vinnybear00vI must have messed up a mission…. they somehow got photos of me!
Posted: June 11, 2011 in Uncategorized0
Thank you to all my friends, and people who don’t like me – like Dr Yes But No But Maybe… I’ve had over 3000 hits on my website.
Party Time - sat waiting for the chocolate.
Thank you
Love from Vinny xxxx
I still need silly jokes and woolly jumpers!
Thunderdog and me watched Youtube yesterday and guess what….. the talking dog is back!
Check out now. It will make you laugh….a lot….
Thank you talking dog!
Thunderdog
Hey – but Thunderdog….. we love you more!
I am now a member of the rock band – ‘The Youth Gone Mild’.
Our first gig was last weekend.
Before the sound check, the band members exfoliated and moisturised. The night air can be harsh on delicate skin.
As the sun set, it became a little chilly on stage, so we all decided to put our coats on so that we didn’t get a cold. Desmond (lead guitar) quite easily feels the cold. His mum always insists that he should wear a vest, but as a man of rock, he prefers not to.
During our second number Desmond received a call from his wife.
She was not pleased that he had forgotten to hang out the washing during the afternoon; she had come home to wet towels in the wash basket.
Alfie (bass guitar) had left his sandwiches in the back of the car, and was now feeling hungry.
I am lead vocalist, but often asked to play the bottles, as we have not yet got enough money together to buy a drum kit.
I really struggled in the chorus of ‘Match stalk Men and Match stalk Cats and Dogs’ as I can barely reach the top notes. Luckily for me, the bass guitar drown out my errors.
The crowd of three cheered as we finished our first set.
Gran woke up.
Alfie rushed off stage for a wee wee. His nerves always had this effect on him.
During the interval both Alfie and Desmond applied a lashing of hand cream. Their finger tips were sore from playing.
After light refreshments of lemonade and chocolate biscuits, the band made their way back on stage.
Alfie was late on set. He went for another wee wee. He didn’t really want one, but Desmond said that he ought to go and have a try before moving into the second half.
Gran settled back down for another nap.
The crowd of three sat back down on their deckchairs and waited in anticipation whilst we retuned the bottles.
Someone in the crowd had mistake one of the bottles for their own bottle of coke and had taken a gulp from it. Instantly they spat out the stale water – but that mouthful had changed the pitch of the bottle and now we were out of tune for the ‘Ring of Fire.’
The crowd of three, soon became a crowd of two, as he had to go home for his tea.
‘The Youth Gone Mild’ – Rock on!
Time was running out.
You could hear the grains of sand tapping against each other as each and every second dropped from the future into the present and then slipped into the oblivion of the past.
The darkness was spreading all around me. The sea was heavy above my head – it was like wearing a very heavy, very wobbly woolly hat that had been soaked through with more water than you could spit at a vicar. And to be perfectly honest, it was heavy everywhere else too… above my shoulders, above my chest… even above my backside.
There were only five minutes of air left in The Austin-Matthew’s-Inflatable-Deep-Sea-Diving-Tank®. After that was gone, my life would end. Thank goodness that I was wearing my Automatic Release Volcanic Mist Spray Deodorant* ®. At least I wouldn’t die a B.O. Bear ®.
My right leg was trapped in the clasp of a giant man eating scallop. The details of how I got there were nothing more than a hazy memory now, but I did recall something about warm salad, olive oil and a brand new episode of the top reality cooking programme, Super Chef!!! ©.
There was no escaping this one.
There was only one way out and that was by taking the heavenly route in the watery version of an old-fashioned type of 1930s car… the sort with running boards and blasting machine-guns when the doors were thrown opening. At least I could thank Big T for sending me on the Speak-Like-A-Private-Detective-From-The-Fifties®… that was about the only crumb of comfort I had.
Suddenly a thought sprung into my head like a Tasmanian Devil on a Pneumatic Pogo Stick ®. Had I taken the chicken out of the freezer to defrost? Or would it be Chicken Lollipops ® for breakfast, lunch and dinner?
Then another thought popped up like a finger being stuffed up the inside of a grubby nostril – If only I could make this scallop swim, it would open up its mouth and I could pull my leg out!
I said it out loud; just to make sure the idea was real and not just some foolish dream. That was a mistake… as I let out valuable seconds of air from the oxygen tank and almost choked on a passing haddock. I made a New Bear’s Resolution ® then and there. In future, I would say things to myself quietly as a thought… that’s if there was to be any future.
Four minutes of air left.
The scallop had buried itself deeply into the sand. It was ready for an afternoon nap in front of the prawn racing. My leg in its mouth didn’t seem to be bothering him at all.
A gentle rumbling sound echoed around.
What was it?
Ripley!
He’d come to pluck me from the icy waters in the nick of time. He’d stopped the usual routine of twenty-four seven grazing and even now, as my air ran out, was thundering towards me in a speedboat. No doubt he’d travelled to the harbour in St.Tropez where he’d played some cunning trick to divert attention from a very quick and very snazzy speedboat. Either that or he’d just pushed the owner in the sea and made off with the sleek vessel. And now he was whipping across the waves of the ocean in a final, desperate attempt to rescue me.
Thank goodness for donkeys!
I swivelled my head round and looked upwards. Anytime now, I’d see the turbulence and foaming water caused by the spinning propellers of Ripley’s rescue boat. Then he’d plunge into the depths, swim down towards (chewing grass, most likely… either that or a kebab…) and pluck me from this watery finale I was facing.
I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
Three minutes of air left.
The sound echoed around even more.
Even closer.
It was as if it was coming from beneath me. That was it! Ripley was burrowing through the centre of the Earth from his favourite grazing-hole in Nidderdale and, any second now, was about to burst from the ocean floor like a rampant bedspring.
I waited again.
And I waited again.
And I waited again.
Then, suddenly, from the ocean, burst absolutely nothing.
Two minutes of air left.
I listened again. The echoing came even louder.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
It was close-by…
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
And seemed to be getting closer…
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
It was…
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
The scallop!
It was snoring!
I twisted. I turned. I pushed. I pulled. I opened my Underwater-Bear-Thesaurus (For Use In Case of Emergencies) ® and checked it.
Then I twirled. I rotated. I shoved. I heaved.
I even hummed ‘Happy Birthday to Me’ to myself (in the style of Frederic Chopin, Piano Sonata No.2 in B minor, Op.35) –if this blooming scallop wasn’t going to let go of my leg then it would be the last time I ever heard that annoying song. Or any song come to think of it.
I looked down at the snoring scallop. There was no movement at all. Not even a flicker. The scallop was nicely settled for its afternoon nap. I hadn’t realised he could be so shellfish.
I tugged, I heaved, and I kicked and I punched. I referred to my Underwater-Bear-Thesaurus (Use In Case of Emergencies) ® but, in the rush to find some suitable alternatives, I flicked open the wrong digital pages and ended up poaching, fricasseeing and buying a small, yet highly decorative, pair of underpants on eBay.
Then ‘Happy blooming Birthday’ (this time in the style of Al Tabor, circa 1940) popped into my head again.
“Goodbye Vincent!” I whispered through closed lips. I’d already learnt my lesson about not speaking out aloud underwater. “Goodbye – forever!” My eyes watered. At least I think they did. It’s hard to tell when you’re submerged under millions of cubic metres of brine.
One minute of air left.
A tiny fish swam past.
“Goodbye little fish”
I looked up at the darkness above my head.
Everything was black.
“Stop, Vincent!” I thought again.
But the thought was out loud and a bubble of oxygen escaped from the mask. I gasped. It was the last bubble left in the tank and I watched as it floated up towards the surface of the sea.
I was out of luck.
Out of time.
And out of oxygen.
I was doomed!
TO BE CONTINUED…
*Automatic Release Volcanic Mist Spray Deodorant ®: Ideal for adding to the body to affect body odour and the smell associated with bacterial breakdown of perspiration in armpits, feet and other areas of the body. Tiny crystals of the Automatic Release Volcanic Mist Spray Deodorant ® are planted inside shirts, shoes or underpants and when rubbed quickly and rigorously together provide 72 ½ hours of protection. In other words, it stops you stinking!
“00V!” shouted Big T.
I was lost in deep thought as I dunked my last chocolate biscuit into my cup of tea – I was in need of some sun, sea and chocolate.
I had been working too hard.
“Do pay attention, 00V!”
I snapped out of my thirty-second daydream of the day. I love daydreaming. I do it a lot. I recommend it. You have great ideas when you’re daydreaming. Most of the world’s brilliant inventions came about as a result of daydreaming. Don’t listen to people who tell you to stop wasting your time doing it; do it more!!! You might not know the names of these inventors, but they left their mark on the world and on history! How brilliant is that?!?! There are such amazing inventions as the wheel… no idea of the inventor; the anemometer… again, no idea of the inventor; the Edible…
“The famous portrait of Lord Stanley Fleary has been stolen from the Old Hall in Little Bigham,” said Big T, stirring his cup of coffee faster and faster as though he was spinning gold to pass on to a particularly peculiar and wrinkled fairytale king.
“Not the famous portrait of Lord Stanley Fleary?” I said, spurting my tea and soggy biscuit all over the wall.
To this day, I don’t know why I did that.
I’d never heard of Lord Stanley Fleary.
“Yes 00V, it’s true!” Big T’s knees quivered then buckled and he slumped down into his chair, his face turning a waxy colour – well, if you could have seen beneath the fur, it was turning the waxy colour of a candle who had been sent to bed early because it had a high temperature.
“Good Lord!” I played along with the shock and horror bit, but was very disappointed at losing my soggy biscuit. I pondered whether to lick it off the wall or not.
“Good Lord indeed!” said Big T. The colour had drained from his face and was, even now, dribbling from his toes.
“This is serious!” I exclaimed, reaching for another biscuit as I flicked through the names on my latest iBear® cellphone, searching for Lord Stanley Fleary. Who the heck was Lord Stanley Fleary?
The iBear® cellphone is a remarkable little beast. It has sonar, radar and a Self-Wiping Bottom Function ®. With a memory large than that of a brontosaurus, it can also store up to three names and numbers on it – but Lord Stanley Fleary wasn’t one of them.
“Stolen right from under our noses,” continued Big T, examining dribbles of tea and splodges of mushed up biscuit that were stuck to the wallpaper. He scratched his head. “Don’t remember that being part of the pattern before.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned to me.
“Was Lord Stanley Fleary famous for his big nose?” I said.
Big T shook his head.
“His big mouth?”
Another shake of the head.
“His big bott–“
“No 00V!” Big T said. He touched a piece of soggy biscuit with the tip of his paw and examined it. “Interesting,” he mumbled. “Interactive wallpaper.”
“Sir, I can ex–“
“It’s guarded twenty-four seven. No one can understand how it was taken,” snapped Big T.
“Lord Stanley Fleary’s portrait was stolen?!?!” My jaw dropped in pretend shock.
“Yes, from the Old Hall in Little Bigham.” Big T was still oblivious to the fact that I had no idea who Lord Stanley Fleary was. “We must find it… its theft is a matter of national security!” Big T was shaking, his fur becoming soggy with sweat. The sight of his damp patches was not attractive.
I leaned over the table and looked Big T straight in his beady eyes. Slowly and deliberately, emphasising each word, I finally asked, “Who. Is. Lord. Stanley. Fleary?”
“You don’t know?” said Big T, plucking his horn-rimmed spectacles from his face, and spinning them round in his paw.
“I don’t know,” I replied, smiling… but only for a split second.
“You mean you don’t honestly know?”
“I don’t honestly know!”
“Who…”
“Who…” I mirrored Big T’s look of bewilderment – the type of expression you might have if the Number 27 bus to Settle was heading straight for you and there was no way you could get out of the way.
“Lord Stanley Fleary…” Foam bubbled from his mouth and sat on his lips, making it look like he’d eaten a delicious bar of soap and washed it down with a bottle of shampoo.
I rushed out the final sentence. “Who Lord Stanley Fleary was?” I ducked just in time to miss the hole punch that he threw at me. It slammed against the wall and clattered to the wooden floor.
I popped my head up above his desk.
Checked for any signs of flying missiles.
The coast was clear.
“YOU ARE AN INSULT TO NATIONAL SECURITY!” He pulled a red-spotted handkerchief from his pocket (it reminded me of the pattern on a particular pair of snazzy boxer shorts I owned) and tears filled his eyes.
Then he sobbed.
“He’s important then?” I realised how stupid my question was the moment it left my lips.
“Of course he’s important!” yelled Big T, turning the sort of colour angry adults go. “Lord Stanley Fleary was awarded the freedom of Little Bigham in 1843.”
“So he’s dead then?” I asked. Either that or he’d be old and wrinkly by now. Unless, of course, he had invented some secret elixir of life; some magic potion that meant he never aged; never got even a second older, never mind a day… or a month… or a century!
“He was given the freedom of Little Bigham for a most remarkable invention,” said Big T, blowing his nose hard and loud.
I was right!
Lord Stanley Fleary had invented a secret elixir! He had invented some magic potion that meant you never aged. Ever. “It’s remarkable, sir!” I said.
Big T smiled. “Yes, it is. The world has never seen the like of it since its invention.” He stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and thrust his spectacles back on. “The Edible Vacuum Flask. ®”
I gazed out of the window, my mind playing with the countless things I’d be able to do over countless centuries with a quick swig of Fleary’s Elixir of Life ®. I’d climb mountains – Siula Grande, Everest, K2; swim in deep oceans; learn to armpit fart the National Anthem in forty-three different languages.
“I can see you’re impressed,” said Big T, his harsh voice, which sounded like pumpkin seeds being nailed to a tree, snapping me out of my dream.
“I am, sir,” I said, slurping tea and cramming a ginger nut in my mouth. “I can just… the Edible Vacuum Flask ®?!?!?!” It was my time to spurt my tea and soggy biscuit all over the wall. “But The Edible Vacuum Flask ® was the biggest invention of the last century!” I cried.
Big T was licking the wallpaper. “I know Vincent!” He stopped licking and looked back at me. “And only one person knows its secret recipe. “
“Strange Lurking Sydney of Fleary Hall,” I said, the information flooding into my brain now. I looked across at Big T. “Where’s he?”
“Stolen!” said Big T. “Along with the painting.” He slumped into his luxurious gingerbread armchair. “Had a peculiar habit of gluing himself to the portrait every evening as a security measure. Seems the thief… or thieves… were unaware of this.”
I leapt up from my chair.
I instantly wished I hadn’t.
I tweaked a hamstring.
“M. I. 80 believes that the recipe was encoded on the portrait as well,” Big T explained. “In case anything unusual happened to Strange Lurking Sydney.”
“You mean like him being stolen along with the portrait because he was glued to it as a security measure?” I said, massaging the back of my leg.
“Precisely,” replied Big T.
“So whoever stole the portrait,” I said, thinking aloud, “Knew that it was the key to discovering the secret recipe for the Edible Vacuum Flask ®!”
This was serious! Not only was the only known copy of the recipe in enemy hands, but so was the only known person alive who knew it!
Big T rose from his chair. “And if you don’t find the portrait before the thieves who took it discover the recipe… you know what will happen, 00V!”
“Yes, sir, I do!”
“Go 00V! The security of this island nation depends on you alone.”
No pressure then.
“I won’t come back without it, Big T,” I said. “Or without Strange Lurking Sydney!”
I hobbled to the door.
“And 00V… do be careful,” said Big T.
The National Anthem began to play.
I armpit farted.
Thanks to the good work of Agent Simon, the secret location of Arch Villain Dr Yes But No But Maybe had been tracked down. My orders were to travel immediately to Southern France by train.
Big T made the travel arrangements over the phone, whilst I was in his office.
“Yes, First Class.” I heard him reply to the person on the other end of the phone. “First Class to Paris!” he confirmed once more, before slamming down the receiver. Big T was known for his short temper.
I was to travel First Class. Wow!
There again I would not expect anything less, after all I am Secret Agent 00V, feared by all villains throughout the world. First class was the only sophisticated and relaxing way to travel. Only the best for Agent 00V!
I took a taxi from HQ to the station.
As the taxi pulled up at the station, my thoughts were focussed on the First Class service that I would be receiving once onboard the train; the luxurious draylon covered seating that was as embracing and relaxing as a hot, steaming, bubble bath; refreshments served in the restaurant carriage – the exquisite tables laid with starched white table cloths; the morning coffee, served from the highly polished silverware; Belgium covered chocolate biscuits set out on the very best china plates; the 75 channel plasma TV with remote control – the extraordinary level of sumptuosity.
There was a tap on the glass partition between the driver and passenger in the taxi. I was torn away from my First Class thoughts.
“Fifteen pounds and forty seven pence please!” shouted the driver, through the glass partition.
“Fifteen pounds and forty seven pence!” I replied, embarrassed at my unusually high pitched voice, which was exasperated by the cost of the fare. “But we have only travelled 200 metres!”
“Well you should have walked it then!” remarked the driver in a very gruff voice.
“Do you know who you are talking to?” I replied, in my more manly voice.
“I don’t care who you are; you owe me eighteen pounds and thirty two pence please!” replied the driver, his voice sounding even gruffer.
“It’s just gone up. It was fifteen pounds and forty seven pence a minute ago!” I tried to control my vocal chords, aware that they were beginning to rise again.
“The clock’s ticking!” he said, pointing to the meter on the dash board of his cab. He was beginning to sound angry.
“But we haven’t gone anywhere!” I said in shock and amazement.
“You haven’t got out of my cab yet?” He tapped the meter. He was beginning to sound angrier.
I kept my cool.
“That’s because I was asking you about the price?” This man was testing my patience.
He slid the glass partition open. He had the ‘FART’ tattooed across his knuckles of his left hand.
“Twenty pounds and two pence!” he snapped. I could feel his moist sticky spit on my face.
“What? This is getting silly.” I replied.
Now he was aggressively angry. His purple face was turning even more purplier. ( Great word I’ve just made it up!)
I pressed myself back into the seat, as far from the spitting bald purple head as I could. ( Not that I was afraid of course)
He opened the driver’s door.
“Do you want to argue about the fare?” he shouted, as he stepped out onto the pavement.
He leaned his larger than life, 7 foot tall, muscles as large as an infantry tank body towards the rear door. His blood shot eyes stared down at me.
A little pass of wind escaped from my bottom.
Wonder if he made all his passengers feel a little windy?
Perhaps that’s why he had FART tattooed across his knuckles.
“Twenty pounds and two pence will be fine!” I squeaked as threw the money onto the seat and made a quick exit out of the other side of the taxi. “Oh and keep the change!” I ran towards the main entrance of the packed railway station and quickly lost myself in the crowds.
The Paris train was leaving from platform 8.
It was a long train, Carriage A being at the front of the line.
“Excuse me!” I asked the guard. “Could you tell me where I might find the First Class Carriage?”
“Towards the middle of the train, Sir.” He was extremely well spoken, so different from the manic purple taxi driver.
“Why thank you good Sir!” I replied…. proving I could do posh as well as sophisticated.
I walked along the platform towards the middle of the train and was greeted by a very handsomely dressed young porter who bowed his head, and touched his cap, as I approached and said,
“Good morning Sir, please may I see your ticket.”
“But of course” I replied (still doing posh and sophisticated)
I reached into my pocket and produced my white envelope, containing all of my travel arrangements, which Big T had passed to me as I left HQ.
The porter gave a little embarrassed cough. “Sir I think you have made a mistake, your carriage is situated at the far end of the train.”
“Nonsense! There must be a mistake!” I had clearly heard Big T making the travel arrangements over the telephone. He definitely said FIRST CLASS.
“You will see if you look closely,” I replied to the porter (and keeping careful check on my vocal chords “ My ticket clearly states FIRST CLASS.”
“You are right Sir,” he said, and again he gave a little cough, but this time he covered his mouth with his white gloved hand and held it there.
Through the white gloved hand he whispered, “FIRST CLASS POSTAGE Sir– the mail carriage is at the end of the platform!”
An Extract From “Gluefinger”
It was pretty cold up this tree with the wind whistling round the parts you wouldn’t want the wind to whistle. In fact, it was so cold, if you stuck your tongue out, it would turn into an iced lolly before you could whip it back inside your mouth.
I’d been up here for ages, watching, waiting and shivering. It was now half-past seven in the morning. The sun hadn’t risen yet and, if it had any sense at all, it wouldn’t bother. Instead, it would pull the quilt up over its head, mumble something about another half an hour in bed and start shaking the walls with some pretty impressive snoring.
My headphones were stuck to my head.
My microphone had turned blue.
I daren’t tell you what was hanging from my nose.
Even my thermal underpants (red polka dots, if you must know) had formed icicles… on the inside. My backside was now officially frozen to the branch I was sitting on.
It wasn’t funny.
Every time I moved, a little icicle dug into me and my eyes watered. Then the tears turned to little crystals before dropping to the ground like little sweets. Down at the foot of the tree was a small pile of frozen tear drops.
I just hoped nobody slipped on it…
My only problem (apart from my freezing backside, my cold nose and icicles inside my underpants) was that I had to intercept any conversations that took place in the house just opposite where I was sitting.
I’d been there a fortnight.
Nobody had told me the house owner had gone on holiday.
But, just a few minutes ago, Sir Rackerty Rackerson, owner of the house (actually, it was more like a mansion… the sort of thing top football stars live in… the sort of house that has so many rooms, you’d just never use them all), had arrived back home, looking bronzed, tanned and athletic.
I winced.
An icicle snapped off inside my underpants.
I peered through Barry’s Amazing Trinoculars® into Sir Rackerty’s mansion. (I did explain to him I only had two eyes, but he didn’t seem to listen. He just warbled something about alien invasions and swanned off.)
I could see him now pacing up and down behind a window in the warm, eating a toasted buttered crumpet and drinking steaming hot chocolate. Butter ran down his chin, leaving a greasy slick like a palm oil magnate with no conscience.
For a moment, I was jealous.
I just loved hot chocolate first thing in the morning.
Suddenly, the cold got to me and there was a ringing in my head – it was the tune to the Hokey Cokey. I was going to die here, on this branch, frozen like a hundred and thirty-three pound oven ready turkey (the turkeys are big where I come from) whilst listening to a mobile phone version of the Hokey Cokey!!! It was there, banging on and on in my ears, the sound pumping through my headphones…
My headphones!
In all the excitement of hypothermia I’d completely forgotten about them!
The Hokey Cokey was his ringtone!
I fumbled with the controls on the microphone and set it to VERY HIGH – if Rackerson was about to have a chat with someone, then I was going to listen to every single word.
Peering through my Trinoculars® again, I saw Sir Rackerty put down his hot chocolate, slopping warm gooey liquid everywhere and stuff the crumpet in his trouser pocket, picking up a mobile telephone, which he clamped to his ear. “Hello,” he said, hopping around the room rather agitatedly, as he tried to retrieve the hot buttered crumpet from his pocket. “The pigeons are flying high over Moscow tonight.”
“And I wave my bottom at the limbo dancers who live on the planet Buttocks,” replied a gruff voice.
Most peculiar, I thought. I’d never even thought of doing the limbo.
“Are all the ingredients in place?” said Rackerson, tossing his half-eaten, fluff-covered crumpet onto the fire, and then wiping his butter-smeared hand across Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.
“Yes,” said the voice, which was deeper than a wishing well. “Everything is in place. Just be careful of B.U.M.S.S.”
Rackerson laughed. “I have no fear of B.U.M.S.S. Sticking an agent in a tree with headphones and a microphone wouldn’t stop me!” He strolled to the window and gazed out.
His stare was aimed straight at me.
Strewth!
I’d been rumbled..
.
You never know when a secret agent will move in with you.
Take me for instance.
The Urqhuart family never intended to buy me from the castle shop; that was part of the highly strategic plan.
BIG T had arranged the rendezvous – Ripley Castle, 3.30pm
Mr Urqhuart was under the impression that he had thought of the idea of afternoon tea at Ripley Castle, but as Mr Urqhuart hardly ever thinks, Mrs Urqhuart should have been suspicious.
But she wasn’t because she too has very few ideas either.
It was the repeated message that was played into Mr Urqhuart’s ear, over and over again, during his sleep that gave him the idea. We also did it when he was sat on the toilet reading the newspaper… he seemed to spend a big chunk of his life on the loo with a pile of newspapers.
The digital recorder, concealed in the pillow, is one of the most commonly used pieces of surveillance equipment we use – there’s probably one in the room you’re sitting in right now. It was the brain child of our top inventor and provider of amazing devices… MXTTPWERTNSL… but those of us in the know call him Barry.
So when Mr Urqhuart woke up from his slumber – or got off the loo… we’re not sure which it was, we just know there were a lot of revolting noises – the first thought he had was to ask Mrs Urqhuart about an afternoon tea date.
She was already downstairs, which came as a surprise to Mr Urqhuart when he realised for the past fifteen minutes he’d been chatting to a toilet brush.
“Oh Mrs Urqhuart!” said Mr Urqhuart, who already had his walking boots on and wearing his favourite bobble hat, “Would you care to partake in a jovial autumn morning perambulation around the highly desirable area known as Brimham Rocks?”
I had to run this through another of Barry’s Amazing Devices®: The-Talking-In-A-Language-Everyone-Can-Understand-Filter. It turns out that he was simply asking his missus if she wanted to go for a walk!
“Oh Mr Urqhuart I was just about to stuff the chicken!” replied Mrs Urqhuart.
I still can’t explain why they called each other Mr and Mrs. It seemed an odd thing for a married couple to do. Mind you, I have to say that, during my years as an undercover operative, I’ve heard married couples call each other a lot worse.
And much ruder – great big hairy bum seems to stick in my mind, for some reason.
“We’ll call in at Ripley Castle after our walk,” remarked Mr Urqhuart (the chicken looked quite relieved).
When they eventually arrived at Ripley Castle – three hours late–Mr Urqhuart had forgotten his wallet and had to return to the house then Mrs Urqhuart had forgotten to turn off the oven… and had to return to the house… then Mr Urqhuart couldn’t remember if he had locked the house up… and had to return to the house… to cut a long story short, it took them seventeen attempts and a few rude words to set off!
By the time they reached the car park at Brimham Rocks (and if you’ve never been there, I recommend it… it is a lovely car park), we had them under close surveillance.
Belinda the Seagull would swoop in low with a small fibre optic camera strapped to her head and relay crystal clear images back to headquarters. Every now and again, so as not to raise suspicion, she would do what seagulls do best and plop on someone.
Hidden in the undergrowth with a microphone taped onto his backside was Rod the Rabbit. Every now and again, he’d hop into the path, stick his backside in the air so headquarters could monitor the Urqhuarts’ conversation, then hop off into the undergrowth to do what rabbits do best.
Rod once dug the longest burrow in the world!
“Just a short, brisk amble,” said Mr Urqhuart, stuffing his trousers into his socks. It did look a little unusual, it has to be said. He was wearing shorts. “Blow the old cobwebs away, what?”
Mrs Urqhuart peered over her sunglasses. “Whatever you say, dear,” she said in a tone of voice that she obviously used for each and every one of her husband’s hare-brained schemes.
And with that, Mr Urqhuart marched around the car park. It took seventeen strides – at an average of 2.31 metres per stride – before he flung the car door open, leapt in and announced, “That‘s worked up an appetite. Time for a delicious pot of tea and a big scone with a mountain of cream. I’ve earned it.”
Sometime later, at Ripley Castle, Mr Urqhuart, forgetting that he was supposedly looking for a hot drink, was drawn immediately to a small gift shop, which was festooned with a wide selection of things for sale: book marks, ear rings, rubbers, rulers and key rings… you know the sort of place… a parent’s wallet’s worst nightmare!
Some moments later, Mr Urqhuart found himself browsing the selection of books that were nestled in a small, secluded corner of the shop, despite the fact that his house is full of books.
Again this was part of the cunning plan – Big T had done his homework and knew that Mr Urqhuart was book mad!
Nuzzled in between a copy of ‘Hang-Gliding For Dummies’ and ‘An Easy Guide To Falling Over’ was a teddy bear.
Me!
Mr Urqhuart gave me a funny look and for a moment I thought he was having a heart attack. Either that or he had trapped wind.
I gave him a funny look back.
He looked funny again.
I returned the funny look.
Mr Urqhuart gave me funny look number three.
It was then I realised he always looked funny.
I winked at him.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed at first, so I winked again. Then he looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking and winked back.
Mrs Urqhuart breezed over like a tornado.
“Look at this tatty bear,” she said to her husband, smearing lipstick all over his left ear. She obviously wanted something. Or needed lessons in where to put her lips!
Mr Urqhuart hid his wallet.
“I wonder what it’s doing in the book section!” She prodded me in the stomach.
“Learning to read!” said Mr Urqhuart, wiping a small tear from the corner of his eye. How on earth he could think that funny I’ll never know!
Mrs Urqhuart brushed the fur on top of my head. “He looks at bit ragged!” she said “Wonder if he’s been reduced…”
Mr Urqhuart said, “No! I expect he’s always been that size!” And this time his shoulders bobbed up and down as he chuckled at his own (and very unfunny) joke.
But that, as they say, was that. After planting the seed that I might just be a bargain in Mr Urqhuart’s brain, it was only a matter of time before I was plucked from the shelf, hung upside down by the shop assistant, who stared at my backside for ever such a long time – they put the price tags in very strange places nowadays – and thrust into a silver gift bag!
Less than an hour later, I was living – undercover – with the Urqhuart family, in their cosy (often drafty) farm house.
They still have no idea to this day that I work as one of Her Majesty’s B.U.M.S.S. Agents.
Sometimes humans can be so dim, particularly these two. I can be gone for weeks at a time and they never miss me. They also seem to think it is them that choose where they go on holiday, but in fact it’s me that makes all arrangements to fit into my schedule as a B.U.M.S.S agent.
For example, I arranged a particularly expensive holiday on the Orient Express because of a kidnapping case in Venice, involving a squirrel, a large gondola and some top secrets folded up and worn inside a wellington boot by a one-legged woman with a wart.
Mr Urqhuart likes to think that it was a romantic gesture on his part – if shovelling margherita pizza into your mouth and glugging so much wine you hiccup is romantic.
But I arranged it all.
Even the flight back from Marco Polo airport, which was particularly… interesting.
Mr Urqhuart hates flying.
Their weekend away in Bruges was arranged so that I could break into a smuggling ring… the largest and finest jelly beans were being hidden up the nostrils of a gang that was working across Europe.
Their winter skills course in the Cairngorms, gave me the cover I needed to investigate the landing of a UFO in the Scottish Highlands.
And that is just the tip of the iceberg!
You see, we bears control the humans, without them ever realising it!
vinnybear00v 