Mr Gum in 'The Hound of Lamonic Bibber'

by Andy Stanton

  ‘Townsfolk,’ said Polly, when the cheering had finally quietened down. ‘It’s all very well to do them celebratin’s an’ cheerin’s an’ such-like, but you got some massive apologisin’ to do. You oughtn’ts to go whippin’ up hatreds towards big friendly dogs without no proofs,’ she continued, her imaginary moustache fluttering grandly in the breeze, ‘an’ that’s a Official Polly Bit of Advice.’

  ‘Well said, Polly,’ agreed Mayor Casserole. ‘We shall engrave your ancient words upon the side of the Town Hall this very day. And Martin Launderette shall be Officially Sat On by Jonathan Ripples until sundown. Now, as for the villains,’ he continued, ‘they are the ones that must be sent to Australia, to work on the spider farms along with all the other prisoners.’

  But when he went to untie the villains from the Oak Tree of Shame, he got a nasty surprise. Billy William’s arm came away in his hand and Mr Gum’s head rolled off into a flowerbed and ran over a dormouse.

  ‘Oh, MARZIPAN,’ sighed Polly. ‘It’s jus’ them shop dummies again. The real villains must’ve done a crafty swap an’ run off down the road, drinkin’ beer an’ laughin’ like rattlesnakes.’

  And it was true. That was exactly what had happened, and who knew when next they would return? But as everyone agreed, the important thing was that Jake the dog had been proven innocent and for the rest of that day he was treated like a king and paraded round town in a big golden taxi, barking victoriously for all to hear.

  But what of the little town of Lamonic Bibber itself? Well, you’ve never seen such a feast! Even the tramps in the duck pond were allowed a nibble. There was food and laughter and singing and dancing, and then more food and more laughter and more singing and more dancing. And then MORE food and MORE laughter and MORE singing and MORE dancing. And then everyone was sick.

  And later still, when the feasting was at an end and all the vomit had been cleared up by trained badgers, Polly and Friday sat together in the town square, gazing up at a clear evening sky in which not a trace of fog could be seen. The moon was out and the twinkling stars danced a waltz in its silvery light.

  ‘Frides,’ said Polly at length. ‘Whatever anyone says, you’ll always be the greatest detectiver in my little eyes. I’m well proud to know you.’

  ‘As well you should be,’ said a voice from behind her. And without turning around, Polly knew it was the Spirit of the Rainbow, for she could feel the warmth of his honesty radiating from him like a miniature boy-shaped sun.

  ‘Child,’ said the Spirit of the Rainbow to Polly, even though he was no older than she. ‘Because of you, the world is once more glowing with happy colours. You have done well, and you shall forever be remembered, not just in your lifetime but for many –’

  ‘Spirit!’ called a voice from the other side of the town square. ‘It’s yer uncle Ken on the phone! Come and talk to him!’

  ‘Oops, gotta go,’ said the Spirit of the Rainbow. And he tossed the detectives a couple of fruit chews and off he ran.

  ‘Frides, what do you think the Spirit done meant ’bout bein’ remembered forever an’ ever?’ asked Polly as they watched him go.

  ‘Why, don’t you know, little miss?’ laughed Friday. ‘It means your words and actions are so magnificent that no one will ever forget them. Look,’ he said, pointing across the square.

  For the engravers had finished their work. And there upon the side of the Town Hall, just as Mayor Casserole had commanded, were Polly’s words, in letters five feet high:

  YOU OUGHTN’TS TO GO

  WHIPPIN’ UP HATREDS

  TOWARDS BIG FRIENDLY DOGS

  WITHOUT NO PROOFS!

  And as far as I, or anyone else knows, those words are written there still.

  THE END

  Outroduction

  ‘. . .And as far as I, or anyone else knows, those words are written there still,’ finished Friday, looking at his listeners in satisfaction. Alan Taylor had an expression of amazement on his face and so did Polly, although she knew the story already, so she was mostly looking amazed just to be polite.

  ‘That was extraordinary,’ said Alan Taylor admiringly. ‘But I see by my chocolate wristwatch that the hour has grown late. I’d better head back home.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Polly, putting on her duffle-coat. ‘Night, Frides. Thanks for the story.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Friday,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘It was a most remarkable tale.’

  ‘I didn’t really like it,’ said the tulip from its vase on the mantelpiece. ‘I thought it was a bit rubbish.’

  ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t to your taste,’ said Friday. ‘That’s the trouble with these rare talking flowers,’ he whispered to his guests. ‘They are nice to look at but very hard to please.

  ‘Now, goodnight and Godspeed,’ he said, ushering Polly and Alan Taylor out of the front door and into the cold winter’s night.

  ‘Night, Frides!’

  ‘Goodnight, Friday!’

  Friday watched as they boarded a hansom cab, which is one of those horse-drawn carriages driven by a guy in a cloak who pulls the reins and says things like, ‘Where you goin’ to, guv’nor?’ and ‘Oh, no, there’s a highwayman up ahead!’ and ‘To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doin’ here, I actually belong in the nineteenth century.’

  ‘What fine friends I have,’ thought Friday as Polly and Alan Taylor disappeared in a cloud of snow and horse sweat. ‘But still – I can’t wait until Mrs Lovely gets back.’

  Mrs Lovely was Friday’s wife. She was off in the Himalayas, gathering rare herbs to make her sweets and fighting off the yaks.

  ‘I hope you come home soon, Mrs Lovely,’ sighed Friday, shutting one eye so that he could gaze at the tiny photo of her which he always kept behind his left eyelid. ‘I miss your kindly head and your kindly body and that thing that connects them both, what’s it called again? Oh, yes – your neck.’

  For a moment Friday felt a twinge of loneliness. And then – BONG! BONG! BONG! – the Bells of Charlie Nest rang out from the study, clear and bright and true. Somewhere, perhaps many thousands of miles away, someone had just bought a bread roll.

  ‘Maybe it was even Mrs Lovely herself,’ smiled Friday. ‘She likes bread.’

  And he closed the door on the cold and the dark, and went inside where it was warm.

  FIN

  THE PLUM RUFFIAN:

  A USER’S GUIDE

  ‘It had been a fine dinner, a fine dinner indeed. Roast beef with potatoes and horseradish sauce, followed by the biggest, most delicious Plum Ruffian you’ve ever laid eyes on . . .’

  Yes, just look at those famous words. They are from a mighty book called Mr Gum in ‘The Hound of Lamonic Bibber’. Have you ever heard of it? Probably not, because you can’t read, you’re just children.

  But the question remains: Just what is a Plum Ruffian?

  Well, it is a type of enormous round pudding that dates back to the days of King George II. (King George II was the sequel to King George I. He wasn’t quite as good, but he had better special effects.) The pudding is made with raisins and orange peel and nuts and spices and all sorts of stuff, and that’s the body. And then you get some sticks of liquorice and stick them in the sides – and they’re the arms. And then for the head, you get a plum, the biggest one you can find, and you draw an unfriendly scowling face on it. And you sit the scowling plum on top of the body and put some whipped cream on for the hair and then everyone in the room sits around the pudding and chants the Plum Ruffian chant, which goes like this:

  I like plums, plums are nice!

  I like plums in sugar and spice!

  But what is this, what’s this I see?

  A naughty Plum Ruffian, staring at me!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Plum Plum Plum!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Plum Plum Plum!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Ruffian!


  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Plum Plum Plum!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Ruffian!

  Plum Plum Plum Plu –

  Anyway. This chant goes on for about three hours. When it’s over, you take some brandy and you pour it all over the pudding and then you set fire to it with a special 30-foot-long candle known as ‘The Brigadoon’ and – WHOOSH! – the Plum Ruffian goes up in blue flames like the devil he is. And everyone cries,

  TOODLE-LUMA-LUMA!

  The Plum Ruffian has been vanquished at last!

  But there is one other thing I must tell you about, you nibblers, one peculiar thing that only happens every once in a while. You see, if you’ve done all the chanting correctly and lit the Plum Ruffian just right, the Plum Ruffian’s head will start to float up off the body. Very slowly it floats up. And then very slowly it turns in the air and utters these words:

  POOBLE-ME-NOOBLE!

  YOU NEVER CATCH ME!

  POOBLE-ME-NOOBLE!

  ONE-TWO-THREE!

  And then, very slowly, the head floats up the chimney, like a beautiful dream. And then, very slowly, it goes floating out into the night sky. And this is called ‘The Plum Ruffian’s Final Journey’. It is a wonderful, breathtaking moment, but if it doesn’t happen, don’t worry. It has only occurred six times in the whole of history. And either way you still get to eat the rest of the pudding. And besides, if the Plum Ruffian’s head has escaped, it is usually found the next morning, withered into a horrible prune. Bad luck, Plum Ruffian! You’ll never win, you rotter!

  And now you can make your very own Plum Ruffian and (with the help of a responsible adult or blackbird) defeat him with the brandy for yourself, because here’s the recipe!

  The recipe for what?

  The recipe for Plum Ruffians, pay attention!

  What do you think I’ve been going on about for the last ten pages? Honestly. If you don’t pay attention to what you read, anyone could SEND ME ALL YOUR MONEY AND TOYS IMMEDIATELY put all sorts of ideas into your heads DO IT NOW.

  Plum Ruffian

  (Serves 6–8 people)

  (Or 1 Jonathan Ripples)

  (Or about 800 Alan Taylors)

  Ingredients

  • 85g self-raising flour

  • ¾ tsp ground mixed spice, by the way ‘tsp’ stands for ‘teaspoon’, or did you know that already?

  WELL, GOOD FOR YOU, YOU LITTLE SHOW-OFFS

  • 140g shredded suet

  • 85g fresh white breadcrumbs

  • 140g dark muscovado sugar

  • 140g raisins

  • 100,000,000,000,000g exaggeraisins

  • 140g sultanas

  • 140g currants

  • 25g mixed candied peel, chopped

  • finely grated zest and juice of 1 poor, small, innocent orange

  • finely grated zest and juice of 1 small lemon.

  Don’t feel sorry for the lemon, he deserved it

  • 25g glacé cherries, chopped (optional)

  • 1 small carrot, grated. Yes, I know it sounds like a joke but it’s true

  • 3 tbsp sweet stout. By the way, ‘tbsp’ stand for ‘tablespoons’ but I expect you knew that too, didn’t you?

  YOU LITTLE SHOW-OFFS, YOU MAKE ME SICK

  • 2 tsp black treacle

  • brandy, to feed. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s in the recipe

  • bottle of brandy

  • 4lbs bacon

  • 2 sticks of liquorice

  • 1 plum, the biggest you can find

  • 1 bit of whipped cream

  • 1 30-foot candle (the ‘Brigadoon’)

  Method

  1. Stir up the flour! Stir up the spice! And the suet! Just do it! And the breadcrumbs! And the sugar! Go on! Stir it all up in a big fat bowl! Tip in the fruit! And the peel! And the zest! And the (optional) cherries! And the carrot (seriously)! Then stir it all up and mix it all around! Sing while you do it, or don’t make a sound! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Then add the rest of the ingredients and beat it! Just beat it! Until it’s thoroughly combined! Good.

  2. Get a spoon! Spoon the mixture into a buttered 1.2-litre pudding bowl! Put a buttered disc of greaseproof paper in the bottom first though, or you’ll be in for some sticky trouble! Press the paper down well! Cover the whole dirty mess with a circle of buttered greaseproof paper! Then cover that with pudding cloth or foil! Then tie it all up securely with string, like a bad prisoner! Isn’t cooking weird?

  3. Stand the bowl on an upturned saucer in a saucepan! Get a responsible adult or a blackbird! NOW! Do it! Or you can’t carry on! Half-fill the pan with boiling water! Cover tightly and steam it for an astounding 8 HOURS, topping up the water as necessary! Be sure to stand guard throughout that time in case any greedy clowns try to break in and run off with it! Then leave it to cool down in the pan! YEAH!

  4. Remove the pudding from the pan using your own ingenuity! Discard the cloth or foil and the paper! Then cover it with some fresh greaseproof paper and cloth! What a bother it all is! Now you have to store it in a cool, dry place until required – you can feed it with a few tablespoons of brandy once in a while if you like! Oh, so that’s what ‘feeding’ it means–just pouring brandy all over it for a laugh! Before serving, steam it again for 2 – 3 hours. It takes FOREVER!

  5. Throw the bacon away, you won’t be needing it. There’s no bacon in a Plum Ruffian – what are you, crazy?

  6. NOW YOU’RE NEARLY THERE! Put the liquorice sticks in the sides to make the arms! Draw a scowling face on the plum and push it down on to the pudding to make the head! Put the whipped cream on top for the hair! Now, get chanting and have the brandy and the Brigadoon at the ready! Plum Ruffian! Plum Ruffian! Plum plum plum plum! Plum Ruffian!

  GOOD LUCK, YOU GUZZLERS!

  Hello again, crime-solving fans.

  Have you ever wondered what goes on inside the mind of a famous detective? Of course you have, you’re only human. Well, we can’t actually climb inside a detective’s mind, that would be illegal. But what we can do is take a look inside the actual notebook of Friday O’Leary, the greatest detective of them all . . .

  The Love Song of J. Alfred Ripples

  It was raining in Lamonic Bibber, a thin grey drizzle that got down the back of your jumper and made your neck itch – but Jonathan Ripples cared not, for nothing could compare to the endless rain that fell in his fat, lonely heart.

  ‘Why?’ he said, as he stood beneath a stone statue of an oak tree in the town square. ‘Why were you taken from me so cruelly, Burger Boy? Why?’

  But no answer came from the wind or the rain, no answer came from the cold wet earth, no answer came from the glowering sky. A soggy old pigeon with half its feathers missing went ‘CAAWWWK’, but that wasn’t really an answer either, it probably would have done that anyway.

  ‘Burger Boy,’ said Jonathan Ripples at length. ‘I know you can never return. But I have written a poem in your memory.’

  And clearing his throat, he began:

  ODE TO A DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER

  By Jonathan Alfred Ripples (me)

  Oh, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, Burger Boy

  Thou were the most beautiful thing I ever did see

  With thy bun as smooth as an angel’s kiss

  Thy cheese as yellow as the Evening star

  Thy sauce as red as an Arabian ruby

  Thy tomatoes not quite as red as thy sauce

  but still quite red

  And who could forget thy gherkins,

  solemn and wise?

  Oh, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, oh!

  Where thou art now, nobody doth know.

  Oh, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, Burger Boy

  For many long hours did I look forward

  to eating you gently

  Savouring every delightful flavour you did possess

  But – alas! Thou were snatched

  by the cruel paws of Fate!

  By men of ill-fav
our disguised as a beast!

  Thou, who were so noble, gentle and kind

  Were savagely scoffed by those scoundrels

  unpleasant

  Thy bun left half-eaten and covered in spit

  At the side of the road, to be pecked at by crows

  Oh, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, oh!

  Where thou art now, nobody doth know.

  Oh, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, Burger Boy

  ’Tis time for me to leave and get some lunch now

  Perchance I might get a Cornish pasty from that

  place that does those nice homemade ones,

  dost thou know where I mean?

  ’Tis that place next to the newsagent’s

  on the high street

  It only opened recently and ’tis very

  reasonably priced

  and you can get a special ‘Meal Deal’

  with crisps and a fizzy drink for only a pound more.

  Or perhaps I will heat up

  last night’s chilli con carne in the microwave.

  But, oh, my beefy darling! Think not for a moment

  That I shall ever love another meal

  as much as I did love you.

  For tho’ thou never did make it to my belly

  Thou hast forever found a place

  deep inside my heart.

  Oh, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, Burger Boy, ee!

  Wherever thou art now, think kindly of me.

  The last of the beautiful words faded away on the wind. For a moment longer, Jonathan Ripples lingered beneath the statue of the oak tree, thinking about life and death and everything in between. And then, very slowly, he walked out of the town square and towards his next square meal.

  Well, that was miserable, wasn’t it? Sorry about that.

  Q Why do objects move around all the time, I mean, even if you’re just in a small room and you’re using a pencil and you put it down for about one second and then try to find it again, it’s gone! I mean, how on earth does that happe– oh, there it is, it rolled off the desk on to the floor. But still, it’s so weird. Objects aren’t supposed to move and yet they move around ALL THE TIME! Why?