WHOLESOME TALES

How do we know that it's herring flavored, though? I suspect it isn't open for taste tests!

How dare you cast doubt on my ancestors fine work Baingil! As if any Tyrant would stoop to falsification just for fame and buckie. Really.

For fame, I would not suggest such a thing - but buckie? A McTyrant not swayed by buckie?

Why would a Tyrant want fame? For the buckie. Fame and buckie are at the end of the day the same thing. Make a herring flavoured chocolate teapot, become famous get buckie. No need for deception, except of course its a lot easier not to make one and just say you have. Not that he did, and how dare you for even thinking it.

I merely questioned the flavor, not the existence. If I could just try one little bite...

THE SAWGUH OF THE RIDICULOUS GIRL

Once upon a time there was a ridiculous girl of Fjordianlandia. Her name was Baingil - an odd name really, but not in Fjordianlandia in those far off days, where it was common (in more ways than one). What do I mean by "ridiculous". Well, she would ask ridiculous questions, often all the life long day. She couldn't help being ridiculous, as she was born that way, and so can't be blamed. The other folk in her village blamed the parents --- and their penchant for buckie and candlelit meals.

Anyhow, one day Baingil was walking down the main street of Skattykatzenfjord, when she met a man with a big knife and a lamb.

"What are you going to do with that lamb?" Baingil asked.

"I'm going to slit it's throat and and make a spit roast out of it," said the man.

"It's why Illuvatar put creatures like me on Middle Earth, after all, " said the lamb (whose mother came from Narnia), "Irrespective of what Vegetarians think."

"Oh, I see," said Baingil, though she probably didn't.

Off down the road she skipped. Next she came to a man repairing a fence. There were two posts he had replaced, and he had already nailed two cross pieces. He was holding the third against the top of one post - the other end already having been nailed up to the top section of the other post. The man also had a hammer in his hand while the other held the plank against the post. A nail was half hammered in. The man was swinging the hammer against the nail head.

Baingil interrupted. "What pray are you doing there, sir?" asks our Baingil.

"I'm nailing this plank onto this fence post," says the man.

"But why?"

"To fix this here fence, lass."

"Oh I see," says our Baingil, though I'm sure she didn't, and off she skips again.

At last, Baingil came to a little shop in the marketplace. On a sign out the front were the words: "Helga's Chocolate Tinkering Shop. Best Goods made of Best Chocolate."

"Oooh," says Baingil. "I wonder if they have anything made from chocolate in there?" (They did).

Helga was at the counter. "Why, hello, Baingil. Weren't you here yesterday?"

"I think so," Baingil answered politely, not that she could remember.

"Would you like to look at Putty's Herring Flavoured Chocolate Teapot again?"

"Have you got one?"

"Indeed, I do. Here, come over here. Can you smell it? Herring! Reeks of herring oil, don't it?"

"Yes, it does. But how do I know it has herring oil in it?"

"Well, if the smell is not proof enough, it's documented here in this family history, signed by Putty McTyrant himself, and witnessed by the Mayor, the Chief of Police and Aberfeldy Crumble, the Chief Justice. All high personages of the times."

"But what if they lied?"

Helga frowned. "I know I asked you this yesterday (and the day before, and the day before that), but aren't you being a bit ridiculous?"

"How dare you, Helga!" says our Baingil. "I'll never come here again!" Baingil exlaimed and she stormed right out of Helga's shop.

"I'll see you tomorrow, love," says Helga, with a little wry smile --- the same wry smile I'm sure is now touching your lips! Baingil, though clearly ridiculous, was surely loveable, don't you think?

I wouldn't storm out, though the impertinent questions I can't deny!

Oh I'm sure it's just a story, however true sounding. I'm sure "Baingil" is not a real person, just a fictional construction, however much she seems like a real person, and, possibly, very like someone we know. That's Classic fiction for you. The best stories 'resonate' don't you think? Here to help!

The wonder of story telling. Fiction can often seem like a living documentary of our lives.

THE SAWGUH OF THE GIRL WHO WOULD NEVER TAKE A RISK

Once upon a time there was a girl called Raspberry Squash (The Eighth) who lived in the Last Homely Herring House at the top of the Skattykatzenfjordian Valley. Her Mother was Raspberry Squash (The Sixth), who had married a three headed Fjordianlandian Troll named Rudyard Smythe. (Raspberry Squash (The Eighth) only had one head, which was a disappointement for her Father, but not her Mother).

The Squash-Smythes shared the house - times being tough - with the Ringo Herring Family (The Seventh), and the youngest son of that fine Skattykatzenfjordian family was her best friend, his name, Ringo Herring (The Ninth-or-Thereabouts).

Now Raspberry Squash was no risk taker.

One day Ringo said to her, "Let's go up to the top of the valley and look down upon the beautiful herringries on the coast."

But Raspberry Squash said: "Oh no, what if an albatross was to fly across the rises between the mountain peaks and feather our faces with a chill northern breeze thus giving us an ague of the flu type?"

For the first time in their twelve year friendship, Ringo became annoyed. "You never want to go outside and play. All we do is play tiddly winks and whist. Fine games, I'm sure, but day after day for twelve years? You know, I am starting to get bored, and me a bona fide Fjordianlandian, and a Sixth Dan in Whist! No, I'm going up the valley to look down upon the herringries. Stay if you wont come."

"That's exactly what I plan to do," answered Raspberry Squash with lips pursed with indignation at Ringo's outburst, as she got out her cards to play 'Solitaire'.

And so Ringo trudged off on his stout Fjordianlandian legs.

Raspberry Squash later found out that Ringo had been caught by an Icelandic chambermaid and forced to marry her. They went to live in a cave in an iceberg where it was very chill both in Summer and Winter.

Raspberry Squash, however, had been completely wrong about the albatross.

These Sawguhs are brilliant (hadn't read any of them before now, so had some catching up to do!) Keep them coming

THE SAWGUH OF THE PRETTIEST NOSE

Once upon a time Roland Bainsbury sailed on the Good Ship Lollipop into Skattykatzenfjord. Roland was a wealthy cosmetic surgeon from New York - in Far West Forumshire - and he wanted to find the prettiest nose in Middlenorthernearth, so he could make a plaster mould of it, and so create a new nose for his wife, Patsy Gaynor (the Second), who had lost hers in a blackbird attack (this was back in '54, though the date is not important).

Ringo Herring, Chief Herringtollster met Roland at the quay. Now Roland was a tall hobbit, about six foot three, and he wore a fine suit of goathair, dyed blue-grey in the Disney tradition. And Ringo fell immediately in love with him.

Not knowing this, Roland said, "Good sir, I'm looking for the most perfect nose in Erudom. Have you got such a nose here?"

Now Ringo knew full well that such a nose did NOT exist in Skattykatzenfjord, (as everyone knows, it is in Valinor), but blinded by his love for Roland, Ringo said. "Oh good sir, we have just such a nose. It's in my secure herring cellar. Come this way."

"Oh sweet Eru the Blessed," cried Roland in utter joy. "I shall do so forthwith!"

And so Ringo Herring lead the unsuspecting Roland Bainsbury up the the Last Homely Herring House in Skattykatzenfjord. And Roland Bainsbury was never seen again -- except by Ringo Herring, it's said.

I'm not sure I like what you're implying here...

Are you sure thats a Wholesome Tale? I'm still trying to work out if its supposed to be an ending wiht a moral warning (either about trusting strangers or coveting noses)or if thats what passes for a happy ending at the Bugle!

Mmm... err... I'm assuming it has something to do with chasing beautiful noses for their own sake, and abducting tall hobbits for your own sake... mm... err...

I must have a word with my Anonymous Taleteller... A bit of a loose cannon, I feel...

The more I think about it, the more suspiciously Orwellish it seems... Afterall, Orwell did advise Squatch to "go with the flow."

errr... eeee.... mmmm?.... Mind you, maybe Roland Bainsbury might have forsaw the risk of going to Fjordianland in the first place; especially Skattykatzenfjord, which is, if these tales can be seen as based on fact, a strange strange place!

Aha! The moral is: "Don't take the risk! Keep away from Skattykatzenfjord" --- and.. err... any members of the notorious Ringo Herring Family...

Face it, a lot of these tales are very Fjordian!

Very Fjordian indeed!

Yes, indeed. And a place for all sorts of psychological treatments, especially "Scream Therapy." I've being doing some quick research, Mr Tyrant...

Ahh quick research- always the best kind! I'm sure as is always the case with a Banks you have now obtained complete mastery of the subject! Like that time your family mastered coal scuttle theft. [[[[Never forget! Never forgive! Always keep the buckie handy-Tyrant clan motto that (well 1 of)]]]]

Oh fancy using that old new encryption spell, Mr Tyrant - I can see right through you.

Um, I was of course just testing! {{{{Damn this keeping up with new encryptions- stinks worse than Morgoth's bumhole!}}}}

THE EVEN TRUER TALE OF THE COAL SCUTTLE

Once upon a time - and this is not something known widely - there was a poor Scotshobbit by the name McTavish McBanks who had emigrated to Skattykatzenfjord in Fjordianlandia, (this was back in '32, not that the date is important). McTavish had fled the terribly vulgar and uncouth McTyrants of Boney M Island, in the south-northern Hebrides (this was in the days before north and south were at 180 degrees to each other, only 90 - and quite a few Elvish years before Morgoth got beat up by Manwe, in fact).

McTavish took with him a nasty rusty old coal scuttle that had been in his family for yonks. Like most respectable hobbits, with their feet on the ground and their hands stained with the good earth and their hearts pure as driven snow, McTavish liked coal scuttles. He would never steal one, of course, especially not from the McTyrants, who dug coal and never washed their hands after going to the toilet. Mind, this last was just a nasty rumour and therefore theoretically possible. And as everyone knows in Forumshire, what is theoretically possible is possibly even true (in Forumshire).

Anyhow, McTavish fled Boney M Island on a coracle bent for Fjordianlandia with a troop of the most vicious McTyrants in pursuit. No one knows why these horrid McTyrants were pursuing McTavish McBanks yelling, "Goot the snoot, un given us owlen cool scootle, nock the knee and nelly!" (They're a queer bunch, those McTyrants).

McTavish only paddled the harder.

"We hates you," cried little Brenda McTyrant - who some say was playing with the coal scuttle in her sand pit not long before McTavish fled - which, of course, is not even theoretically possible. Anyway, Brenda squeals on, "We hatess you McTavish McBanksess. We hatess youse foreaven! Why did you goen pinch my fumlies preciouss coalen scootle!" And she burst into tears.

McTavish paddled even harder.

The thing is, McTavish paddled into Skattykatzenfjord several months later, thin and starving, proudly hiding the coal scuttle under his threadbare coat.

Protoringo Herring took the emaciated Scotshobbit into his house - which was not the Last Homely Herring House which, even in those far off days, had an evil repute.

"Poor soul," said Protoringo in perfect Scotshobbitlandian, "Let me feed you up and clothe you resplendantly, for you are an handsme hobbit if ever I had seen one - and Ive seen one or two."

McTavish McBanks answered, "I do thank you, kind Lord, but may I stay with someone else, for we would not want people to talk, you being obviously unattachd, to judge from your resplendant clothing, coifed dyed hair and delightfully mincing manner."

So McTavish went to live with Saradocky Almostbold, in Swarthydwarfyton, a suburb of Skattykayzenfjord. Swarthydwarfyton was set somewhat apart from the fjord, but was still in smelling distance. And McTavish was happy there, getting to know Saradocky's array of lady friends - all hobbit lasses of Highest Repute, it's reputed (at least, according to the accounts in the McBanks Annals, which wouldn't lie about something like that).

McTavish was happy living there (though Protoringo Herring did send flowers and chocolates a bit too regularly for comfort), and at last he married Saradocky's sister Kafrianna - a much older lady, but sturdy, with beautiful blue eyes, one of which was artificial and polished up just nice. She had a "wine" problem, but McTavish did not mind, so long as he hid most of the bottles. She also had a daughter called, Raspberry Primeval Squash, and that was an Immaculate Conception (Bless Illuvatar), or at least that's what Kafrianna told McTavish, and she being an Alchemy Teacher, she would not have lied about it. The two soon after had what Kafriannna called a "Platonic Wedlock", which suited Kafrianna fine but not so much McTavish. (Kafrianna only explained the "Platonic Wedlock" part of the contract after the marriage ceremony, which is just like a woman).

One day a dark and quite smelly ship sailed into the quay of Skattykatzenfjord. On it was a crew made up souly from the McTyrant Clan of Boney M Island - oh yes, and two mermaids they had met on the way. And they looked very angry - not so much the mermaids, but the Scotshobbits did.

Fortunately, McTavish saw them coming and ran off up the valley. Not because he had a guilty conscious, but because he did not want to be killed, and definetly not for both reasons.

Oneye McTyrant - the worst kind of McTyrant possible - made enquiries with Protoringo Herring and it was decided to hold a Herringmoot to decide (in McTavish's abscence) who the coal scuttle belonged to. (McTavish had left it under his bed). The Herringmoot Elders decided unanimously that the coal scuttle belonged to the McTyrants (an ill finding if ever there was one).

And soon after the McTyrants sailed away again - taking Kafrianna and her daughter with them, because they wanted to go and live in England for some unrecorded reason - if "reason" is the right word to use.

When McTavish came back to Saradocky's house and saw his coal scuttle gone, he vowed that one day the McBanks would recover their coal scuttle. Not McTavish himself, a heroic descendant perhaps; because McTavish was too busy in the rushock trade and NOT because he was scared of any McTyrant, no matter how vicious.

Scandalous as usual! And obviously completely untrue to any one with a brain "they wanted to go and live in England" Clearly thats just madness! And the worst slur yet you coal scuttle thieving Banksy (I know the Archet is getting this stuff from the Red Book of Needlehole, or the Big Book of Red Lies as we Tyrants call it!! Don't try to pretend your not behind this Odo, after all is that neice of yours Mirabella not at this moment shacked up in unnatural cohabitation with Lesbo, proprieter of the Bugle? And in a house with 2 floors! Where's the respectability in that eh?)

"Goot the snoot, un given us owlen cool scootle, nock the knee and nelly!"

But these tales can hardly be true - it seems every Fjordlandian male is a closet homosexual according to them! Could be the reason why there are so few of us, though No, the storytellers at the Bugle must have been drinking heavily, that is the only explanation.

THE SAWGUH OF FJORDIANLANDIAN PROCREATION



Once upon a time there was a country full of blond haired blue eyed hobbits....



CENSORED



.... and that's how little Fjordianlandians are born - at least, in Skattykatzenfjord.

THE END