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Justice and Joviality

Wednesday Afternoon

“....and that was the glorious Finale from Harpweb 

Concerto No.1 by Ludwig Arachnia played there by the 

much missed Svetlana Squeaklova. News of 

Svetlana’s death at The Royal Squeakler Infirmary on 

Monday has saddened all classical music lovers 

everywhere.”  

“Her boyfriend over here in Colony 9 is in our 

thoughts and we hope that he has some consolation 

in her many recordings on solarium disc. A musical 

tribute here on Radio Squee to Miss Squeaklova will 

be broadcast later this evening, replacing the 

scheduled edition of ‘Dozen highland tics.’ And now, 

in lighter mood, we have ‘Weevil in Disguise’ by ....”

Maureen turned off the radio and turned to Nigel.

“Come on my sweet; let’s get back over to the Court 

House; don’t want to miss anything.”

Several other Squeaklers were making their way back 

to the seat of justice and, just like Nigel and Maureen, 

they were discussing the finer points of the legal 

arguments that had enthralled those who had been in 

the courthouse that morning.  

“Do love those fabulous cockroach robes; the way they 

fall from the shoulders, very chic.” Tarquin admittedly 

hadn’t really got to grips with the finer points of legal 

argument.

* * *

The Cornfield Court House was a splendid example of 

Squeecoco architecture with soaring pillars of peony 

wood, stained-grass windows depicting Flower Fables 

and Imaginosities and an exquisite floor of polished 

mothite. 

Shimmering chandeliers of dazzling dandelion heads 

and honesty seeds hung majestically from the woven 

willow ceiling and all in that building that Wednesday 

afternoon took in all its wondrousness.

Garry Squeakler’s barrister, Martha Fanshaw-

Squeakler, had been her most erudite self and in her 

opening statement had regaled the jury with 

compelling arguments and magnificent rhetoric and 

oratory. She had been buoyantly optimistic and 

quoted all sorts of obscure Squeakler law and 

precedents to reinforce her client’s case. All of those 

watching the proceedings in the public gallery had 

been enthralled by the theatrics of it all and the jury 

absorbed every word. 

Judge Robert L. Squeakler, resplendent in poop-hog 

hair wig and rich cockroach robes, conducted the trial 

with a dignity and presence that was admired 

throughout the judicial system.  

The prosecution case, lead by Donald O’Squeakler, 

seemed pretty watertight. Garry was arrested and 

charged within minutes of the crime being 

committed. Police had been called and CCTV footage 

viewed. His home was thoroughly searched and his 

mobile confiscated. 

And now after the adjournment for lunch, the court 

was ready. Garry was brought from his cell to the 

dock accompanied by a police Squeakler. The Judge 

made his sweeping entrance and after some formal 

nodding and bowing, the trial resumed.

Donald O’Squeakler for the prosecution addressed the 

court:- “I call P.C. Ian Squeakler to the stand.”

P.C. Ian Squeakler entered the courtroom. He 

marched briskly to the witness box on five of his 

uniformed legs, brushed off some stray hair from one 

of his uniformed shoulders, took the oath and stated 

his name.

“Constable Squeakler, can you tell the court how you 

came to be at the Micro-Distillery last Monday 

morning?”

“I was on duty in police headquarters when the alarm 

sounded at the distillery so I made my way over on a 

police poop-hog to investigate.” 

“And what did you find there?” continued the 

prosecution barrister.

“I found the accused in the security hut and all the 

doors to the distillery were unlocked. I also found that 

the Scorpion safe was corked and open.”

“Was anything missing from the safe?”

“I ascertained later that the recipe for Bottom-Blaster 

Bamboo Samphire was missing.”

“Did you question the accused about what he was 

doing at the distillery?”

“I tried but he did not say anything; he was crying 

most of the time. I arrested him on suspicion of 

burglary.”

“Thank you, constable,” Donald O’Squeakler sat 

down.

Martha Fanshaw-Squeakler declined to cross-examine 

the witness.

“No questions at this time, m’lord,” she said. 

Those in the public gallery turned to each other, 

furrowed their brows and wondered about the wisdom 

of such a decision. 

The prosecuting barrister stood up once more.

“I call Garry Squeakler to the stand.”

A hush descended over the courtroom as the 

accused left the dock and ascended the stairs into 

the witness box.  

After Garry had sworn the oath and confirmed his 

name and address, Donald O’Squeakler stood on 

two of his legs and grasped the long black lapels of 

his gown with the manicured fingers of three of his 

hands. He leaned forward and clutched the sides of 

his sloping wooden bookstand with his remaining 

hands. He smiled.

“Master Squeakler, could you please tell the court what 

your job is?”

“I am an apprentice distiller with Squeakler Brothers 

Micro-Distillery,” Garry answered confidently.

“And were you at Squeakler Brothers Micro-Distillery 

last Sunday afternoon?”

“I was.” (So far so good, thought Garry)

“Could you please tell the court why you were at work 

that Sunday afternoon?” Donald O’Squeakler was being 

quite charming.

Garry recounted the afternoon’s activities:- the mixing 

of ingredients, the tasting and the consequent bottling 

of the two new brews. 

“What happened to the recipes for...” Donald 

consulted some notes on the bookstand, “...for 

Regurgitory Reed-Rum and Bottom-Blaster Bamboo 

Samphire, Master Squeakler?”

“They were placed in industrial strength cannelloni, 

sealed with crumble-bee wax and put in the Scorpion 

safe.” Garry’s voice was clear and his answers 

positive and precise. Those in the gallery were 

impressed.

“Now I understand that you and another apprentice, 

Peter, were present when Darryl and Walter Squeakler 

deposited the said recipes in the Scorpion safe, is that 

correct?”

“Yes.”

“In the normal course of a day’s work at the distillery, 

do you have access to the Scorpion safe?”

“No sir. Only the brothers have access to the safe.”

There was a pause while Donald indicated a 

transparent bag with a label. 

“Can I draw your attention to exhibit SQ 12?” The 

usher handed the bag to Garry.

“What is in the bag, Master Squeakler?”

“Corks,” replied Garry, handing them back.

“And what is the reason why these particular corks 

were found about your person that morning?”

“I use corks to put into the tops of glassy things 

called bot-tles,” Garry deliberately slowed the last 

word as if he were talking to an idiot.

“Are you trying to make fun of these proceedings, 

Master Squeakler?” Donald bristled angrily.

“Of corks not!” smiled Garry.

Ripples of giggles swept round the court. The jury 

hid their smiles behind many hands. 

“You tell him, Garry!” yelled a fervent Squeakler 

from upstairs.

“Silence in court!” The judge’s booming tones 

echoed around the room. The tittering subsided.

“Well then, Master Squeakler, perhaps you can confirm 

that corks are not only used for sealing bottles but also 

used to render the Scorpion safe harmless and therefore 

accessible?” 

Donald slowly turned his head in the direction of the 

jury and gently nodded in a smarmy be-wigged fashion. 

“They are,” confirmed Garry, “but I....”

Donald cut Garry off.

“...and you have witnessed Walter and Darryl Squeakler 

render the Scorpion Safe harmless on many occasions, I 

believe?” 

“That’s correct, but I...” started Garry.

“So you used your knowledge to render it harmless 

that morning in order to steal a particular item from 

that safe did you not?”   Donald leaned forward on 

the bookstand and eyed the defendant menacingly.

“No, I did not,” came the confident reply. “I did not 

cork any scorpions and I did not steal any item from 

the safe.”

Donald smiled and leaned back a touch.

“Well we have already heard from P.C. Ian Squeakler 

that the safe was open, that the scorpions were corked 

and that a recipe, which was in the safe previously, 

was now no longer there. Care to explain?”

Garry’s shoulders dropped and he shook his head from 

side to side.

“I can’t explain,” he admitted.

Sighs and murmurings of disappointment rippled 

across the public gallery.  

“Moving on, Master Squeakler,” Donald flipped over a 

page of his notes. “Do you know a Mr. Lewis 

Squeakler, a security guard at Squeakler Brothers 

Micro Distillery?”

“Yes I do,” replied a forlorn Garry.

“And would you describe Lewis as a close friend?”

“Yes I would,” said Garry.

Donald O’Squeakler leaned back from his notes and 

spread four arms out wide in feigned astonishment. 

“So why did you rob him of his clothes, steal his 

keys and passwords to the distillery and leave him 

in a bedraggled state on his a thistle-bug bed? This 

is not the actions of a so-called friend, is it Master 

Squeakler?”

Garry was taken aback by this tirade and glanced 

round the courtroom seeking some sort of help.

“I did not...” Garry started to protest.

“Thank you Mr. Squeakler. No more questions for 

now.”

Donald O’Squeakler sat down with a very satisfied 

look on his face and shut his notes in a gesture of 

triumph.

* * *

“So, what sort of “do” are we talking about exactly 

Tim?” asked Finlay.

Alan, Finlay, Pamela, Bob and Darren had been 

summoned to Tim’s house to organise a celebratory 

event in honour of musician Svetlana Squeaklova and, 

more importantly, an event that would raise money for 

a suitable memorial.

“How about a classical concert?” suggested Alan. 

“We could ask the Squeakler Sinfonia to play a solemn 

symphony or Katherine Squeaklins could sing some 

arias – excerpts from Bidet or Poojeanie perhaps?”

Heads turned and brows furrowed. Questions about 

boredom-induced comas crossed various Squeakler’s 

minds.

“Good as that sounds Alan, we really do need a 

memorial event which is uplifting, joyous and appealing 

to all ages.” Ever the diplomat, Pam voiced what 

everyone else was thinking.

“What about holding a grand charity auction?” Darren 

looked hopefully round the room.

“Sounds like a possibility,” mused Finlay. “Have you 

got any valuable items that might be auctioned?”

Darren thought for a moment. “Well, I have a second-

hand hosepipe, a rusty jelly mould, three rancid 

radishes, some tartan paint, a sock, five false multi-

eyes and a tatty poop-hog overcoat with no sleeves 

that I could definitely donate to the cause.”

Those in the room blinked several times and 

considered furrowing their brows. 

“Aaahh.... well, you see, erm......the thing 

is....Darren...,” Tim was struggling to find the right 

words. 

Alan came to his rescue:-

“Darren, Darren,” he soothingly smarmed, “we certainly 

appreciate this grand gesture but we couldn’t possibly 

deprive you of your precious possessions.”

Darren looked somewhat deflated and disappointed but 

eventually conceded the point.

“Fair enough...they were a load of old tat anyway,” he 

said.

“Moving on everybody,” continued Tim. “Anybody with 

any other ideas?”

* * *

Those seated in the gallery shook their heads and 

peered down at a dejected Garry who had clearly 

wilted under the relentless questioning from the 

prosecution barrister. However, Martha Fanshaw-

Squeakler was not going to be intimidated. 

She gave a reassuring smile to her client as he stood 

in the dock.

“Garry, did you steal an item from the Scorpion Safe 

at Squeakler Brothers Micro Distillery on Monday 

morning?”

“No I did not,” replied Garry.

“Did you use any passwords or keys to gain access to 

the office where the Scorpion safe is located?” 

continued Martha.

“No I did not,” repeated a more positive-sounding 

Garry.

“Did you break any windows, doors, locks or keypads 

to gain access?” Martha was in full flow.

“No I did not.” 

Garry was now standing tall in the dock; his 

confidence was rapidly returning. Those in the public 

gallery were a little more cheerful.

“Did you steal any passwords and keys from your 

close friend Lewis Squeakler and leave him in a 

bedraggled state in his bed?”

A chorus of voices interrupted from the public gallery.

“No he did not!” they all shouted triumphantly.

“Silence in court!” The judge was in no mood for 

disruption of any kind. 

The offending Squeaklers slunk down in their seats, 

duly chastised. There was a pause as the court 

settled down. Martha continued:-

“Will you tell the court the real reason for your 

presence at the distillery?”

Garry sighed a big sigh and began.

* * *

Bob, happily seated in a saucer of cold tea, came up 

with an interesting idea.

“Mmm, that could work,” said Finlay, nodding his 

head in approval. “All we would need are plenty of 

willing volunteers who don’t mind getting their 

bottoms wet, a suitably large and deep puddly 

arena, several stopwatches and loads of sponsors.  

However....” 

He eyed Bob suspiciously.

 “I can’t really think of anyone who might want to do 

sponsored puddle diving, can you?

There was a pause. Bob tilted his head and furrowed 

his brow. His tiny brain was clearly wrestling with the 

question.  

“Nope,” he replied.

* * *

 “...so if I could use the recipe to brew more bottles, 

then I thought I’d send them over to Colony One so 

that everyone there would live longer, including my 

girlfriend.”

Garry’s sad face moved all of those in the Courthouse. 

Up in the public gallery many silk-fly hankies were 

dabbed on many puffy multi-eyes.

“Garry, could you please tell the court a little about 

your girlfriend?” Martha Fanshaw-Squeakler smiled a 

sympathetic smile at the lonely figure in the dock.

“I met her on Sunday afternoon and we fell in love 

straight away,” Garry smiled a weak smile. “She was 

going to come to Nigel’s party but she had a recital at 

Colony One Concert Hall. As it turned out, it was her 

very last concert as she sadly passed away on 

Monday afternoon.” 

Garry stared wistfully into the distance and for a few 

moments a respectful silence pervaded the court 

room.

“What was your girlfriend’s name?” Martha’s 

whispered question broke the silence.

“Stephanie. But she was known by her stage name:- 

Svetlana Squeaklova.” 

An astonished intake of breath spread round the 

courtroom followed by murmurings and clandestine 

conversations behind many hands.  

Tarquin sobbed on Freddy’s shoulders and a snotty 

dribble fell on his shooze.  

Judge Robert L. Squeakler leaned towards the 

defendant and expressed what everyone was 

thinking.

May I, on behalf of all of us here, offer our deepest 

sympathy for your loss? All lovers, whether musical or 

otherwise, are saddened by Miss Squeaklova’s death 

but, unfortunately, Master Squeakler, you are here in 

court on a charge of burglary and we must proceed 

with....”

“It was me!”

Judge Squeakler was suddenly interrupted by a loud 

voice from the public gallery. All eyes turned to see 

Walter Squeakler.

“I removed the recipe from the safe!” the voice 

called.

The judge squinted up to the gallery to where Walter 

was now standing with bowed head.

“Usher, fetch that Squeakler to the witness box this 

instant.”

* * *

A mass of media personnel was thronging on the 

steps of the Court House trying to get close to Garry 

Squeakler and his legal team as he emerged from the 

building.

“A word for Radio Squee, Garry?” “How does it feel to 

be free?” “What are your plans now?” 

Garry raised several of his hands in acknowledgement 

and stopped on the topmost step. Many microphones 

were thrust forward. Garry cleared his throat and 

addressed the crowd.

“Firstly, I’d to thank all my well-wishers and friends 

for their unwavering support and, secondly, my 

thanks go to my legal team headed by Martha here, 

who saw that justice was done. Thirdly, and above 

all else, my heart-felt gratitude goes to Walter 

Squeakler for coming forward to shed light on the 

missing recipe.”

Stephen Squeakler, a reporter from Radio Squee, 

spoke up from the midst of the media melee:- 

“What are your immediate plans, Garry?”

“I think perhaps a cup of teak tea, some buttery 

squones and scoops of grouse-cream are in order,” he 

replied. “Anyone care to join me?” 

So, for the next half hour or so The Termite Tea Room 

was host to a happy band of tea-loving Squeaklers 

celebrating Garry’s freedom.

* * *

News of Garry’s acquittal soon spread round 

Squeaklerland and for those at Tim’s house, it was 

the news they were waiting for.

“Great news, great news! We now have a guest of 

honour! Now all we have to do is to come up with 

something suitably appropriate,” announced Tim.

Everyone except Bob leaned back in their cowslip 

chairs and put many hands behind their heads in 

thoughtful repose. A moment passed. Bob wiggled 

his toes in his tea.

“I have it!”   Pam’s enthusiastic tones broke the silence. 

She leaned forward. “Tell you what everybody, how 

about a grand variety show?” 

“Now, that is a fabulous idea, Pam,” smiled Tim, leaning 

forward as well. “I’m certain there are stacks of talented 

Squeaklers out there who would love to perform on 

stage for a good cause.”

Alan wasn’t so sure.

“That’s as maybe Tim, but we’d have to wheedle out the 

not-so-talented Squeaklers which would mean holding 

some sort of audition process,” 

The group had to agree with Alan and for the next 

few minutes the friends discussed the wording for an 

audition notice, a possible venue for holding the 

auditions and, crucially, whether they could lay their 

hands on some industrial earplugs.

“Don’t forget though, we are going to need a largish 

stage, some lighting, loads of seating, stage curtains, 

a P.A. system, refreshments, programmes and 

tickets, posters printed and maybe...”

“Whoa there, Finlay!” Darren cut in, somewhat 

alarmed. “Where are we going to lay our hands on all 

those before Saturday night, eh?”

Heads tilted and brows furrowed. Questions about 

laying hands on things were thought about.

“I may know a certain someone who might be able to 

acquire certain items,” said Tim, with a smile and a 

wink.

* * *

The sign on the door read:-

STANLEY SQUEAKLER

FOREMAN

(KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING) 

It was five minutes before Stan knocked off for the day 

and Tim reckoned that was just about as much as he 

could stand of the whiffy interior of Stan’s office, and 

more importantly, Stan himself. 

Tim inhaled a large lungful of fresh air and knocked.

“ENTER!!” came a bellow from within. It was more of an 

order than an invitation made all the more insistent by 

the unnecessary use of a megaphone. Tim braced 

himself, de-bunged his ear ways and tentatively pushed 

open the door.

“Afternoon Stanley,” he said through clenched teeth.

From behind a huge pile of dockets, requisitions, 

invoices, in-trays, out-trays, clipboards, bills and 

bulletins, Stan’s toupee-topped bonce emerged. 

He pushed aside most of the paperwork with three of 

his calloused hands and placed his precious 

megaphone on its stand with another. 

He eyed Tim with a niggling fury. Why? Because Stan 

hated being called Stanley.

“Afternoon Tim-o-thee,” he replied rather deliberately. 

Grey fumes were wafting around his regulation 

dungarees and a distinct niff of nastiness seeped from 

under his desk.

Tim wiped his stinging eyes and summarised what the 

great idea was. 

“Thing is,” he said finally, “if we are going to organise 

a variety show then we really could do with some sort 

of a stage, plus all the necessary lighting, curtains and 

seating.”

There was a longish pause as Stan considered Tim’s 

proposal. He drummed several of his gunky fingers on 

his blue-bottle blotter and then rotated gently in his 

lugworm-leather swivel chair.

Finally, he placed four knobbly elbows on the desk and 

cradled his stubbly chin in his sweaty palms.

“Well? What are your thoughts, Stan? Reckon you 

and the lads can do it in time?” pressed Tim.

No response.

“Well?” Tim repeated.

Stan knitted his eyebrows, scritched an armpit and 

tapped a pencil on a nearby calendar.

"When d’you want it all for again?” asked Stan 

sceptically.

“Saturday night,” replied Tim, hopefully.

Stan sucked in some breath in a typical might-not 

be–possible sort of a gesture.

“Might not be possible, Tim. It’s asking a lot of my 

team, especially as they’d be working in their spare 

time.”

“Well, if you can come up with the goods Stan, I’m sure 

we can get you and the lads on stage to do a bit of a 

star turn:- a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. What d‘you 

say?”

Stan pursed his lips. He squinted his eyes and 

considered the possibility of appearing on stage in 

front of hundreds of Squeaklers on a night to 

remember. He tried to hide his excitement.

“Well I’ll certainly give it some serious thought,” he 

nonchalantly replied. “Admittedly, a few of the lads 

have taken the afternoon off to go to the Courthouse 

but I’ll certainly have a chat with the rest of the team; 

see what they say.”

Tim left with a slight smile of satisfaction whilst Stan 

sat in his office with the promise of stardom plus a 

putrid pong from his plimsolls. 

* * *

The Termite Tea Room was awash with smiling slurping 

Squeaklers and grouse-cream covered Squeaklettes. It 

was a joyous scene.

Vincent had flown in, skidded to an ungainly halt and 

kissed Garry on his cheeks in typical Parisian fashion 

whilst Nigel and Maureen had slapped him heartily on 

his back.

Tarquin threw great wafts of sweet pea petals into the 

air and daintily clapped four of his pampered hands 

together in sheer delight, whilst Walter and Darryl 

Squeakler presented Gary with a moth-oozaler of 

Chrysalis Cava in an inscribed wiggleberry box.

Unnoticed by most, one Squeakler, in voluminous 

breeches, padded doublet and flea-feathered cap, was 

seated in the far corner of the busy teashop with a silk 

fly quill and a sheet of poop-hog vellum.

Garry spotted him.

“Will!” he called out, “come over and join us. We are 

celebrating.”

Will waved an acknowledgement and threaded his way 

over.

“Foresooth, young Squeakler, thou art in goodly cheer!  

Much joy and hearty cockleness to you, dear cuz.”

“Yer what?” queried Garry, somewhat bemused.

Will leaned forward and whispered in his ear,

“Congratulations,” he explained.

“Oh, rrright,” nodded Garry. “Anyway Will, what have 

you been up to? I haven’t seen you for ages. Written any 

good plays recently?”

Will leaned forward conspiratorially, and then scanned 

the room to check that no one was eavesdropping.

“I’m onto a real winner this time”, he confided. “’Tis 

an epic tale of insect sporting injustice.”

Now Garry knew that Will was a rubbish playwright 

and he would regret asking, but he did anyway.

“Title?”

“The Marsh Ant of Tennis.”

* * *

“So that’s what Tim has in mind. What d’you reckon 

then, lads?” said Stan, picking some tiresome crud-

fleas from out of his nostrils.

Eric furrowed his brow. “Not sure about borrowing all 

those heavy duty glow-worm lights, Stan,” he said. 

“They are locked away in the stores until Squissmass; 

I don’t think the boss would approve.”

“Eric.”

“Yes Stan.”

“I am the boss.”

“So you are,” said Eric.

“Well Stan, I’ve done some counting and we’ve certainly 

got a goodly amount of seating,” chipped in Frank, 

using a pencil to indicate a list on a clipboard.   “We’ve 

got long lengfs of tussock benches, a great many woven 

crouch grass stools and if we need any more, then we 

can borra some sedge seats from Squeakler Juniors.”

“That’s excellent news. All we....,” Stan stopped mid-

flow. “Hang on, just a sec, how comes you have a 

Council clipboard and pencil, Frank?”

“Well, I just fort that I’d...”

Stan was astonished. He put down a mug of tea, 

picked up his megaphone, placed it to his lips and 

aimed it in Frank’s direction just millimetres away.

“ “Just thought”   Frank? “Just thought”?” bellowed 

Stan. “Firstly, you are not paid to think, secondly you 

are not authorised to use Council clipboards and 

pencils and fourthly, I do all the counting. Is that 

clear?”

Frank unblocked his ear ways and sputtered a rather 

contrite, “Yeah boss, quite clear.”

Stan adjusted his wonky wig, replaced his beloved 

megaphone and took a slurp of his teak tea.

“Now, where was I?” he asked, trying to gain his 

composure.

“Determining the numerous varieties of seating that 

may, or may not be requisitioned,” said Neville.

All heads turned and many surprised eyes stared at 

Neville. Imaginary handbags were raised.

“Oooooo!” they all sing-songed. 

“You swallowed a dictionary?” queried Eric.

Neville went red about the cheeks and wilted 

slightly. He glanced around at his fellow workers.

“Well I suppose you’ll find out eventually,” he 

explained. “I have been taking evening classes in 

Long-windedness and Red Tape in preparation for 

the Deputy Foreman’s exam on Friday.”

Heads turned and tilted and brows were furrowed. 

There was a momentary pause then everyone fell into 

fits of laughter. The Council Squeaklers shook their 

heads in disbelief.

“Never!” “You must be joking!” “Really?” “Well, well, 

who’d have believed it?” 

Stan stood up, stared at Neville and strutted over to 

where he was seated. 

“Neville, I am absolutely flabbergasted. I just can’t 

think of anything to say except...,” Stan paused 

dramatically. Everyone stopped laughing and leaned 

forward in eager anticipation.

“Except......Well done you! I admire anyone who 

wants to better themselves and make something of 

their lives!”  

Stan took hold of several of Neville’s hands and gave 

them many friendly clammy handshakes. He beckoned 

him closer and whispered in his ear.

“If you want any extra help with counting, just let me 

know,” he winked.

* * *

Having ushered everyone out, Miss Mabel Squeakler, 

spinster of this parish, closed The Termite Tea Room 

for the day. She sent a Squeakogram to Squidgi-dare 

for an engineer to come and fix the dodgy thermostat 

on the freezer then spent the next few minutes de-

splatting the walls of gunked-on grouse-cream.

Tables were cleared of the finest Widgewood and, 

using the remaining stale squones and cold tea, Mabel 

scrubbed the nitoleum floor. Satisfied that everything 

was just so, she closed the curtains on the world 

outside and turned on her music. One more practice 

and she’d be a very happy Squeakler. 

* * *

The lads had left and Stan was just about to head off 

home. So he peeled off his regulation dungarees, 

squashed some stray fickle-bugs that were lurking in his 

limpid leggings and used his pointy pencil to do 

something oo-nasty which wasn’t exactly in the Council 

rule book.  

Sure, there was still the problem of building a stage, 

finding some long curtains, and putting together a public 

address system. However, most of the items had been 

ticked off his list. So Stan sighed, straightened his 

toupee, left his office and locked the door on a mountain 

of musty paperwork and a stockpile of stink.

* * *

Thursday: Early Evening

“NEXT!”

The auditions in Alan’s front room had, so far, been 

disappointing. Despite the fact that Squeakograms 

and posters were all round the colony, talented 

Squeaklers were thin on the ground.

“NEXT!” shouted Alan, even louder.

A wizened little head appeared at the crack in the door 

immediately followed by a wizened little body on five 

rickety legs. The Squeakler in question was carrying a 

piece of paper.

Alan, Tim, Finlay and Pam beckoned the frail figure 

forward encouragingly.

“Good evening Albert,” said Pam “I must say, it’s so 

nice to see you.”

Albert squinted, then leaned forward and cupped a 

hand behind a grey-haired ear.

“Sorry? Er...What was that about sore eyes?” 

“Ne’er mind Albert,” shouted Finlay trying to move 

the proceedings on, “What are you going to do for 

us?”

“Oh, rrright,” replied a smiling Albert, consulting his 

piece of paper. “I’d like two buttered squones, a slice of 

turnip tart and a small tub of grouse-cream please.”

The judges tilted their heads and furrowed their brows. 

Questions about delicious desserts danced through their 

minds. Pam came to the rescue:-

“Albert?”

“Yes Pam?”

“The Termite Tea Room is next door.”

* * *

After much shaking of his head and sucking in of air, 

Stan eventually decided that he had better consult 

the huge sheet of instructions. It wasn’t very 

Squeaklerish to admit defeat but putting together a 

large wooden stage had got the better of him. 

The enormous flat pack had kindly been donated by 

a local Squeedish company and all the parts therein 

were now scattered around the clearing. 

There were long flat sections of flywood, short 

narrow sections of flywood, packets and packets of 

aphid pins, stag nuts, flanges, pegs and bolts, tiny 

bottles of poop-hog glue and one melon key.

All Stan and his team had to do was first figure out 

how 150 cross members C fitted into 150 side panels 

H using 264 screw flanges and great globules of 

ineffective adhesive.

Fortunately, Neville’s advanced Long-windedness and 

Red Tape lessons were not wasted and he quickly 

assessed that it would be a much better bet all round 

if they left it for the girls to sort out.

“Great idea Nev,” nodded Stan. “That means that we 

are free to put together some kind of P.A. system. 

Now what have we got in the way of equipment? Any 

thoughts, anyone?”

Heads tilted and brows were furrowed. Questions 

about parametric equalisers never occurred to any of 

them.

“Best see Darren,” suggested Eric.

* * *

“The thing is Bob, I can see some minor difficulties with 

your performance.”

“Oh?” queried Bob, looking rather forlorn.

“Much that we like the idea of juggling, we can’t see 

your act lasting very long, I’m afraid,” remarked Finlay.

“I see,” mumbled Bob, now looking really disappointed.

“But, thanks anyway Bob,” said Pam with an ah-well sort 

of smile.

So Bob picked up his three balloons and two hedgehogs 

and trudged sadly towards the door.

“Just a sec!”

Tim beckoned him back; he hated seeing a 

disappointed Squeakler and it was his task to see that 

no Squeakler’s dreams were ignored. 

“Would you be able to something entertaining with a 

deep muddy puddle and a diving board?”

Bob gave it some thought. His brain cells were working 

overtime. He was clearly wrestling with some sort of 

dilemma.

“Am I allowed to wear gossamer gusseted go-faster 

trunks?” he asked.

There was a pause. 

Tim leaned back in his chair and then leaned forward.

“Just a sec Bob” he said.

The judges huddled together conspiratorially.

“What d’you think?”

“It’s a bit daring.”

“But he is keen.”

“That’s true.”

“Pam, what d’you reckon?”

No response.

“Pam? Are you with us?” repeated Finlay.

“Sorry boys; just couldn’t get the vision of gossamer 

gussets out of my head,” she admitted wistfully.

Finlay turned to Bob, “You’ve four yeses Bob,” he said.

* * *

Darren as usual was sat amongst his rubbish and 

recyclables. He had found a very comfy but tatty gunk-

festooned earwig easy-chair and was happily thumbing 

through a copy of ‘Nits’.

He sighed, then momentarily glanced up and noticed a 

group of brawny-looking Squeaklers approaching.  

Darren couldn’t quite make out who they were but a 

very strong downwind soon sent a nauseous niff of 

nuggetbean and the fishy fumes of festering fromage 

up his snout. Yep, Stan was on his way.

Darren eased himself up from his comfy chair, 

stretched a few of his limbs and greeted Stan with 

many shakes of his sticky hands.

“Darren, wonder if you can help us out at all with 

some stuff to make a public address system?” 

pleaded a pongy Stan.

“It depends what sort of things you’re after,” replied 

Darren with a sniff. 

“Well the thing is,” started Stan, “I’m not at all sure 

what....”

Neville helpfully cut in:-

“We would like to acquire numerous articles of 

amplification and microphonic apparatus plus the 

accompanying speakers, a mixer, several surge 

protectors, a graphic equalizer, effects devices, and a 

roll of gaffer tape, if you please Darren.”

Questions about advanced vocabulary should have 

been asked but weren’t. 

“Oooooo!” they all sing-songed, holding up imaginary 

handbags.

However, Darren was very impressed with Neville’s 

extensive knowledge and located a huge thistlebug 

crate, spilling over with likely pieces of equipment.

“Mmm...Let’s see what we have in here,” he said, 

throwing out the top layer of junk.

A second-hand hosepipe, a rusty jelly mould, three 

rancid radishes, some tartan paint, a sock, five false 

multi-eyes, and a tatty poop-hog overcoat with no 

sleeves were discarded unceremoniously onto the 

litter-strewn floor. He reached further into the crate.

“There you go; this is more like it,” he announced.

Darren pulled out a huge tangle of spider string and 

a bag of rusty soup tins.

“One all-purpose communication system......,” he 

said proudly. 

“Rrright...” began Stan, looking baffled.

“.....plus a metric shed load of antique megaphones,” 

Darren continued.

There was silence. Stan took in a large lungful of air.  

He was feeling faint with excitement. He started 

drooling and his multi-eyes glazed over. Tentatively, 

he peeked over the side of the crate in sheer 

excitement and gently picked up one of the said 

pieces.

“Oh, Darren, Darren, Darren....this is a Gnatworthy 

Resonating Stag-Master with midge proof mouthpiece 

and grass embellishments. What a fine example of 

megaphonic craftsmanship!”

Stan hugged the Stag-Master to his chest in sheer 

love and affection.  

“How many of these have you got?” asked Stan, 

wiping saliva from his chin.

“Fifteen,” replied Darren, wondering what all the fuss 

was about.

Stan turned to his team.

“Okay lads, you are looking here at a state-of-the-art 

P.A. system. Wiring all these wonderful Gnatworthys 

together around the stage will produce the clearest and 

crackle-free amplification ever. No question about it.”

The lads tried to look interested, but failed.

Now all Stan had to do was negotiate a good price.

He attempted an expression of poverty-stricken 

hopelessness.

“How much do you want for them Darren?” he asked 

mournfully.

“Just a sec.”

Darren extracted a grubby notebook from a back 

pocket of his Squeeve-Eyes and flipped over a few 

grimy pages. He found the relevant entry. He looked 

at Stan and smiled the smile of a charmer.

“To you Stan, as a one-off, not-to-be repeated offer, 

just for today of course.... you can have them 

for......mmm, let me see..... two bags of acorns,” 

announced Darren, closing his notebook.

“TWO BAGS OF ACORNS?” Stan was surprised and 

more than a little aggrieved. “Darren, we’re mates 

aren’t we? Surely you can better than that?”

“Wwwelll...” Darren wasn’t that hard-hearted and he 

couldn’t resist the pleading look in Stan’s eyes. 

“How about three bags of acorns?”

“You’ve got a deal!” smiled Stan.

* * *

The four judges were awe-struck as Esperanza 

Manuela Bonita de Squeakler made her entrance.

Wearing a long lustrous crimson polka-dotted dress 

of finest frogmite and a mantle of 10 denier woven 

wattle, she flounced forward in a flurry of fifty ruffles. 

Four of her feet were encased in Quban-heeled 

shooze and her black hair was swept into a bun 

secured by a hornet hairpin. Pairs of pimple-bee 

castanets were hanging from three dainty wrists.

“My word Esperanza, you look absolutely 

spectacular,” said Alan, eyeing the dusky beauty 

from behind the desk.

“Think yew fairy mitch,” she bashfully replied.

There was a pause in proceedings. The judges raised 

many eyebrows then leaned together in a huddle.

“D’you reckon she’s well enough?”

“Well, she’s looks incredible.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that bad spelling would make a 

difference, would you?”

“That’s true Pam.”

“Okay then, let’s see what she can do.”

They de-huddled. Pam smiled at Esperanza, “When 

you’re ready,” she said.

Esperanza pointed towards the door.

“I’d lie two intro twos my grit tar blay her, Santiago 

Mateus Diego de Squeakler.”  

A thin, greasy Squeakler slimed into the room with a 

sneer on his swarthy face and a 36-stringed 

instrument hanging across his scrawny chest. He 

perched his tight-trousered bottom on a wiggleberry 

stool and said nothing.

“Right, off you go. Good luck.” encouraged Finlay.

Suddenly there was a wild strumming of passionate 

arpeggios and the clamorous clacking of several 

shooze. Castanets and ruffles skimmed the air in 

percussive pandemonium as Esperanza strutted and 

twirled and clapped and circulated her wrists in a fever 

of excitement. The floorboards trembled and 

vibrations inched their way up the judges’ chairs. Pam 

went cross-eyed.

The performance ended with a flick of three bangled 

wrists and a haughty pose. The judges stood up and 

erupted into loud applause and whoops of delight.

“Sensational!” “Wonderful” “Magnificent!” they all 

cheered. At last they had found someone with real 

talent.

Esperanza wiped tiny beads of sweat from her 

forehead and curtseyed in acknowledgement.

“Think yew sew mitch,” she panted. 

“Well Esperanza, you can count yourself in the 

show...very well done indeed,” smiled Alan. “Now how 

would you like your act to be described in the 

programme?”

Esperanza thought for a moment. Trying to formulate 

the most accurate description of her performance was 

proving a tad tricky.

“Eye no,” she said finally.

The judges looked hopeful. Would they be disappointed?

“Spinach flamingo” she announced.

They were.

* * *

Maureen and her friends had worked tirelessly and 

had now attached the very last cross member C to 

side panel H with a 10 screw flanges, 4 stag nuts and 

globules of poop-hog glue.

“Great stuff everyone! “Well done!” she announced, 

with many hands on many hips. “This is a stage 

worthy of any performance you care to name.”

They all stood back and admired their efforts as Stan 

and his team returned from Darren’s recycling yard 

with a crate load of equipment.

“My word, Maureen, you have done well...considering,” 

said Stan, patting her on the back.

Was there a hint of condescension? A patronising 

attitude, perhaps? Maureen was about to find out.

“For someone who is just known for making delicious 

light refreshments, that is really quite an achievement,” 

announced Stan. “Isn’t that so lads?” 

The lads said nothing.They’d seen Maureen’s face.

Maureen managed to smile and scowl at the same 

time. With a Squillips-head screwdriver in hand, she 

strode over in her tulip-toughened work shooze.

“Stanley, Stanley,” she beamed maliciously. “ ...oh, 

you don’t mind me calling you ‘Stanley’, do you 

Stanley?”

Wafts of wiffiness were accumulating under Stan’s 

armpits. Globs of smelly sweat emerged on his 

crusty bonce. 

Stan said nothing and clung to his megaphone. He 

just stared. Maureen continued unabated.

“Firstly, I couldn’t be more pleased that you find my 

light refreshments to your liking, and, secondly; this 

wonderful piece of construction is indeed something 

of an achievement,” smarminess and sarcasm were 

seeping from every Squeakler pore.

Stan tried to interrupt but was about to be cut short 

by some emphasising prods on his person by a 

stubby screwdriver.

“Thirdly, Stanley,” Maureen took several paces 

forward, “the girls and I would looove to help you out 

further but we are off home to prepare some 

particularly lumpy midge and dragon-frog porridge 

which we intend to pour down your manky 

megaphone if we hear any more seckist (prod), crud-

encrusted (prod) comments.”

Maureen turned to go. Stan was about to say 

something. Maureen stopped him.

“If you are thinking of going ‘Oooooo’ and holding up 

imaginary handbags, then you’d better think again, 

matey” she warned.

Maureen and the girls gave themselves many high 

fives, tens and fifteens in a triumphant gesture of 

Squeakella sisterhood.

Stan turned to face his team. The lads were eyeing 

their be-wigged boss very warily.

“Well, thank you very much, lads,” Stan’s sarcasm 

squeezed its way from between gritted tarnished 

teeth. “I thought you could have least backed me up, 

come to my rescue even and quoted union regs. on 

secks equality in the workplace and harassment of 

Council officials.”

No response.

Stan raised his megaphone to his lips.

“WELL??” he bellowed.

The lads looked at each other then at Stan.

“What’s dragon-fly porridge taste like?” asked Frank.

“What’s secks?” asked Neville.

Stan gave up; he was off to borrow some curtains.

* * *

A regimental line of 16 bottles containing Regurgitory 

Reed–Rum stood on the trestle table. Behind the table, 

with raised jelly-wood sticks; 2 pairs, short, for the 

musical use of, were Walter and Darryl Squeakler.

“Most intriguing,” nodded Alan. “Did you say ‘The Fight 

of the Crumble Bee’?”

“That’s right,” replied a smiling Walter, poised and 

ready.

Alan was not entirely convinced.

“Correct me if I’m wrong gentlemen, but isn’t it 

standard procedure to have different heights of liquid 

in each bottle to create the necessary notes?”

The brothers faced each other and furrowed their 

brows.

“Aah......Just a sec,” they said, turning their backs on 

the judges and engaging in some feverish whispering. 

They turned back.

“If you wouldn’t mind awfully waiting a minute or 

two while we make some minor liquid adjustments, 

we would be most grateful?” asked Darryl.

“No problem, boys,” said Finlay. “Take your time.”

* * *

Mabel Squeakler, with a tea towel draped over a 

shoulder, was happily counting the takings for the 

day:- not quite as good as Wednesday but 

nonetheless very satisfactory. She then locked the 

door and was just about to turn the ‘Open for 

Business’ sign round to ‘Sorry We’re Closed’’ when 

she was startled by a stubbly-chinned Squeakler with 

a badly matted toupee. Stan was staring through the 

glass panel mouthing something indistinct.

Mabel pointed to her watch and mouthed, “We’re 

closed, sorry. Come back tomorrow.” 

Stan mouthed back, “What?” and held up five arms in a 

questioning pose. Why he didn’t use his megaphone 

was a complete mystery.

Although she might regret it, Mabel had no choice but 

to let Stan into the Termite Tea Room.

“Wipe your feet!” she ordered.

A cloud of dust, grime and yellow fumes engulfed them 

both as Stan stamped two large pongy plimsolls on the 

quoco-nut matting. Mable cleared the air furiously with 

her trusty tea towel and spluttered another order:-

“Show me your hands,” she said.

Stan held out his five hands. Mabel flinched and tut-

tutted.

“Stay where you are.” She turned and went into her 

kitchen.

Stan daren’t move; he’d already had a talking-to by 

Maureen and was not about to get another ear 

bashing.

Mabel rummaged under her sink and emerged with an 

industrial scouring nettle and nuclear-strength oven 

cleaner. 

She approached Stan with a menacing twinkle in her 

eye.

“Whoa there! What d’you think you’re doing?” Stan 

quickly put all of his hands behind his back.

“If you intend to eat or drink anything in this 

establishment, then I expect the highest standards of 

cleanliness. Understand?” 

“I’m not here to eat or drink anything, thank you 

very much, Mabel,” replied Stan, gingerly wiping his 

palms down the back of his trousers.

“Oh?”

“Thing is Mabel, I’m looking for help in relation to 

the grand variety show on Saturday night and I’m 

hoping that you......”

Mabel stopped him mid-sentence. She dropped the 

nettle and the oven cleaner and gave a bewildered 

Stan an all embracing bear-hug.

“I knew it, I just knew it!” she exclaimed, burying 

her be-whiskered face in his jellified jacket. “You 

want me to show you my exotic striptease? I knew 

all those lessons and practice would pay off one 

day. Wonderful news my nauseous nugget of 

naughtiness!”

Stan was even more bewildered.

“I...I...look you’ve got the wro...” he stammered, 

trying to sprize her off.

“I’ll close the curtains,” Mabel declared, easing her 

ample aproned boosom seductively away from Stan 

and fluttering one set of eyelashes.

“Oh eck,” squeaked Stan.

* * *

Pam, Finlay, Alan and Tim were becoming increasingly 

worried. They weren’t overly concerned about the 

long wait but it was the fact that the brothers seem to 

be having great difficulty focusing, standing up or 

making themselves understood. 

It wasn’t helpful either that Walter’s two middle legs 

were facing different directions and a jellywood stick:- 

one, short, for the musical use of, was stuck up his 

snout.

Darryl, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea 

where his legs were, as he was scrunched up on the 

floor with a huge smile on his floppy face.  

However, his smile was soon about to fade as 

something unmentionable was on its way up from his 

insides and was about to dribble down his outsides via 

his quivering lips.

“Hello?” Tim tentatively inquired from behind the 

judges’ table. “Are you two okay?”

Walter tried to focus on the voice, so he craned 

forward in search of a body to go with the voice.

“Whoooze zat?” he hiccoughed in Tim’s general 

direction. The jelly wood stick clattered to the floor.

“It’s me, Tim,” said Tim, waving a hand at him.

“Hhaaa–low Tim-moth-fee,” he slurred, “wosamatter?”

“Well, erm, we were all wondering if you are in any fit 

state to do the audition?” asked Tim.

Walter tilted his head and furrowed his brow. He had 

no idea if there were any questions to be asked, so he 

stared around the room then burped.

A waft of Regurgitory Reed-Rum fumes filled the air.  

“Tell you what lads, would you like to come back later 

maybe, say.....er.... next week?” asked Pam, 

diplomatically.

Neffer-nitly dot!” garbled a strangled voice from the 

floor. Darryl’s sickly snout appeared above the table, 

followed by a body splatted with regurgitated 

wiggleberry worms. 

“We would merry vutch like to rue our dendition 

of..of..oh eck (hic)....the ‘Bite of the Mumble Tree’ by 

Ripper Corsetsoff,” declared Darryl, easing himself 

gingerly up on his wobbly legs and selecting a jelly 

wood stick from the six he could see on the table.

Darryl turned to his brother and nodded. The bottles 

had been tuned and they raised their sticks in 

readiness for a musical extravaganza.

The judges leaned forward in eager expectation. 

The brothers breathed in a boozy breath and 

promptly passed out.

“NEXT!”

* * *

Mabel was down to her under-pushed, wired-up, 

Squarks and Bender bra with crud-flea crystals and 

sugar snap strapping. Pearl-pansy panties enveloped 

her quivering nether quarters as the music came to a 

dramatic finale.

Stan felt sick; he just couldn’t wince, cringe or 

scrunch up his eyes any harder. There just wasn’t 

any more cringness left in him. Noxious vapours 

were rising in an all out effort to escape. He had to 

do something. He stood up. He raised his 

megaphone to his lips.

“I WANT TO GO HOME!!” he cried.

Mabel swiftly turned off her music and wrapped her 

substantial personage in a nearby tablecloth.

“Oh Stan, Stan,” she beamed, rushing over to the 

sobbing Squeakler. “Let me get dressed and I’ll come 

home and keep you company, my gorgeous glob of 

gassiness.”

Stan took a huge gulp and sat down. His megaphone 

wilted.  

“Wha?....I....I...erm....Look, Mable, I....”

“Don’t say another word, sweetie-pie, I shall 

return....very... very...shortly,” Mabel winked at a 

toupee-hugging Stan and headed for her parlour at the 

rear of the tearoom.

Stan was distraught. He was undeniably well-and-truly 

scuppered and visions of a marauding Mabel assaulting 

his personal particles shot through his bruised body.  

He had very little time to rescue the situation. He put 

more of his clammy hands up to his face in a desperate 

hope for inspiration.  

“Won’t be lo-ong!” sing-songed Mabel provocatively.

Beads of sweat and nail-biting nervousness soon 

gave way to a satisfied smile as Stan had an idea.    

It would take all of his powers of tact and subtlety 

plus a dirty great dollop of Squeakler charm and 

magnetism. But it might just have the desired 

diplomatic effect. 

Now fully dressed, Mabel appeared at the parlour 

door waving a new Termite toothbrush.  

Stan stood up; paying no heed whatsoever to the 

filthy flecks of fester that fell off him. He raised the 

less wilted megaphone to his lips.

“YOU, MADAM, ARE A BE-WHISKERED, BLOB OF 

BUTTERY-BOTTOMED BEASTLINESS WITH BOBBLING 

BOOSOMS. YOUR SO-CALLED SEDUCTIVE STRIPTEASE 

WOULD NOT INTEREST A SECKS-STARVED CENTIPOD 

SITTING IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT FOR SEVERAL 

CENTURIES AND I AM CERTAINLY NOT GOING TO LET 

YOU MESS WITH MY PERSONAL PARTICLES.”

Mabel was rigid with shock. “Anything else you care to 

say?” she whimpered.

“Can I borrow a pair of curtains?”

* * *

The last of the performers were having a final 

practice before being summoned for their audition. 

The scene outside Alan’s house was, to the untrained 

eye, just a mêlée of costumed choreography but at 

least it was a very rhythmic mêlée.

“And one, and two, and three, and four, and shuffle 

ball change and kick, and step.”

The Tarquinettes dance routine of tap and cha-cha 

was quite something to behold as Tarquin lead the 

satin-sequinned squad through their paces. He 

clapped four hands above his head to get their 

attention.

“Excellent moves everyone, excellent! Just remember 

to smile, smile, smile!” 

Tarquin walked up and down between the four lines of 

five dancers adjusting bow-ties and stray quiffs of hair 

where necessary. He tugged at a few wrinkled 

waistcoats and flicked away the odd lurking grit-bug or 

leek-louse. He stopped in front of Sebastian and 

grimaced.

“What did I tell you about those false eyelashes, eh? 

Save them for later!”

He moved on to Freddy and scrutinised his cheeks.

“I’m not sure if that colour rouge goes with your 

complexion, Freddy. Perhaps a touch of Squimmel 

‘Peach Pansy’ may be better?”

However, Tarquin was happy enough and he sighed 

a big sigh to gather his composure.

“Wonderful!” he declared, “Let’s do it!”

Tarquin knocked on Alan’s door. 

“COME” called a voice from within.

So Tarquin took a deep breath and tap-danced his 

way into the audition. The smiling Tarquinettes were 

right behind him.  

This was where they had a bit of a problem. The place 

was a smidge too small. 

Alan’s front room contained the four judges on four 

chairs behind a huge doughmint desk. There was a Q-

plan sideboard, a two-seater crouch couch and 

matching armchair. But now there were an additional 

twenty-one sequinned dancers pressed against every 

conceivable surface, both vertical and horizontal. Any 

type of tap dancing or cha-cha was impossible. 

“Tarquin?” moaned Finlay.

“Yes, Finlay?” squeaked Tarquin.

“Would you mind taking your snout from out of my 

ear?”  

Finlay’s’ face was at a slightly odd angle, his 

shoulders were scrunched up and three of his arms 

were pinned against the sideboard. 

“Sorry, Finlay”, came a mumbled squashed reply. “I 

hadn’t realised that your audition room was so very 

bee-joo.” 

Alan, Pam and Tim had been flattened by the front 

row of Tarquinettes who, despite the diamanteed 

crush, had tried to shuffle ball change and smile. 

There was a great deal of spluttering and gasping 

and a few too many grasping of sequinned bottoms. 

Eventually, Finlay wriggled himself free and somehow 

managed to stand on his chair.

“Can we please try and get outside to the garden 

everyone; it’s like a squidge-beetle’s sweat shop 

back here.”

So the rear line of dancers fell out of the door, swiftly 

followed by the rest of the troupe and the rather 

ruffled judges.

“Let’s try again, shall we?” announced a now de-

ruffled Alan to the ensemble.

Three minutes later the judges had conferred and 

Pam, who was appointed spokes-squeakler, 

announced the result.

“Well Tarquin, we much admired that startling 

performance; it had perzaze, skill and excitement. How 

you managed to tap dance so effectively on an 

undulating tussocky lawn is beyond the realms of 

physics! Well done indeed! You’re through!”

Grins of delight and rapturous clapping greeted the 

judgement. Many cheek to cheek kisses were 

exchanged. Tarquin raised a hand.

“Yes?”

“Any chance of a wooden stage on Saturday night?” he 

asked.

* * *

Friday 3:20pm

“You now have ten minutes,” announced the bored 

invigilator.

Neville glanced around him and then at the clock.   The 

three other examinees were all busy. One was using 

four biros and a crayon, another was feverishly 

stabbing at the buttons of a digi-counter and the third 

was doodling something rude in the margin of his 

answer paper.

Part one (Red Tape) had been, in his opinion, a 

doddle. Neville had revised thoroughly and had pretty 

much nailed the three compulsory questions:- 

1.   Using as many long words as possible discuss the     

     advantages of fobbing people off.

2.     Devise an application form of at least 15 pages for      

     a request to build an extension to a hovel.

     (Extra marks will be awarded on the compact    

     nature of answer boxes, irrelevant questions   

     concerning the use of sheep-dips and unnecessary   

     information about the applicants mother’s pet’s    

     maiden name.) 

3.    Discuss the premise that ‘Pointless paperwork and 

     shouting are at the heart of good bureaucracy.”

Part 2 (Long-windedness) asked, paradoxically, for 

short answers.  

Admittedly, Neville had to make an intelligent guess 

on several questions, especially those on megaphone 

maintenance, dungaree design faults and the safe 

siting of crud-flea traps. However he was pleased 

with his answers on advanced counting applications, 

tea-break regulations and dealing with grey fumes 

and allied nastiness of Council footwear.

But he was now well and truly flummoxed on the last 

few questions. 

The first was on Squeakler secks equality laws, the 

second on the disposal of poop-hog poop in a 

secksual discriminatory way and the last was, well, 

impossible. It concerned the victimisation of workers 

because they have made or intend to make a 

complaint or allegation or have given or intend to give 

evidence in relation to a complaint of discrimination on 

grounds of secksual orientation.

It was useless. Neville really did have to find out what 

this secks thing was all about.

* * *

Friday 4:30pm

The tea time rush was in full swing. Mabel was deftly 

creating parsley bread sandwiches in one hand, slicing 

turnip tart with a second and pouring teak tea with a 

third. She could have scooped splodges of grouse-

cream into grass dishes with a fourth but nobody had 

asked for any and it didn’t help that the freezer was 

on the blink. However, she had a till half full of acorns 

and her regular customers were considering sampling 

her Friday afternoon 'Dessert of the Day’.

Nigel turned to Maureen. “Do you fancy a chunk of 

this tapioca tiramisu, darling?”

Maureen was sorely tempted but the thought of all 

those excess calories clinging to her many hips put her 

off.

“I’ll stick to a few mushroom marshmallows with 

added chocolate sauce, please,” she replied.

So Nigel ordered the mushroom marshmallows plus a 

cashew coffee for Maureen, and a mug of teak tea and 

a buttery squoissant for himself. They took their tray 

of goodies to a window seat.

“Looking good,” Nigel remarked, pointing out of the 

window. ”That is a very impressive stage.”

Maureen tried not to look too smug.

Yes, out there in the clearing were rows and rows of 

various kinds of seating in front of a fabulous flywood 

stage. All that was needed were some lights, curtains 

and a state-of-the-art P.A system.

“Can’t wait to see the show tomorrow night, can 

you?” inquired Nigel with a mouthful of squoissant.

In his favourite corner by the kitchen door, Will was 

deep in thought.  

Quill and paper at the ready, Will was surrounded by 

several tepid cups of creosote coffee and could not 

make up his mind whether to use the lump of tapioca 

tiramisu as a blotter or as a temporary wedge for his 

wobbly chair leg.

In the centre of the tea room a few of the performers 

were gathered. Most were chatting about how their 

rehearsals were going; others about the auditions 

and a good few were toying with the idea of taking a 

hacksaw to the dessert of the day.

“Sew Bub, wear did yew abtayn the gassimer 

garsetted drunks?”

Bob didn’t mind being questioned by Esperanza as 

long as he could paddle blissfully in his jellybean 

juice.

“Thing is Esperanza,” he replied, “I had them 

especially made for me by a very talented tap-

dancing Squeakler.”

Tarquin blushed, stopped picking at his garlic gateau 

and raised five hands in acknowledgement.

“It was my absolute pleasure entirely, dear Robert; 

anything to help a fellow artiste!” 

Bob turned towards Walter and Darryl who were now 

on their tenth double egg espresso with aspirin 

accompaniments. 

“How are you two doing, boys?”

It was nearly twenty-four hours since their so-called 

audition and the last lingerings of hangovers were 

still hanging over them.

“Could be better,” moaned Darryl, pouring more 

coffee over his head.

“Could be worse,” whimpered Walter. “At least Alan 

and Tim realised our true potential and were good 

enough to put us in the show.”

Eyebrows were raised and glances exchanged. A 

question about underhandedness was about to be 

asked. 

“That, and the fact you bribed them with a crate of 

Chrysalis Cava!” bristled Tarquin, who flicked his 

head dramatically.

Just then the crystallised bluebell on the Termite 

Tea Room door tinkled and a Squeakler wearing a 

tight Squidgi-dare tee-shirt and even tighter 

Squeeve-Eyes breezed in carrying a tool box, 

mobile phone, pointy pencil, clipboard and a many 

pairs of lethal-looking crampons. 

“Mabel Squeakler?” 

“Who’s asking?”

“Julia. I’m your qualified freezer fettling operative; 

come to tweak the thermostat.”

There was a pause. Most of the male customers in 

the tearoom were staring at the very pretty, petite 

ice engineer.

“This way is it?” asked Julia, making her way into the 

kitchen.

“Afternoon!” she chirped cheerily to Will as she went 

by.

Will glanced up and wilted in wonderment. He stood 

and bowed dramatically with a flourish of his flea-

feathered cap. He’d fallen in love. He took one of her 

free hands in his.

“How now, dear maiden, thou dost illuminate our 

humble presence with rapturous radiances,” he crooned 

seductively.

There was a pause.

“Yer what?”

Will leaned forward and whispered.

“Nice to meet you,” he coyly said.

“Sorry mate, busy right now, freezer to fix, must rush, 

runny grouse-cream situation you understand,” she 

rattled off. “See you later, eh?”

Will smiled, sighed and slumped back onto his wobbly 

chair. As he struggled with his latest script with quill 

and tapioca blotter in hand, he barely noticed that two 

brawny Squeaklers had bustled their way into the tea 

room.

“You tell him!” grumbled one of them.

“No, you tell ‘im, Eric. It was your idea after all.”

“He’d set is heart on it! He wants to be the star of the 

show!”

“’ow was I supposed to know that Darren didn’t have 

a second-‘and recycled Mullet’s Mortar 914 millimetre 

siege cannon? Don’t blame me!”

“Look, why don.....”

They were interrupted by a scowling Mable, wielding a 

vicious pastry slice.

“Are you eating, drinking or arguing?” she demanded.

Their two heads tilted but their brows didn’t furrow.  

Questions of choice confronted them.

“Two chunks of tapioca tiramisu and two teak teas 

please Mable,” said a tongue-tied Frank.

“And a scoop of grouse-cream,” added Eric.

“D’you want the grouse-cream in a glass with a 

straw?”

“Sure... why not?” nodded Eric.

She completed their order and rang their acorns into 

the till.

Frank and Eric thanked Mabel and took their food 

and mugs of tea to a nearby table.

The arguing resumed.

“Why you suggested the notion in the first place is 

beyond me,” said Frank, hacking into his tiramisu.

“Most things are beyond you Frank,” pointed out Eric, 

sucking up his grouse-cream.

“We could really do with Neville to sort this out. 

Where is he by the way?” asked Frank.

“It’s his exam this afternoon, so he should be over in 

a bit,” replied Eric, looking at his watch.

Sure enough, Neville entered The Termite Tea Room 

looking distinctly weary and clutching a blunt pencil, a 

chewed up biro and a broken centipod digi-counter.

Eric and Frank waved him over.

“Well?”

“How’d it go?”

Neville sighed and called back:- “Oh, hi lads. Just let 

me get something to eat and drink. Be right over.” 

Neville examined the cabinet full of cakes, tarts and 

pies and the blackboard with the specials chalked on.  

He scanned the list of available hot drinks, cold drinks 

and flavours of grouse-cream. He was undecided. His 

brain had ceased to function.

“Can I recommend the tapioca tiramisu and a 

refreshing roast raspberry whipped milk snake?” 

suggested Mable, leaning her ample frontage towards 

her customer.

Neville glanced up and smiled pathetically.

“D’you know, all I really want is a nice lie down in a 

big comfy bed,” he admitted wistfully.

In a matter of seconds Mable had whipped off her 

pinny, grabbed Neville by three hands and pulled him 

into her parlour.

“I’ll show you my comfy bed, if you like,” she purred.

* * *

Alan, Finlay and Tim were seated on a padded tussock 

bench in the front row of the grassy auditorium. They 

were slightly concerned about the state of the 

performance area and Stan certainly did not look a 

happy Squeakler.

In fact, Stan was fumingly furious. He was standing 

centre stage surrounded by reels of wasabi wiring, four 

lentil ladders and holding his fifteen precious 

Gnatworthy Resonating Stag-Masters in five sweaty 

hands. His toupee began quivering in rage. Why?

Because firstly, his team should have been present 

ten minutes ago to help him set up the state-of-the-

art P.A. system; secondly, he had no idea if they had 

found a second-hand Mullet’s Mortar 914 millimetre 

siege cannon, which was an essential part of his star 

turn and; fourthly, he wanted to ask Neville if he had 

correctly answered all the counting questions in the 

Deputy Foreman’s exam.

So he sent an urgent Squeakogram to all those 

concerned:-

‘Stop whatever it is you are doing stop get here at 

once stop stop messing about stop.’

Tim noticed the seething specimen on stage and called 

up him:-

“Any problems Stanley?” he queried speculatively.

Stan could hardly contain himself.

“HOW MANY MORE TIMES? MY NAME IS STAN!” yelled 

Stan. “AND MY TEAM IS LATE!”

Tim was taken aback not only by the outburst but by 

the fact that no megaphone had been employed.  

Alan quickly realised that a potential tricky situation 

could develop and diplomatically intervened:-

“Stan, Stan,” he smarmed, “we can see you are in 

nervous state of noxiousness and quite honestly it is 

not surprising. How you have organised this arena of 

artistry is really remarkable. It is a stage worthy of 

any gala performance you care to name. You should 

be very proud of your sterling efforts at assembling 

such a fine wooden structure and, above all, the 

conscientiousness of your workforce. So how about 

you cut them a bit of slack if they’re a tiny bit late, 

eh?”

Stan considered Alan’s assessment. There were 

questions of truthfulness and integrity to be 

addressed. 

So Stan gently placed his precious Gnatworthys back 

in their tissue-lined box, inhaled a deep confidence-

boosting breath and descended the steps into the 

auditorium. He needed to answer Alan’s questions 

face to face. Alan also took in a lungful of fresh air for 

slightly different reasons.

“Firstly Alan,” explained Stan, “we didn’t put up this 

fine structure of a stage; it was Maureen and her 

friends. Secondly, I hate being called Stanley and....”

Alan interrupted.

“Thirdly?”

“What?” quizzed a bewildered Stan.

“Thirdly:-you know, comes after secondly.”

“Really?” Stan was amazed.

“Yes Stan,” confirmed Alan.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. Stan seemed to be grappling 

with some numerical difficulties. Steam was rising 

from his tatty toupee. 

“No wonder my wages are always wrong,” he said.

* * *

Frank and Eric tilted their heads and furrowed their 

brows. They questioned their eyesight.

“I’m sure Neville wasn’t that dishevelled a minute 

ago,” said Eric, smashing his tiramisu with a lump 

hammer.

“Sorry mate, ‘aven’t been paying attention, there’s a 

Squeakogram coming frew from Stan,” said Frank, 

looking worried.

“I’m getting one, too. Best get going,” said Eric 

slurping his remaining tea. He called over to where 

Neville was currently leaning against the parlour door 

looking distinctly weak in the knees and tousled in the 

trousers.   

There was a peculiar glazed look in Neville's multi-eyes.

“My word; that was an experience I wouldn’t want to 

repeat in a hurry,” he said, following the rest of the lads 

out of The Termite Tearoom.   

He was carrying some long curtains.

* * *

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