Author: dirtieswebspinner

Duddingston Village

Once upon a time, there was a village called Duddingston. It had a glorious community garden, famous for magnificent soups freshly prepared by the villagers from vegetables cultivated on the grounds.

One day the village folk noticed their compost bins were full to the brim…

They also decided that as the spring was coming, the garden was in need of a new outdoor area for community gatherings. They dreamt of a sturdy table and a few benches, where they could sit and suntan…

They gathered and wondered how to turn their ideas into reality. Not long afterwards they decided to call for the help of a famous superhero group called the Dirty Weekenders.

Dirties were keen on taking a break from their day jobs, which was intense studying at the Edinburgh University. (As we know, all superheroes have day jobs).

On Sunday 19th March, Dirties were prepared for hard work from dawn until dusk. Their devotion was boundless. Superhero Gareth even spent an entire morning digging through a mountain of compost.

They raked compost, weeded potato patches, and generally helped to clean up the garden after winter.

Then lunchtime came around, and the villagers gifted Dirties with delicacies made by their own bare hands. Dirties replenished energy with freshly baked porridge bread, warm soup, and numerous cups of tea and hot chocolate.

After lunch, they played the traditional game of ratchet-screwdriver. The villagers observed them in awe; however, they said nothing and just recorded this strange ritual on their cameras for future generations of social anthropologists.

Grey clouds gathered and for a moment it seemed as if the rain was to ruin that beautiful sunny day… but (possibly thanks to the ratchet-screwdriver) the clouds passed and the sun brought new energy to the Weekenders. They were ready for further work.

The most challenging task of the day was yet to be completed. Specifically putting the newly made table into place!

First, the ground had to be made flat and stable. This was not easy. Yet, they managed! They also made some impressive sand sculptures, representing the whole picture of human architectural achievement.

Finally, everyone put their strengths together and the mighty table was set upon the ground. The people of Duddingston recorded this memorable moment and rewarded the Weekenders with pots of chives, mint, thymes, and bunches of kale.

Dirties made their way back to the Auld Hoose to rest, eat nachos, and drink golden beverages from mighty crystal glasses. The end.

Written and drawn by Asia Koter

The Dirty Weekenders met one more

On a bright and bonny Sunday

To ride for Dalkeith was their aim

They were sure ’t would be a fun day

 

They rode aboard a Lothian bus

Down the winding roads

And arrived at Dalkeith country park

Carrying their loads

 

A ranger waited for them there

And lead them through the fields

To a steep and muddy slope

Where steps were to be built

 

And so, with mattock and with spade

The work began apace

They hammered posts before the planks

To hold them fast in place

 

Soon once where the slope had been

A row of steps appeared

And now a walk down the hill

Was no longer to be feared

 

Upon this moment of success

A great luncheon was eaten

Of those famous sandwiches

It’s said cannot be beaten

 

Then several Dirties brave and bold

Went back up to the field

To play some ratchet screwdriver

On the grass, they kneeled

 

 

 

Twas a very rowdy game

As in the mud they almost fought

When bystanders witnessed from afar

Who knows what they thought?

 

Refreshed by this lunch and sport

The Dirties sought a whole new foe

Which grew on the bridge crossing the Esk

And there the dirties they did go

 

Ivy! Such a challenge ’twas

To wrench it from those old stone walls

And then look upwards in dread

Lest on their heads the leaves did fall

 

Others worked upon the path

As some strong ivy refused defeat

Rope was called for, and the help

Of a dozen dirties’ feet

 

Clasping to the rope they pulled

And pulled with all their fearsome might

Till the ivy snapped, and fell

Into the river, ’twas a sight!

 

The day was drawing in by then

A hard day’s work was surely done

They said goodbye to the merry park

And waited by the bus-stop in the sun

 

The tales of the day were told that eve

Gathered round at the Auld Hoose

Till the next week, then my friends

When the Dirties shall again be loose!

 

Morgan Powell

Sunday 5^th March 2017

“Gale force wind winds” I remembered the met office parroted as I walked past the grey stone tenements pleasance towards the tool cupboard. “Perfect day for a trip to the beach” I muttered as I walked through the gated arch and saw a group of fleeced Dirties huddled in the shelter of the old cargo container. The sun had definitely thought better of joining us; A persistent rain was falling and the wind seemed to be doing its best to strip the coat from your back then square you up for a fist fight.

Inclement weather or not, plenty of people showed up to take on this weekend’s task. Kenworthy had been sent word from Count Sil and Eden Burgh, the two big shots in charge of this town, that a punk going by “Japanese Rose” was causing trouble down in Cramond. Apparently they were messing up the dunes, rare enough places these day, plus important for a bunch of birds known as Curlews. That was good enough for me, so we loaded the mattocks and rode the 41 down to the shore front.

The wind kicked up a gear or five as we headed down from the village past the yachts huddled on the mouth of the Almond. The causeway across to the Island has already sunk  under the grey water for the day and  the dunes stretched  100 metres to the east. We got our first look at Japanese Rose, a spiky customer who fought spine and thorn when you started pulling, then snapped just as you had got a good hold. Still, there isn’t much that can stand up six or seven mattocks.

Some tree regrowth was also trying to muscle in on the dunes but they got no sweeter treatment than the rose and soon bundles of sticks were being dragged across the sand to the refuse pile. Between the de-vegetation and litter picking it was grim work, but they don’t call us “The Dirty Weekenders” for our internet search history.

Mears stared too long into the abyss of thorns and roots, for a while we weren’t sure he would make it back. He made it out though, retreated to build a wind break to keep the sand out of our sandwiches.

The wind was to much to much for some of us and headed back to town. The rest went back to business,  there was too much rose to clear but we made a dent. Last thing was to roll Mear’s windbreak off the beach, pull our soggy coats around us and  head to the Hoose to try to drown out the howling of the wind with drink and nachos.

 

Will

(for actual Noire fiction follow this link http://ae-lib.org.ua/texts-c/chandler__the_big_sleep__en.htm)