A fella has to relax and write dreams or something like that - Sometimes - more sometimes than is healthy!

The Adventures of Vinnie the Weasel

Chapter 1

Vinnie Goes Underground

Vinnie was feeling dreadful, melodion he would have said feelin' melodion, melodion, terrible.

He had been at the cider apple slops again: in the Slop Shop, couldn't resist it, even though all that sugar made him woozy, and the cider apples made him, well there is no other words for it Melodion.

He remembered something about attacking the old Grey Badger: but that could not be true, he was still alive, in one piece, not the remains of a badger's dinner.

So that part was a missed-memory, and he had been having lots of them lately. He scratched his privates, reefing at his itchy marbles, while he was at it he decided to give them a quick lick. That was a bad idea, somewhere along the line in his drunken state he must have peed himself.

He tried to stand but failed. It was time to open his eyes, no matter what pain that would bring. He was in a barn somewhere, maybe that old shed behind the post, near the den where he had been born. But he knew this was wrong: more hope that truth. He was in the graveyard, on a tombstone, out in the open where people could see him. He crawled beneath an opening at the side of the cover and dropped down into the skeleton bones below. He felt secure once more.

He crawled along on his belly, around corners, up stones: anyway to get away from this bone yard. Even the odd clink of a bone against another bone was doing his head in.

He slouched around in the dark, sometimes the gloom, depending on the grave slaps above, until starving and with a terrible dry mouth he escaped into an overgrown pathway leading away from the village into the counytry side. He found a garden with a cabbage patch infested with slugs and starving he munched on one. Although he never are snails or slugs before his hunger overcame him and he started to gulp them down, one at a time then greedily two or three or sometimes a bigger mouth full. Jees wonder did me auld weasel mother know a French weasel once. These are juicy, almost as juicy as the cider apple slops, in me, local the Slop Shop.

Chapter 2

Vinnie Meets Pal

So there I was out in the garden, at night, lamping slugs with a flash light. I suppose most of you are too young to remember when people went Lamping Rabbits after the war. No! Not the war in Kuwait or Iraqi or Korea, or Afghanistan...or The Liveline Call in program with Hoe Puffy 1345-1500. , or the Slop Shop debacle any weekend when drink is flowing, and tempers are short. World War II! No! Two not Eleven. It was easy. Not the War: the Lamping.

After falling into and crawling out of a ditch , or two, you switched on a big light - N0! You didn't trail a cable way back home, to a socket - you had a big battery, and you dazzled a rabbit and then you got - Oh! I forgot you needed another fool to go with you, a co-conspirator, - got that from Judge Judy - to belt Bunny over the head with the stick.

Now when you got Bugs home and out of his Long Johns and funny long-eared hat, and into the pot, you sat back and got the veg and spuds ready.

Where was I? Oh Yea! In the garden with the flash light looking for slugs when I heard a voice say “Yer stealing me snacks Pal."

I almost watered the cabbages again. I jumped around shouting “Who's there? I have a black belt! I knew it was holding up my pants, but I hoped the intruder - Crimecall, this time - didn't know that.

There was no one there. I was just about to go into the house and have a big cup of Coca to steady me nerves when I heard it again.

“ I said.Yer stealing me snacks Pal!"

Again I shouted. “I have all the Karate Kid videos and I watched The Sound of Music fourteen times.”

“Down here Pal. Shine that light down here.” I did. There was nothing there only a weasel scratching himself or herself on a rock, casually chewing on a large fat slug.

Good I thought relieved - couldn't resist the Pun. It's only a talking weasel.”

In my best Miley accent, I said. “Well Holy God! A talking weasel!”

“ I prefer Mustela niva....Jees never mind, I can't remember the rest, I goes be the name of Vinnie.”

“Where did you get that name? I said, still confused , trying to wrest back the initiative in conversation: like they told me to do on my IMI Project Management Course.

“From you. Or were you saying Winnie””

“Me. I never met you before!”

“I've been watching you.” He said, just like the way Stephen King says it, somewhere in every bloody book he ever wrote.

“After all, I learned to speak your language from you. You garden and then you stop and start boxing the air”. Punch Punch, Snort Snort shouting “I got ya now Rocky. Here's the one I'm getting' ready for Vinnie. Put him to sleep it will.”

“No I don't!” I yelled.

“Yes you do!” He yelled back.

“Don't.”

“Do.” He said again.

“Don't.” I screamed.

And then he got me.“Don't.” He screamed back.

“Do!” I roared triumphantly arms akimbo, doing my little victory dance. Well! Sh-one-t! Bested by a weassel. Well - a very intelligent slug.

And then he told me the story.

For weeks he had been watching me. Apparently he alleged as in the various Court Case, where he was the defendant..... well let's move on. I would dig, or rake, or sow - the gardening kind: not on a Knitting Forum. Then I would bounce into the lawn and box - no Box in a ring. Not box as in The Smurfit Box Company - I boxed for Ireland you know! I worked in Smurfits!

He said I would box an imaginary opponent always called Rocky. Well come on. He had a couple of films. And now nuttin'. I felt I gotta Guive Him A Job.

And I would snort – let's not go there – and duck and dive and talk to myself.

“And by the way Pal, ya can't count to ten.”

“I can, it's seven, eight, nine, ten.”

“Wha' about one to seven?”

“I ain't never huerd those numbas befor'”

And so, that's how Weasel Vinnie said he learned our language. He liked the name as well and adopted it, thought it got in touch with his feminine side.

We made a pact. I would sow, a row of Lettuce and Cabbage to attract the slugs and they would wipe them out for me – free of charge. Just the odd tip on a horse Pal, that'll do it.

“So that's it then Pal. We have an agreement!”

“That's it Vinnie. We done now?”

I left, and when I entered the house that night I didn't know that Vinnie was going to lead me up the garden-path.

Chapter 3

The Gunship Bismark

When Pal got back to the house. The Dishwasher had a message for him: he didn't have an answer phone. It was “Program Finished Please Empty”.

In the Kitchen The Gunship his DW - Dear Wife - she shopped in Brown Thomas, was waiting for him. She was tapping a large frying pan against her tie: she wore men's clothes, and he didn't think he was in for a fry-up.

“Where has Yous been? And whos was yous talking to?”

Jees, Pal thought she's talking like Vinnie too.

“No one.” Pal said.

“I heard yas!” The Gunship said.

Jees! thought Pal. Twenty five thousand grant-aided Euros worth of wall insulation and triple glazed windows, and we were half-way down the garden and she still hears us!

“I wasn't speaking to anyone”

“Yous was.” The Gunship said.

“Wasn't” Pal said.

“Was.” The Gunship said again.

“Wasn't!”

“Wasn't!” The Gunship shouted.

“Was so, was so!” Pal screamed back.

“OK! OK! Just a weasel.”

“I knew it! One of your buddy’s was down there.”

“No! A real weasel, ya know like a polecat.”

“I knew it! It was your other squeeze....Polly.”

“No! IT WAS A REAL WEASEL. His name is Vinnie.”

“Talking to a weasel! Have you been at the Wacki Backi? An' Another Thing!”

Oh! No!, Pal thought - not another thing. Don't say AND ANOTHER THING. You always say that. If it was only one another thing, but it's always more.

“You have a message on your Batphone.”

“What's up? Is Gotham City in trouble again?”

Bam! Zap! Zow! Powie! Frozen Catfish! Pal woke up alone on the floor ten minutes later.

The Gunship Bismark was gone, only the scent of her lingered. He pinched his nose and screamed and his forehead was sore. He thought he was bleeding.

He looked in the mirror, The message The Gunship had left on his forehead was as clear as the squashed nose on his face. It read “Made in China”.

Chapter 4

Slug-Ali The Greatest

He checked the phone. He had a text from Polly. It read DP MT POT SHD. DE GRTS WM. MD AS HL. SOS. POL.

He never knew what those messages meant but if he had sent it he would have said.

Dear Pal. You need to attend at a meeting in the Potting Shed, where Ali, The Greatest, requests to meet you . He is as mad as hell. Someone squealed. Polly. Well no. He wouldn't have signed it Polly. DOH! DOH!

“Wassup Pal!! How's it hanging? Someone here waiting on you,” says a cool slick water rat on watch at the door.

“Ok. Slick. Sometin' terrible.” Replied Pal.

He's feeling a bit uneasy or is it just queasy and he's unsure, so he's thinking about stalling but quickly realises he would look a right cabbage if he were to falter. So he settles his “Kiss Me Quick”, squares up in the doorway and pushes the door open in a John Wayne like fashion. He wants to say “Pilgrim” But instead says “Who’s there.”

“I am, I am Polecat-Ali The Greatest. Call me Ali: if you dare. Pleased ta meet ya. I used to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee – just like my hero Muhammad Ali. I bopped 'em, 'til I dropped 'em. - they never got a chance to lay one on this pretty face.”

“OH MY GOD...”says Pal

“Yea that’s me: words out that you’re a bit of a pug yourself, words out that you run a mean and nasty gaff here. From my sources words out that you was huerd saying: I talk to wease,ls: Do YA PAL?

“Jees Ali. Mister Ali. No way man, you’re the Greatest, I’d never be disrespect-in the polecat. Jees man you’re the best, I mean it.”

Feeling under pressure Pal secretly - texts his DP: bring some rescue remedy. Well that's what he meant; he only texted HELP!

Polly makes a grand entrance with the best treats of lettttuccesss and cuucuuumber bites: on her Blue Periwinkle Bone China.

“Delighted, delighted you could join us Ali for some light refreshments. Will you have some geesberry wune? “

She meant gooseberry wine but had tippled a few earlier! “Don’t mind what my sweet Pal says. The night air has affected him ever so slightly and at times he does tend to ramble some....poor dear.

I must let Mrs Hermione Pott know that you are here. She’s my neighbour with the jacuzzi and room for a pony and the husband that NAMA is investigating.”

Ali was smitten! Wow! He thought. That broad Polly would blow the whistle on my kettle anytime. She's a sophisticated broad, looks to die for..sometin' looking like Gabrielle from Desperate Housewives, and a sharp cultured creature like Hyacinth from Keeping Up Appearances.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that creature of desire, his shoulders shook and he sighed loudly as he failed.

But what Ali didn't know was: she a tendency to over indulge on that home-made wine Pal makes...cheapskate won’t buy vintage! But mst of the tome ...oops..(sorry me too..) most of the time... she's class.

What he can't know either is she could be as sensitive as any sweet pea and but has a fiery temper on her like a Tsunami but that's what Pal sees in her, he's smitten, - isn't that right Pal.- and she knows how to play that to her full advantage!

What they never suspected is that Polly has that Ali fella well mapped: knows his game and has a few rotten cider appless – Real worm infested Heavies- to deal with that An'tick....dried up tosser...thinks he identifies with Matt Damon in Bourne Identity! Wouldn't see a whole large hole: in a ladder.

Ali came out of his trance as in the real Rocky style Pal says...

“The Wurld! It ain’t all sunshine and rainbows- sniff, sniff. It 'sa very mean and nasty place. It will beat ya to yaur knees and keep you there perman'ntly – ifan you let it. Ya! Me! Nah nooobody is going to hit as hurd as LIFE. But it ain’t about how hurd you hit. It's about how hurd ya can get hit and keep movin' furwa'd, it's how much ya can take : and keep moving furwa'd.”

My Rocky Balboa speech should impress: thinks Pal quietly – well that statement beats Banagher! Writer? Can you think loudly?

It did the job; tired and emotional again, Ali said, “I’m feeling it man. Take me home Slick. Sing me a sad song”

“OK Boss.”

Under a Parsnip leaf. Old Rick Badger, slurps his whiskers, drags on his fag and whispers, “Not that tune, though. I tole yas all, don’t sing that tune.”