Foglas Nunucq in
The Tale Of Two Hippies
or How Damp Deals With The Swoss Twins
In Eighty-Three Books
Book The First. Recoiled In Tripe.
It was the vest of times, it was the wurst of times, it was the age of Wislon, it was the age of Gooreadiness, it was the epoch of West Teeth, it was the epoch of the Etruscans, it was the season of Lenght, it was the season of Dampness, it was the spring of goat, it was the winter of distemper, we had E Balawi before us, we had School Dinners before us, we were going there and back with a purpose, we were going clatter clatter clatter fish bonk.
Foglas Nunucq, master detective, bête noire of the criminal classes and noted bon viveur dozed in the steamy, be-rubberducked surroundings of his Pimlico salle de bain. A self-satisfied look creased the crumpled visage of the celebrated super-sleuth. The ne'er-do-wells, blackguards, knaves, louts, rapscallions and sundry ugly customers had been unceremoniously dispatched to the annals of crime leaving the likes of Foglas and his irritatingly enthusiastic aide-de-camp, Damp, resident in resplendent redundancy. The world was, at long last, safe for decent hard-working people. They could go about their business without fear even if they walked around with dance floors on their heads. Thanks to Foglas and Damp, together with certain other minor superheroes, wrongdoing, skullduggery, villainy, racketeering, chicanery, wangles, fiddles, hanky-panky, flan, Copenhagen, tendril, enclave, pew, snuff, profile, broskers had been put to the sword. Banished forever. Fimshed. Finally and utterly fimshed.
safe for decent hard-working people
In what was popularly known as the outside world, the citizenry was busily getting on with things without cognizance of Foglas' ablutions. Work was being done, books were being read, things were being put on top of other things – indeed the cycle of life was in full swing. Youngsters thronged the dance halls and, to the sound of tribal rhythms, they 'did the Benson'.
Meanwhile, not a million miles from the snorkel surroundings of a certain Meccano Ballroom, a white-besuited hirsute gentleman of minuscule vertical proportions entered the Lounge Bar of the 'Bofors Gun & Giblets' in purposeful manner. Stepping extrorsely towards the chummy licensee, Mr. Bursley, this wag in white proffered a disarmingly cheery 'Oh No' in conventional greeting, thus concealing the fact that, soon, all hell was about to break loose......
Foglas Nunucq had not heard of the Little Fella. The only problems he had encountered recently with the vertically challenged, involved a particularly unpleasant incident with the oleaginous proprietor of Vasco Da Gama's Hi Quality Fish Bar whilst purchasing a large portion of Warm Trifle (with Chips, Lumps and Gravy of course). But this has no bearing on the current narrative and the resulting attack of recalcitrant plebney had healed up nicely.
Vasco Da Gama's Hi Quality Fish Bar
Damp was at this very moment swinging from a flagpole, ducking a torrent of abuse from an irate old buffer of military bearing. 'Damned young whippersnapper. You're completely up the pole!' He was. It was all quite innocent really. In the absence of any crimes to solve, Damp had been investigating new technology. The worldwide craze for 'scurfing in Smiberspace' had not passed him by but suffice it to say, the connection between this and thirty-foot flagpoles would slot into place like Evans the Glopple.
The Smiberspace revolution had been the brainchild of one Rotten-Rich Smibernoll, a character of mystery not seen in public. Indeed, speculation was rife that Smibernoll was in fact dead or at least stunned. His reclusive nature fuelled the scurfing craze as hordes of insatiable information seekers sought the truth like vats of Brylcreem.
"Mushroom Salad," retorted chummy licensee, Mr. Bursley, his fag-ash threatening an unsuspecting punter's foaming pint of 'Old Pecker'. "Pint of Diesel is it, your imperial majesty? Help yourself to a chair, maestro. Someone will bring your table directly."
With one bound the Little Fella struck.
THE SWOSS TWINS
Meanwhile, under the warm air vents outside the Northolt Swimerama, a motley gathering of worthless dregs assembled like seepage from a soiled budgie extraction system. These irksome improxicables balanced their worthlessness with their supreme prowess at the newly-designated Olympic sport of Spitting into South Harrow. They may yet have some part to play in this sorry saga.
Damp had by now disentangled himself from his flagpole jolly-boatings and returned hotfoot to the Nunucq residence to report back on his exploits to his less-than-interested mentor.
Foglas Nunucq, all huff-puffed and carpet-slippered, dozed sloughily in his favourite armchair. His lily-livered fairly-often table was festooned in the fall-out of Hot Nuts (large tub) which Foglas had been stuffing mercilessly into his Föhn face.
Meanwhile, back in the scrofulous surroundings of the office of the junior sub-editor of the Ipswich Fishing Bloater, big news not entirely unconnected with Fitness and Cement was about to limp hamfistedly into view. Something terrible was going on in a hostelry nearby. Too terrible to contemplate. A situation requiring strong stomachs, brave hearts and flamed-veal kidneys. Only one man could help.
Suddenly the rosy, comforting, 'that'll do for me, Mrs. Mason' atmosphere of Foglas' rooms was usurped testily like a packed lunch. The room darkened. The telephone creaked. Foglas stretched out a gnarled, greasy hand and seized the receiver with an air of guff, bob and pants. It spoke to him.
a packed lunch
Gecc Workman, journalist, raconteur, inside leg 32, had established a rapport with some of the more unpleasant citizens of this great nation. From his office at 'the Bloater', he provided a conduit for the great unwashed back into a civilised life of regular work, regular meals, regular movements, a good pension, some decent trousers, a weekend in Blackpool, the Queen Mum (Gawd Bless Her!), tombola, chutney, bosh, prunes, beagle, ponce, sturgeon, burgoo and mollusc. Gecc had befriended the mob that hung around The Northolt Swimerama. Sometimes he would take them back to his home in Royston, Hertfordshire where, after a good meal of best Tropo, he would let them scurf in Smiberspace like proper people.
However, the cheery air of things only getting better had been punctured by news of the disaster at the 'Bofors'. The Olympian dream of medal success for the nation's Spitting Into South Harrow team had been cruelly dashed. Almost overnight the entire team had shrunk. Far from being able to spit into South Harrow, their diminished stature meant that they could hardly launch their throaty projectile across Nield Road!
Workman had no hesitation in enlisting the help of Foglas and Damp.
"Whaa...whaa...what?" boggled Foglas, his eyebrows furrowed like a pair of Irish-Sudanese horse blankets.
"What's the caper, Foglas?" chirruped Damp irritatingly as he nibbled an Israeli biscuit.
"Monkeyglands Haemoglobin, Damp! There's no time to lose!"
With one bound, the piliferous pair launched the rescue mission. Whilst donning his favourite galoshes, Foglas had deduced that this damnable business was not entirely unconnected with Fitness and Cement.
"We must travel to Royston, Damp. It's all to do with the scurfing craze."
travel to Royston
Damp looked non-plussed. His Tyrolean lederhosen swept the floor which loomed closer by the second. There was not a minute to lose.
The streets of Royston were in turmoil. From a vantage point above the withering watchers, the Little Fella rose to his full height, cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on the olla podrida onlookers.
"I've been thinking about onions again. But without much success. How long d'you reckon your sandwiches are going to last?"
Foglas listened as the Little Fella got slowly, but swossly to the point.
Book The Eighty-Third.
Wycombe And The All Night Wasp.
It turned out that whilst scurfing in Smiberspace the unsuspecting browsers were being subjected to huge doses of the dastardly latin virus 'Maralalda El Deldil'. Very nasty. This dago dollop would attack the growth centres of the scurfers. All development was arrested. And worse!
People were shrinking. The Little Fella had spent his miserable life plotting revenge on the world for his docked dimensions.
Foglas, to our eternal gratitude, was once again ahead of the plot. He had spent some idle moments researching the mysterious promoter of the scurfing in Smiberspace craze. Rumour had it, that R-R Smibernoll was a fanatical vegetarian. Foglas looked down on Damp and in hushed tones unveiled his master plan to thwart the minuscule menace.
Damp stumbled through the crowd and offered the Little Fella a crisp. Surprised by Damp's unsolicited generosity, the Little Fella fell into the trap!
It is now safe to reveal that the Little Fella was indeed Rotten-Rich Smibernoll and Damp had fed him a smoky bacon crisp!
a smoky bacon crisp
The Maralalda El Deldil virus had been reversed. What did this have to do with Fitness and Cement? More than is apparent at this time – but that's another story....
The little Fella, undone, his plot to be bigger than everyone else destroyed, turned to face the assembled throng in desperation. "People of Royston...."
"Royston", retorted the throng with one voice and having said that they walked off. The Little Fella was not going to waste his eloquence and wailed to those departing....
"It is a far, far bigger dog-do, than has ever seen Evonne Gooolagong; it is are not raining here also, it is Hot as Harry."
©2000 The Reader's Doglist Association of Great Britain