The Rip in the Fabric of the Universe ...

. . . the fabric of the universe with his trusty scout knife.

"By Jove," announced Frontbottom, a Pom to the last, "I believe you've created yet another rip in the fabric of the unverse, you blighter."

"Aye," cried Seamen Staines, "and I'll create a rip in yur mizzen if yer don't shut yur yap."

Fortunately, the Captain still carried the All Purpose Repair Kit with him and he called quickly to Hereward the Hamster, who was still mucking about on the poop: "Come here, Hereward, take this kit and repair that rip in the fabric of the universe and that right speedily!"

Hereward hurriedly rummaged through the Kit, extracted a canvas needle and some twine, and scampered aloft to begin the repairs. He first tried a criss-cross stitch, but soon found a loop stitch worked much better. He congratulated himself for having watched all the sewing shows on ABC as a young pup. Whistling merrily, he made short work of the damage and soon dropped smartly to the deck, drawing himself up to his full 20cm height, he saluted the Captain, shouting "Mission accomplished, sir."

"What mission?" sneered the Captain. "It was only a bluddy hole you sewed shut. Buggar off."

Hereward, his feelings hurt, slinked away muttering to himself and plotting an awful revenge.

As he slunk down the companionway, Hereward passed Roger the Cabin Boy just coming up, now wearing his pea jacket. As they passed one another the nearest Companion grunted in pain and snarled "Watch yer step mates, me corns are sore as it is."

On deck at last, Roger approached the Captain warily. Sniffing the air, he remarked: "Is it just me, or has there been a burning deck hereabouts?"

Seizing on this remark, Frontbottom interjected: "Indeed there has been a large conflagration up forward, but the crew, with all the zealousness of an ardent lover, have turned to and brought the blaze under control, displaying, I might add, a degree of bravery and dedication to which I, personally, would have thought they could not aspire."

Well, it all could have been summed up in the phrase "Right Ho."

"Put a sock in it," said the Captain, "we've more important matters to hand at the moment. In fact, I would like to . . . .

. . . find out two things. Where did Mother Farquar escape to, and why has this yarn drifted along listlessly for lo these many days?"

Roger the Cabin Boy piped up "Can't answer your second question, sar, but when I went to fetch me pea jacket, I seen Mother Farquar lurking about down in the bowels of the ship, Cap'n, sar."

Just then there was a mighty roar from belowdecks and the crew stared in amazement as Mother Farquar flew, seemingly effortlessly, into the air from one of the ship's stacks. In fact, it was the aft stack. Arcing gracefully, rather resembling a pigeon taken on the wing by a 12 gauge, Mother Farquar cleared the bridge by a hair and then dropped like a stone onto the deck below, making a loud thump. After a few small bounces, she lay still.

"Looks like the ship's bowels are on the move again," observed Seaman Staines. "Had a right blow that time, aye, that she did."

Hurrying forward, Frontbottom approached the prone figure of Mother Farquar filled with trepidation, and yet with the lingering hope that she might, with luck, actually be dead. Turning her onto her back, he gazed at her battered countenance.

"She looks a bit squashed, don't she?" he remarked. At this, Mother Farquar opened her one good eye and snarled: "What all this? Where am I? And what's more, I'd really like to know . . .

...what Miss Sally is doing down below with young Hornblower. While you prats are faffing around up here with your all purpose repair kit and whatever, that lascivious pair is engaging in the congress of the Aardvark down in the bilges."

"Aargh, that'd be right", grumbled Staines, "First the young sod scuppered the skipper, now he's trying to rally Sally. Who knows what he'll get up to next."

The answer to his ponderings became immediately clear. As a climactic groan echoed from the aforementioned bowels of the ship, .....

... it was accompanied by two blokes.

Actually .... and on mature consideration .....they may have been chaps. In any event, they were clad in very scruffy-looking Highland regalia and they had what appeared to be the result of several months determined abstinence from the daily shaving ritual. Their beards were, in fact, long, knotted, red in hue and apparently inhabited by various forms of wildlife of an entomological nature and disposition.

The marginally less scrofulous of these two approached the Captain.

"D'ye remember me?" he enquired, in a slightly quavering and hectoring tone. "I am Lester McClustar, the laird of Glen Lustar and this is my factor: Maxwell McNackarlacquar. You had me and my factor clapped in irons and thrown into the brig. Some while ago. For no good reason. In a quite peremptory fashion. Very unfairly."

Captain Nemo eyed this Hibernian apparition with a swift glance.

"Did I?" he said. " Clapped in irons, eh? Tossed into the brig. For no good reason, you say? Peremptorily and very unfairly? Have I got that right? Summed up your complaint in a succint manner, have I?"

"Well.....yes. In a nutshell, so to speak. Yes," replied the laird.

"Well, it seems to me that you have been treated in a very arbitrary fashion," said Nemo. "No trial. No opportunity to state your case. Little or no consideration given to your apparent status as a landowner and community leader. Very arbitrary, it seems to me. What do you think?"

"Well .... precisely," said McClustar. "I'm gald you see it my way."

"Happy to oblige," said Nemo. "Get used to it. Sponcracker!" he cried. "Have your droids toss this scruffy Scotsman and his bewhiskered offsider into the brig! And make sure the door's locked this time. Might stop the bugger from coming up here and disturbing me when I'm busy."

A phalanx of droids grabbed the Caledonians and hauled them off, protesting, brig-wards.

"Well," said Hieronymous, "That's .....

the way todeal with those escapees. Did you see the way he is acting ? Very clever indeed and very un-penguin like I do declare. So saying he turned to his companion young....

... Hereward and said:

"Did you hear? Some ill-educated, nay - witless - person down in the fo'c'sle was heard recently to compare the experience of hand-planing with chook-plucking!"

This was the most sacrilegious statement Hereward had ever heard! Comparing using a hand plane to plucking a chook!! He was outraged!

"I'm outraged!" he cried, leaping (admittedly not very far) to his little hind legs. "Rarely," quoth he, "has my rage been so externalised!" To demonstrate the extent of his emotional disturbance, he danced up and down on the taffrail.

Hieronymous was a hamster whose disposition was significantly more balanced and far less inclined to overt displays of emotion than was Hereward's. He cast a jaundiced eye upon the antics of his younger companion.

"Do sit down, laddie," he said. "You'll ......"

...be mistaken for a chook and plucked to within an inch of your life. Or planed, whatever takes your fancy."

Hereward slowly regained his composure, but a sudden lurch of the ship threw him overboard, and with a splash and a splutter, he daintily flopped into the briny.

What had the ship hit? Was it about to traverse another rip in the fabric of the universe? No, not this time. The ship's instability was due solely to the Mother Farquahar bestirring herself. "Will none of you scurvy toads help me onto my feet" she roared.

Always the gentleman (or, some might say, a bit of a ponce) Fellatio sprang to her assistance. Grasping her in a cross between a full Nelson and a Christmas grip, he gave a mighty heave and dragged her to her feet. "What seems to be the matter, m'dear?" he asked her soothingly.

Staines was not quite so sympathetic. "The old trollop's been drinking the Brasso, if my nose doesn't deceive me. I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't polish her off." A chorus of groans came from the companions, but unfortunately, Staines' unwitting pun went straight past Groans to the keeper. "Never mind", said Nemo, "she'll have a good finish."

All this hilarity at her expense was too much for the Mother Farquahar. With a withering glance at the captain and a crippling sideswipe at Staines' gonads, she bellowed.......

"the vow of silence is now over".........

"So that's what it was," said Frontbottom. "I had wondered why it seemed so quiet. Now all is revealed! The Mother Farcquar - bless her gargantuan cotton socks - had taken a vow of silence. Amazing!"

"Amazing???!!!???" said Dogsbreath. "Mate! It's more than amazing. It's totally bloody mind-blowing!" The Mother Farcquar? A vow of silence?!? I mean, is this likely? Is this even possible? Or is it, in fact, a load of what, back at the Cowcockies Arms, we are inclined to characterise as bollocks?" Eh? I mean, when did she go silent? Answer me that!"

Frontbottom was taken aback. As usual, he didn't keep this to himself.

"I'm taken aback!" he said. "D'you mean to say that the Mother Farcquar was bending the truth when she claimed to have taken a vow of silence?"

Dogsbreath .....

exclaimed "Oh, I see."
which wasn't exactly true, as he was standing in the rather impressive lee of the MF herself...
(oh by the way I'm back.:D )

Meanwhile, Hereward Hamster (who, you may remember, had flopped, with a splutter and a splash, daintily into the briny) was washed back aboard the VLGI by a fortuitous wave which, catching the ship athwart its stern quarter, deposited our furry friend neatly into the maindeck scuppers just forrard of the poop deck bulkhead.

There, he might well have suffered the ignominy of being squashed flat by Seaman Staines' gnarly old seaboot as that ancient mariner trudged bow-legged up the length of the larboard rail. Hereward was saved this awful fate, however when Staines' progress was interrupted by his shipmate, Leading Artificer Groans. Grabbing Staines' elbow, Groans steered him away from imminent collision with the diminutive rodent.

"Mind how you go, shipmate!" quoth Groans. "Ye nearly flattened a hamster there, cully!"

Staines was, as usual, mightily confused by this. Grasping himself by his privates, he stared quizzically at Groans.

"Whaddaya mean, flattened me hamster!?! There's nothen' wrong with my tackle, mate! I gives it reg'lar doses of Max Factor Knacker Lacquer!"

Groans, (battling to make himself heard above the chorus of: "Adds A Lustre To Your Cluster" from the rest of the deckhands) shook his head and.....

set a heading for the Port of Deprivation WA.

Unfortunately while rounding the gulf of Mexico on their way to WA a storm blew up and stormed so fiercely they could see nothing, not even the hamsters clinging to their faces in fear, or perhaps it was because of the hamsters clinging to their faces in fear that they could not see, but no worries, after three days the hamsters dropped of exhaustion and their vision cleared. They did not much like what they saw though, which mainly consisted of a large sign proclaiming, “Welcome to the Port of Catoosa, America’s furthest inland port”, and under the sign sat a surly looking cowboy with a colt peacemaker strapped on either hip, slowly and tediously carving a belaying pin out of Bois d'arc with an Arkansas toothpick.

No one said anything several minutes, nothing was heard but the tick tock of the cabin clock. Finally Roger the cabin boy piped up, “Ehh, wots that awful smell?”.

Thunk went the cowboy’s half finished belaying pin as it hit the ground.

Is that all you can say he snarled? “Ehh, wots that awful smell?” I’ve been sitting here for two days waiting for those stupid hamsters to remove themselves from your faces, two days I’ve been hacking at this blasted Bois d’arc, I’ve blisters on my thumb, a blunted toothpick, a sunburn, and all you can do is comment on the lovely aroma of cattle manure? Why I even took time to herd the cattle up close so you’d have extra fresh country scented air. Why I’ve a mind to, he paused, hands fingering the Colts on his hips as he apprised the sorry lot huddled on the deck clutching their respective hamsters to their chests like children do with their worn teddy bears.

His eyes flicked left to a large lever on which was written, “flush”. His eyes flicked back to the group on the deck. Hmm said the Cowboy as he thought through his options...

just as his hand wasabout to pull the lever Dogsbreath awoke with a start.....
'bloody tooheys old always give me nightmares and this one even smell of bulldung.....' As he opened his eyes he was amazed to see a koala gazing at him from the lower branches of the gumtree. While coming to grips with this the koala spake thus ....

"Bloody Toohey's Old will always give you nightmares, mate. You had orter stay right away from it. Oh, and by-the-by, Cap'n Nemo's been asking for you. He's up on the bridge with Seaman Staines and a pernicious pair of precocious hamsters."

"Right-ho," said Dogsbreath, and began to leg it for the bridge. But pausing in mid-leg, so to speak, he turned sharply to the koala and cried:

"Blow me up, er . .. down, what's a gum tree doing on the ship? And for that, where did yer come from my furry friend? Does this look like bloody Noah's Ark to yer?"

At this, the koala bared his fangs and snarled, revealing his true identity.

"Well hang me for a pirate," exclaimed Dogsbreath, "if yer not a Drop Bear after all!" With this awful knowledge came a heightened sense of self-preservation, and Dogsbreath proceeded to put up a new record for putting distance between a mangy old salt and a sea-going Drop Bear.

Appearing on the bridge, he confronted Nemo and shouted:

"You'll never believe what I just saw on the afterdeck. It was a . . . .

"... gum tree with a Drop Bear in its lower branches! Fair dinkum! It gave me a helluva fright! There's only one reliable Drop Bear repellent, yer know, it's..."

Nemo held up an authorative seagoing commander's hand, stopping Dogsbreath's flow.

"A number of points occur to me," he mused. "They are, in no particular order:

"One: it's not good discipline to confront a vessel's captain on his own bridge;
"Two: it's worse discipline to shout at him in such circumstances;
"Three: I've been to Australia several times and I'm not taken in by the old Drop Bear story, designed, as it is, to frighten unsuspecting tourists;
"Four: leading directly on from Three, you will be unable to persuade me that soaking my head in fresh urine will serve as an effective repellent against Drop .... OmiGawd! What the hell is that!!!!"

The Drop Bear, trailing a tangle of eucalyptus leaves in his wake, had stormed up a nearby companionway (leaving, incidentally, a pack of traumatised companions sobbing their socks off) and emerged onto the bridge. The DB bared his horrible fangs and made a beeline for Staines. All would have been up for the salty old seadog but for the timely intervention of Leading Artificer Groans who raised his trusty arquebus, sighted down the length of its barrel and ....

...with a sly wink to the drop-bear, announced to all and sundry, "Leave this arboreal bungee-jumper to me, chaps. I'll see him off the premises for the moment. And just in case he has any plans to come back, I'll let yers in on an old bushman's secret that I learnt from me old grandaddy. It's a well known secret among old bushmen that you can prevent nocturnal attack by drop-bears by leaving a bottle of Old Ned's Rough Red Rum at the foot of your hammock." And so saying, he marched the drop-bear at the sharp end of his rusty trusty arquebus off the bridge and back up the gum tree.

Mightily impressed by this show of initiative from Groans, the assembled crew raised three hearty cheers, and spliced the main brace in Groans' honour.

Later that night, as Groans and the drop bear sat on the poop deck admiring the stars, intoxicated beyond belief, and surrounded by empty bottles of Old Ned's Rough Red Rum, the drop-bear said to Groans....

"Good drop - that Ned's Rum Old Rough Red!"

"No mate," said Groans. "It's called Rough Old Ned's Red Rum...er....I think."

"Surely not," said the Drop Bear. "You told me it was called Red Ned's Rough Old Rum!"

"I bloody didn't!" Said Groans, becoming quite heated. "I said it was Red Rum's Rough Old Ned, ya nong!"

"Don't call me a nong, ya dill! You said it was Rough Red's Dead Old Rum!"

"Who're you callin' a dill, ya bastard!" cried Groans. "It's Bloody Dead Red's Rum Old Rough!"

The Drop Bear grasped Groans about his grizzled old gizzard (Editorial note: Can you have a grizzled gizzard?) and shook him.

Groans' eyes rolled about in an alarming way and ...

...due to the alarming list that the GSVLGI had, started kerplunking down the companionway. Fortunately, one of the companions stopped them; unfortunately, by stamping on them.

"Bloody hell", shouted Groans, "I've drunk a lot of Old Ned's Rough Red Rum in my life, but I've never been this blind before."

Meanwhile, the companion who had stamped on Groans' eyeballs....

. . . spoke right up and said: "I believe that my foot in your eyes may be a contributing factor to your perceived blindness, although Old Ned's Rough Red Rum has certainly been known to induce a temporary, or one might say almost semi-permanent, loss of vision. Further . . . "

"Put a sock in it!" roared Groans. "Less drivel and more foot removal is what the troops want! Get it off my face ya wanker." But Groans discovered he was still pinned to the companionway.

"I would remove my foot straight away, I assure you," pronounced the Companion in somewhat haughty tones, "but I fancy that my foot is also constraining the Drop Bear that has a grisly grip on your grizzled gizzard and I am loathe to allow it to roam free, with all the ramifications that might entail for the ship's crew. Further . . .

"Less of it laddie, much less of it!" Groans shouted. "I think I grasp the situation now. One--Drop Bear, two--grizzled gizzard, three--yer foot in my eyes, four--murder and mayhem. That sound about right?"

"I would say you put the matter very succinctly, Mr. Groans," replied the Companion. "Further . . ."

"As you were, lad, as you were," said Groans. "Now hear this, me bucko. Yer see that bottle of Old Ned's Rough Red Rum sticking out of me pocket? Righto, good lad. Grasp the bottle and withdraw it. Good. Now, offer it to the Drop Bear as a token of peace, so to speak."

This the Companion did and the DB immediately let go of Groan's gizzard and sucked at the bottle greedily. The DB being thus distracted, Groans sprang to his feet and confronted the startled Companion.

"Ye'd best run fer yer life, me boyo or you're for it. There's only a wee drop left in that bottle and the Bear will soon look elsewhere for entertainment. Meanwhile, I'm off to the bowels of the ship. If anyone asks for me, tell them I'm making an inspection tour and you don't know when I'll return. Hop lively now!" And with that, Groans was gone.

Noticing that the DB had finished the Old Ned's RRR and was eyeing him hungrily, the terrified Companion took to his heels. The other Companions shouted after him "You may as well stay, mate. You can't outrun a Drop Bear." To which the Companion replied, "I don't have to outrun the DB you idiots, I only have to outrun you lot!" So, dropping the punch line to that old wheezer, he legged it for the open deck and was last seen as a small blur rounding the aft smokestack.

The Drop Bear, meanwhile, paused and gazed longingly at the bot of ONRRR. "Say mates," he spoke to no one in particular, "you don't suppose . . ."

" . . . there's another of these lifesavers about, eh? I think I'll find the ship's steward and see if we can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement." And with that, the Drop Bear toddled for'ard toward the ship's mess.

Meanwhile, back on the bridge, Captain Nemo faced problems of a different sort. A storm had come up (or was it down? One can never be quite sure with a storm.) and the seas were turning rough.

"Hold her bow into the waves!" ordered Nemo, "or we'll capsize!" With a snappy "aye-aye, sir" Seaman Staines grasped Mother Farcquar by the nethers and held her over the rail, being careful to turn her head-on into the pounding waves.

"What are ye about, Staines?" roared Nemo. "Quit playin' with Mother's nethers and let's bring the ship about, she's yawing something terrible. Right rudder you boofhead!"

As Staines wrestled the wheel, Mother Farcquar shook herself mightily and let out a gurgle (well, it sounded a bit like a gurgle) and was preparing to tick the Captain off in no uncertain terms when suddenly the ship lurched and she was thrown across the deck and down the companionway, much to the dismay of the Companions, who gave voice as one, crying "The dammed Drop Bear's back!" Soon realizing that it wasn't the dreaded DB but the only slightly-less-dreaded Mother Farcquar, they lapsed into silence and turned their thoughts inward.

On the bridge, the ship was at last coming into the waves but great geysers of water were breaking over the bow and it looked like being a long day (or night, as the case may be).

"Best lash yerself to the wheel, Staines," barked the Captain, "or yer'll be swept over."

"I can't lash meself, sar, too much fight in the wheel fer me to let loose. Can yer get someone to do it fer me?"

Pausing but an instant, the Captain turned to Hereward and Heironymous, who at that moment were considering the merits of a technicolour yawn over the rail, and shouted, "You there, hamsters, quit actin' like a couple of sooky la-la's and grab a rope, I need for you to . . . "

Hereward held hup ha hadmonitory hand (sorry about the supernumerary 'h's' - they were introduced for the sake of alliteration - or possibly halliteration).

"If I may be so bold, Captain?" quoth Hereward. "You seem to be on the point of requesting that my offsider here - Hieronymous - and I should engage in the task of lashing yon ancient mariner: one Staines - to the helm. Should that be your wish, allow me to relieve you of the embarrassment of having to deal with a refusal.

"There exists no compulsion in this universe nor any parallel manifestations thereof that would be sufficiently powerful to compel me or any of my chubby-cheeked chums to lay hands, paws, feet or other corporeal elements upon that old pervert. I hope I have made myself sufficiently clear?"

Nemo was taken aback.

"I'm taken aback," said he. "This ..."

" . . . is dangerously close to mutiny!," he cried, "and I won't have it. Sponcracker!"

"Aye, sir," gasped Sponcracker, as he fought his way to the bridge through the raging gale.

"Clap these insolent hamsters in irons immediately," ordered Nemo, "and then have one of your droids lash Staines to the wheel."

"With all due respect, sir," Sponcracker stammered, "I'll be happy to accomodate these furry felons in the brig, but my droids wouldn't touch Staines with a barge pole, sir, and come to that, nor would I."

"Well, upon my puff!," Nemo shouted, "I am taken aback even further than before. Do you tell me that Seaman Staines is so repulsive that no-one will lash him to the wheel?"

Sponcracker made a moue of distaste and said, "Aye, sir, I believe that to be the truth of it. Wait! I think I've an answer to this dilemma. Why don't we just . . . "

But before he could finish, a gigantic wave crashed over the bow and washed the Seaman Staines away.

As Nemo grasped the spinning wheel, Heironymous and Hereward, who had wisely scampered up a halyard before the wave struck, clapped their paws with glee, and Hereward shouted: "That's the best method for removing Staines that I've ever seen!" Heironymous responded, "better than Fisher and Paykel I do believe. A dollop of Dynamo, a good rinse and a spin dry will do him a world of good."

As though on cue, its mission accomplished, the storm began to abate.

"The storm's beginning to abate," said Nemo. "I think we've seen the worst of it."

"Aye sir," said Sponcracker, "and none too soon, for I fear another storm is brewing on the horizon. Methinks I spy Mother Farcquar headed this way under full sail and if I'm any judge, she's a thundercloud ready to burst."

"It occurs to me," pronounced Nemo, "that I've been neglecting my inspection rounds. Here, Sponcracker, take the wheel and tell the old bag I've been unexpectedly called away."

With that, Nemo started to move quickly toward the companionway, but not quickly enough.

"Avast, ye cockroach. I'll have a word wi' yer." roared Mother F.

"Madam," said Nemo stiffly, "whatever makes you think I'm from New South Wales?"

"Never you mind that," said M Farcquar, "you just wait 'til I tell yer . . . "

However, before the Mother Farcquar could advise the Captain further, she was interrupted.

With a 'Hey!' and a 'Ho!' and a 'Hey Nonny No!', a group of very odd looking characters materialised in the middle of the poop deck. They were dressed in a garishly-coloured mix of costumes, with little silver bells attached to knees, elbows and various other anatomical extremities,

Waving silk hankies, they leapt about the poop, uttering strange, nonsensical cries of the 'Hey Nonny No!' variety.

Nemo was astonished. He didn't fail to share this with others.

"I'm astonished!" he cried. "What in the blue bloody blazes is this?!? Why is my poop deck suddenly full of dickheads, leaping about and swatting each other with nosewipes? How much more can an honest master mariner be expected to take? Eh? Answer me that!"

He gazed about him, beseechingly.

"Perhaps I can assist," said Frontbottom. "These people are Morris Dancers, Captain. Morris Dancing is an ancient English tradition - much venerated in country districts where ...."

"Who bloody cares!!!" cried Nemo. "Why are these leaping, prancing buffoons leaping and prancing about on my poop deck?"

"We-e-ell," said Frontbottom. "As to why they're here, one can only speculate." He took a thoughtful pull on his pipe. "It seems they have arrived via the Rip. That much is apparent ...."

"FRONTBOTTOM!" said Nemo, through clenched teeth. "If you are about to indulge in one of your well-known rambling explanations, I advise you to stow it! SPONCRACKER! Where are your droids? Get those metallic buggers to round up this pack of prancing pillocks and toss them over the taffrail! HAMSTERS! Prepare yourselves for a resounding Ole!"

However, before Nemo's orders could be carried out ....

.... he was interrupted:

"Never you mind that," said M Farcquar, "you just wait 'til I tell yer . . . "

But she too was interrupted.

One of the prancing pillocks pranced across and swatted the Mother Farcquar with his hanky.

"Hey! Nonny No!" he cried gaily.

This was, needless to say, a grave error.

(Not the 'Hey! Nonny No!' which, in context, was accurate enough. Nor the fact that it was delivered gaily. It can be convincingly argued that uttering 'Hey! Nonny No!' while swatting someone with a silk hanky is quintessentially gay behaviour and, indeed, would be difficult to execute in anything other than a gay manner......but I digress.....).

Anyone familiar with these chronicles could have advised the swatting prancer to avoid bestowing his talents upon the Mother Farcquar. No-one did so advise him however, so the deed was done. Having swatted, he pranced backwards with an expectant smile on his dial. Quite what he was expecting is open to speculation but it can be asserted with confidence that what he got was removed at some distance from his expectations.

What he got, in fact, was the Mother Farcquar's enormous forearm. It was delivered to him horizontally, at head height, travelling from port to starboard at a velocity roughly equivalent to that of shee-it off a hot shovel. It was accompanied by a bellowing roar that filled the VLGI's mainsails and added several knots to her headway.

The unfortunate recipient of the MF's wrath was propelled like an empty sock into the scuppers where he lay, taking no discernibly active part in proceedings.

His prancing mates stopped prancing and gazed in horror at the Mother Farcquar. Their leader, a red-faced, overweight bearded character with a particularly offensive collection of little silver bells sewn randomly to various parts of his ill-fitting costume, was moved to comment.....

. . . "Upon my word, that was a nasty blow. I do believe Old Teddy may have been crushed like the proverbial toad under the harrow. Pity, really, as he was a good Bagman and we shall now have to elect another."

"Stop yer prattlin' and jumping about," roared Mother Farcquar, "and get yer prancing, poofter persons out of my sight. And take yer filthy hankies with yer."

At this juncture, Frontbottom (unwisely, in my opinion) chose to interrupt. "Aye, Mother F, they meant no 'arm. It's all part of their ceremonial dancing, the history of which extends well back into the 16th century, and . . . eeerrkk!" This last sound was elicited under duress, a reaction to Mother Farcquar's broad forearm arcing back from starboard to port with the same velocity as applied to Old Teddy--and finding Frontbottom's ear in its path.

"I think you have knocked Frontbottom senseless," Nemo said to M. Farcquar.

"How will we be able to tell?" she replied and once again turned her attention to the Morris Side. "I see yer still mucking about," she said. "I'll thank you to take yerselves off so I can have a parley with the Captain here."

As the dancers began to sway toward the companionway, (with some alacrity, I might add) the smallest of the troupe turned to Mother F and boldly proclaimed . . .

"You don't frighten me, Fatty!"

There was an enormous collective intake of breath from the entire ship's company. All eyes turned towards the Mother Farcquar.

All eyes but Nemo's, that is. The Captain held up a cautionary hand and stepped boldly between the Mother Farcquar and the smallest Morris dancer.

"A moment, madam," quoth he. "Sponcracker! I believe I gave you an order just now? Specifically, I instructed you to have your droids clear my decks of these terpsichorean twits, did I not?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" responded the droid techo. He pressed several buttons on his ever-present remote. His droids swung smoothly into action and rounded up the (thoroughly alarmed) troupe of terpsichoreans. The hamsters lined up along the taffrail, clearing their throats in anticipation of delivering their customary salute.

Just as the droids commenced heaving Morris dancers overboard (to the accompaniment of a series of resounding "Olés!" from the hamsters and a series of corresponding "Errks!" from the Morris dancers) the Rip parted and ....

With this teaser hanging in the air, Miss Sally gently closed the book (though not without placing within it her teasured bookmark, a present from her dear mother, who gave it to Sally just 2 hours before she (the mother) succumbed to the blandishments of an egg and butter man and went to live near Alice Springs--but we are wandering far afield I fear), and turning to the eager countenances of the children said: "Now who would like a small tea before we go on?"

"Yes, please m'am," said Sebastian, "I'll help you put the kettle on and Daphne, you go fetch some cakes."

Raising her hockey stick high above her shoulder (although by doing so she would have incurred a penalty if she had been on the field), she struck Sebastian a mighty blow to the head. "You'll not be ordering me about, you petulant pipsqeak," she snapped. Try it again and you'll get another taste from home."

"Now children," purred Miss Sally, "we must all try to get along. Daphne, apologise to Sebastian."

"I'm sorry, Sebastian," said Daphne in a lilting voice, "that I didn't crack you harder, you wanker!"

Just then, Tarquin spoke up: "Perhapths we should juthd go on with the sthory."

Sebastian, who had momentarily lost interest in the proceedings, rubbed his pate and murmured "I told father that mule was dangerous. That's the third time he's kicked me."

Hoping to restore a semblance of order, Miss Sally picked up the book, opened it to the place marked by her treasured bookmark, and began once more to read to the little scholars.

"Well, as I was saying, just then the Rip parted, and . . . . "

... through it, at an alarming speed, there clattered a strangely familiar group.

Upon their clattering feet they wore ill-fitting and clumpy clogs. Upon their collective heads they wore what appeared to be an offensively huge pair of heavy-duty bloomers.

Yes! It was the Clog-Dancing Collective!

Moving as one, they clattered across the deck in unison. (Not only in unison, of course, but also in a pair of the Mother Farcquar's knickers, worn jointly upon their several heads after purloining the said undergarments in a moment of collective insanity during their last appearance in these chronicles).

Several things happened in rapid succession:

- The Mother Farcquar bellowed: "Me knickers!" and snatched the heavy-duty bloomers from the collective heads of the Collective.

- The individual members of the Collective cowered in fear. (This didn't prevent them from continuing their dance, however. Hieronymous was moved to comment upon their terpsichorean skill: "It's not often you see a group cowering and dancing in unison," he said to Hereward. "Most impressive!").

- The leading edge of the Collective, having danced their way into a collision with the trailing edge of the Morris Dancers, found themselves being flung overboard by Sponcracker's droids.

- The Rip parted again, to spew forth Moichael O'Flatulence and a soaking wet and grumpy Seaman Staines, who .....

...nudged the drunken Irish windbag in the spareribs with his bony elbow, and with a leer in the general direction of Miss Sally, whispered "Moichael m'boy, I think I'm in love"

Unfortunately for him, his whisper did not escape the acute hearing of the Mother Farcquahar, nor did she mistake the direction of his leer. "Come here, you soggy, scrawny error in the human genome, I'll give you in, love." and so saying, she picked him up by the extremities and made to throw him down the companionway. The companions readied themselves for the sodden mess, but just as the Mother Farcquahar reeched the apogee of her backswing, Miss Sally dashed forward and, falling to her knees, beseeched the grand dame.....

not throw him in the companions direction but better yetto use him as a cricket bat and pretend that great irish windbag Moichael O'Flatulence was a cricket ball. Stopped in mid swing Mother Farcquar thought about it for all of a minute (slow thinker) and said to Miss Sally'I think you had better go see how young Roger is getting on while I deal with............

.... this group of clog dancers."

Even as these portentous words left the Mother Farcquar's great blubbery lips, the main deck was filled once more with a cacophonous clattering. Great masses of clog dancing idiots heaved to and fro across the deck, their feet moving in a syncopated rhythm.

It was clear that the Rip was working overtime, feeding clog dancers through the space/time continuum in an apparently endless chain.

Sponcracker's droids were doing sterling work along the portside rail. As the outer edges of the clog dancing mass heaved themselves within reach of the droids, they each were grasped in a metallic embrace and tossed over the side.

Over the tremendous clattering of syncopated clogs could be heard a rhythmic pattern of: "Ole!", "Errk!" "Splash!" as the hamsters provided a vocal accompaniment to the toiling of the droids.

Frontbottom was hugely impressed.

"I'm hugely impressed!" he said.

"Delighted to meet you, Mr Impressed!" said a rather portly character in a loud check suit who had appeared at Frontbottom's side. "Allow me to present my card."

Surprised at the sudden appearance of the gaudily-dressed gentleman, Frontbottom leapt about two feet in the air.

"Egad, sir," cried Frontbottom, "you gave me quite a turn. Where the bloody devil did you come from?"

Repeating himself, the stranger smiled and said, "allow me to present my card."

Taking the proffered card, Frontbottom glanced at it and indignantly replied, "the bloody card doesn't say anything at all. What's the meaning of this?"

Bemused, the portly visitor softly spoke, "you've got it the wrong side round, you dill. Turn it over."

Flicking the card back to front as nonchalantly as possible under the circumstances, Frontbottom saw inscribed thereon:

Adam MacAdam
Union Representative
United Clog Dancers Collective

"Well, Mr. Impressed, as you can see I represent the interests of these legions of Cloggers which your droids are chucking over the rail. And it absolutely must stop."

"Who's Mr. Impressed?" inquired Frontbottom.

"Why you are, you chump. I distinctly heard you say 'I'm impressed' a moment ago."

"I'm not Impressed," said Frontbottom.

"Well, make up your mind," snorted MacAdam. "Are you Impressed or aren't you?"

"Well, I am impressed, in away," Frontbottom answered, "but yet, in a way, I am not."

"Look 'ere mate," said MacAdam, lapsing into the vernacular and thus betraying his working-class roots, "either you're Impressed or you ain't. Which is it to be, then?"

Frontbottom, never the sharpest chisel on the rack, was now thoroughly befuddled.

"I'm thoroughly befuddled," he said.

"Here, 'ere," MacAdam's voice rose an octave or so (or, perhaps, merely several semitones, but we won't quibble), "are you havin' a lend o' me? First you're Impressed and now you're Befuddled. I've important business to transact concerning your treatment of these Cloggers and if you're not the man to see, just say so."

Not bothering to answer, Frontbottom staggered off in the general direction of Captain Nemo. Accosting the aforementioned Captain, he jerked a thumb toward MacAdam and said, "gent' to see you, Captain, but I can't make heads or tails of him. Something to do with befuddled cloggers or impressive unions, I'm not just sure." And with that, Frontbottom strode down the companionway, muttering to himself, much to the amusement of the Companions.

Nemo, his interest piqued, sauntered over to MacAdam and said, "I'm the Captain of the Very Little Gravitas Indeed, how may I be of service?"

"Well," MacAdam intoned, "for a beginning, you can . . . "

But - before he could complete his request, the check-suited and portly one was rudely elbowed aside by Moichael O'Flatulence.

(Aha! you'd forgotten about him, Dear Reader, had you not? But it was Himself all right. He had reappeared through the Rip, accompanied by a soggy Staines only just before the Rip began vomiting forth hordes of clog dancers).

"Hello Captain, 'tis meself!" said Moichael in that incredibly irritating self-important manner of his. "Oi've come back to provoide yer with some terpsichorean entertainment."

So saying, he thrust both arms stiffly downwards and raised himself on his toes, preparatory to launching himself into his customary upimself dancing display.

However, before his heels could begin their staccato hammering, Dogsbreath delivered him a perfectly executed hip and shoulder, propelling Moichael across the poop and into the horrible embrace of the Drop Bear, who arrived at the head of a companionway (much wailing and moaning of companions in his wake) just as Moichael staggered into his path.

The impetus provided by Moichael's impact upon the Drop Bear was enough to propel them both over the taffrail.

"OLE!" cried the hamsters gleefully.

"ERRK!" and "ERRK!" quoth Moichael and the Drop Bear, jointly and severally.

"Well done, Dogsbreath!" said Nemo.

However ......

... the Captain's troubles had not ceased with the latest immersion of the irritating O'Flatulence.

McAdam, the portly and loudly check-suited card profferor was still present, planted four-square in Nemo's path.

"...For a start," he said. "You can stop your robots from throwing my members into the ocean."

(Sponcracker's droids were still heaving clog dancers over the side. The hamsters' "Oles" had begun to take on a less-than-enthusiastic tone).

"Your members?" said Nemo. "In what manner are these clog-dancing loons to be characterised as 'your members'?"

"My card," said McAdam, presenting Nemo with the piece of pasteboard bearing the legend:

Adam MacAdam
Union Representative
United Clog Dancers Collective

"If you don't immediately call off this jettisoning of my members, I will be forced to take action."

"Facinating!" said Nemo - silently beckoning Sponcracker to his side. "Pray tell me, what action do you have in mind?"

"Well!" said McAdam, grasping his lapels and rocking back slightly on his heels, "We'll start with a stop-work meeting."

"A stop-work meeting?" Nemo raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What precisely does that entail?"

"Well, it means that we'll stop work and have a meeting."

"Let me understand," said Nemo. "By 'stop work' you mean to imply that your clog-dancing members will cease their activity?"

McAdam nodded.

"Which means they'll stop dancing?"

McAdam pursed his lips, narrowed his gaze and nodded again.

"Their clog-clad feet will cease from clattering up and down on my maindeck?"

McAdam nodded once more.

"If I don't order the droids to stop tossing them over the side?"

"That's it, Captain," said McAdam. "You've got it in one!"

"Excellent!" said Nemo. "Sponcracker!......"

" . . . redouble your clogger-throwing efforts at once! And don't spare the horses!" Turning to MacAdam, the Captain inquired, "Well?"

MacAdam, taking a deep breath which, coupled with his portliness and loud checked suit, had the effect of making him look a bit like a roly-poly pudding, glared at Nemo and snorted, "We'll just see about this. Yes, we'll see all about it. Just you wait." Reaching into his pocket, MacAdam pulled forth a silver whistle and placed it to his lips.

Thweeet! Thweet!

The sound of the whistle resonated across the deck. The cloggers, recognizing the signal for a stop work meeting, immediately ceased to clog. The droids, reaching for the next dancing devil, found that they were no longer within reach. The hamsters, noting the lack of activity, gratefully swallowed the anticipated Ole and quietly moved aft for a smoko. The Captain, seeing the lack of clogging, produced a broad smile and clapped MacAdam on the back.

"Well done, matey, well done! As good as your word. Say, that's an outstanding whistle you have there. Very penetrating. You use it well."

MacAdam, remaining strangely unresponsive to the Captain's blandishments, soon moved to the center of the deck as the cloggers gathered about him. Raising his voice so as to be heard in the rear of the throng, he shouted, "Fellow members of the United Clog Dancers Collective, as your duly-elected representative it is my duty to inform you that I have determined that this workplace is unsafe, to whit, your brothers are being thrown overboard willy-nilly. Therefore, I propose that we shall stop work until we have negotiated a proper contract with the Captain. Those in favor, so signify by saying Aye." (A great chorus of Ayes was heard.) "Any opposed shall say Nay." (Not a naysayer in the lot.) "The motion carries. Thank you gentlemen."

Turning a smug face to the Captain, MacAdam said, "Now then, shall we . . . "

...negotiate individual workplace agreements for my collection of collectivists?"
But before the Captain could answer, the air was rent by a piercing scream of "Daaaadeeee!"
The reactions of the various crew members were unuasual, to say the least.
Sponcracker and Staines immediately took station in the nearest available hiding places. Staines dived headfirst into a firkin that was sitting on the deck, while Sponcracker rushed down the companionway, knocking the companions about like tenpins. Frontbottom tried to pretend he was invisible while squinting out of the corner of his eye to see whence the scream came. Moichael O'Flatulence placed his body and soul in peril by trying to hide in the voluminous skirts of the Mother Farquahar, but was discouraged in this endeavour by the miasma of noxious vapours that ruffling her skirts released.

Only Nemo and Adam McAdam remained unfazed - Nemo because he was a slow thinker, and McAdam because it was not his nature to be fazed.

Once again, the ear-splitting cry of "Daaaadeeee!" rang out. From the corner of his good eye, Frontbottom saw the long golden locks and adequately shaped figure of Miss Sally dashing across the poop towards Nemo and McAdam. As she reached them she dropped to her knees at McAdam's feet.

"Daaaadeeeee!", she screamed for the third time, "Where have you been?"

McAdam cleared his throat.....

. . . and drew himself up haughtily. "My good madam, or mademoiselle, as the case may be, whatever gave you the idea that I was your father? Alas, I have not been blessed with children, although, if I may say so without sounding a braggart, it wasn't from lack of opportunity."

Sally replied, "But you are my sweet daddums, I knew it straightaway when I saw you. Mummy has described you so often and talks about you all the time. Why only the other evening mumsy was remembering some previous event or another, I'm not just sure what, and with tears in her eyes she said 'if only I could once more see your father. What wouldn't I do to him.' Then she turned to me and said softly, 'my child, if ever you run across a fat jumbuck in a checked suit and blowing a silver whistle, you'll have found your father. Don't let him out of your sight. Or near your purse, come to that.' And now here you are! Oh, Daddy!"

MacAdam was nonplussed. "I'm nonplussed," he whispered. "Can it be? After all these years? Can it possibly be?" Then facing Sally, he said, "My dear little waif, pray tell, what might your mother's name be?"

"Why, it's Wendy, of course (no relation). You know that as well as I, Dad."

Recoiling as though stung by a scorpion, MacAdam stammered, "Wendy, you say? Did you say Wendy?" And with that he . . . .

. . . stepped back and reflexively blew a Thweet! on his whistle.

Taking this as a sign that the work stoppage was ended, the cloggers began clogging with renewed vigour.

"Dammit, MacAdam," shouted the Captain, "make those bloody cloggers cease their infernal clogging!"

But MacAdam, still looking stunned, paid Nemo no heed and instead began edging toward the taffrail. Sally uttered one final "Daddy!," and with that MacAdam broke into full retreat, hurling himself overboard and striking out for parts unknown. When last seen from the crow's nest he was making good speed Nor' Nor'east and looked for all the world like a checked-suited whale hot on the trail of several tons of krill.

Nemo, once more beset with cloggers, called for Sponcracker to have his droids resume their former activity. The hamsters, much refreshed, once more began the shouts of Ole as each clogger cleared the rail.

Seaman Staines climbed out from the firken and gazed about him sheepishly.

Nemo, by now mad as a cut snake, began shouting orders. "Belay the Mizzen! Clear the fo'c'sle! Tie off the main brace! And someone do eff all about these farking cloggers!"

Just then, as if on cue, Groans staggered forward, hoisting his arqebus. Taking aim at the mass of dancing devils, he fired into the crowd. His charge had the effect of scattering the clogging troupe.

"Thar', that'll sort 'em," Groans announced. And sure enough the cloggers, now covered with meusli, quickly dispersed in several directions.

All but forgotten in the melee, Sally stood amidst the chittering throng, lost in thought. Suddenly, as though waking from a deep sleep, she shook her golden locks and said to Nemo, "Now I think about it, Mummy actually said Daddy wore a a striped suit and blew a red flute. And her name was Wilma, not Wendy. I get so mixed up sometimes." With a small giggle, she ran down the companionway, as the Companions shook their heads in wonder.

"Groans, you've done it," Nemo declared. "You deserve a reward, just name it."

Groans, after some thought, looked the Captain straight in the eye and said, "Well, I've always fancied a bit o' . . . ."