Before embarking on a fuller account of my ninth TGO crossing, I’d just like to take this opportunity to pay tribute to the unwavering friendliness and support of the good people of the County of Angus, that final swathe of fertile whisky-growing country immediately prior to the plunge into the North Sea, without which the TGO Challenge would be a mere anti-climax of outrageously yellow fields and suddenly alert local drivers, rounding that tight bend just by the Mains of Inversquirty at their usual speed to be surprised by a red-faced lumberer click-clacking unremittingly towards the briny and not quite getting out of the way quick enough for the comfort of either.
And so it was that this very supertanned vision of Big G having a bit of a laugh lighted heavily on the doorstep of a certain unfeasibly chested Mrs Primula Brown with the intent of asking directions for fresh water for the platypus. And, after fighting his way through the shameful display of intimate laundry on the washing line, and sporting a substantial and pink pair of Mrs Brown’s midweek panties , accidentally attached to that little clip thing on his platypus tube, he leant heavily against the door and, puffing with the effort, rang the doorbell.
There was no answer.
It wasn’t because Mrs Brown was out shopping. Nor was it that she was deaf or deliberately ignoring the summons of the bell. In point of fact, she was taking advantage of a brief and watery shaft of sunlight out the back in order to try to make herself look a bit more healthy for the Johnshaven Village Hall tea Dance on Tuesday, after which she would quite like to have tea and, ultimately, her evil way with a certain retired fisherman.
Oh no, it wasn’t for any of these reasons that the bell went ignored.
In point of fact, the doorbell button had never actually been connected to the bell for reasons much too complex to explore here, but which concerned her lazy good for nothing son who was crap at DIY.
Mrs Brown closed her eyes and faced the weak yellow shaft of late afternoon sun and bemoaned the latest damage to her vegetable patch. Speaking, as she often did, to the starling having a squawk in the hedge, she berated the thieving barstewards wot “pinched ma bliddy carrots” again.
The starling, whom our heroine Primula knew well in view of its distinctive lack of a complete pair of legs due to an accident with a crop sprayer a couple of years ago had been tragically nursing a clutch of sterile eggs in Mrs Brown’s gutter these past eighteen months, but would if she could, have explained to Mrs Brown that it was the local rabbits wot done it. This would have been a just reward for all the cake and breadcrumbs.
Following the first two disastrous crop failures, Mrs Brown had, in fact, been inserting carrots purchased from a local shop on the grounds that the season was probably getting a bit late for seeds and the purpose of the patch was more for decoration and the delight of a local retired gardener she had eyes for than mere sustenance. She was also very much aware of the possibilities of an tour or inspection of a vegetable patch for the discussion to resort to the kind of meaningful double entendre so useful for making one’s romantic intentions clear even to someone who could be a bit slow on the uptake. The fallback position would be the lacing of his tea. He was, indeed, “in for it”.
Anyway, the rabbits regarded Prim’s patch as more of a branch of Tesco Express, than a regular garden.
The point is, I failed to attract any attention and so plodded even more dejectedly towards Johnshaven. A lucky escape, perhaps, or then again, after two weeks out in the wilds….
This is quite a good place to finish as it happens, but the point I am skirting around, of course, is that the Angussians are dead friendly and sometimes slightly inebriated, which is why they get on so well with TGO Challengers.
As the bloke at Mrs Brown’s veggie shop said - “They’re a great bunch”
Unfortunately he was talking about daffodils.
And so it was that this very supertanned vision of Big G having a bit of a laugh lighted heavily on the doorstep of a certain unfeasibly chested Mrs Primula Brown with the intent of asking directions for fresh water for the platypus. And, after fighting his way through the shameful display of intimate laundry on the washing line, and sporting a substantial and pink pair of Mrs Brown’s midweek panties , accidentally attached to that little clip thing on his platypus tube, he leant heavily against the door and, puffing with the effort, rang the doorbell.
There was no answer.
It wasn’t because Mrs Brown was out shopping. Nor was it that she was deaf or deliberately ignoring the summons of the bell. In point of fact, she was taking advantage of a brief and watery shaft of sunlight out the back in order to try to make herself look a bit more healthy for the Johnshaven Village Hall tea Dance on Tuesday, after which she would quite like to have tea and, ultimately, her evil way with a certain retired fisherman.
Oh no, it wasn’t for any of these reasons that the bell went ignored.
In point of fact, the doorbell button had never actually been connected to the bell for reasons much too complex to explore here, but which concerned her lazy good for nothing son who was crap at DIY.
Mrs Brown closed her eyes and faced the weak yellow shaft of late afternoon sun and bemoaned the latest damage to her vegetable patch. Speaking, as she often did, to the starling having a squawk in the hedge, she berated the thieving barstewards wot “pinched ma bliddy carrots” again.
The starling, whom our heroine Primula knew well in view of its distinctive lack of a complete pair of legs due to an accident with a crop sprayer a couple of years ago had been tragically nursing a clutch of sterile eggs in Mrs Brown’s gutter these past eighteen months, but would if she could, have explained to Mrs Brown that it was the local rabbits wot done it. This would have been a just reward for all the cake and breadcrumbs.
Following the first two disastrous crop failures, Mrs Brown had, in fact, been inserting carrots purchased from a local shop on the grounds that the season was probably getting a bit late for seeds and the purpose of the patch was more for decoration and the delight of a local retired gardener she had eyes for than mere sustenance. She was also very much aware of the possibilities of an tour or inspection of a vegetable patch for the discussion to resort to the kind of meaningful double entendre so useful for making one’s romantic intentions clear even to someone who could be a bit slow on the uptake. The fallback position would be the lacing of his tea. He was, indeed, “in for it”.
Anyway, the rabbits regarded Prim’s patch as more of a branch of Tesco Express, than a regular garden.
The point is, I failed to attract any attention and so plodded even more dejectedly towards Johnshaven. A lucky escape, perhaps, or then again, after two weeks out in the wilds….
This is quite a good place to finish as it happens, but the point I am skirting around, of course, is that the Angussians are dead friendly and sometimes slightly inebriated, which is why they get on so well with TGO Challengers.
As the bloke at Mrs Brown’s veggie shop said - “They’re a great bunch”
Unfortunately he was talking about daffodils.
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