Wee Hamish

       

    Just inside the gate there were Hoop-La stalls and coconut shies and Hook-a-Duck, all the fun of the fair for thruppence a go. Beyond these they approached an inflatable paddling pool and soggy cleric beneath a sign proclaiming Dunk the Vicar.   A target was contrived, by utilising a cunning arrangement of levers and gears, that when hit it would trip a precarious chair, tipping its occupant into the water below. The local boys were very good at throwing. Flo had travelled down with Boz and Co on the Æthelflæda, trusting the public bar at the Den into the care of one of the more reliable regulars, a trustworthy, conscientious and only slightly undead connoisseur of the golden nectar. She took one look at the forlorn and bedraggled priest, strode over and stepped into the pool. 

            “Go and get yourself a cup of tea, Pops,” she said swinging herself up into the chair and smiling sweetly at the queue of teenagers. “Come on, brats, I don’t mind a little water.” Somehow, under Flo’s withering gaze they found themselves utterly unable to hit the mark, several broke down before they got to their turn and one optimistic urchin, having thrown up on the grass, tried unsuccessfully to demand a refund.

            Boz smiled, “Best crack on, she’ll be there for a while.”

            The irresistible scent of chips frying wafted on the air.

            “Is it lunchtime yet?” asked Phoebles.

            They were passing side isles cluttered with jostling fast food stalls, Egyptian Koshari, Vietnamese Pho, Bakewell puddings, Welsh cawl, Hairy Tatties from Strathbogie and, of course Harry Ramsden’s Guisely fish and chips.

            "Hokey pokey penny a lump. Have a lick make you jump." An Italian hokey-pokey man had parked his ice cream trike close by the Kittens’ Vicecream van and was attracting a queue. Within the forbidding gothic interior of the Vicecream van a plot was being hatched to remove the unwanted competition, whilst one of the less scary Kittens leaned out of the serving hatch and beamed a smile at the unwitting Latin.

            Overhead the Kronstadt Fleet Air Arm were giving a heart stopping aerobatic display in their little Ratas.   As the gang looked up Polly broke away from her squadron to skywrite Hello Boz within a heart across the clear blue.   At a lower altitude, Beryl & Ferdy were taking kids on flights round the town in the Dragon Rapide.

            The boys had not gone much further when they heard the soulful strains of Scottish bagpipes.

            “Come on.   Sounds like we’re missing something good.”

            They emerged onto a grassed plaza where, in front of the Ranters’ Mead Hall steps and shadowed beneath the looming presence of Tamworth Castle, erstwhile seat of Æthelflæda Myrcna hlæfdige, the piper, kilted and clad in Darth Vader helmet, droned out Motörhead’s March Ör Die, blasting flames from the chanters and swirling tight circles on his unicycle.   A small torti-shell was hurrying towards Boz and his pals.

            “We made it. Anna’s just over there with the ambulance.”    Anna Pyromatrix travelled with Bui her cat in and old ambulance converted to a mobile home.   It was more cramped than a Winnebago, but cunningly kitted out to provide all their basic needs. “This,” Bui pointed at the piper, “is Wee Hamish.   He came down with us.”
            As Hamish segued seamlessly into We Are Sailing, Bui grabbed Phoebles’ paw and dragged him towards a cluster of ghers, tipis and festival tents.   Boz and Ferdy hurried along behind.
            Near the centre of the encampment they found the ambulance. Close by a small group of pirate captains, Reivers, Moss Troopers and clan chiefs lounged around a roaring campfire. A black iron kettle hung precariously above the flames and a slight, wild haired blond crouched where a tablecloth had been spread out on the ground with a chipped teapot and collection of miss matched mugs.   Anna stood up when she saw them approach.
            “Mr Boz, Ferdy …and Phoebles!   We’re off to find Rotskagg in a wee while, but there’ll be time for a brew first.   You’ll be setting yoursels doon?”

The Tamworth Ranters’ Gala

Almighty Cod created the universe and all that is in it.   It created cats and men and tortoises.   It anointed kings to enforce its laws and appointed bishops to interpret its words.   And all was right with the world.

            This proved very lucrative if you happened to be a bishop or a king, but was not necessarily regarded as a good thing by everyone else. Then after eons of malcontent, the ‘English Civil War and Almost Revolution’ happened and the world turned upside down.   The scum on top of the placid lake that was the class system within this sceptred realm lost cohesion, began to break up and loosen its grip.   And out of the silt at the bottom rose up every kind of fanatical crank and loony demanding equality, emancipation, universal suffrage.   Pacifists and feminists, naturists, atheists and suffragists felt empowered to speak out; compelled to cry from atop soapboxes and from the backs of carts the length and breadth of the country.   Out of this turmoil emerged The Ranters.   Almighty Cod, they asserted, was not an omnipotent being somewhere out there.   A little piece of Cod (a piece of Cod that passeth understanding) existed, in equal part, in every living thing.   They reasoned, on the strength of this revelation, that no individual had more claim to represent the laws of Cod or man than any other.   Every man, woman, cat or carrot had an equal right to rule, and therefore no right over others at all.   Every man, woman, cat and carrot had sovereignty over its own existence and wellbeing, unfettered self-determination.

            Over the intervening centuries The Tamworth Ranters came to believe that the Piece of Cod was not a thing in itself; it was a metaphor, it was the spark of Life.   All living things were free and equal.   They also embraced the golden rule of philosophers and prophets to do to others what they would have done to themselves, and to love one another as they loved them selves, enthusiastically and often.   They tended to throw a good party.

June had been damp and dreary.   Not that this was noted to any degree by the people of Tamworth.   In Tamworth June was almost always damp and dreary.   However, on this festive day the sky was clear and the morning sun was already warming the recreation ground, though the overnight drizzle still puddled on the tarmac of the vehicle park, reflecting silver-cerulean against the dark grey clinker.   Boz glanced back as the gang strode out across the disused landing strip.   Several airships swung gently at their pylons.   Lady Æthelflæda, freshly painted, was dwarfed next to the looming black vastness of Rotskagg Blenkinsopp’s brutal Queen Anne’s Bounty.   The corsair’s flag ship bristled with quick-fire cannon, rocket launchers and Gatlings, her canopy emblazoned with the crimson, crowned skull (crowned with a papal coronet) that was the Blenkinsopp sigil.   It even had a hangar and launch port for its complement of armed ornithopters.

            “The pirate king’s here then,” he said to the others, “wonder who he’s brought with him.”

            “I noticed Larry’s dirigible back there too,” replied Phoebles.

            “I reckon we’ve missed the parade,” chipped in Ferdy, pushing his goggles up over his flying helmet.   “Told you we shouldn’t have spent so long over breakfast.”   But the bird was wrong.   As they reached the row of Portaloos and temporary litter trays by the road gate they could hear the trumpets and guitars of the Massed Zapatista Marching Mariachi as they played La Valentina, and see the tops of the wavering crimson union banners above the heads of the spectators.   The annual Gala parade always drew a large crowd.

            They squeezed through as near to the front as they could manage and Dark Flo lifted the vertically challenged Ferdy onto her shoulders.   They were in time to see Snowdrop’s techanka wreathed in flowers with Consuella in her most exotic Carmen Miranda outfit, letting rip on her tambourine.   The techanka was followed by the prancing cavalry of the Snake Pass Zapatistas led by Aunty Stella, in her Subcommandante Everyman outfit, sans ski mask, but wearing a delicate feathered purple half mask that perfectly matched her hair.   Each caballerro lofted a fluttering black SPZ flag.   Next came the Catnip Growers Association rainbow float, swathed in a purple haze.   Bringing up the rear, with the Kittens of Chaos crammed on the roof rack, came the Vicecream van blaring out the Slasher Theme from Psycho.   As the last of the parade passed, the crowd spilled onto the road and followed into the Recreation ground.

Departures

“Where is my Oberfunkmeister?   Ah, there you are.   Get a message to the whaling station, right away.   I want the Pinguin readied for sea by the time we arrive, and they’re to get steam up on the trawler too.   Matrosenfeldwebel, get everyone into the tubes.   Don’t forget the frauleins in the canteen, and make sure you bring my radio officer with you when he’s done.   Oh, and find the ship’s cat.”   Otto von Luckner turned to Harold, “If you would come with me gentlemen, please.”

            The Kapitänleutnant led the trawler officers across the ravished concourse towards a set of check-in desks labeled Walfang-Hafen, gathering trawlermen as they went.   Kriegsmariners were already lining up neatly, and slightly less tidy groups of New Swabians in lab coats or boiler suits were gathering near the sliding doors to the pneumatic tubes.   The Kronstadt shore detail, led by Dark Flo, appeared from behind a pile of rubble, they laughing and joking, she sporting a puffy, almost closed eye.   She was limping and the left sleeve of her shinobi shozoko was torn away to reveal an angry graze on her elbow and purple bruising to the shoulder.

            “Thanks to one of your overzealous fishermen.   Took a swing at me from behind, with a barstool.   Can’t tell a ninja from a submariner.”

            Bamse, as was his wont, had rounded up the last of the stragglers.   With the company assembled the tube doors opened and embarkation began.  

            “Once you reach the whaling station get your people aboard your trawler and be ready for the off.”   Von Luckner was cradling Fotzenkatze, the lithe tabby mascot of the now crippled submarine Seeadler.   “I will be along soon as I know everyone is safe.”

The bow and ruptured freshwater tank of the Ancaster had been repaired in their absence, the boiler was nearly up to pressure and springs taken in so that only shortened bow and stern lines held her to the quay.   The crew stood, alert, at their stations.   Harold stood by the bridge window, his hand placed lightly on the highly polished new telegraph, its dials disconcertingly labeled in German.   Billy Tate held the spokes of the enormous ship’s wheel, awaiting instructions.   An Aldis lamp on the wing of the Pinguin’s bridge began to flash morse at high speed.   Easter Smurthwait and the Ancaster’s sparks eyed the twinkling light, then each other, and shrugged.   Yes, the trawler did have a radio officer.   Sparky, a lad hailing from the Midlands, had spent the entire adventure locked in his radio room trying unsuccessfully to contact Wick Radio, blissfully unaware and, as usual, totally forgotten.

            “’Spect he’s telling us to get going,” said Easter to his skipper.

            “OK.   Cast off fore and aft.”   He rang ‘Halbe Kraft Voraus’ on the engine room telegraph, “I hope that means what I think it does,” and Ancaster’s single screw began to churn the water into a fury beneath her stern.   She moved slowly away from the quay, picked up speed, was steered deftly around the breakwater by the third hand, and belching black smoke from her Woodbine funnel, the trawler proceeded out to sea.

            On the bridge of the Pinguin Otto von Luckner turned to his Signalsmaat, “Are you certain you sent Follow us… in English?   Ficken!”   He rang down to the engine room and the mighty diesels thumped into action.   He sprinted to the wing of the bridge and shouted, “Abwerfen der Liegeplatz-Seile.   Cast off fore and aft.”   Back in the wheelhouse he addressed his helmsman, “Follow that boat.”

With her thundering pistons producing nearly eight thousand horse power and her twin screws rapidly accelerating her up to seventeen knots it did not take the Pinguin long to outstrip Ancaster.   Von Luckner was on the VHF radio to Harold.

            “Follow us, captain.   Best speed.   We want as much open water as possible between us and Antarctica when whatever it is happens.”

            Easter had been looking astern, “I think it’s happening now, skipper.   You’ll want to see this.”

            Even at the distance of two miles they could see the ice plateau on the continent behind them begin to dome.   The hump rose slowly at first and then burst in an explosion of rock and ice fragments.   There was an incandescent flash.   When vision returned a hemisphere of boiling atmosphere was visible, expanding at an incredible rate.   A rumble grew to a roar and to a screaming shriek that paralysed the onlookers.   The pressure wave tore fittings from the deck and cracked window glass.   The accompanying tsunami, however, passed them unnoticed.   In the open sea, travelling at 500 miles per hour it barely raised the fleeing vessels a foot or two.   As it approached the shoaling seabed around the southern tip of America it would pile up into a destructive wall of vindictive ocean, but out here it was benign.   Back on the Antarctic mainland snow clouds gathered above ground zero and lightening bolts flashed across the sky.   The trawlermen watched as powdered snow billowed and swirled; and out of the turmoil rose a vast, polished metal cylinder, its mirror surface reflecting the chaos that surrounded it.   The Andromeda Machine climbed serenely through the storm into the quiet sky above, performed a leisurely pirouette and accelerated away.   Within moments all was calm.  

            “Well, that was different,” said Easter to no one in particular.

A tinny voice crackled from the bridge loud speaker, Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner was back on the VHF.

            “We will be heading for the Rio de la Plata in the Pinguin, but are more than willing to escort you across the South Atlantic, captain.   It will give us chance to compare notes and discuss the recent events.   I expect you will be wanting to proceed to the Ärmelkanal, your English Channel.   We may well catch you up on our way to the Baltic.   It rather depends on how long we loiter in Montevideo.”

            A wandering albatross tucked in behind the stern of the Lord Ancaster, skimming low over the restless swell of the Southern Ocean.   Sunlight glistened off the heaving rollers and dolphins played in the bow-waves of the two vessels as they pointed their prows towards the New World.

Wolves in the Wood (Elstead Writers' Blog)

Follow more of my adventures on Tuesdays on Elstead Writers' Blog:
http://elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com/2014/04/15/meanwhile/

The Raid

A hearty group of Kriegsmariners had come into the concourse from the Unterseeboot Pens and was indulging in manly horseplay when the glass in one of the skylights shattered.   If they could have made out more than a vague mauve blur they would have seen Dark Flow running down the marble wall, paying out rope with one hand and frantically casting throwing stars with the other.   They scattered, rallied and returned fire with their Schmiesser MP-40s.   Bamse was abseiling, noticeably more slowly and cautiously than Flo, towards the distant floor, and the bullets chipping off chunks of stonework all around him were not making for a happy St Bernard.   To his amazement he was still whole when he reached the ground.   His survival was probably due in part to the distracting effect of an indistinct pink whirlwind that pirouetted through the ranks of mariners.   Sailors doubled over with an “Oooff!” or flew backwards, crashing into disintegrating furniture.   The disgruntled emperor penguins who had, until this moment, still been waddling around the vaulted hall, turned, gave out a communal squawk of disapproval and trudged towards the double doors of the main exit.   Bamse headed off to locate and liberate the crew of the Lord Ancaster.

            An alarm siren wailed, almost immediately Neuschwabian reinforcements burst onto the scene and the machine gun fire intensified.   Dark Flo became pinned down behind a Coca Cola dispenser.   The situation was looking decidedly desperate when there came the sound of two small explosions from the Submarine Pens and the Kronstadt sailors arrived.  They reached the top of the escalator already firing and immediately fanned out.   The battle was intense, and destructive.   As more and more lights were shattered by ricochets and an increasing gloom descended on the vast hall Dark Flo began to suffer the Purkinje effect.   In low light simian eyes become more sensitive to the blue end of the colour spectrum, this is Purkinje shift, or dark adaptation, her Plymouth Pink Ninja outfit was no longer working efficiently.   She was becoming visible.

Meanwhile Bamse was having difficulty rescuing the trawler crew.   They did not want to be rescued.   The third hand, Billy Tate teamed up with the St Bernard and they ushered the crew into an elegant, Art Deco wardroom.   Plans to organise a second front disintegrated.   The trawlermen were divided into two, almost equal factions.   One group wanted to sit it out in the wardroom, perhaps get a cup of coffee, and wait to see which side won.   The others had enjoyed their stay so much that were all for joining the fray on the side of the Neuschwabenlandians.   Billy was weeping with frustration.

            “T’ skipper seems pally enough wi’ that Kapitänleutnant chappy.   Thy squabble’s nowt te do wi’ us.”

            “Look,” barked Bamse, “Flo and I have gone to a lot of trouble to get you ingrates out of this mess.   Don’t you want to see your Yorkshire homeland again?”   He paused for dramatic effect, “The stigma of mutiny could get you all exiled to Grimsby.”

            “…”

            “Ay, and ‘tis starving cold here.”

            “Bleaker ‘n a February afto’ on Top Withens.”

            “C’mon lads, lets stick it to the Hun.”

            Bamse took a nifty step back to let them pass, but the unsuspecting young Tate was knocked to the ground and trampled in the rush.

Von Luckner and Harold emerged from the subway tunnel as the firefight was reaching its peak.   The hall echoed to a cacophony of swearing (in German and Russian), cries of anguish and anger, the percussion of small arms fire; and it was filling with clouds of smoke and dust.  Glass shattered and bullets zipped through the air like gnats.   The duo instantly drew fire from both sides and dove behind the check-in counter, where they were joined, cowering, by the first mate and chief who were crawling on their hands and knees.

The Ancaster’s crew burst into the foyer, roaring out a battle cry:

            “Tigers, Tigers, burning bright!” all bravado and slightly squeaky apprehension.

            The Kapitänleutnant glanced disbelievingly towards his companions.

            “It’s a Hull City supporter’s chant,” replied Easter Smurthwait, “…Football…   I’ll explain later, when things quieten down a bit.”

            Albert Fleck leaped to his feet, “Go the three-day millionaires!" and then ducked down again as the round from a Schmeiser plucked at his tea-cosy hat.

            The trawlermen fell upon the Neuschwabenlander troops with fist flailing.

            “This’ll ney tek long.   ‘Sney rougher’n a Satdi-night scrap in Rayner's on t’Hessle Road.”

            Taking advantage of the added confusion, Dark Flo ducked out from the cover of the soft drinks dispenser and tucked in behind the wave of fishermen.   She skipped lightly up the back of the nearest deckie, tripped across the heads of three successive Kriegsmariners, became airborne and tossed a Happo egg into a light machine-gun nest as she passed overhead.   Her 3 Inch diameter, hollowed out black egg contained a disabling mixture of itching powder and concentrated Naga Ghost Chilli sauce.   Flo adopted the ‘Flailing Squid’ pose as she hung briefly in the air then plummeted, feather duster in hand, into the midst of the battle.

“THIS WILL END… NOW!”   A voice like an intervention from the patriarch of all thunder gods reverberated above the crouching combatants.   The hunched and wizened oriental master had materialized in the open no-man’s land that separated the warring factions.   He drew himself up to his full height of four feet two and a half inches, shoulders back and ramrod straight.   His eyes glistened and his tall orange hat quivered as he glared about the room.   The shooting slowly petered out until only the intermittent crack of a sniper’s round broke the silence.   Otto von Luckner broke cover and approached his men.

            “Nicht mehr!   Aufhören zu schießen!”

            The Himalayan envoy waited patiently for a bleakly expectant peace to descend across the scene.

            “This is intolerable… and futile.   A machine that is secret, a truth that is hidden, are now known to all.   The Andromeda Gerät will depart.   We will depart.   And it would be wise for you to be not here when we leave.   I recommend you utilize the high-speed pneumatic tubes to your whaling station and there take ship.   You do not have long.”   He stalked over to his colleagues who turned and followed him back into the subway.

EUROPE IN AUTUMN by Dave Hutchinson

I have just finished reading Europe in Autumn by Dave Hutchinson and it is brilliant.   Bit sort of le Carré meets Pynchon with cooking.   Buy it - you can get just one book on its own, you don't have to have half a dozen copies and the funny bloke.

Aunty Stella’s Tale

“That was a fine haggis supper, Catriona, you excelled yourself.   Are we all here, has anyone seen Slasher McGoogs?”

            “He took off after Black Douglass, through the rhododendrons.”

            “OK.   So, where shall I begin?   Googleberry had been away visiting rich relatives in Derbyshire, again.   He’d been gone a few days when I received a text from him:

OMG A STLLA ∑:>{+’ LDY C’S FNCY DRSS BBQ WSHD OUT COS GUSTING WND SWPT FOUNTAIN OVER PATIO! SOCIAL BUMMER = LHK 4EAE  GOOGLEBERRY XX = PS LDY C SEZ 2 TELL U LES YT CTS MOBILIZING = LLAP ∑:o3 LOL WUSS *

…closely followed by this Basildon Bond gilt edged letter, delivered to my door by a uniformed dispatch rider on a Brough Superior:

…Obviously urgent and not much leeway for discussion.   I only hoped someone along the way would have the where-and-when missing from Larry’s redacted letter.    I scrawled a quick note to the family, Lasagna in the fridge, PE kit in airing cupboard, that sort of thing, and left it on the kitchen table.   Then Strawberry and I chucked our tooth brushes, clean knickers and a spare pullover each into overnight bags, fired up the Blue Chevy and hit the high road bound for the Dales.

            That Chevy needs some work on it.   The engine’s clapped out, the seats are incredibly uncomfortable and it is a long haul from home into the upper reaches of Derbyshire.   By the time we made the A6 I had progressed from aching all over to being numb from the neck down.   Strawberry announced that he was getting rather stiff too.   So we parked up in Cromford and visited the local bookshop for soup and builders’ tea.   It has a world renowned Vegan café on the top floor.   Vegan soup is not generally regarded as palatable since the flora and fauna on Vega is invariably slimy and tentacly.   This facsimile vegan soup, however, was made with nettles and mushrooms and things picked from local hedgerows and was barely slimy at all, with virtually no tentacles.   It was delicious.

            ‘That girl behind the counter, the one with the rasta hair and sandals that gave us the long stare; she got on the phone to someone soon as she’d served us,’ observed Strawberry.

            ‘I’ve had a tingly feeling for a while, like we’re being watched,’ I replied, ‘Drink up and we’ll crack on.’

            Halfway down the stairs we met a middle-aged lady coming up.   We stepped back into a room, labelled SATIRE & SURREALIST FICTION, to allow her to pass and were immediately grabbed from behind.   Sacks were pulled over our heads; we were bundled out into the street and into the back of some sort of van.  

            When the sacks were removed I found that I was sitting on a hard wooden chair, nose to nose with an inquisitive lurcher.  

            ‘Let them be, Spike, they may be friendlies.’

            We were in a dimly lit barroom surrounded by ruffians in ski masks.   One of them rose after sstudying my face and took off her balaclava.  

            ‘It’s OK, it really is them.   I’ve met them before,’ said Snowdrop.   ‘Sorry about the rough treatment, Les Chats are watching the roads north of Matlock and we had to grab you quick.   It’s important no-one knows you’re here.’

            ‘They may know already,’ said Strawberry, ‘the girl in the café rang someone.’

            ‘She’s one of ours.   That was our signal to move in.’

            The door burst open and in walked a chattering group of hikers.

            ‘No coach parties,’ snapped the tall, dishevelled landlord, from behind his row of beer engines.

            ‘But…’

            ‘We’re closed.   What do you think this is, a pub?’               The hikers left, disappointed.

            ‘Isn’t it a pub?’ I asked.

            ‘Yes,’ replied Snowdrop, ‘but not always welcoming to strangers.   Makes for a perfect hide-out.’

            ‘So, what now,’ said Strawberry.

            ‘Manchester, but first we need a willing volunteer to wear the Subcomandante Everyman costume,’ she was talking to Strawberry, but looking at me, ‘and you, Strawberry, are a bit on the short side.   Come on Aunty Stella, it’s not as if you’d really be in charge or anything.’

I didn’t exactly feel inconspicuous travelling through Manchester astride the tallest grey I’d ever seen, its bells and harness jangling loudly.   I was disguised behind a black knitted balaclava and kitted out in white jodhpurs, four ply woollen submariner’s telnyashka, a silver-grey hussar’s jacket trimmed in reddish brown fur and an excess of gold frogging, black patent leather boots to above the knee and topping the ensemble, a tall, French Marines’ shako, with a Burgundy plume.   All around me were the Zapatista cavalry.   There was a bronze painted 1952 Ford F1 van support vehicle, Strawberry driving the blue Chevy with red and black flags all over it, and Snowdrop’s tachanka bringing up the rear.   My standard bearer trotted up alongside me, the black banner with its skull and cross bones fluttering in the bighting, early morning wind.   Her eyes smiled through the slits in her ski mask.

            ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

            ‘Eunice Aphroditois, after the Mongolian Death Worm.   Neat innit?   Take the next left; we’ll enter Piccadilly Station through the goods yards.   No point attracting too much attention.’

            When we reached the railway and eventually found our remote and rarely used platform, Larry had done us proud.   There stood a majestic, streamlined Mallard locomotive with a string of horse-box cars, one still had BERTRAM MILLS’ CIRCUS painted on its doors, a flat bed for the vehicles, two LC&DR third class carriages with varnished coachwork, a Pullman ‘Kitchen Parlour’ Car and a pillbox break van.   Strawberry demanded to ride in the break van and no one was going to dissuade me from travelling at least some of the journey on the engine’s footplate.

            Enticing the horses into the boxcars and loading the flat bed took some time but eventually we were ready for the off.

            ‘You’ll not be about to shovel coal in that outfit,’ said the engine driver as I clambered into the cab and eagerly eyed the array of pipes, valves and levers, ‘best sit back and enjoy the ride.   We’ll be shifting at a rate of knots once she gets the bit between her teeth.’

            Two hours later we parked up in the sidings in Carlisle and Strawberry and I left Snowdrop to supervise the unloading whilst two Zapatistas guided us down Lowther Street to our rendezvous at the Howard Arms.   The lounge was packed.   Wildcat Moss Trooper Commanders had stacked their tin hats by the door and lodged weaponry behind the bar, a gathering of minor clan chiefs was clustered around a cast iron radiator and representatives from several Border Reiver families sat around a table already cluttered with half downed sleevers of 70/-.             ‘Ahaah!’   We were greeted warmly on our arrival.   ‘Sit yer sells down and we’ll get to talking.   Pints of heavy all round.’

            We sat, and a huddle formed around the table.

            ‘Ye have here the cream of the faithful and we’ll pick up a few more before this evening.   We’ve lost a few families to the dark side, but not so many.   Have another pint.   We’ll be away north of the wall soon as your gang is ready.   May even liberate a few coos on the trip to Gilnockie Tower.’   And so we did.

            The rest of the story you know, we apparently arrived in the nick of time.   Shame about the airship.   Has anyone put the kettle on?”

* Translation for those unfamiliar with Googleberry’s version of text speak:

‘Oh My God, Aunty Stella, catastrophe, Lady C’s fancy dress barbecue washed out because gusting winds swept fountain over patio!   Social bummer.   Love, Hugs and Kisses for Ever and Ever, Googleberry, Kiss, Kiss.   P.S. Lady C says to tell you Les White Cats mobilising.   Live Long And Prosper.   Smiley face.   Laughs Out Loud With Unintentional Snort Sound.’