ice whilst Boz and his companions disembarked.   They were joined by a small group of burly matelots with sledge hammers and spikes who quickly made the coleyfishtrawler fast.  A relatively flat area of ice-shelf was selected for the camp and the tents pitched.   The supplies were unloaded and three large wooden crates winched safely from the deck.   As the sailors set up a fuel dump and established radio contact with ship and HQ back in Limehousesailortown the Lord Ancaster slipped away from the edge of the ice and turned South.   The party watched her grow small and disappear below the horizon - a last puff of white smoke against the turquoise sky, reflected in the glass like sea.
"No time to get comfy." said Boz, grabbing a claw hammer and setting about one of the crates.    Strawberry and Bert Wold took up jemmies and attacked a second.   After some frantic action the group found themselves admiring two steam powered Brockhouse Corgi snowmobiles with sledge trailers, surrounded by potentially useful firewood.   Meanwhile Ferdy and Ginsbergbear had been delicately unscrewing the top and side panels of the third crate to reveal an Avro 620 autogyro in magnificent fire-engine red.   Strawberry emerged from one of the bell-tents with his atlas and a plan of action which he was desperate to convey to the others.      

Boz and Phoebles joined Strawberry in a huddled conference while a man-mountain of a Petty Officer rolled towards Ferdy carrying a drum of aviation fuel on his shoulder and holding a hand pump in his free hand - the autogyro would soon be ready for the off.   However, even with the best efforts of the naval detail the construction of an airstrip took most of the day.   By dusk it was completed, straight and flat, with an orange wind sock to the side at each end.   Ginsbergbear was relaxing in a campaign chair outside his tent, drawing on a catnip filled Peterson bulldog briar as Ferdy approached the others, still engaged in animated planning.   He winked and jabbed the mouth piece in their direction.

Eventually, late, by the guttering light of several Tilley lamps a consensus emerged and it was possible to retire.   The matelots, lubricated with Pusser's Rum and worn out by their vigorous postprandial horn-piping had long since fallen silent.

At first light Boz was up, clip board in hand, dishing out orders.

"Ferdy, you will take off as soon as you are ready.   Follow a bearing for Edinburgh and when you're over the castle turn due north.

"Bert, you go with Strawberry in the second skidoo.   Strawberry, if you insist on driving you must lend Bert your atlas so he can navigate, but don't go off on your own, follow us.

"Phoebles, Ginsbergbear and I will lead 'cos we have the compass."   He proudly produced his prized Dan Dare Club Junior Space Cadet's compass in its red and yellow plastic case.   "We must get off the sea-ice as soon as possible.   North Shields should be pretty well due west from here.   Once we are on shore we will make straight for Strathbogie."

He strolled over to a tent at the base of the tall radio mast which the sailors insisted on calling the Shack and addressed the Wireless Operator.   "When we are close to our destination we will ring Wick Radio on Ginsbergbear's i-Phone, so listen out to them."   Finally he conveyed their plans to the CPO whose party was detailed to maintain the base.

It would be a while yet before the skidoos had steam up so the adventurers lined the runway to wave Ferdinand off.   He emerged from his tent in flying helmet and goggles, sheepskin flying jacket and boots.   He gave them a casual wave as he scrambled into the rear cockpit and could be seen adjusting the heading on the gimballed compass.   The forward cockpit was stuffed with supplies.   One of the ordinary seamen spun the propeller and the Armstrong Siddeley Genet Major five-cylinder, air-cooled, radial engine sputtered into life.   The craft gathered speed down the runway, the rotor blades began to turn and she lifted skywards.   Ferdy circled the camp once and then receded towards the NNW.   Phoebles found he was still waving as the tiny red dot disappeared.

Turning now to the duties of the overland party, Strawberry mounted one of the snowmobiles with Bert Wold perched on top of the sledge's cargo, wielding the atlas.   Boris took the second vehicle with Phoebles behind him on the sledge.   Ginsbergbear made himself comfortable amongst the luggage and called up the GPS app on his i-Phone.   With the exception of Strawberry in his orange furs they were distinguishable, in identical reindeer parkas, only by their head gear.   Boz wore his Red October black fur hat with Soviet Navy cap badge, Phoebles a khaki budionovka pixie hat with large red star, Bert his best Keir Hardy flat cap and Ginsbergbear a rainbow Peruvian woolly bobble hat.   With a twist of the throttles, a wave to the Naval detail, in a cloud of steam, they were on their way.

The Brockhouse Corgis whispered chuffs, belched thick, oily smoke, the ice beneath the runners shushed and scraped.

SEA ICE

Sea ice is not still

It heaves and surges

Throws up pinnacles

And towers

Cliff walls of dragons' teeth

Tilted slabs

It pulls apart into valleys

And canyons

Sea ice is not silent

It moans and groans

Cracks and snaps

Pops and bangs

Booms and boings

Sea ice is not empty

It is littered with sea-junk

With barrels and spars

Bottles and jars

Buckets and spades

Like the belly of the tagareen man's

dinghy

Ginsbergbear, beat poet

North Sea

2011.

Barely had the skidoos disappeared over the horizon than a charabanc loaded with architects arrived at the camp.   Within weeks the shanty-settlement was extended to include a tavern, barber's shop and a mall complete with MacDonald's and multi-story car park.   Shortly after completion a flow encompassing the entire settlement detached from the pack-ice and drifted off in the direction of Belgium.   

Lord Ancaster

The thin dawn light barely penetrated within the fish dock.   A low grey sky hung over lower, greyer buildings.   The quayside was stone cobbles, steel rails, iron bollards, hawsers of wire, hemp, grubby orange or green poly...
(Poly-propylene not polly parrot and with certainty nothing to do with the orange and green, and blue and yellow, macaw mariachi band that had so led Phoebles astray the previous evening.)
...And above all else, bludgeoning every other sensation into submission, the all pervading smell of fish meal.
A small, rusty, steam driven crane clanked and hissed as its arm swung the last of the provisions aboard the hundred and fifty foot of sturdy, workmanlike vessel tied up before them.   The Lord Ancaster was an Arctic Coleyfishtrawler and Coldwar Spyship of a type known to trawlermen as a sidewinder, the most seaworthy craft ever built.   She had a low grey hull with high bow and whaleback foc'sle.   The superstructure aft was painted in excremental yellows and fawns and grained in imitation of pine planking.   Her funnel was canary yellow with a red and black flag painted on each side.
Consuella and Snowdrop had come to see them off.   Steam was already up and the tide on the turn.   Good-byes were said and a few hugs exchanged, Bert Wold handed over a letter for his family, to be posted in the event...   Boris and Phoebles, Ginsbergbear, Strawberry, Ferdinand and Bert were no sooner aboard than the gang-plank was pulled in and lines cast off.   Everyone waved.
"Lovely she goes." intoned the helmsman.
They left port in the traditional manner, midway between the lock sides and at speed, to prevent any of the crew jumping ship at the last minute.   Then they turned down the thick brown river towards the open sea.
The skipper was Harold Entwhistle, roundish and shortish.   The Entwhistles had been trawler skippers for as long as there had been cod in the sea.   His shirt sleeves rolled up, he wore a knitted waistcoat, moleskin trousers, carpet slippers and a cloth cap.   "We will take you to the edge of the pack-ice and then you are on your own.  If we hear nothing from you we'll come back in the spring to look for your bones."
The crew stood about eyeing the landlubbers.   To a man they wore sou'westers, thigh-boots and rubber frocks, "Bit Malcolm McClaren." quipped Ginsbergbear, but it would be a rare fetishist found this bunch alluring.   The cabin-boy, barely visible under his oilskins, was clipped round the ear and told to show the party to the saloon and furnish them with tea.
The saloon was below deck and trapezoidal in plan, its shape governed by that of the ships stern, which it occupied.   For the most part the space was taken up with a matchingly trapezoidal table, there was fixed seating around the panelled sides and above and behind the seating were cupboards which were the bunks for our party.   Each had a little bookshelf and lamp and induced a surprising, womblike sense of security in its occupant.   At mealtimes the table was criss-crossed by deep fiddles and twisted tea-towels were used to jam the pots and pans in place.   Whilst still in the river such precautions seemed excessive, but they were soon to learn that there is little that a trawlerman does without reason.
As she left the river the Ancaster met the North Sea swell.   She settled her stern down into the troughs like an old pipe smoker relaxing into his favourite, well cushioned armchair.   She rolled with an easy motion.   She trailed seagulls.   Here on the midnight-grey waters beneath a gun-metal sky, she was at home.

For twelve hours all but Ginsbergbear were seasick.   He swore by the preventative properties of his Black Alamout Catnip Shag which he packed into a cracked and burn-scarred churchwarden, but the foul fug did little for his comrades.   Ginger biscuits were consumed in vast number - and alleviated the worst of the nausea.   Bert Wold retired to his bunk with a bucket and was not seen to move in two days.   Once the miseries of mal de mer were behind them (for most it goes off as suddenly as it comes on) our heros began to savour the seagoing experience.   Ginsbergbear had found a sheltered spot between the funnel and lifeboat where he was well into a second hand hardback of Moby Dick.   Phoebles had discovered that the galley was warm and the cook often appreciated his culinary advice.   There was a great deal of fish on the menu.   For Ferdy it was the bridge, where he had befriended the Third Hand, one Bill Tate, who had a Yorkshire tan that stopped at neck and wrist and who had sailed the Arctic from Greenland to the White Sea, Norway to Bear Island, Svalbard, and beyond.   Bill imparted some of his knowledge of helmsmanship and navigation and at night they watched the shimmering green veils of the northern lights playing above them.   Boz liked the deck best, the salty sea smells, the waves rushing by, the dolphins and terns and gulls.   He wished they were in warmer oceans with the flying fish of which he'd read, he'd always wanted to see flying fish.   Flying coleyfish would be nice, he mused.   Strawberry had taken to playing cards with the crew in the foetid foc'sle where he discussed politics and engendered a degree of unrest.   Bert had still not arisen from his bunk.
On the third day they began to encounter growlers and bergy bits, manageable chunks of floating ice.   On their fourth morning they woke to find the whole ship encrusted in sparkling, sugary ice and on the horizon, northwards, a glaring thin white line.
"We are there.   That is the ice-pack." announced the skipper.

Land of Green Ginger

I am watching the snow swirling beyond the bay windows that form our stern.   Snowflakes prance and tumble, fairylike, in our wake, sparkle in the reflecting light of the saloon.   There is an icy chill as the door opens and Strawberry comes in from his constitutional along the outside walkway.   He is swathed in a vast orange fur coat and matching hat, with earflaps.   Snow sprinkles his head and shoulders and an icicle moustache covers his upper lip.   We exchange friendly banter regarding the temperature and non-ferrous spheroids before I mount the cast iron spiral staircase into the hull.   It is warm up here, and vast.   The burners roar intermittently and steam valves hiss, there is the gentle whir of pistons and cranks.   Having confirmed, to my satisfaction, that all is well I look out of one of the portholes.   We are following the course of a noble river, black and sinuous against the snow clad landscape.   The lights of our destination reflect on the underside of low ice-laden cloud.
I descend to the wheelhouse where Ferdy confidently controls the helm and elevator wheels, Ginsbergbear and Phoebles bend over the chart table.   Soon we are drifting over a labyrinth of alleys, passages and yards.   Dark warehouses loom over the narrow streets, in every gap and cellar snuggle picturesquely disheveled catnip dens, music halls and brothels.   Infrequent street lamps cast a warm yet eerie glow into the general gloom.   Slowing and descending we drift over the Fish Dock, mooring lines are cast down to the waiting stevedores, and without a word of command we are made fast close by an Arctic Coleyfishtrawler.   A gangplank is run out and we emerge onto the quayside.
Almost immediately a svelte white and black cat appears, Snowdrop the acclaimed unicyclist.   She is to be our guide.   A handcart is commandeered to carry our luggage and we set off, somewhat erratically in Snowdrop's case as unicycles are not ideally adapted to icy conditions, through the dock gates and into the maze that is the Land of Green Ginger.   Strawberry and Phoebles are already fighting over who will pull the handcart.
"Why don't you take a handle each?" suggests Aunty Stella helpfully.   But now Strawberry has punched Phoebles on the nose and they are both sulking.
The lanes teem with life.   Black and white ships' cats wander in and out of passageways, up and down alleys, sit on dustbins.   Their fellow sailors roll along as if still on the ocean, Russians and Norwegians, scrubbed-pink Dutchmen, lascars and chinese.    A whaler pushes by covered in tattoos and carrying his harpoon.   Beneath each cast-iron and fluted street-corner lamp, bathed in it's weak, jaundiced light, loiter ladies of the night and pleasure kittens.   Eyeing them from across cobbled, slop drenched cart-ways, groups of trawlermen in their shore suits of powder blue or mauve, flared trousers with turn-ups, drape jackets with velvet cuffs and half-moon pockets.   A handful of corsairs with hooped ear-rings and bandanas lurch across our path from out of the doorway of a noisy ale house.
Bumped and banged, pushed and shoved, down this passage, under this arch, across this yard, barely keeping the wildly cycling Snowdrop in sight, our party proceeds until we are outside a ramshackle old grey-brick building.   "Cirque des Absurdités" proclaims a sign and outside is parked a strange ice-cream van, its roof-rack piled high with hampers, jerry-cans, stone pop jars, cardboard suitcases and hat boxes all held in place under a cargo net.
We are met at the door by Consuella Starcluster, the famous tambourine virtuoso.
"Welcome to our absurdist vaudeville, catnip den and palace of pleasure.   Girls, feed 'em and pamper 'em.   Anyone want a litter tray?
We are confronted inside by a large baroque space, cast iron tables with marble tops, a serving hatch through to the bar and a small proscenium arched stage with faded redy, pinky, browny sort of velvety curtains.
Around the half panelled walls are leatherette covered benches.   Now seated at the tables and waited on somewhat inconsistently by the kittens we are fed and watered.   Replete and becoming drowsy in the comfortable warmth, after a long and adventurous day, we are joined by Consuella Starcluster who distributes hubble-bubbles charged with a catnip and invigorating herbal mixture.
"We'll get you all tucked up soon." she croons in a deep toned and thickly hispanic accent, "But first we must go over the plan.   The Vicecream van is all but ready for the landward assault and will depart after breakfast.   Your (she addresses Boz) crates are loaded aboard the Coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster, but it will be three tides before she is readied for sea and a full crew is not yet found.   I would suggest that on such a dangerous mission you will need someone expendable and have instructed our ageing pot-boy, Bert Wold, to settle his affairs and make ready to accompany you to sea."
It is decided that Aunty Stella, being an accomplished cat wrangler, should lead the overland rescue in the Vicecream van with the Kittens of Chaos.   Consuella kits her out in an elegant fitted great coat of sage green with brass buttons that perfectly complements her magenta hair, and she is accessorized in thigh length black boots with four inch heals, Astrakhan hat and a fur muff that looks like Blofeld's cat.   For the rest of us there are winter weight Russian telnyashkas, itchy red woollen long-johns, faux-fur lined parkas and stout Doc Martin boots.
Phoebles expresses concern regarding his untried sea-legs and is assured that there will be a more than adequate supply of ginger biscuits, at which news Ferdinand brightens no-end.
All foreseeable eventualities covered it is time for a well earned rest and we proceed upstairs to our assigned and comfortable sleeping cubicles.

The Blue Chevy

The cabin interior was done out in a rather stern Teutonic Art Deco.   Ginsbergbear lounged in a chrome and leather chair, having returned to his taking of notes.   He jotted down snippets of conversation, descriptions of his surroundings and a few plot ideas.   The walls were painted in browns and creams to represent marquetry panelling.   There was an exclusive looking geometrically patterned rug on the floor with Phoebles kneeling on it.   He was trying to remove the catnip ash and disguise a small burn hole.
Up in the cockpit Boz was tapping several dials quite vigorously and looking concerned.   A significant number of engines had abandoned their purrrrrh and taken up variations on Clunk-clatter, chug-chug-cough-ch..., and phwwww.  One engine pair wailed, "scrscheeeough-plack!" followed it with a ping and then fell silent.
"I think we are going to land." said Ferdy, from the pilot's bucket chair.
"Where?   No, don't.   We can't!"   Boz was having some difficulty maintaining his calm exterior.
"No longer my decision, old comrade.   The bird is to become a boat... or an amorphous mass of twisted metal and squishy heroes if the ground down there is as hard as it looks."
The vault above with its carpet of stars and ribbon of Milky Way was as eternal as ever, but the landscape below was getting closer.   Black trees reached up towards them from the dark earth.   The forest grew aggressively close... then turned to sandy scrub... then a patch of obsidian blackness, peppered with stars - the sky again, below them.   A playful zephyr rippled cats' paws that made the stars dance and then break up as the Dornier touched down on the surface of a small lake at a considerably steeper angle than recommended in the flying manuals.   She dug in.   A bow wave curled back and drenched the cockpit windsceens, spray obscured everything outside, rhinestone teardrops plumed from prop blades or dribbled down the skin of leviathan.   Waggling flaps and throwing those engines which still functioned into reverse Ferdinand and Boris brought the craft under control.   It slowed, bobbed and eased its bow up a gently shelving beach at the far end of the pond.   Phoebus and Ginsbergbear appeared in the doorway.
"Did we miss something?"
Trousers rolled up and boots in hand the heroes disembarked and as they reached the strand yellowing twin headlamps flashed three times from the woodedge, a signal.
The transport awaiting them was an ageing Chevy pick-up with Strawberry at the wheel.   Boz and Phoebles piled into the cab whilst Ferdinand and Ginsbergbear scrambled over the tailgate and settled down amongst the sacks and boxes in the back.   It is possible that having three ginger cats in the driving cab of a blue Chevrolet truck is not ideal.   As they pulled away Boris decided to take command though he had no idea where they were.   Phoebles had a map that Ginsbergbear had lent him and elected to be navigator.   The map however covered the entire world in indifferent detail and was in a foreign language.   Strawberry had the wheel and managed to retain it despite a great deal of pushing and shoving and squabbling.   As they careered through the winding lanes with headlamps picking out fleeting detail in the gloom Ginsbergbear rang ahead on his shiny new i-Phone.   He and Ferdy sat braced with their backs to the cab from which came shrieks and thumps  and Rossini on a blaring car-radio.
After a hair raising half hour the truck pulled up outside Aunty Stella's house and Strawberry papped the horn.   Ginsbergbear banged on the roof of the cab to attract the attention of those within.   He shouted through the window, "I have rung the aerodrome.   They will have the Princess Aethelfleda fired up and ready for us."
Aunty Stella emerged, resplendent in pith helmet and tweeds and carrying a small overnight bag.   Ferdy jumped down, helped her up over the tailboard and they were off again, heading north.
"Slasher and Mouse may well follow tomorrow. they are still making sandwiches."

Outside the immense hangers, the Princess was tethered to a complex mast and was shimmering in the intense arc-lighting.   The enormous oval hull was humbug striped in liquorice and pearl with crimson tailplanes.   The gondola and propulsion units, constructed of the strongest and lightest of modern materials were finished to appear as brass and mahogany.   She had been designed as a thermal-dirigible and was in fact a hybrid hotairship; helium counteracted the weight of the construction whilst the burners heated air to provide lift and control.
With the Chevy neatly parked in front of a Keep Clear sign the sextet mounted the boarding ladder.   Ferdy was explaining the changed circumstances to Aunty Stella, "...rescue mission, way up north."
"Perhaps I can swap the pith helmet for something woollier when we get to The Land of Green Ginger."
"The Kittens are organising all sorts of cold weather provisions." Ferdy replied, with conviction.
Ground crew were already heaving on the mooring lines, manoeuvring the airship out into the field.   Ferdy took up position at the helm on the spartan "bridge" whilst the others looked agog at the pipes, valves, breakers, buttons and dials in the engine control room.   The burners not only controlled lift, but also provided steam to the propulsion units.   All this power and energy had to be directed to where it was needed.   In the waist of the gondola was the rather tight accommodation, a galley and mess, across the stern the saloon with large bow windows and a narrow walkway around the outside.   Those not occupied with the takeoff began to stow their gear.
The main burners had been roaring for a while and the vectored propellers set up a continuous "Vvvwwwww..." hum.   The dirigible rose and slowly turned its nose northwards.   It began to snow.