by Alan Dapré
Was it full of fishy biscuits? Nope, just Porridge. And a big rubber bone. The dastardly dug had thrown it up here to stop the station’s satellite dish from transmitting Groovy Gran’s interview!
Keen to fix the situation, I grabbed the bone and tried to climb out of the dish, but the pesky pooch spun the big bowl like crazy!
All the TVs in town went crazy too.
Stop in the name of the paw! I yowled, bouncing around like a coughed-up hairball.
The Dug o Doom howled with laughter and its mighty paws twirled me at the speed of fright.
There was a terrifying CRACK and the dish spun into the sky like a flying saucer!
8
Unidentified Feline Object
What an incredible ride I had! I twirled and swirled to the top of the sky and hovered silently at the edge of space, surrounded by stars and an astronaut called Colin.
Then, all too quickly, I waved goodbye and dropped through the clouds on a helter-skelter belter of a journey down to Earth.
Down, down, left a bit, down, right a lot, down, down… down towards a wee ant called Basil, who was actually a big eleph-ant!
“Look oot, Basil!” said Mavis Muckle, our wheely nice next-door neighbour. They dived inside through their elephant flap just in time!
Three seconds later the dish (and dizzy me) crash-landed in a heap. In Mavis Muckle’s stinky, horrible, disgusting, nasty, so-horrible-I’ll-say-it-again, horrible revolting compost heap!
I stumbled out, wearing a banana-peel wig and spaghetti whiskers.
“It’s an alien from the planet Tartan!” spluttered Mavis, keeking at me from her kitchen window. “W-w-what do you want?”
I stood there with my tummy rumbling and meowed the first thing that came into my head:
Take me to your larder!
***
By the time Groovy Gran and the twins arrived back home, I had scoffed enough food to feed an elephant.
Mavis rushed outside when she heard the limousine pulling up in our driveway. She was desperate to tell the twins about her alien adventure, and show them the unearthly mess.
“I tried to watch you on the telly,” she twittered, “but the picture went funny and then there was a tremendous crash. I ran oot and saw this space alien sitting in a flying saucer!”
She pointed to a very fat cat, sat on the mat by the elephant flap.
“That’s just Porridge,” said Isla, who knew a down-to-earth cat when she saw one.
“And that’s just an uplink dish for transmitting TV shows,” said Ross, pointing at the UFO (Unfortunately Flattened Object). He raised an eyebrow at me. “Our interview never aired because someone spun the dish off the TV station roof.”
It was that pesky Dug o Doom, I yowled. Not me!
“I’m glad no aliens are invading after all,” said Mavis, calming down. “This dish will make a braw elephant bath.”
“I’m sure Porridge is sorry about the mess,” said Groovy Gran. “He’s been behaving very oddly recently.”
I put on a ‘sorry’ face, even though the Dug o Doom was to blame!
“What have you been up to?” asked Isla, tickling my stripy chin.
The edge of space, I meowed.
“If only cats could talk!” said Ross.
“Let’s go home,” sighed Groovy Gran. “I’m not sure we’ll ever get the band back together now.” She gently peeled the banana off my sleepy head, carried me through to the kitchen and popped me in my cosy basket.
It was time for my beauty sleep.
(I don’t need long.)
9
All Over The Shop
The next morning, the twins woke me up by clattering into the kitchen like a pair of noisy elephants (but without the trunks or tusks, so not really like noisy elephants at all). They were still keen to find Groovy Gran’s bandmates.
“Only a few days to go until Saturday’s Big Gig,” said Isla, “and we haven’t found any other band members yet.”
Ross sighed. “Or managed to tell the fans about it.”
“I hope the Big Gig will go ahead. I love singing,” Groovy Gran burbled over the breakfast table.
I love fishy biscuits, I burbled under it.
“I love football,” said Ross. “One day, I’ll open a shop full of fabuliffic football stuff.”
“That reminds me,” said Groovy Gran. “Biff McBash once had a woolly idea – to open a drum shop.”
Isla jumped up and said (in a chewy voice filled with excitement and tattie scones), “Why don’t we see if he has a drum shop now? That’s how we can find him!”
“Aye! Why not?” Groovy Gran’s eyes twinkled and so did her toes, but no one noticed because she had slippers on.
***
After breakfast, we looked online for a drum shop nearby but found nothing, so we ran about Tattiebogle Town, looking high and low (I did the low bits). We searched all day until the cows came home, then searched a bit longer until Basil the Elephant came home too, from his trumpet lesson.
“Och, I cannae see a drum shop anywhere,” sighed Groovy Gran.
It was getting dark and the Big Yins were tired, but Groovy Gran wasn’t one to throw in the towel or flannel or anything else she’d found in the bathroom.
“Poor Porridge has been searching so hard he’s fallen asleep,” said Isla, reaching into Groovy Gran’s trolley to tickle my ears.
Not sleeping. Listening. Thanks to my mega-super-well-OK-not-bad cat hearing, my ears spun and locked onto a faint BIFF-BASH-CRASH.
I leapt from the trolley and flew toward the sound like a tartan dart.
“Follow that cat!” yelled Ross, as I disappeared around a distant corner.
Off I ran, through bare streets and hairy legs. The BIFF-BASH-CRASH grew ever-louder as I grew ever-closer.
I reached the door of a shop called
– a wool shop made from bricks, not wool, which was a shame because I couldn’t chase it around.
“Porridge wants us tae go in,” said Groovy Gran. With the heart of a lion and the legs of an old lady, she bravely led us in.
“I hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,” said Isla.
Mmmm. Goose.
Inside, you couldn’t move for wool. It was all over the shop. Huge round balls covered the floor and walls. There were strange sticky things sticking out too.
“Are those knitting needles?” asked Ross.
“No, they’re Golden Drumsticks!” said Groovy Gran. “They’re drumming awards – Biff won stacks of sticks over the years!”
“Then this must be his shop!” shouted Isla.
The biggest and shiniest Golden Drumstick was sticking out of a wall of wool. Behind that wall we heard a BIFF-BASH-CRASH.
I gave the drumstick a tug with my tail… and the wall of wool came tumbling down.
Behind it was a wall of noise!
BIFF-BASH-CRASH.
BIFF-BASH-CRASH.
BIFF-BASH-CRASHHH!
And a squat, bald man with huge arms, biffing and bashing and crashing away on a drum kit – while niftily knitting a scarf!
“It’s Biff McBash!” exclaimed Groovy Gran.
I was just about to say that.
10
Drumming Up Support
The moment Biff saw Groovy Gran, sunlight filled the room and birds began to sing.
Mmmm. Birds.
Biff fell off his stool in a lot of amazement and a bit of clumsiness.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking for you! What are you doing here?” asked Groovy Gran.
“Getting up,” said Biff, getting up. “When the Tattie Scones stopped performing, I opened this wool shop. Here I can knit as much as I like, and drum as loud as I like. The wool dampens the sound so no one can hear me.”
“Porridge heard you,” said Isla.
I purred with pride.
“Clever cat,” said Biff, stroking my head. Then he turned to Gran and sighed. “I miss those braw old days with the ba
nd.”
“Me too,” said Groovy Gran.
“We’ve persuaded our Groovy Gran to get the band together for one last gig,” said Ross.
“Will you join me?” the old lady asked Biff.
I gave Biff my mega-super-well-OK-not-bad cute flopp-years and soppy-eyes look.
“Aye, I will!” Biff bashed his drums so hard the whole room rattled and piles of woolly balls cascaded our way.
“We just have to find Scruff and Rab now!” said Groovy Gran.
“And an emergency exit” cried Biff, as giant balls of wool bounced all over the shop.
He yanked another wall-mounted drumstick that opened a hidden door. The others all stumbled out while balls tumbled about.
“Wait – where’s Porridge?” shouted Ross.
“Here he comes,” whooped Groovy Gran. I wobbled outside on a huge ball of orange wool.
Mmmm. Wool.
Wool makes me do crazy things! Sometimes too crazy!
I careered down the street – leaving a trail of wool behind me that got longer and longer as my ball got smaller and smaller.
Groovy Gran snatched up the loose end and wound it round her fingers.
“Follow that cat!” yelled Ross.
And that, dear reader, is just what they did.
11
Follow That Cat!
The pages flew by as I bounced and bobbled through Chapter 11.
12
Follow That Cat A Bit More!
And wobbled and joggled through Chapter 12.
13
Twirling And Whirling
By the time I got to Chapter 13, the runaway ball of wool had shrunk to the size of this full stop.
I had bounced right out of town and into a tattie field, surrounded by giant rocks. All alone, apart from a tatty tattiebogle. Before too long, Biff and the twins joined me, followed by Groovy Gran – who looked very wound up.
Aye.
Very wound up in all that orange wool she’d been collecting!
“We’ll save you,” cried the twins.
They each grabbed a leg and pulled her free. The orange ball trundled off down a slope, never to be seen again – well, not until Chapter 23 anyway.
Biff asked Groovy Gran if she was OK.
“Never felt better,” she replied, still gently spinning in circles. “All this twirling has got ma brain whirling. I know exactly what tae do next.”
Munch some fishy biscuits? I mewed hopefully.
“We must find Scruff McDuff,” the old lady declared.
Biff’s face crumpled like a sad paper bag. “It’s going to be a terribly long, hard, difficult task,” he wailed. “No one has seen Scruff for years. She could be absolutely completely totally anywhere in the whole wide world. Or on Jupiter. Or lost in outer space in a black hole without a torch. We’re doomed, I tell you. Doomed!”
“Hello,” said a new voice.
“I do believe that’s Scruff McDuff!” said Groovy Gran, looking around. “What luck!”
Ahem.
Luck had nothing to do with it. It totally wasn’t a coincidence. I had cleverly steered my ball of wool into Scruff McDuff’s field and saved the day. And saved us having to search for her for ages and pages!
Me-phew!
14
Ka-bla-dang!
We peered through the murky twilight at the scruffy tattiebogle. Sleepy bats were hanging from its guitar.
“Say something,” said Biff to the tattiebogle.
“Or play something,” said Groovy Gran.
The tattiebogle twanged a note so high and sharp that the bats went batty and wheeled and squealed into the darkness.
“Bless ma cotton socks, it really is Scruff McDuff,” cried Biff, knitting two cotton socks in delight. “Are you a tattiebogle now?”
“Yes, but I dinnae scare off birds, I scare off bats. I’m the world’s first and only batty bogle,” said Scruff, surrounded by giant rocks that we suddenly realised were loudspeakers! “Out here I can play my guitar REALLY loud! I call this place ‘Tattie Sconehenge.’ It’s great, but not as great as playing with the real Tattie Scones.”
She rumbustiously strummed an old chart-topping hit, and Groovy Gran burst into song:
Och, I miss ma misty mountain,
And ma misty misty loch,
And ma misty misty misty road,
To ma misty misty misty misty broch!
The twins danced while the big speakers wailed like stripy tabby cats and threw a ten-minute, million megawatt tantrum.
Ka-bla-DANG!
I wailed like a stripy tabby cat, too. Only more tartany.
“That song nearly blew my eyebrows off,” laughed Biff, who didn’t mind because he could always knit some more.
When the rollicking racket finally faded, the three old friends hugged and began telling the twins stories from long ago, which they couldn’t quite remember properly so they made up some bits.
I was feeling pleased with myself for reuniting them when I spotted something in the shadows that made my heart freeze and my toes go a bit chilly.
Something on the far side of Tattie Sconehenge was nudging a towering speaker.
One sneaky push later, the speaker fell forward and struck a second, which thumped into a third. One by one, the huge blocks toppled. And when the last one crashed down it missed me by a whisker!
I hid behind Isla.
“Poor Porridge,” she cooed.
“We must really rock to have knocked over that block,” laughed Scruff.
If only I could tell them it was the dreaded Dug o Doom! I wagged my tail and ran in circles like daft dugs do.
“Porridge is acting very strangely today,” said Isla.
“This place is very strange too.” Ross shivered. “Let’s get out of here!”
15
Donk!
We all met for a tattie scone breakfast the next morning, and Groovy Gran told us about the last ever Big Gig the Tattie Scones did before they broke up.
“One dark and stormy Saturday night thirty years ago, I was singing as usual by a giant oven while Biff played drums on top. Scruff was strumming her guitar alongside Rab McDrab, whose one job that night was to tap his triangle when the last song ended.”
DING!
“We had it all perfectly planned: the oven door would open and a huge tattie scone would slide out. The fans would go wild and everyone would take a delicious chunk home for supper.”
Me-yum!
“Only it didn’t happen,” sighed Gran.
Scruff took over the story: “There wisnae a DING. Not even a medium DING. Or a small DING.”
“Some say Rab forgot to tap his triangle,” said Scruff. “Others say he had fallen fast asleep.”
Groovy Gran continued. “After the show there was a row and Rab McDrab stormed out, never to be seen again. Not even in panto.”
“I wonder what he’s doing now?” said Isla.
Biff answered softly, “A long time ago, a friend of a friend of a friend, who wisnae a friend but lived next door tae a friend of a friend, said that Rab took a job in a factory. I don’t remember what kind of factory. Ma mind has gone woolly over the years.”
I impatiently pawed at my empty food bowl in the hope someone would fill it.
My sharp claw tapped against the rim:
DING!
Biff leapt to his feet! “Now I remember! Rab got a job testing food bowls: perfect bowls go DING, duds go DONK.”
Groovy Gran gasped. “I used tae play outside the gates of a food-bowl factory when I was a wee lass.”
“Do you remember where it was?” asked Ross.
“It was all so long ago.” Groovy Gran sighed wearily, feeling as old as the Hills. (Mr and Mrs Hill lived over the road and were 122 last year.) “All I remember is that it had a wonky chimney.”
Everyone sat in silence.
No one moved.
It was like a rubbish game of musical statues without the music.
Groovy Gran s
imply could not remember, so it was up to me – Super Porridge! – to find the bowl factory and SAVE THE DAY.
Again.
It would be rude not to. The first step, as always, was to sniff out some fishy biscuits.
16
The Factory
While everyone was staring at a map of Tattiebogle Town, I sniffed the air with my nose (because it was better than sniffing with my ears) and smelt something fishy far away.
I burst through the middle of the map and landed on a spare suitcase in the hall.
“Porridge is on the case,” laughed Ross.
True. Then I was on a flowerpot, then a fence, and then a long winding path. The Big Yins chased after me as I ran like the wind down Windy Wynd and arrived at Windy Wendy’s Pet Shop.
Wendy was a jolly lady and full of beans, which is why she was called Windy Wendy. (Let me tell you a wee secret. She is not as nice as she seems, but that’s another story! You’ll have to read Porridge the Tartan Cat and the Kittycat Kidnap to find out more!)
Isla pointed to a sign in the pet shop window that read:
“Is that why we’re here?” groaned Isla. “Porridge, you’re supposed to be helping, not shopping for fishy biscuits!”
I shook my head. We had to find the factory and I hoped this pet shop would give us a wee clue. When we went inside, we were hit with the stink of a thousand skunks. I held my nose and scouted around for some pet bowls to show her.
At last I found a box containing twenty! I pointed my tartan tail at a label on the top flap.
