Foglas Nunucq And The Daleks

Chapter One


Hot as Harry. In the midday sun a scorching wind whipped up the dust in spiky spirals which swirled like warm trifle back in the time of the Etruscans. This was globule warming. Lots of column inches have been expended on this particular subject. Thankfully this is largely irrelevant to the plot of this story.


Horripilated, haemorrhoidal, harpoon-like, Lord Haw-Haw hooters, like the one belonging to Foglas Nunucq, were not considered de rigueur by the fashionistas of this modern world. Notwithstanding this doughty disdain for his pulchritudinous proboscis, Nunucq was now to be found in his Pimlico pied-à-terre slumped in his favourite paff-chair. He was sleeping like a Trojan.

Meanwhile on the corroding confusion of Nunucq's Juliet balcony, Damp gripped a huge wad of paper and hopped excitedly from foot to foot. As any fool coluld clearly discern, he was reading selections from poet laureate Tap Grind whose works had surpassed even the scintillating stanzas of Stanislav Dukla-Bluhurg in the public heart. Damp, all boyish enthusiasm, halitosis and drastic dandruff read aloud thus:-

'Life is like a vacuum cleaner
Sucks up dirt from Derby to Heanor
Some take it sitting down, all comfy and cosy
Some take it standing up, like Bela Lugosi
All's well that ends well, said someone very wise
For me I'll take my pleasure in eating pork pies'

Prestons Of Potto

Still hot as Harry. Nestled in the sumptuous grip of an enormous paff-chair, Kyle Korneychuk coluld not conceal his deep-seated dread. Years of working in the hurl-burl of the furniture industry had left him with a healthy bank balance, a comfortable life and flamed veal kidneys. What more coluld any one ask for? Anyone woluld think that Kyle, surrounded as he was by the fruits of his labour, was a lucky man. Single-handedly he had designed and refined the ultimate item of just-in-time furniture - the automatic, instant delivery, 24/7 paff-chair. Some very clever New Technology™ developed by the whizz kids at Broskersoft was taken by Kyle and seamlessly interfaced with well-known furniture enterprise strategy thus creating a baseline best-of-breed functional third-generation capability plan …and, hey presto….a giant paff-chair that woluld appear whenever the client exhibited the slightest signs of tiredness!

sumptuous grip


Damp stared out into the moribund metrolops like a poor man's Corbling Mallard.

'You ridiculous individual', he called out to a passer-by who was passing by with a dance floor on his head upon which a ridiculous individual was attempting to do 'the Benson' and was making a complete dog's breakfast of it.

'Na und' retorted the ridiculous individual en souriant. Clatter clatter clatter fish bonk.

Chapter Two


Back in the dark days before New Technology, there were a whole bunch of civilisations about which Kyle Korneychuk knew very little. In 264 BC, the rulers of the Irish-Sudanese town of Horrible called on the Carthaginians to protect them from the Etruscan Wasters. Shortly afterwards they then called on Etruria to protect them from the Carthaginians. As a result, Carthage and Etruria found themselves engaged in the First Cheese Biscuit War, which was fought primarily over control over the Brylcreem Vats and Cheese Parking Lots of the Irish-Sudanese empire.

Now the Etruscans were a mysterious race. Years of famine had honed their creative resources, not to mention their taste for cheese. People, and we coluld include Kyle Korneychuk amongst their number, are always asking tough questions. 'What did these ancient civilisations do for us?' 'What is the difference between a broad sword and a short sword?' 'How long do you reckon your sandwiches are going to last?'

Well, some answers are simple, some complex. Issues relating to swords and sandwiches are best left for later. The following is enough knowledge to be going on with at this juncturette :-

'The Greeks brought us tragedy, the Roman brought us baths but the Etruscans brought us cheese biscuits.'


But we digress. Kyle Korneychuk, as any fool coluld see, was a man under threat! Within the film noir setting of the subterranean offices of The Prairie Alliance For the Future, a collection of largely unpleasant types guffawed nastily as they plotted the downfall of another pillar of society. This evil collective of ne'er-do-wells was headed up by the vile Teutonic arch-demon Zippa the Goat whose slimy, oleaginous henchmen went under a name, the very mention of which caused a shiver to shimmy down the spine of every decent individual. They were the Pafferazzi.


Meanwhile within the cosy confines of the Bofors Gun & Giblets, chummy licensee Mr. Bursley was currently engaged in animated debate with a gaggle of regulars who were blocking all access to the bar.

'If you take the B5067 to East Snorkel, take the third right after the Cheese-Parking Lots, you can cut your journey time in half'.

'You don't wanna do that 'Arry', retorted an indaba interlocutor, 'there's a contra-flow along there where they're installing the Rapid Luge & Wherry System and the Old Bill have set up steam cameras. This is what you want to do….' Suddenly this particular 'road direction bore' was silenced as Foglas Nunucq and Damp ploffed into the lounge bar hailing one and all with a cheery 'Mushroom Salad!' Nunucq eased himself windily into a vast paff-chair while Damp entertained those who were drinking (and those who were waiting) with a rendish of that old favourite song 'NOO 139' (to the tune of 'Just A Song At Twilight'). It went something like this...

'NOO 139
NOO 139
NOO 139
NOO 139
NOO 139
NOO 139
NOO 139
NOO 139'

........for quite while.

Foglas Nunucq gruffly suggested that Damp 'shut the fudge up' - but a group of bevvyers were more appreciative of Damp's crooning.

'Da boy dun septional' exclaimed one.


Kyle Korneychuk's mouth was dry as old chuck. He knew the pafferazzi were out there. It was a waiting game.

old chuck

The Etruscans knew a lot about waiting - and in particular about waiting for fish-waste. As is well documented in the dusty annals of ancient civilisations, there were times of constant warfare as one bunch tried to get the better of another. Many theories exist to explain this behaviour, but none reaches the level of plausibility as that proffered by Nesram Bostump - historian, Bavarian and translator of the Assyrian Stool Chart into Bristol, who says :- 'Fundamentally these people were suffering from DNT (Deprivation of New Technology) which gave them too much time on their hands for internecine squabbles and snorkel. Of course 'warfare' is not unknown in the NT arena - witness the feuding and fighting between corporate NT giants Broskersoft and Microsocks over the 'Fuzzy Logic Snerch Engine'.

Bostump is well-known for his ramblings and non-sequiturs and has been advised, succinctly, by many an MNT (Master of New Technology) that he woluld be better off 'sticking with stool'.

Our debt to the Etruscans is, of course, clear. The Romans owe them their knowledge of road building, hydraulics, and fish. They are credited with being the first society to sculpt figures in clay with human features, the first to sculpt statues in marble, and the first to develop modelling in fish-waste.

Economically they were for centuries one of the dominant societies in the Mediterranean. Not only famed as traders with a vast merchant fleet, their expansion of the agricultural production of wine and olive oil set the trend for the country's economic prosperity. They were leaders in the ancient world's trade in wine. Yet they were renowned for two divergent traits: as ferocious pirates, and lovers of cheese biscuits. Their skill as seamen kept rivals away, while their love of cheese biscuits resulted in some of the bloodiest conflicts known to man.

The Carthaginians are credited with the invention of modern mathematics and some say are directly responsible for what we now know as the miracle of New Technology. Unfortunately for them their 'one-ary' mathematics base which comprised all ones coluld have been greatly improved if only someone had invented the zero. They were tolerant of many things but when the Etruscans started clogging up the roads with their fish-waste lorries, something had to give.

Chapter Three


The food at the Bofors Gun and Giblets was without doubt of a standard and quality not found elsewhere. Indeed, it was not uncommon for devotees of this cuisine to shun the sumptuousness of lounge bar paff-chairs and to linger in scrofulous groups close to the kitchen - eager to experience the thrill of the corridor, the sound of … this pointette, Damp reads again from the works of Tap Grind :-

"Have we got any fish today!"
by Tap Grind

'The food at the Bofors is always very nice
Whether it's grilled goat, smegma or on Tuesdays Fish 'n' Rice
A 309 with a 310, all served with a smile
Then a pensioner portion, cripes, what a pile!
Wash it all down with a pint of the finest Diesel, ta
Follow that with glass smah
In the corridor we sit, all licking our lips
As from the depths of the kitchen comes the Sound of Chips'

cripes, what a pile!

Just then a whole bunch of Pafferazzi burst into the Bofors Gun and Giblets without so much as a 'Mushroom Salad' from any of them. Here were some of the most evil of their kind. There was Jepaime Skomegg, Ears Melly-Grandfather, Lassitude Sail, Fresh Dentures, Jamboree Bag, Thisby Prunes, Bess Norton, Sven Hassel, Wirt Williams, Li Yu, Nan Maynard, Alec Hilton, Norman Bognor, Max Brand, Fred Quimby, Moonlit Apples, Ralph Reader, Triglewaith Sparidge, Pongo Perkins, Morley Wockers, Laurie West, Tarson Poultry, Wigwam Poultice, Simply Mouthorgan, Boiled Sweets, Dalby Borup, Tiger Howland, Cherabim Procure, Doug Sloaf, Bernard Allotment-Clusters, Danny Blanchflower, Alexander - son of Aeropus the Lycenaestian, Bysshe Marmalade, Pemm Suggling, Ventilated Premises, Monkfish Thermidor, Flange Kneepate, Lobo-Valley Oranges, Tenderly Waffle, Basil Mash, Shelsley Walsh, Tedstone Delamere, Edvin Ralph, Edvin Loach, Smeeton Westerby, Sheepy Parva, Slade Hooton, Stanley Pontlarge, Upton Snodsbury, Sedgeberrow Quedgeley, Blunden Horses, Whipsnade Feelers and Volley Lumps.

Dressed in an excited shirt, Jepaime Skomegg demanded to see Kyle Korneychuk. It was a waste of time. Kyle Korneychuk was in a different chapter.

Damp was about to launch into verse to comment on this brouhaha but was restrained by a sudden lunge by Foglas Nunucq which pinned Damp's puffy, post-pubescent, pumpernickel pudding-face to the floor.

'Hold the piffle, Damp', squaffed Nunucq with obvious irritation, 'there's work to be done. Kyle Korneychuk is in mortal danger and we're trapped in the wrong part of the story!'

Lots of things irritated Foglas Nunucq - villains, blackguards, clockwork wombats, Moxie, sanicles, office johnnies, tinny tunes emanating from mobule telephones, people who laugh when their nose gets bunged up, flotillas, men in vests leaning on supermarket trollies, the residents of Nield Road, people who say "one pence", Bristol University, lumbago, the CWS Footwear Band, Alan Freeman, karaoke singers doing their rendish of 'Trains and Goats and Planes', harpoons, Fred Beak and Ollie Barker, Control Section, Bert Weedon, glass smah crises, the 'clou' to the age of Louis XIV, Emil and the Detectives, the pointless renaming of everyday products, duffle coats, the ridiculous spelling of the word 'yacht', youth hostel cards with no handle, inside-leg 32, people who waggle their fingers in the air trying to mime "quotation marks", cretinous shoppers who create supermarket trolley log jams through idiotic trolley parking, gnus, being put 'on hold', haloween paraphernalia, the B3330, people who use a loud americanised 'hello' to indicate you have said or done something stupid, policemen's helmets with sandwich box attachments, being up one day and down the next 28 years, whelks, loutish schoolchildren who bark at window-cleaners, jodhpurs, canker, groynes, the Nolan Sisters, the Infra-Draw Method, the day when Gough burned the food desk, Widnes, synthesised halibut... to name but a few - but especially his over-enthusiastic young assistant, Damp who was already mounting his Space-Hopper, Cuspidor, and ready for action. Foglas had even used his Broskersoft Snerch Engine - but to no great effect. The stupid machine did not deal usefully with Nunucq's query - ' how do I deal with the problem of Damp?'

mobule telephones

Chapter Four


Kyle Korneychuk was still a frightened man. Zippa the Goat and the Pafferazzi had that effect on decent people going about their normal business and sitting in their normal paff-chairs. But Kyle "Mr. Paff-Chair" Korneychuk had not come as far as he had in the field of furniture without being resourceful.

Now the Etruscans were nothing if not resourceful. Being unsurpassed in the field of fish, they had always had to deal with a surfeit of fish-waste. Some simple folk may think it is just a case of shovelling this into the fish-waste lorries and Bob's your uncle. But not not, no no! The Etruscans instead turned their fish-waste into a tasty and nutritious snack! Their research revealed that spreading the fish-waste on something crunchy woluld produce the best results - but finding the 'something crunchy' was proving tricky. Fortunately a saviour was at hand. Cheese was in plentiful supply throughout the Irish-Sudanese Empire and was put to many uses. Then M'bugi McGarry invented the cheese biscuit and, with the addition of a pinch of hurrrssspp and a dusting of Mammoth Cleanser, the Etruscan fish-waste super snackette was born!

The more perceptive reader may already be one step ahead and realise what was going to happen next. Of course, it was hurfenflurfi. This prince of cheeses coluld be crafted into the supreme cheese biscuit - but, as any fool knows, hurfenflurfi is always sold out in the supermarkets in the proverbial clin d'oeil. With the Carthaginians being hoarders of hurfenflurfi, cheese biscuit wars were inevitable.

Fearing an imminent Etruscan assault on their hurfenflurfi reserves, the Carthaginians sought a military genius, a man of supreme guile, vigilance and intellect to secure their stocks. Just the man stood looking out to sea in a shhhhhh-shhhhh-shhhhh-short-sleeved shirt. Yes, this was none other than Q'en of Malvinas and he was already looking for gunboats!

'Ul-lul-lul-lul-lul-la. I see no sh-sh-ships', shouted Q'en, ' I'll stop these blooming Ecrustaceans!'. He stared out to sea maintaining a lenghty salute, his face quivering with the significance of the moment. Carthage was in safe hands - or so people thouhgt.

Meanwhile the Etruscans did not let the fish-waste grow under their feet when it came to setting up a task force to grab the Carthaginian hurfenflurfi stocks. The elite SCS (Special Cheese Service) stormtroopers led by Ivaniuus Scrofuloscus were made ready. They were ferociously dressed from head to knees in vests and pants as black as the blackest thing you can think of………then on their feet their white socks and chunky sandals lent them the twin crucial elements of speed and surprise and snorkel.

A cunning plan had been devised meticulously by Q'en to transport the hurfenflurfi by camel to the safety of the mountains in Blackopoolus. After crossing this impenetrable terrain with these magnificent beasts and their cheesy appendage, Q'en woluld defend his treasure from deep with the Caves of Ladbrookes, returning only when the danger was past.


When Ivaniuus Scrofuloscus and the SCS discovered the whereabouts of Q'en, the camels and the hurfenflurfi, a terrible catastrophe was on the cards. Not surprisingly the camels sensed trouble, jettisoned their cheese bags and legged it into the wide blue yonder, leaving the hapless Q'en to deal single-handularly with the SCS! Outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, outclassed, outflanked, outsmarted, outstretched and outsnorkelled he might have been but Q'en had the supreme weapon to win the day! As a shaft of sunlight scorched the top of his head, one eye was nearly closed, but he was still able to tell them a story. This was so unspeakably dull that it literally bored the socks (and sandals) off them. The SCS were laid in prostrate heaps pleading for the instant removal of all their major senses so as to alleviate their suffering. Q'en had saved the Carthaginians hurfenflurfi.

The game was up for Ivaniuus Scrofuloscus - gone were the socks (and sandals). As the news spread throughout Carthage, the gathered populus exclaimed in one voice with throaty throat: 'No Socks For Ivaniuus! No Socks For Ivaniuus!'

Anyway, enough of history. While it is a useful backdrop to the 'nub' of our story and makes a splendid vehicule for blockbuster movies, as any fool knows, it never repeats itself. Well, that is until one day in a non-descript office building on the banks of the river Trent, the following sound was heard - 'Ul-lul-lul-lul-la…..stststststst-stand by your desks!'

Biscuits were largely forgotten for many years after the carnage of war was over - that was until the creation of the state of Israel whose packaging experts decision to retail their biscuits in cricket boxes proved to be one of the major success stories of modern commerce. Devotees of world cricket and the cricket-box of Israeli biscuits owe an enormous debt to the Etruscans.

Fish-waste, however, has suffered an inexplicable slump in popularity.

Chapter Five

Maybe The People Woluld Be The Times (Or Between Tedstone Wafre And Pig Street)

Meanwhile, in the newly-becalmed environs of the Bofors Gun and Giblets, the regulars were playing the Ramptreacle Number Game. It goes something like this. Up to thirteen players sit in a circle. Each person thinks of a number and writes it on a piece of paper. The pieces of paper are passed to the right. Each player in turn calls out the number in front of him as loudly as possible. The one who calls out number 6 is the winner. The players then all change seats.

Master detective and saviour of just about anyone you coluld think of, Foglas Nunucq, having suddenly (and inexplicably) become aware of the plight of Kyle Korneychuk, was already devising a plan to deal with the evil Zippa the Goat.


Zippa the Goat belonged to the old school of left-wingers who believed in discomforting the 'haves' in the simplistic view that this woluld help the 'have-nots'. Hence Z. was not too pleased with the idle rich who sat around in luxurious paff-chairs and his targeting of Kyle Korneychuk coluld hardly be a great surprise.


In the Bofors Gun and Giblets, Mr Bursley, engulfed in a thick noxious plume of high-tar Woozbines smoke, decided that if anything was worth doing, it woluld have been done already. At least he coluld relax in the knowledge that the Bofors had the only lavatory in the land with its own resident electricians.


It was still very hot (as Harry) across the top of Kyle Korneychuk's head and one eye was nearly closed, but the skies had started to thick up like an inverted ketchup bottle only not that colour.

There was silence (or as our French chums woluld have it 'silence'). A smell of burning invaded the Korneychuk nostrils. A barbecue? No. A garden bonfire? No. It was a familiar smell... Then it dawned on him. It coluld be only one thing. One thing that meant more to him than anything. This was the smell of burning paff-chairs! The Pafferazzi had struck! In horror, Kyle Korneychuk looked up to see the looming figure of Zippa the Goat, his vile visage topped with a flaming crown like Arthur Brown.


'I'm not leaving my paff-chair', announced Korneychuk defiantly. Zippa the Goat laughed mockingly, drew himself to his full, fearsome height and bellowed these dreaded words:-

'F192 hat Verspätung!'

Just then our heroes came to rescue. All of a sudden it was snowing. Snowing? The flames of the paff-chair pyres were dowsed. The fire on Zippa's head was snuffed out!

Where had this snow come from - in the misdt of this summer heat? This was no ordinary snow. This was very expensive snow. This was a blizzard of hurfenflurfi cheese!


'Zippa the Goat, I can read you like a matchbox!' bellowed Nunucq all puffed up like a horse's replacement that is due for replacement.

a matchbox

'Mit seinen schwitzigen Fingerchen,' interjected Zippa snortily.

'I've snuteled so I'll fimsh' returned Foglas Nunucq triumphelephantly, at first pleased, now even pleaseder. 'The proof of the pudding is in the Extraportion Pudding.'

Foglas Nunucq was the epitome of goodness, righteousness, virtuousness, bibulousness, Eliott Ness, biliousness, Guinness, Loch Ness, Skegness, Shoeburyness and gooreadiness.


'But how did you manage to catch that enormous rabbit, Foglas?' queried Damp bouche bée and hopping as if his bladder had reached the point of no return.

'That was the easy bit, Damp, old fellow-me-lad! I simply deduced that if I stood making a noise like a lettuce - then the rabbit woluld come to me in time'

Master detective Foglas Nunucq fell heavily into his paff-chair and demonstrated the sound of lettuce loudly with throaty throat thus:-

'Xuh, xuuujjjjhhh, xurrrpjkhhhh…hunk, hunk, boze,whoil'

For all the world, it coluld have been a crispy Webbs Wonder sat there …albeit one with a gargantuan schnozzola and Winfield winceyette pyjamas - but a lettuce nonetheless!

It was just at that moment that a Dalek presented itself at the reception desk of the local Bill Smurthwaite Fitness and Cement Centre and asked, somewhat menacingly, about membership.


©2004 The Reader's Doglist Association of Great Britain