Black Sheep Matter

As lockdown eases its grip on the island, controversy takes hold once more.  

Doors unlock for the first time in months.  Shutters creak open.  Curtains twitch.  The islanders venture forth again.

Big Maggie Ann steps out from the dark of her front lobby and on to her door step.  Like a giant grizzly bear waking from hibernation, she raises her arms, stretching them high above her head and yawns.  Her single yellow tooth protrudes with all the prowess of a rhino horn (minus the aphrodisiac content, of course).  Maggie sniffs the morning air, then lowers her arms and shuts her mouth.  She staggers backward, nauseated by a putrid smell.  Even Maggie could tell that the time had come to scrub her armpits and brush her tooth.

Maggie turns to re-enter her home, when a commotion down The Lane stops her mid move.   She cranes her neck back outside once more and bellows out, "You alright down there Magnus?"

Earlier that morning, Magnus the Bobby had pumped up his bicycle tyre and cycled to the scene of a complaint, down The Lane.  Magnus now sniffs the air, covers his nose with his police-issue cotton handkerchief and answers.

"Get back inside, Big Maggie.  There's an awful whiff in the air and I'm here on official police business."

"Now Magnus, last time you came sniffing round here, Daft Uisdean was conceived."

Magnus the Bobby rushes to her door.  "Hush Maggie.  Lower your voice."  He looks left and right before whispering.  "Maggie, you know I'm not the boy's father."

Maggie whispers back.  "I'll be quiet if you tell me what you are doing down The Lane."

"Okay, its..."

"It's what?  Spit it out Magnus."  Maggie opens her mouth and threatens him with her yellow tooth.

Magnus the Bobby cowers.  "Okay. Okay.  It's the little boy who lives down The Lane.  We've had a tip off... about numerous bags of sheep wool there."

"Numerous bags?"  asks Maggie.

"Yes.  The tip off came from BaBa, the black sheep on Torquil's croft.  He said that he only had three bags full of wool.   He gave one to his Master, Torquil, and one to the Dame that lives with Wullie Spanners.  The little boy who lives down The Lane should have the other remaining bag.  But, the black sheep reckons that the little boy who lives down The Lane has seventy three bags of wool!  So, I'm here on official police business to count the bags."

"Can you count that high, Magnus?" asks Maggie.

Magnus ignores Maggie's insult, licks his pencil lead and refers to his black notebook.  " I counted one bag of black wool and seventy two bags of white."

"So... what's the problem?  The boy who lives down The Lane does have BaBa black sheep's other one bag of wool.  Never mind about the other seventy two bags."

Magnus splutters and chokes.  His face reddens and blue veins begin to protrude on his forehead.  "Maggie!  You cant say never mind.  This is a clear case of colour prejudice against black sheep and an outright bias towards white sheep."

"But Magnus... BaBa is the only black sheep we have on the Highland Island.  If all the other sheep are white then they cant produce black wool."

"Precisely!"  Magnus snaps his notebook shut and returns it to his breast pocket.

"You've lost me there, Magnus."

Magnus tucks his thumbs under his arm pits, sticks out his elbows and struts like a rooster. "Clear case of colour prejudice and inequality.   Once I've pumped up the tyre on my bicycle again, I'm on my way to Torquil's croft to tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"Isn't it obvious Maggie?  Torquil needs to import at least seventy one more black sheep to fix this blatant inequality.  And, immediately!"

Maggie grins one of her wicked toothy grins.  She taps Magnus the Bobby on the shoulder and tells him to turn around.  

Magnus spins around on his police-issue brogues, stumbles to the ground and lands face to face with a pink sheep, a sparkly gold sheep and several preened multi-coloured sheep.

"Hi there," said the sheep.  "So, you'll be telling Torquil that he needs more gay sheep, bi-sexual sheep, trans gender sheep, trans-sexual sheep and queer sheep, too?"

Big Maggie Ann shuts her door on a bemused and speechless Magnus, as she retires inside to scrub her armpits and brush her tooth.

Whitewash House Press Release

Dòmhnall MacTrumpet's Quality Holiday Accomodation

Well, you heard it here first!

Back in 2006 I posted the following advert for Dòmhnall MacTrumpet, of MacTrumpet Towers', Quality Holiday Homes here on the Island.

Unfortunately, due to 'other responsibilities', which must take president, (sorry I meant precedence) at his new home in the 'Whitewashed House', Dòmhnall MacTrumpet's Quality Holiday Homes are now owned and run by his 'son', Daft Uisdean.

Daft Uisdean states that he will not be entering into any communication with his 'father', Dòmhnall MacTrumpet, regarding the running of this business.  Uisdean is currently taking bookings for summer 2017!

To refresh your memories, here is the advert again.

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Welcome to "The Dòmhnall's" Quality Holiday Homes, at MacTrumpet Towers at The Ferry Terminal.

All our quality homes have sea view and are located in sheltered positions, protected from sea breezes by the bank to the west of the island dump.

Homes are rented on a self-catering basis for weekend or full week rentals.

Upgraded to high standards! Sleeps 2 - 26, with detatchable sheep pen. Goats welcome. Llamas must be house-trained.

As pictured, full laundry facilities with running water. New forest green high-technology waste-disposal unit, in the latest portable form. Washing can be done behind the privacy of a newly built wall. Portable wind-breaker, complete with new poles and tent pegs, is supplied for the privacy from poachers and farm vehicles aproaching from open fields to the side and rear.

The latest in hair salon accessories, pictured between the upright brown laundry and the forest green sanitation and waste-disposal unit, can be effectively used for hair-washing days.





En suite bathrooms available on request.




For reservations, availability and prices email Torquil at - highlandisland@verizon.net

All this nonsense about leaving the eEwe

For goodness sake, take a lesson from Little Bo Peep.  Now Ms Bo Peep she lost her eEwe and didn't know where to find it.  'Leave it alone and it will come home wagging its tail behind it', was the advice given  back then.  And, everyone lived happily ever after.

Did you listen to the advice given?  Did you leave the eEwe alone?  No you didn't.  You had to go stravaging off to the polling station down in the back room of Jean's wool shop and put your cross in a box.  Some of you voted to get the eEwe back while others wanted the eEwe to get to France and join Le Gigot d'Agneau party.

Now did the eEwe get a say in whether it stayed with the flock or whether trailed its clapdarnachs all the way to France to join Le Gigot d'Agneau party?  No it didn't and before she loses another leg to Le Mint Sauce Brigade can we think again?

I call upon you all to, therefore, sign the following petition (by signing in the comments box) to have the eEwe referendum overturned, so that Edna the eEwe can make her own mind up whether to stay or go.

Yours respectfully

The Flock

P.S.  As Edna the eEwe only has three legs now, could Woodworm Willie help with some prosthesis?

Highland Island Marathon 1914

The fossilised remains of a marathon runner has been found in the woods, 5 miles north of the ferry terminal.  

The island's police forensics team, PC Hugh Dunnett and Magnus the Bobby form the mainland, have dissected a section from the fossilised marathon runner's foot.  According to the number of rings found on the dissected bunion, they estimate that the contestant stopped running in 1914.  

Anyone who feels that they lost a grandparent around 1914 and suspects that they might descend from fossilised wood, please contact Woodworm Willie at Woodworm Willie's Funeral Services in order to assist with identification of the deceased.

DNA services can be provided by 'Tongue in Cheek Swabs Ltd.'  Hopefully, they will have this case licked in no time at all.

Once the identity of the fossilised runner has been established, a re-run of the event will be announced.  

Update on the post of 'Careful-Now-In-Case-You-Trip Advisor'

Regrettably, the position of 'Careful-Now-In-Case-You-Trip Advisor' remains vacant.

All candidates fell, short of requirements.  

Careful-Now-In-Case-You-Trip Advisor

Due to increased awareness of the Health and Safety at Work Act, 1974, the Highland Island wishes to employ a "Careful-Now-In-Case-You-Trip Advisor".

The successful candidate should possess the following -

• Adequate vision or suitable corrective lenses

• A fully functioning clipboard

• The ability to advise islanders and visitors repeatedly, with the phrase "Careful now in case you trip".  

Auditions for the "Careful-Now-In-Case-You-Trip Advisor," will be held in the church hall on Friday at 8pm.  An obstacle course will be provided but volunteer potential trippers are required to assist with auditions.

The position is full time and salary will be determined according to previous trip advising.

Recent Elbowla Crisis

Oh what a kerfuffle!

We would like to appologise for the recent closure of all ferry routes to the island, due to lack of customers.  As the Lighthouse Mannie said, the lights are on but no one has been at home since the great Elbowla Crisis evacuation.

(You might want to get a cup of clapdarnach tea, and sit down.  This could be a long tale.)

It all started at the 2014 January sales, the great Elbowla Crisis.

Big Maggie Ann first noticed the large basket of cut-price, hand-knitted underpants in the Wool Shop window, marked 50% off.

Off she limped to get her sleeping bag, her overnight anti-wrinkle cream, her paraffin stove, a soup pan, bag of potatoes, 2 leeks and a packet of Knorr chicken stock cubes.  She returned at 9 pm on Hogmanay to claim her place at the head of the queue outside the Wool Shop.

By 9.30pm she was joined by Woodworm Willie, Wullie Spanners and 124 bottles of the finest Clapdarnach Cooking Whisky.

News travels fast and by 9.31 pm a street party was in full swing, outside the Wool Shop.

Diligent Jean -- owner of the Wool Shop -- however, took 2 Mogadon, inserted her ear plugs, retiring to bed at 10 pm in preparation for the New Year’s Day Sale.  Rising early, she vacuumed her knitted floor rugs, pulled up the knitted window blinds and opened the shop door ready for the onslaught of bargain hunters, eager to claim cut-price, hand-knitted underpants.

Nothing stirred, except for the heavy sound of snoring, coming from an entanglement of intertwined bodies, piled up on the pavement.  Beside them sat 124 empty bottles.

“Cut-price underpants!” she called.

 In the middle of the body mass, a large brown eye opened. 

“Underpants!” cried Big Maggie Ann.  Wriggling her large frame around inside the knot of bodies, she accidentally Elbowla-ed Wullie Spanners in the groin.  “Underpants!” cried Woodworm Willie, accidentally Elbowla-ing The Reverend Brimstone in his dog collar.  “Underpants!” called PC Hugh Dunnett while Elbowla-ing Daft Uisdean’s sweaty oxter.  “Underpants!” everyone shouted, as everyone Elbowla-ed each other.  Poor Cyril’s Nosecone was Elbowla-ed completely out of shape.

Jean telephoned the mainland for help.  “Hello, is that you Magus the Bobby from the Mainland?  Can you pump up your bicycle tyre very quickly and get here on the next ferry.  The whole island is in a tangle and we have a massive outbreak  of Elbowla-ing.  Hurry!  Bring the Coastguard Mannie, sailors, as many boy scouts as you can find, or anyone who knows how to unravel knots."

But no one could unravel the knot of arms and legs and so the large body mass of islanders was lifted by crane and loaded onboard a Chinese Shipping Line Cargo Ship.   It sailed away, bound for Shanghai, and we haven’t heard from anyone since.

As it was mother’s bath night, I was busy changing her catheter, so I missed the Elbowla Outbreak. 

The island has been so quiet all year, just me, Jean at the Wool Shop and the Lighthouse Mannie. 

I'll try the Ham Radio again.  “Hello Shanghai.  Come in Shanghai.”  Oh it’s no use.  Nobody seems to be answering.

Magical Portal Loos

Don't be mistaken... these are no ordinary toilet facilities, parked behind the Free Church.  They may be temporary and basic to look at but these Portal Loos are not for the fainthearted.

I entered, shut the door, and did my business all very normally.  But, I flushed the handle and...WHOOSH!  When I opened the door I found my Portal Loo balancing on top of the Matterhorn in the Pennine Alps, 14,690 ft high and looking down on the town of Zermatt. 

Fortunately, I managed to unzip and sit down, before depositing a shock-induced No.2.  However, when I flushed again... WHOOSH!  The next destination turned out to be a beach in sunny Torremolinos, in the Costa del Sol.

Sixteen destinations later, I opened the door to see Daft Uisdean hopping cross-legged and holding his crotch.  (Thankfully, I'd landed back behind the Free Church.)  "Quick!  I need to go," he said.   He pulled me out of the Portal Loo and jumped inside.

It appears that we have finally cracked the 'Mystery at the Post Office' and the Rev. Brimstone's travels but, unfortunately, Daft Uisdean is now missing.  The portal could have taken him anywhere in the world!

Interpol have been alerted but meantime, if you have any information as to the where-a-bouts of Daft Uisdean can you please comment in the box below?  His mother, Big Maggie Ann, is very upset because his dinner is ready.

Mystery at the Post Office

Holy Moly!  I've had a call from Christabel-Morag, the new Post Mistress, down at the Post Office.

 "Hello, Torquil," said Christabel-Morag.  "Sorry to bother you on your washing day, but I've just finished reading all the mail and I've noticed something very odd."

"Hello there Christabel-Morag.  It's okay, I've left mother in charge of the twin tub.  Tell me about the odd thing," I said.  Though I didn't think that Christabel-Morag should be reading all the mail, telling her so might upset her weak bladder. 

"Well, Torquil, you see all these postcards have arrived at the sorting office and I'm very confused. There's one for you from Jamaica; one for Woodworm Willie from Rome; one for Cyril Nosecone from Las Vegas; one for Jean at the Woolshop from Sydney Australia; one for Wullie Spanners from Amsterdam; one for the lighthouse mannie from Cardiff; one for the boy who plays music down at the hotel from Peking; one for Murdina the butcher from Brussels; one for Big Maggie Ann from Anchorage, Alaska; one for Daft Uisdean from Legoland; and one from Mombasa for Fiona and her paintings."

My eye was drawn to the smoke belching from the twin tub. I waved furiously at mother, pointing at the wall socket for her to pull the plug.  "Oh lovely," I said to Christabel-Morag.  "A nice postcard always brightens up the day."

"Oh, but you don't understand, Torquil," said Christabel-Morag, now clearly upset.  I heard her fumbling and then she said, "Can you hold the line while I go to the toilet."

Mother smiled a gummy smile and waved back at me through the smoke, so I pulled the plug myself and opened the back door to let out the smoke. 

"Sorry for keeping you, Torquil," said Christabel-Morag.  "Where was I?  Oh yes, the postcards...all these postcards are signed by the same person, The Rev. Brimstone.  They all say the same thing.  'Having a lovely time.  See you soon, The Rev. Brimstone.'"

I stood in the threshold and fanned my arm in the air to usher the smoke outside.  "That's nice of him to send so many cards, then," I said to Christabel-Morag.

"But, Torquil, all these cards were posted the same day, all correctly postmarked last Monday from their country of origin."  She paused.  "Torquil, I attended Evening Worship on Sunday at 7pm and the Reverend was there in fine voice.  So, how could he get to all these places to send postcards on the Monday?"

Suddenly, a smoking twin tub was the least of my worries -- there was a mystery to solve down at the Post Office.

Could anyone with any information pertaining to the Rev. Brimstone’s whereabouts on Monday 24^th June, 2013, please leave a comment in the box below?

 

 

Identity Crisis

Funny... I dreamed last night that my name was Hazy Dizzylady and I was a woman.  You'll be pleased to know that I've just checked the label on my underpants and it clearly says, "Hand Knitted by Jean at the Woolshop for Torquil Mor."  Phew!  Thank Heavens a man can always rely on his underpants to remind him who he is.

Malcolm's Spray-On Tan

Malcolm stood up on the podium to declare, "My tan is NOT orange!" 

But, no one took any notice.