The great Caithness Novel- Chapter One.

[John Little]

Ladies and Gentlemen I present 'Never ending Story' chapter one, written entirely by Orgers. Many of them I am sure, were under the influence of a dram or two in sincere efforts to court the muse. Others are advised to refer themselves for analysis and treatment. I have nonetheless put their contributions together in coherent form- more or less- for your edification, enjoyment and astonishment


The never-ending story.

A maniac stalked Thurso's darkened streets; avoid John little, the public's advised. Steer clear, he's mad and dangerous! I hear people say is there any truth in that- you know what a small towns like. Little John's like John Little. oh john yes is it the same john little that lived in tormsdale place. The nutter lived in Tormsdale Place... His maniacal laugh filled the night, an axe in his hand blood, on his suede shoes. and revenge was his blinding desire. THEY had done him wrong and they were going to regret it.

"Cut!" yelled the director "That's perfect." But in came an incomer but left, and threw a newspaper at the director. "its the Groat" he yelled maybe we should…………

Velma squeezed my arm, "Pentland Hotel?" "I fancy a cocktail," she said. A BLOODY Mary? He asked. Perfect cover - hotel full of Gaels. who were shouting CELTIC ya bunch A small gingerish man was shouting something about kilts and blowlamps as he wafted his plaid about - shouting 'See you Jimmy' as he…

Velma: " Come to my broom closet”- but I ain't in the closet. "You have come out?" she queried.
A bucket there? OOR WULLIE?

"There's a hole in yer bucket, Velma!"
“Then fix it dear Johnnie!”


Hands grasped me - streetcar tracks - where.....?
Streetcars! In Thurso- I realised instantly This was a streetcar named cassiemire. He leaped on the platform armed with only a rolled up Groat! and attacked the conductor named Chames Mackay from up West way, shouted 'HOOOCH' and waved a claymore, strode boldly through the Pentland hotel and then the good fairy waved her wand and the frog exploded into a million bits revealing his true identity which was none other than the org's own Riggerboy, en route to Masked Ball. He hez til keep hid on.

Tajmahal McPherson fae Watten, half Indian, half Scottish, complete nutter (lot of them about - certainly here!) well he got on his bike and promptly fell off cos someone had stolen the front wheel. He leaped to his feet brandishing... nuts and bolts, shouting; "Cobblers!"

A coachload of shoemakers going by stopped seeing the distressed Tajmahal and warned him of the 6 word curse; “May all thy scrabsters fall off! ”. He confused everyone by asking the cobblers if they had a pound of mince, so they had a whip round until the guy yelled “STOP!- that's my missing bunnet yer usin!: but by now it was full of foreign coins and brown buttons.

Tajmahal shouted – “worse than Wickers ye ******” even so he snatched the bunnet, counting the Euros for a Greek meal from the new 'Spoons menu, but then he remembered that Euros are dear to use just now, and wondered if a couple of Russian Mafia bosses would take it in exchange for sweeties.

Suddenly a drunken duck called Fred from Peking waddled and staggered to a nearby pub and ordered “Sicsh Pintsh and a hawf”.

The cobblers stared in amazement and said "but this is a church"'

I don't mind' said the Duck. "Any communion wine?" hic!!!

Fowl Papist!' shouted a Wee Free.

"Nah - alkee!" he shouted back, and a fight started, feathers, beak- the pews were awash with hoisin sauce, cucumber and Scottish blood.
The drunken duck was now featherless but still game, pecking Wee Free's free wii shouting, "My turn!"

The disgusted cobblers reboarded their bus not realising the destination was now a leaky scow in Scrabster harbour. The driver had a cunning plan involving insurance on his passengers' lives. He had recently met up with a dodgy chiel frae Wick called Eric Von Claptoot, whose mother was a retired one-eyed pole-dancer called Tillie. She had one of those faces that could scare great white sharks and turn men to stone. Tillie took the scow's helm as the cobblers filed aboard with glee, little realising that 'Suggs' Sinclair, rascally **** has stashed an old herring behind a box, disguising a TNT smell. The box was disguised too as an old treasure chest bursting with white Magnum bars covered in slime. The aroma wafted round the cobblers who were blown sky high as the brass band on the quayside started pillaging all the ships.
Suddenly Viking raiders from Orkney launched an unrelenting attack on the bunch of bananas sticking out of the wheeliebin, painted with go-faster stripes. Then the Pennyland branch of Taliban shouted ‘Who’s for tea?’
Mavis McCurdy in the sandwich bar said ‘Sorry – no halal here suckers!’
“Let’s have a dram then” shouted……… ‘My turn tae sing first and..” sang ditties about Mad Mullahs who were descended from the mighty Kings of Old Alba inhabiting Wick, and trying to invade Thurso, to get all their cheesecake for their mates back in Kirkwall toon.

At last they set sail o find the secret harbour at Portgower, but of course nobody was there, or they were hiding in the shadows, afraid of the werewolves that lurked on Vampire’s leashes under the discarded Christmas trees which lay the traffic warden’s feet who was trying to book Santa’s sleigh to use in Wick Gala Parade- to try to outdo Thirsa gala. Armed, wary, from Portgower harbour they marched, with cudgels held high towards a mysterious portal emblazoned ‘Strictly no wigs, false teeth or necklaces made from cloves of garlic”.

The werewolves and vampires sat in wait, but the cobblers had a secret stash of ‘silver’ nails and catapult, funded by a Nigerian general who laundered money as well as running a rough fish and chip shop in Wick.

The cobblers marched forth with their lasts clutched in their hands, searching for soles to nail and heels to blister.

Through the portal an eerie figure keeked out at them from bleary squinty eyes. It was a nasty wee troll whose nose dripped constantly, causing him to sneeze and snort into a bloodstained hanky, making everyone feel sick.

Unabashed the cobblers advanced, awls extended, aiming to destroy snottery nose and terminate him with extreme prejudice by ramming their sharpened weapons directly into his Achilles heel – the weak spot. Screaming, corsets bursting, he writhed furiously, trying to break the chains thrown round him by the cobblers. But try as he might, they wouldn’t loosen but tightened till he felt he would never breathe again – and he didn’t, because he was dead.

Boldly the cobblers strode where no-one would ever find them. A wild bearded figure confronted them- they died in terror!

This made the accompanying Vikings angry, so they jumped off a cliff, swam, sailed their ship to Wick intending to raid and pillage the Pulteney area before dining at Spoons, but their compass broke and they ended up in Wick High street, high and dry and looking at the Pulteney pygmies performing in Marketsquare. Furiously they drew their swords and charged 50p per head to watch the morris dancing display.

BANG! All eyes turned to this stupid English idiocy.

‘Gie’s a break!” roared one of the onlookers- ‘Go rattle yer bells in Lapland – Santa will be pleased!’

‘Are beer-bellies allowed ?’ said a Morrisman.
You need the tattie diet commented Dinky Dora fae Dunnet, while fluttering her Saltire in the face of Wee Eck whose state visit was the most exciting thing to happen since the infamous 1987 ‘nudist’ gala, where Caithness folk showed their true feelings for each other by a ceremonial dunking of councilors in a vat of Old Pulteney (hic).
Whooping Wickers danced round the vat throwing lumps of ice and shouting; ‘How’s ‘at for a frozen Daquiri?’


They fell into an exhausted sleep so the Orkney Vikings stole their Morris sticks and sailed away to John o Groats to rob Americans of their burgers and chips.
So fortified, hijacking the Stroma ferry and tried to compete with P&O, they hit an iceberg- “Women and children LAST!” roared the Vikings as they surged into the boats, pushing aside all in their path.

The lifeboat was crewed by Goths, enemies of absolutely everyone! Silently they rowed towards a bunch of old mermaids strumming ‘Cud yer mither ride a bike?’

‘Yes’ they roared ‘And she won!’

The mermaids took exception to this and threw rotten fish, hitting them right where it hurts! They shouted, their eyes stinging painfully, ‘Fight time’

‘Flight time?’ asked the English team?
‘Ye hev missed it boys!’ roared Big Angus fae Spring Park ‘and there’s nae anither til 2014!’

Meanwhile the owld mermaids splashed their tails in the water and sang;
‘Row, row, row your boat gently to Scrabster and the Upper deck to have a steak and get pi-eyed on good Chardonnay ( Ooooooooooooooo NOT Chardonnay- something really dry..)”

‘I’m Chardonnay – does someone want me??’ asked a buxom blonde from Kirkwall, over on a day trip to find an eligible bachelor with loadsa dosh, a big car and a dodgy ticker! Then she spotted Big Angus and that was it! Love at first sight – of his bank book.

‘Hello Sailor’ she purred, eyelids batting as she reached for her vivid magenta lippy, and extra strength parfum.
‘I have a place in Shebster- a wee butt and ben wi sauna- would you care to check the temperature?’
Big Angus’s eyes bulged as he imagined Chardonnay, ready, waiting, eager to make taties, mince and neeps- a vision in an apron.
But she had other things in mind which didn’t involve cooking…..

.................................................. ...............................

It is my fervent prayer that Chapter two will prove a little more.... sober.

[sam09]

Brilliant John Little. Looking forward to chapter two.Meantime keep taking the tablets.

[laguna2]

Thanks for taking the time to put this together ... really good!