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A Squeakler's Quest

It was very early on Monday morning. The sun was 

about to rise.

You would have thought that across Squeaklerland 

thousands of Squeaklers would be tucked up in bed, 

warm and cosy and nursing hangovers.  

But they weren’t.  

Most of them had peered at their clocks on their 

bedside cabinets and were now gathering in the 

gloom of the community clearing, looking distinctly 

rough around the edges and squinting through their 

bloodshot yellow-tinged multi-eyes.

Those that could, vaguely remember partying to the 

wee small minutes and either drinking too much 

cake or eating too much Bottom-Blaster Bamboo 

Samphire.   

Nigel, milling around with all the other Squeaklers, 

yawned a dry-mouthed yawn as he raised his fire-

fly lantern and glanced around him.  

Other Squeaklers were raising their fire-fly 

lanterns and were squinting at each other and 

their watches.

Nigel turned up his lamp to full power, which 

caused the fire fly to go crossed-eyed, and 

examined his watch. It had stopped.

“That can’t be right,” thought Nigel.  

So, he examined the thing by gently shaking it, 

putting up to his ear, scrutinising the movement 

through the transparent back and then completely 

ignoring it.  

Squeaklers all around him were doing and saying 

the same thing. They all were hoping that Tim or 

Alan would explain what was happening or what 

had happened.

* * *

 “.....and that was the lilting Adagio from Harpweb 

Concerto No. 6 by Ludwig Arachnia played there 

by Svetlana Squeaklova especially for all you early 

morning classical crawling creatures out there in 

Squeaklerland. But now, let’s crank up the beat 

with a classic disco sound of “Nit Fever” by 

the....”

Squad Squeakler’s nauseating nasal utterances 

from Radio Squee were rudely cut short as Reg 

Squeakler swiftly turned off his radio.

 “Why do we have to put up with this mindless trash, 

eh?” he growled, munching his char-grilled cabbage. 

“Why don’t they broadcast lively discussions or 

Imaginosities?”

“Der!” replied Lennie in an adolescent you-don’t-

understand fashion. “Who wants to hear that poop-

hog poop?” 

“You’d be surprised Len,” said Reg reflectively.  

“Generations of Squeaklers have wondered about 

such things as “Why is soup?” and “Where is 

green?”

“So? Who gives a Squeakler’s squab?” Lennie was 

very bored and shoved the scraps of his breakfast 

cabbage into a pile. Silence settled on the duo.

Reg and Lennie had had a trouble-free shift that 

Sunday night inside their security hut of Squeakler 

Brothers Micro-Distillery. They had regularly 

scanned the 10 CCTV monitors for any illegal 

activity and found none.  

Lennie had made several circuits of the perimeter 

fence and found no breaches in the nettle stem 

barbed mesh, plus the sensor glow-worm 

searchlights had all been fed. 

So, most of the time the pair drunk cups of 

beetroot-bean coffee, ate biscuits and listened to 

Radio Squee. 

They hoped beyond hope that Nigel’s ‘discovery’ 

party was a complete boredom-inducing failure. 

And now their night shift was over. So as soon as 

Lewis turned up for the day shift, they’d be off 

home to bed. 

* * *

Carrying two mugs of bug-bean coffee and two 

aspirins, Maureen was carefully threading her way 

through the yawning mass of crumpled-faced 

Squeaklers.

“Here you go my sweet, just the things to clear your 

head,” Maureen proffered the remedies to Nigel.

“Thank you,” he groaned.

Nigel immediately poured the coffee over his head 

and stuffed the aspirins into his ears.

Several Squeaklers were passing by. Maureen stopped 

a rather smelly specimen in his tracks. 

“Stan, have you seen Tim or Alan?” she asked, wincing 

slightly from Stan’s fumes. 

“Ohhuugghh, hello Maureen,” groaned a bleary-eyed 

skew-whiffed-wigged Stan. “Wos goin’ on then? I 

really need a couple of aspirins and a coffee...”

“...and a wash,” thought Maureen.

Stan wandered off dejectedly.

* * *

Tim and Alan were outside the home of Finlay 

McSqueakler. They knocked on the door. Finlay 

was not best pleased to be summoned from his 

woolly-beetle bed, for he had a humdinger of a 

hangover. However, he was needed, so very 

reluctantly he poured coffee into his ears and 

squashed two aspirins up his snout and trudged 

down stairs.  

The ground floor of his home had been converted 

to an office, storeroom, lab, and Record Room 

where Finlay practised as the official Squeaklerland 

registrar, chemist and all round boffin.

“This had better be good, boys,” he said, letting 

them into the office and scowling at them from 

one blood-shot right multi-eye.

“Thing is Finlay...,”started Tim, “there seems to 

be something not quite right with.......” 

Tim stopped mid-sentence as it seemed as if a 

crunch of cockroaches had started clog dancing 

between his ears. 

“Thing is...,” continued Alan, “How can I put it? 

Well to be honest I think, well we think, that we 

should be.... dead.”

“Sorry? You think you should be dead?” Finlay put 

a few of his hands to the sides of his head and 

tipped some coffee from out of his ears. 

“Well, our watches have stopped working,” Alan 

explained. "Therefore, we should be dead.”

Finlay extracted the aspirins from his snout and 

checked his watch. It had stopped. He furrowed his 

brow. “You know, I have the distinct feeling that 

something very weird is going on.”

Tim and Alan raised their eyebrows and looked at 

each other. 

“You don’t say!” they said sarcastically.

“I tell you what; let’s look at the Register. Pamela can 

confirm if there were any deaths yesterday. I’ll give 

her a ring.”

Finlay picked up a small crystallised bluebell from 

his desk and rang it.  

The sound of three dainty feet could be heard 

approaching the door. There was a gentle tap and 

Pamela Squeakler entered.

“Did you want me Fin...” Pamela stopped mid-

question. “So sorry, I didn’t realise you had 

company.” 

Tim and Alan said nothing for several seconds as 

they took in the vision that was Pamela Squeakler.  

For a Squeakler, she was slim with long, wavy 

auburn hair and the most glorious mustard-

coloured multi-eyes which twinkled mischievously. 

She smiled a smile and fluttered her thick, black 

eyelashes at the visitors. The visitors stood opened-

mouthed.

Finlay broke the reverie.

“Tim, Alan, may I introduce Miss Pamela Squeakler?” 

The boys nearly fell over their own feet in an effort to 

shake some of Pamela’s hands.

“So lovely to meet you miss,” oozed Alan.

“An absolutely ravishing delight!” grinned Tim.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Do please call me Pam.”

Pam turned to Finlay, “Can I help you at all?” she 

asked.

“Yes please Pam,” replied a business-like Finlay.  

“Please fetch the Register of Deaths; we wish to 

examine some recent entries.”

“Right away.” 

Miss Pamela Squeakler glided out in a whisper of 

spider-web chiffon and Fennel No.9.

“Wow Finlay, you’ve definitely found a corker 

there!” exclaimed Alan, savouring the merest 

hint of Fennel drifting in the air.

“D’you know she is an utter treasure, plus, of 

course, she has the most beautiful....”

“Body?” chipped in Tim.

“No!” Finlay hesitated. “Well, yes! ....but I was 

going to say the most beautiful handwriting.”

“Ah,” sighed a rather disappointed Tim.

At that moment, Pamela returned to the office 

carrying the most recent volume of the Registry of 

Deaths. She placed it on an ancient wiggleberry 

book slope.

“Thank you Pam,” said Finlay.

“You’re more than welcome gentlemen. Oh and 

Finlay, I’ve been doing some stocktaking and we 

have completely run out of...” 

“I’ll deal with any stocktaking issues later Pam, 

thank you very much. This is more important,” 

Finlay cut in.

“As you wish,” and Pamela sashayed out of the 

office with the slightest sway to her hips.

Finlay had to click his fingers a few times to get the 

boys’ attention.

“Tim! Alan! Let’s get back to the task in hand, shall 

we?”

So Finlay opened the large poop-hog leather-bound 

volume. On each page was the most elegant cursive 

script that Alan and Tim had ever seen; the lustrous 

pink ink glowed in that musty office. 

“As you can see there were many Squeaklers who 

passed away on Friday.”  

Finlay ran his finger down the vast list of names. 

“In fact, 312 Squeaklers died that day which is 

not unusual considering life expectancy is around 

1440 minutes.”

“What about Saturday?” asked Alan.

“More or less the same as Friday,” he replied, 

turning to the relevant pages.  

There was a moment’s respectful silence before the 

page for Sunday was revealed. 

There was not a single entry.

“What happens now?” asked Tim and Alan.

“Well let’s think,” pondered Finlay, drumming several 

fingers across his lips. “I will have to carry out some 

very vigorous checks but it seems to me that all 

Squeaklers that were alive yesterday, i.e. Sunday, 

are still with us this morning, i.e. Monday.”

“How long will it take to do “some very vigorous 

checks” exactly?” asked Alan rather dubiously.

Tim and Alan watched Finlay as he paced up and 

down his office drumming more fingers against his 

lips and shaking the remains of the coffee from out 

of his ears. Finally he stopped.

“I have it! Squeakograms will have to be sent to 

everyone asking them to assemble in the clearing, 

then....”

Tim interrupted Finlay in mid-flow. He was looking 

out of the window.

“There’s no need to send Squeakograms, Finlay old 

chap, just look at this,” he announced. 

Outside, more and more Squeaklers were gathering.  

Some had ice packs on their heads, others were 

wearing sunglasses but mostly they had coffee 

dripping down their crimpled faces and aspirins 

stuffed in various orifices.

“Right then,” said Finlay joining Tim at the window, 

“we’d better have a word with them.”

The three Squeakers went outside. The crowd 

erupted.

“There they are!”

Finlay, Tim and Alan were suddenly surrounded by 

hundreds of bleary-eyed Squeaklers wielding lanterns 

and reeking of stale Parsnip Perry and garlic infused 

poop-hog joo.  

“What’s happened...? Why am I here...? Have you 

got an aspirin?...Where’s my aardvark?... Can you 

fix my watch?...Anyone got a sick bag?”

The mass of Squeaklers needed answers. Alan 

raised three of his hands to his mouth and called 

out across the clearing.

“Listen everybody!” he tried to get their attention, 

but failed miserably.

The crowd edged closer. 

“Alan!” bellowed Tim. “We need to find...”

“What d’you say!?” bellowed Alan back.

“Ne’mind, I see him ...and smell him.”

Tim got Stan’s attention by waving six of his limbs 

and promptly falling over. He nonchalantly stood up 

on five of his feet, brushed off some dust and 

beckoned the bedraggled specimen over.

“Morning Stan,” winced Tim. It wasn’t easy 

addressing the smelly Squeakler while pinching his 

nose and not breathing.

“Morning Tim!” shouted Stan over the din. “D’you 

want me to....”

“Yes please,” cut in Tim.

Stan raised his megaphone.

“QUIET!!!” he roared.

Everyone froze. All eyes were on Stan. Silence 

reigned.

“STAND STILL....DO NOT MOOOVE....LISTEN TO 

TIM-O-THEE!”

The nearest rows of Squeaklers keeled over backwards 

not only from the deafening roar but from the 

putrefying pong.

“YEW LOT AT THE FRONT...STAND UP.... PAY 

ATTENTION!” Stan roared again.  

The stricken Squeaklers un-crossed their eyes, stood 

up and then deliberately edged back several paces.

Stan lowered the megaphone and had a word with Tim.

“Right, off you go,” he winked.

“Now I know you are all wondering what’s 

happened....” started Tim.

“Well yeah, smarty-pants. That’s why we’re here!” 

shouted some sarcastic wag at the back.

“Well, it seems that all of us who were here 

yesterday are still here today,” continued Tim.

“I’m not here!”  

“Neither am I!” 

Hung-over or not there were still a couple of 

Squeaklers with a sense of fun. 

“Frank, Eric, in fact all of you, can you please pay 

attention? Finlay here has a theory.” 

Silence descended over the assembled masses.  

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows 

were furrowed. Questions of a theoretical nature 

were asked.

“What’s a fairy got to do with the price of 

cabbage?” asked an ancient Squeakler at the front.

“Theory, Albert,” replied Alan, “not fairy. Take 

those aspirins out of your ears!”

Finlay took centre stage.

“Now,” he announced, “I reckon that something has 

affected all of us who were at Nigel’s party last night. 

So using a process of elimination I am going to 

narrow down to what that “something” might be.”

A hand was raised.

“Yes?”

“Have you seen my aardvark?”

“No, Tarquin, I haven’t! Now where was I? Oh 

yes...First things first:- raise your hands if you did 

not have anything to eat last night.”

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows 

were furrowed. Questions of a gastronomic nature 

were asked.

An arm was raised. The arm was attached to a 

body, and that body was sat in a puddle.

“Me,” said Bob.

“Care to explain?” asked Finlay.

“Well the scrumptious Sharon and I just had several 

drinkies together and then we went off somewhere 

private for some hanky...”

“Yes fine, erm, thank you Bob, we get the picture,” 

cut in a somewhat red-faced Finlay. “Okay then 

everyone; let’s look at the likely liquid refreshments 

that were imbibed.”

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows were 

furrowed. Questions concerning fluidity were asked.

“‘Ow dare you! I’ve never imbibed in me life! The 

cheek of it!” shouted Frank from the middle of the 

melee. “You should be locked up!”

“Frank, all I’m asking is what everybody had to 

drink!”

“Oh, right, you should’ve said,” replied a sheepish 

Frank.

So for the next few minutes Finlay went through the 

list of available drinks at Nigel’s party.  

It turned out that some Squeaklers had had Parsnip 

Perry while others had Super Strength Sedge 

Shandies. Some had fantastic colourful cocktails 

others had not. Some older Squeaklers had had 

Chrysalis Cava and some Squeaklers had diluted 

sunflower squash.

That left two possibilities.

“Which of you had any Bottom-Blaster Bamboo 

Samphire?” asked Finlay.

Questions concerning blasting bottoms should 

have been asked. However, after a pause, every 

single hand was raised skywards.

“Good! Right. Hands down everyone. We seem to 

be getting somewhere. Now, which of you did not 

drink Regurgitory Reed–Rum? 

Sickening questions concerning vomit were not asked 

either but a single wet arm was raised. 

The arm was attached to a body and that body was 

still sat in a puddle.

“Me,” said Bob.

“Care to explain again?” asked Finlay very patiently.

“I’m allergic to all reed based items; I come out in 

spots,” explained Bob.

It soon occurred to those assembled that there was 

something about Bottom-Blaster Bamboo Samphire 

that had kept them in the land of the living. Nigel 

stepped forward.  

“Are you saying Mr.McSqueakler that all Squeaklers 

are alive today because of me?” 

Finlay smiled at Nigel and nodded:-

“Well yes Nigel, in a roundabout sort of way, I think I 

am. It looks as though that drink, or something in 

that drink has changed our lives!”

A voice called out from the crowd. It was Garry.  

“Do you think the effect will last?”  

“That, Garry, is something we do not know. I will have 

to spend some time examining all the ingredients and 

doing some crucial scientific experiments,” explained 

Finlay. “So I think everyone might as well go about 

their normal everyday business.” 

“You must be joking, matey,” announced Frank 

angrily. “I’m ‘aving the day off and going back to 

bed!”

“Me too!” shouted nearly everyone else. Lewis, of 

course, had to go to work.

So a very happy band of Squeaklers returned to the 

comfort of their beds knowing that they were a) 

alive, and b) not dead. Tim and Alan also returned 

to their homes, leaving Finlay to isolate which 

ingredient, or ingredients was, or were, responsible 

for the Squeaklers continuing existence. 

He would have to have a chat with the Squeakler 

Brothers but first he needed to splash on more 

coffee and have a reviving breakfast.

Finlay turned his back on the homeward bound 

Squeaklers and went upstairs to his kitchen. 

After breakfast he jotted down a plan of action.

“Right, better phone Walter and Darryl,” he 

muttered to himself.

* * *

On that early Monday morning, while most of 

Squeaklerland were catching up on their sleeping 

and snoring, Garry was hatching a plan.  

Back inside his dimly-lit grassy home, he had made 

some quick notes and a few diagrams on some 

poop-hog paper and made a long distance telephone 

call to his girl friend.  

He decided that his idea, though not entirely legal, 

was entirely do-able. In fact, if his plan worked, then 

he might very well become a celebrity, like Nigel. 

“Or even a hero,” thought Garry. Mind you, he would 

need a little bit of assistance from Lewis.

* * *

“You want us to do what?” asked an irritated 

Walter.

“What, now?” added an astounded Darryl.

Walter and Darryl Squeakler had their squeakler-

phone on speaker mode and they were not best 

pleased at Finlay’s request.

“Boys,” Finlay pleaded over the air waves, “this 

really is important. I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t 

have such significance for all of us.”

“You do know that our recipes are unique and if 

they are lost, stolen or damaged in any way then 

someone will have to pay?” Walter was not going 

to be messed about.

“Yes of course I know,” replied Finlay, “and I can 

assure you that every possible security measure 

will be in place to ensure it is safely delivered to my 

office.”

“And what might those security measures be 

exactly?” asked a rather sceptical Darryl.

Finlay was prepared for this and glanced down at his 

notes.

“I will arrange for Snail Armoured Securities to....”

Walter cut in:-

“The S.A.S.? I heard they are a trumped-up bunch of 

mindless amateurs whose transportation is highly 

suspect and who couldn’t fight off a crèche load of 

Squeaklettes armed with wet nappies.” 

“Yes I heard that too,” admitted Finlay, “but they are 

cheap.”

There was a pause at the end of the line. Walter and 

Darryl’s brows furrowed. Questions of a monetary 

nature were silently mouthed. 

“How much would the SAS cost us?” queried a miserly 

Walter.

“Five bags of acorns each,” replied Finlay.

“FIVE BAGS OF ACORNS?” exclaimed Darryl. “Are you 

nuts?”

Finlay resisted the chance to point out the humorous 

connection.

“D’you think acorns grow on trees?” exclaimed 

Walter.

(“Should I tell him?” thought Finlay......“Nah.”)

“Look boys, I had to haggle them down from a crate 

of chestnuts. So it’s a no-brainer actually.”

“Tell you what Finlay, let’s say we forget the SAS 

completely and just fetch the recipe over ourselves?” 

suggested Walter.

“Fine by me,” replied Finlay and he put the phone 

down.

* * *

A watery sun had now risen over the damp 

hedgerows and tangled tussocks. Wisps of mist 

trailed their random way through the grasses and 

reeds and over the gravel track leading to the 

security hut of Squeakler Brothers Micro-Distillery. 

“We can’t wait much longer,” said Reg, looking at 

the time. “Lewis is not usually this late.”

“Bet he’s been partying all night and is slumped in 

some ditch somewhere,” moaned Lennie as he 

scanned down the track.

“Hang on,” said Reg, squinting into the semi-

darkness. “Two Squeaklers approaching, Len; could 

very well be vicious hooligans.”

“Or assassins,” suggested Len.

Reg quickly faced his workmate. “My word Len, you 

could be right! We could be in mortal danger.” 

Reg was nervous. He turned to scan down the track. 

The figures were getting closer.

Reg slowly opened a small window then picked up his 

high-beam mega glow worm torch and his weapons. 

He turned the torch up to full power. The glow worms 

crossed their eyes in agony. He aimed the beam of 

light at the approaching figures. 

“Stop where you are! Put your hands up!” Reg 

shouted. “I have trained poop-hogs ready to attack 

and have two highly sophisticated digital catapults 

aimed at your heads if you come anywhere near this 

facility!”

Walter and Darryl turned to each other and furrowed 

their brows. Questions about their safety crossed 

their minds. They stood still and raised five hands 

each.

Lennie tapped Reg on the shoulder.

“What is it Len? Can’t you see that I’ve got two would 

be assassins in my sights.” Reg kept his eyes firmly 

fixed on the path.

“Just look through the multi-oculars, Reg.” 

Lennie passed them to Reg who raised them to his 

eyes.

“Ah,” he said rather awkwardly, seeing an enlarged 

image of the Squeakler brothers. 

“Reg, it’s us you fool!   Put down those weapons 

immediately!” called out Darryl.

Reg did as he was told and Walter and Darryl lowered 

their hands a breathed a sigh of relief. They 

approached the hut.

“Sorry about that boss,” said Lennie, “Reg is rather 

keen.”

“Anyway, we are just here to pick up an item from 

the safe. We will only be about....” 

Walter stopped mid-sentence and frowned. “...Hang 

on; shouldn’t you two be off duty by now? Where’s 

Lewis?”

“Don’t rightly know boss. He’s probably been 

partying all night and is slumped in some ditch 

somewhere,” moaned Lennie.

“Well, we can’t deal with that now; we’re in a rush 

and on a mission. Let us in please, Reg.”

The alarm was deactivated. The brothers retrieved 

the recipe from the safe and then made their way 

back to Finlay’s in quick time.  

The sensor alarm button under the desk was re-set 

and Reg resumed his check of the track. This time he 

used the glasses.

”Lennie, isn’t that Lewis in the distance?” Reg 

beckoned Len to the window.

“Yep, that’s him. I recognise that huge spider-wool 

duffle coat, baseball hat and moth muffler 

anywhere.”

A bundled-up Squeakler approached on rather 

wobbly feet, his sunglasses slipping down his snout.

“Flipping eck Lewis,” said Reg. “You look dreadful 

...well, what I can see of you looks dreadful.”

“Urrrgghh....oooo....mmmmm,” came a distorted 

reply from under a muffler.

Reg ignored the groaning. “Anyhow,” he said, “there’s 

nothing to report. There’s some beetroot-bean coffee 

in a jar and Len’s left you a biscuit. See you tonight.”

“Errrrrggghh,” came another strangled reply. 

Little did they know that it wasn’t Lewis under all that 

clothing.

* * *

“We need a shallow pan filled with hot water.”

The recipe for Bottom-Blaster Bamboo Samphire lay 

in its case on Finlay’s desk. It was guarded by the 

Squeakler brothers.

“Do you want a bar of slow-worm soap and a fluffy 

towel with that?” inquired a rather confused Finlay.

“What? Whatever for?” they quizzed.

“A wash of course,” replied Finlay, helpfully.

“How dare you! We have no need for a wash, some 

soap or a fluffy towel, thank you very much. Our 

hands, fingers and toes are so clean you could pick 

your snout with them or scratch your bottom!”

“Sorry. Just wondered why you need a pan of hot 

water, that’s all.”

Walter leant back and both brothers sighed a sigh of 

exasperation.

“To unlock the recipe from its secure casing,” they 

explained, as if it was really obvious.

So, Finlay nipped up to his kitchen and brought down 

a shallow bowl of hot water.

“Right Walter, you may have the honour.” 

Darryl gave his brother a slight nod and the encased 

recipe was gently placed in the bowl. Within a few 

seconds the crumble-bee wax began to melt and the 

industrial strength cannelloni started to soften.  

“How do you know when to remove the recipe? Won’t 

it get wet?” asked Finlay.

Walter smiled the smile of a professional, confident 

distiller. He explained:-

“I have to carefully judge the precise moment when 

both the wax and cannelloni will be exactly the right 

consistency so as to remove the recipe from within 

and keep it dry. Now, I have carried out this 

procedure hundreds of times before and have never 

had a wet recipe yet, mainly because I have 

developed a full-proof scientific method to ensure no 

wetness occurs.”

“Which is?” 

“I poke it with my finger,” replied Walter. So the 

precious recipe was lifted from the water bath with 

great ceremony and placed on the desk.

“Ter derrr!” The Squeaker brothers held out their 

arms triumphantly. “There we are; one Bottom-

Blaster Bamboo Samphire recipe all dry and ready 

to read.”

And what a recipe it was. 

There was a detailed explanation about seeping, 

mashing, grinding, condensing and roasting the 

assorted ingredients. 

There was a list of acceptable receptacles for doing 

all the seeping, mashing, grinding, condensing and 

roasting. These included deep bowls, shallow bowls, 

pestles, boilers, chopping boards, thimbles, 

saucepans and hob-nailed boots.

Finlay read the list of ingredients.

“Good grief! There are 17 of them!” he cried. “It’s 

going to be nigh on impossible to find the exact 

one, or exact combination, that keeps us all 

existing!”

Finlay slumped into his office chair and put several 

hands on his face in resignation. 

* * *

Lewis was snoozing soundly on his thistlebug bed 

inside his hand-built hedgerow hovel. 

He was wearing his vellipede vest, and umglow 

underpants. His Singsong mobile phone was on his 

bedside table and three tatty shooze stood on the 

moth mat. He was no longer in possession of his 

coat, hat, sunglasses, muffler, security keys or 

pass codes. 

It would be quite some time before he’d wake up.  

* * *

Finlay was still slumped in his chair when Pamela 

tapped on the door and bought in a huge tray of 

refreshments.

“Anyone care for some teak tea and a caramel 

biscuit?” she asked, setting down the tray of goodies 

on the sideboard.

“Many thanks,” a faint, sad smile crossed Finlay’s 

face. Pamela couldn’t fail but notice.

“Something the matter?” she asked sweetly.

“Nothing you can help us with, I’m sorry to say, Pam. 

We just need a whole lot of time, a great deal of luck 

and loads of inspiration.” Finlay stared despairingly 

down at the recipe.

Pam put on her most reassuring smile and pulled up a 

chair.

“You know, whenever I get downhearted I always 

look at the portrait of Archibald. It always inspires me 

to aim for the best that life has to offer,” said Pam. 

“Have a look for yourself.”

Finlay was intrigued and a tad puzzled as Pam undid 

the top button of her spider-web chiffon blouse.

“Whoa there, Pam! If you have a tattoo on 

your...your..,” Finlay was struggling to find an 

appropriate description, “well....erm...inside your 

blouse, then I don’t think we should be....”

Pam laughed: “Oh Finlay I haven’t got a tattoo! I have 

a portrait in a locket on a solarium necklace.   Here, 

have a look.”

Pam opened the locket and inside was a beautiful 

miniature of a handsome young Squeakler holding an 

exquisite pocket watch in one hand, a tiny 

screwdriver in another, a magnifying bubble in a 

third, a cup of teak tea in a fourth and a caramel 

biscuit in a fifth.

“This is Archibald B. Squeakler,” said Pam proudly.

“The man who made the first Squeaklex?” asked 

Walter.

“That’s him,” confirmed Pam.

“Wow!” said Finlay, examining the portrait closely. 

 “Isn’t his first Squeaklex on view in the S.I.C?” 

asked Darryl.

“That’s right,” confirmed Pam again. “There’s a 

page about it in the latest Visitors guide.”

Pam took down a copy of the book in question from 

a nearby shelf and found the passage in question:

------------------------------------------------------------The 

Visitors Guide to The Squeaklerland Institute of 

Curiosities

The Institute must thank the family of Archibald B. Squeakler 

for the loan of the first Squeaklex timepiece. 

Crafted from rare green poop-hog ivory, mulberry leaf 

filaments and finest solarium, Archibald took 1,421 minutes to 

create a watch that most would regard as the ultimate in 

precision and sheer beauty. Finely balanced balances and 

cleverly crafted coils sit side by side with golden gearing and 

teardrop tracery. By employing a new and radical technique 

called “counting” Archibald hand-painted the 1,440 digits 

around the circumference with lustrous pink delirium using 

three plaited hairs from the now extinct silk-fly. read the time, 

(cont....)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The front and back are fashioned from toughened flim-kiln, 

then ground and polished to a fine transparency so that a) 

Squeaklers could read the time, and, b) marvel at the 

mechanism within.   Generations of mechanical engineers, 

horologists, and amateur time-seekers have tried to figure 

out how the watch actually works but have failed. This is 

mainly due to the fact that they did not have the time and 

they could not get the back off.     

The most recent and plausible theory as to The Squeaklex’s 

source of power is the ‘Imaginosity Dream Wave’ proposed 

by Timothy Squeakler, renowned teacher of Imaginology 

from Squeakler Colony 9.  

(cont...)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------------

His reference book, housed at the Squeakler Senate 

building, clarifies every aspect of Dream Waves, 

Imaginosities, Linear Legends, and Flower-Driven Fables.  

For those wishing to spend time studying these 

phenomena or arranging a private viewing of the 

timepiece, appointments can be made with Professor 

Cartwright Squeakler, Head of Insomnia & Custodian of 

The Watch.

------------------------------------------------------------------

No wonder you admire him so much, Pam. Such 

dedication,” smiled Finlay, shutting the guide.

“Oh yes, he was a remarkable Squeakler but I’m 

sorry to say, some of the information in the guide is 

incorrect,” said Pam sheepishly.

“Oh? How do you know?” they all queried.

“I’m afraid to say that it wasn’t Archibald that hand-

painted all those numbers around the circumference.”

“Oh?” they all queried once more.

“It was me.”

* * *

With Lennie and Reg on their way home, Garry now 

put his plan into action. He made his careful way along 

corridors and up staircases then into the main office of 

Walter and Darryl Squeakler. 

As the sickleberry shutters on the office windows were 

still closed, Garry used his tiny, powerful firefly torch 

to sweep the room and locate the Scorpion safe.

Garry checked that the corks in his dungaree pockets 

were still there, for he intended to render the 

scorpions stingless and thus gain access to the 

contents of the safe.  

However, and quite surprisingly, there was no need 

for any of them. The scorpions were already corked 

and the door to the safe was wide open.

Ever suspicious, Garry swung his torch round the 

room. There was nothing out of place and nobody 

was lurking in the corners. Satisfied that he was 

alone, he knelt down and examined the contents of 

the safe.

Inside were several industrial strength cannelloni 

cases containing brewing and distilling recipes for all 

sorts of wines, ales, cordials and spirits. Garry 

looked at the topmost case, which he reckoned, 

would be the latest by date.

Sure enough, there was the recipe for Regurgitory 

Reed-Rum, brewed the day before. However, the 

recipe he wanted was missing.

Garry was puzzled and spent the next minute 

searching through the whole safe in case the recipe 

had got miss-stacked. It hadn’t. Every draw in the 

desk and filing cabinet was then searched; still no 

sign. So far, his well laid plan had come to nothing.  

Aggravated and worried, he trudged back down the 

stairs and along the corridors to the security hut.  

He’d have some beetroot-bean coffee and then ring 

Lewis.

* * *

“What?” exclaimed Finlay, nearly falling off his chair.

“Surely, that can’t be right?” questioned Walter.

“It is right,” confirmed Pam. “I should have contacted 

the Guide’s editors and told them to change...”

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” interrupted Walter.  

“I meant that it couldn’t be possible that you painted 

the numbers because; well, to put it bluntly, it would 

mean you’re about.... 28,000 minutes old!”

Pam shook her head. “I’m not 28,000 minutes old....”

“Thought so,” smiled Walter rather smugly. 

“...I’m 28,800 minutes old.”

The three Squeaklers turned to each other and 

furrowed their brows. Questions about longevity had 

to be asked. So Pam poured everyone a cup of tea, 

handed round some yummy biscuits and told the story 

of Archibald B. Squeakler and the watch.

* * *

Lewis was dimly aware of a dreadful tinny ringing 

sensation in his ear. He eased himself up, squinted at 

his grassy surroundings and shivered. The ringing 

continued.

“What?...Wos happening? ” he whimpered.  

Lewis soon realised that the tinny ringing sensation 

was coming from his phone. He stabbed at a button.

“Hello?” he groaned, hugging his shivering body with 

four arms and rubbing two of his legs.

“Lewis, it’s me, Garry,” said Garry.

“Garry! Where are you? Where are my clothes? And I 

need my keys and pass codes back double quick!”

Lewis was rightly upset. 

“I hope all this was worthwhile because you are 

stretching our friendship to its limits.”

Garry coughed a nervous little cough.

“Well?” continued Lewis, getting suspicious of the 

silence from the other end.  

“Well the good news is...” replied Garry, delaying the 

inevitable, “...Reg and Lennie thought I was you, 

which was good; and I didn’t need to use any of your 

pass codes and keys, which was even better; plus, I 

didn’t need any corks for the Scorpion safe.”

“Buuuttt....?” pressed Lewis.

“But,” repeated Garry, “the Bottom-Blaster recipe 

wasn’t in the safe. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere.”

“So it was all for nothing then?” 

“Yep,” said Garry.

“Oh, great... Just great!” Lewis’s sarcastic tones flew 

across the airwaves.

“Sorry Lewis, I really am. I thought if we could pull it 

off then I’d be a celebrity or even a hero. That’s not 

very likely now, is it?” 

“Doesn’t look like it, mate,” agreed Lewis. There was a 

resigned pause. 

“Look, I’ll have to get dressed,” continued Lewis. “I’ll 

be over later and re-set the sensor alarm to the police 

station. We don’t want the G.S.P. crawling all over.....”

“What did you say about a sensor alarm?” Garry cut 

in, in a bit of a panic.

“The silent sensor alarm under the desk in the 

security hut, Garry,” Lewis had a bad feeling welling 

up in the pit of his stomach. “You did de-activate it, 

didn’t you?”

At the end of the phone, Gary went rigid with fright.

“Oh eck,” he said.

* * *

“20 Sundays ago, when my twin brother was working 

on the watch he asked me to....”

Finlay stopped her, “Twin brother?” 

“Oh yes. Didn’t I tell you?” said Pam nonchalantly.

The three Squeaklers turned to each other and 

furrowed their brows. Questions about believability 

should have been asked.

“It’s true, gentlemen,” assured Pam, seeing their 

puzzled expressions. “I’d taught myself calligraphy 

and that afternoon Archie asked me if I’d like to 

paint the numerals onto the watch. Well, of course, I 

was overjoyed.”

Pam paused and took a sip of her tea and a nibble of 

her biscuit. 

“Please continue,” said Darryl.

“I popped over to the workshop and Archie showed 

me a green poop-hog ivory disc, a plaited three 

haired silk-fly brush and the lustrous pink delirium 

ink. I watched very carefully as he showed me how 

to moisten the tiny brush with my lips, dip it into 

the ink and then create the numerals, one by one; 

which I did.” 

Pam smiled, closed her locket and did up her 

blouse. There was a moment’s respectful silence. 

Sensing the sombre atmosphere, Finlay got up and 

raised his cup of teak tea in the air.

“A toast!” he announced.

Everyone stood up and raised their cups.

“To Archibald B. Squeakler and Miss Pamela 

Squeakler!” he said.

“To Archie and Pam!” was the heartfelt response. 

They chinked cups and sat down.

“More tea and bickies anyone?” asked Pam.

* * *

Garry was not a happy Squeakler. He had been 

roughly handled by the Greater Squeakland Police, 

handcuffed and strapped onto the back of the police 

poop-hog and unceremoniously hauled before the 

yellow-uniformed custardy sergeant.  

He was now sitting on a jagged pebble inside a 

reinforced bulrush cell next to The Cornfield Court 

House.  

Three of his arms were wrapped round his head. Parts 

of two of his grubby legs were visible through his 

soiled dungarees and his other two legs were tied up 

to two clumps of nasty nettles. Garry had made his 

one long distance telephone call to his girlfriend but 

was still unhappy. He wondered miserably when his 

trial would begin to decide his fate.

* * *

“Pam?”

“Yes, Finlay?”

“What happened to the watch when it was 

finished?”

“Well Archie knew he was coming to the end of his 

life that Sunday night and, as I was his closest 

relative, he passed it on to me.” 

“Surely he must have realised that you weren’t 

going to live forever either.” 

Pam shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure if he did 

but, for some strange and wondrous reason, I’m still 

here 20 Sundays later!”

“Remarkable!” said Darryl.

“Incredible!” exclaimed Walter.

The brothers were elated and chinked their tea cups 

together once more in joyous celebration of Pamela 

Squeakler’s long life.

“To Pam’s long life. May you ....”

“I’ve got it! I know the reason!”

Finlay’s booming tones interrupted the toast and 

filled the room. Pam, Walter and Darryl dropped 

their tea cups in shock and surprise.

“Got what?” they asked together.

“Delirium!” said Finlay, in triumph.

The three Squeaklers turned to each other then 

turned back, faced Finlay and furrowed their brows.

“Beg pardon?” said Walter. “What about delirium?”

“Look here,” he said, pointing to ingredients written 

on the B.B.B.S. recipe. “Delirium is on the list.” 

“And?” quizzed Darryl, stepping over the broken 

china and peering at the list.

Finlay heaved a sigh of frustration and puffed out his 

cheeks. He had to be clear with his explanation.

“Well, Pamela here is the only Squeakler who is 20 

Sundays old and she has just told us how she used 

delirium pink ink for the watch, right?”

“Riiiggghht.” 

“Ah, but did she drink any of it?” Darryl thought he 

had hit a snag in Finlay’s explanation.

“No Finlay, I didn’t drink any delirium, I’m quite 

sure of that,” Pam replied.

“There you go then,” smarmed a smug Darryl. “All 

of us remember, drunk some of the stuff when we 

had the Bottom-Blaster Bamboo Samphire 

yesterday.”

Finlay smiled a smile of a patient Squeakler and leant 

back in his chair with an air of confidence.

“But you see gentlemen, every time Pam painted a 

number she would moisten the tiny brush with her 

lips, dip it into the ink, and then paint the number.  

She did that for every number. So she inadvertently 

ingested a miniscule amount of delirium 1,140 

times.” 

There was a slight pause as those assembled took in 

this information.   Everyone turned to everyone else, 

beamed huge smiles and let out hoots of absolute 

delight.  

They all linked many arms and danced round the 

office, country-dance style, avoiding pieces of 

broken porcelain.

“Wonderful news! You’ve done it! Yippee!”  

The revelation about delirium and the happiness and 

joy in that office at that precise moment was going 

to go down in Squeakler history.

“Wait, wait, wait!” 

Finlay froze in mid-celebration. The others danced to 

a stop.

“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Darryl, catching his 

breath.

“Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves here,” cautioned 

Finlay, sitting back down. “We have a couple of things 

to consider folks. One:- what is the minimum dosage 

that gives the desired effect? Two:- we need further 

supplies of delirium. Got any ideas?”

They hadn’t. 

“Tell you what, can you fetch your bottle of ink, please 

Pamela?” asked Finlay.

She did. 

"Is this the only bottle you’ve used for all that time?" 

asked Finlay.

“Correct. I only use a half a pinch a day,” replied 

Pam. “It goes a long, long way.”

“Right, so it looks as though half a pinch of delirium 

per Squeakler, per day is the correct dosage,” said 

Finlay. “Now does anybody know much we would 

need for all the Squeaklers?

“At least 460 peaspoons,” said Pam confidently.

“You’re very sure about the figure,” quizzed Walter 

suspiciously.

Pam rattled off the calculations:-

“There are 4 pinch in a peaspoon which enough for 8 

Squeaklers for a day; 184 Squeaklers in the colony, so 

that’s 184 divided by 8 which is 23, multiplied by 20 

Sundays which is 460.” 

Walter, Darryl and Finlay wanted to tilt their heads, 

furrow their brows and question the arithmetic of it all 

but there was no need whatsoever.

Finlay stood up and adopted an organisational pose. 

“Right then,” he said, “lets clear up the broken 

pottery; Darryl, Walter, you can secure your recipe; 

Pam, please put the Guide back on the shelf and 

send out some Squeakograms and let’s see about 

getting some supplies.”  

* * *

Across Squeaklerland, Squeaklers were stretching their 

limbs, scritching several of their wiry parts and rising 

from their beds. Hangovers had been slept off and 

everyone agreed that having a lie in on a Monday was a 

very good idea.

Nigel and Maureen were very happily indulging in a very 

late breakfast of poop-hog bacon and fried marsh ant 

eggs washed down with freshly ground beetroot-bean 

coffee. Nigel switched on Radio Squee.

“....and that blast from the past was “Fleas release me” 

by Inglebug Dinglebert.....and now the latest from 

Steven Squeakler over at The Cornfield Court House.  

Steven?”

“Thanks Caroline. Well news here is that Garry 

Squeakler, an apprentice distiller at Squeakler Brothers, 

is being held in custody after being arrested early this 

morning. The G.S.P. has given a brief statement saying 

that all but one of the alarms at the distillery was de-

activated, the Scorpion safe was open and that 

incriminating items were found on Garry Squeakler’s 

person. Our take on the situation Caroline, is that it 

was a robbery that went wrong. A date for the trial has 

yet to be set. Now back to you in the studio.”

“That was Steven there at the Court House.  

Meantime, I’m hearing from my colleague at 

Squeakogram headquarters that there have been 

significant developments over at The Registry Office.  

Jonathan, are you there?”

“Yes hello there Caroline!   Wonderful news coming 

across the telepathic ether everybody!   Finlay 

McSqueakler, Miss Pamela Squeakler and Walter and 

Darryl Squeakler have isolated the substance that is 

said to lengthen the existence of the Squeakler 

population. If what they have discovered is to be 

believed, then this is certainly an historic day in 

Squeaklerland history. More news as it comes in.  

Back to you Caroline.”

“Thank you Jonathan. Yes listeners, we will 

certainly be back as soon as we have more 

news. Meantime here is the latest offering 

from “Bugzone”......”

* * *

“So neither of you has any delirium then?” 

Finlay was pacing up and down his office. The 

buoyant mood was now subdued.

“No we haven’t Finlay; there’s no more in our 

storeroom,” admitted Walter.

“Pamela?”   Finlay raised a questioning eyebrow in her 

direction.

“Well as I tried to explain earlier, I used the last half 

pinch on Saturday.” Pam shook her head 

despondently.

“Well all is not lost. Who’s your supplier? I will get in 

touch and order some more.” 

“I have never ordered any.”

Finlay slumped in his chair and placed several hands 

on his head. Walter, Pam and Darryl’s shoulders 

visibly drooped.

“Well that’s it then. No supplier, no delirium, no 

continuing existence. Ah well, it was worth a try. 

Thanks anyway everybody.” 

The others were lost for words. Sadness descended 

on the scene. There was a long, long miserable 

pause.

“Hang on....” Finlay was squinting at the faded label 

on Pam’s empty bottle. “Walter, pass me that 

magnifying bubble will you?”

Through the magnifying bubble Finlay could make out 

some words at the bottom of the bottle. He read them 

out:-

----------------------------------------------------------

100% pure delirium extracted from the mine at 

Eeks Hall, Mayfly Approach, Squeaklerland  

--------------------------------------------------------

“Pam, what do you know about this delirium mine?” 

asked Finlay, with a tinge of expectation.

“Well if memory serves me correctly, the mine was 

abandoned a long time ago because of safety 

issues. It’s fenced off with barbed nettle fencing and 

any remaining delirium is virtually inaccessible.   All 

the mining equipment has long since broken or 

rusted over and the whole place is riddled with huge 

kipper-thorn bushes. Oh yes, and there’s a stomp of 

wild poop-hogs running riot and a deep swamp 

around the perimeter inhabited by millions of 

malicious marsh ants.”

Three Squeaklers turned to each other then turned 

back, then faced Pamela and furrowed their brows. 

Question of accessibility were asked.

“No place for a picnic then?” sighed Walter.

* * *

Nigel turned off the radio. He stared across the 

kitchen table at Maureen. She stared back. There was 

a moment’s realisation. Huge smiles spread across 

both their faces.

“They’ve done it! They’ve done it! They’ve done it!” 

they cried out with glorious glee. They skipped round 

the table country-dance style then raised a mug of 

coffee in joyful celebration.

“To Finlay, Pamela, Walter and Darryl; long may they 

live!” said Nigel.

“Long may we all live!” added Maureen, chinking 

mugs.

“Wonder if everyone else knows?” asked Nigel.

Maureen went to the window. “I think they do,” 

she said.

Sure enough, Squeaklers were gathering in the 

clearing. There was a buzz of excitement in the 

air and smiles of joy and happiness were on every 

cheery face.  

Some had bought out bottles of Chrysalis Cava and 

were sharing it around in a celebratory and 

neighbourly fashion. 

Tarquin had found his aardvark and had dressed him 

in pink ribbons, Stan had even straightened his 

matted wig and the SAF Diamond Darts were giving 

young Squeaklettes stomach-turning aerial rides on 

their backs. 

Bob, meantime, was splashing up and down in 

a muddy puddle whilst his beloved Sharon was 

doing a roaring trade in colourful pink tattoos.  

It was all very wonderful. All that was needed 

was the appearance of the four, now famous, 

Squeaklers.

* * *

Finlay got up from his chair, looked out of the 

Registry Office window and surveyed the scene. He 

turned back.

“Look at that,” he announced. “They all think we’re 

famous. What are we going to tell them, eh:- “We’ve 

discovered the stuff that lengthens our lives but we 

can’t get any more?” Great, just great! All our hard 

work has been for nothing.”  

He slumped back into his chair. He was getting good 

at slumping.

“Finlay, Finlay,” said Pam soothingly, placing some 

reassuring arms round his shoulders, “don’t give 

up so easily. There might still be a way round the 

problem.”

“What? You’re joking aren’t you?” Finlay dismissed 

Pam’s optimism with a wave of some hands.

Pam put on a brave face and ignored Finlay’s 

remark. 

“Finlay, I have never known you to be defeated by a 

problem,” she said pointing out of the window. “Now 

there are Squeaklers out there, like Alan and Tim, 

who......”

Finlay jumped up from his chair and gave Pam a big 

sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“That’s it!   That is ab-so-lute-ly it!” smiled Finlay. “Pam 

you are a star!”

Startled by the sudden rush of affection, Pam slumped 

in a nearby chair. This slumping was becoming 

infectious.

“I beg your pardon?” she gasped, a little red-faced 

and moist around the cheeks.

“We my friends, along with a lot of help, are going to 

that abandoned mine and, no matter what it takes, 

we will extract as much delirium as we can,” 

announced Finlay with a gesture of finality and 

decisiveness.

The three Squeaklers turned to each other then 

turned back, then faced Finlay and furrowed their 

brows. Questions about feasibility had to be asked.

“Just a sec Finlay. Am I to take it that we have to wade 

through a swamp, fight off some wild poop-hogs, 

negotiate some vicious kipper-thorn bushes, climb 

over barbed nettle fencing, then, without any sort of 

equipment, descend into the murky depths and dig up 

chunks of delirium?” 

There was a moment’s uncertainty but then Finlay 

leaned forward, and smiled at Walter.

“Yep,” he said.

“I’ll just have a brief word with Darryl and Pamela in 

private, if you don’t mind?” 

The three of them formed a huddle in the corner of 

the room where there was some animated 

whispering.

“What d’you think?”

“Sounds dangerous to me”

“We’d need loads of help.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Neither am I.”

“We’ve not much choice, boys.”

“She’s right, Walter.”

“And we need the delirium.”

“And there is a huge crowd of Squeaklers outside.”

“That’s true. We can’t let them down.”

“You’re right Pam.”

“Let’s do it!”

Pam, Walter and Darryl de-huddled, went over to 

Finlay and everybody shook everybody else’s hands 

in agreement.

“You’re on!” they said happily.

For the next minute or so the four of them 

formulated a plan of action:- notes were made, a 

large scale ordnance survey map of the area was 

found and a list of essential items were itemised.

They stepped outside to a huge roar of welcome.

There they are!”   “Wonderful news!”   “Fantastic!”  

“What a breakthrough!”   “Let’s party!”

Finlay and Co. acknowledged everyone’s good 

wishes by waving a great many hands, nodding 

their heads and grinning. The cheers from the 

assembled masses were loud and hearty but Finlay 

knew that all that cheeriness might soon change.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Finlay’s voice 

was barely audible over the noise.

Stan and his trusty megaphone came to the rescue. 

He pushed his way to the front of the crowd and 

faced the swarming Squeaklers.

“EVERYBODY!... QUIET!...PLEASE!”

He turned and faced Finlay.

“There you go,” he said.

“Thanks Stan,” Finlay managed to respond with 

clenched teeth, clenched eyes and closed nostrils.  

“May need you later,” he squeaked.

“Now I don’t want to put a dampener on things,” 

announced Finlay to the crowd, “but we have a slight 

problem.....”

“You mean apart from Stan’s smell?” quipped Eric.

Stan looked extremely baffled. Everyone else giggled.

“No, no! What I mean is, is that we now know what 

the substance is that will keep us all existing....”

“Which is?” called out Darren.

“The substance in question is called delirium,” 

answered Pamela.

Heads turned and brows were furrowed. Substantial 

questions should have been asked. A hand was 

raised.

“So what’s the problem then?” asked Alan.

There was a pause as Walter, Darryl, Finlay and Pam 

turned to each other, shrugged their shoulders and 

then turned back.

“We’ve run out of the stuff.” Finlay’s voice was just 

above a whisper.

Furrowed brows spread across the assembled masses 

and many hands were cupped behind many pointy 

ears.

“What d’you say”   “What was that?”   “Did he say 

snuff?”   “Yer wot?”   “Speak up!”  

Finlay reluctantly nodded to Stan, “Would you mind 

please Stan?”

“My pleasure,” he said, raising his megaphone to his 

lips.

“WE HAVE RUN OUT OF DELIRIUM!” 

Stan’s roar and wiffiness hit the crowd. They froze 

open-mouthed at the announcement. A moment 

later, Finlay could sense that pandemonium would 

take over and he grabbed the megaphone off Stan.

“Hey, what d’ you think you’re doing? Nobody, but 

nobody has the use of that other than me!”   Stan 

tried to wrestle the thing back.

“Not now Stanley, please. This is really important,” 

insisted Finlay. 

“Okay, just this once,” conceded Stan.

Finlay wiped the mouthpiece and addressed the 

crowd.

“Listen everyone,” he tried to sound positive. “It is 

true that we have run out of delirium but, and it’s a 

big but, we may be able to dig some up from the old 

delirium mine if we.....”

“What?” several concerned Squeaklers interrupted.  

Eric called out from the middle of the crowd:-

"If that’s the abandoned delirium mine at Eeks Hall, 

then the whole place is surrounded by a malicious 

marsh ant infested swamp; there are wild poop-hogs, 

vicious kipper-thorn bushes and barbed nettle fencing 

of the nastiest kind. Plus, if there is any mining 

equipment remaining it is probably broken or rusted.”

“Not the place for a picnic then?” said Bob.

“I understand your concerns Eric but we really don’t 

have a choice. Somehow or other we have got to get 

any delirium that is left out of that mine.”

A hand was raised. It was Tim’s hand. He had made 

a decision. So he stepped forward and took the 

megaphone from Finlay.

“Hey! What d’ you think you’re doing? Nobody, but 

nobody has the use of that other than me and 

Finlay!” Stan tried to wrestle the thing back, yet 

again.

“Not now Stan please. This is really important,” 

insisted Tim. 

“Okay, just this once,” conceded Stan once more.

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