Author: dirtieswebspinner

The Saga of the Dirty Weekenders

Narrator: The world is a chaotic and confusing place, one which you can perhaps never hope to truly understand. It is full of suffering and injustice, but also small glimmers of hope and beauty. As the Earth turns on its axis, billions of complex interconnected stories are being written, ones of hope, betrayal, stubbornness and mundanity. The world is not changed by one hero but by the small acts of a few. Let me tell you a story, a story about a group of people who against all the odds, work tirelessly to help this great world flourish. They, and many others like them, are the reason why humanity still has a chance.

Scene 1: Pleasance Courtyard, the renowned meeting place of the Dirty Weekenders. A small crowd is gathering, word of their accomplishments have spread across the land. The Master of the Tools carefully arranges the legendary spades, mattocks and gloves for the brave volunteers.

Leader: Friends you have shown great courage, braving the bitter coldness of a January morning and managing to get up at the godforsaken hour of 10 O’CLOCK in the morning. Here we believe in justice for all humanity (and dogs, actually mainly dogs…) Together we shall help create a better world!

Wild cheers from the crowd. People whisper excitedly to their neighbors.

Seasoned Dirty: Today we must travel east to Duddingston, to assist the townsfolk in these hard times. The journey will be long and arduous, some of you will not make it but your name will be carved in the Stone so you will never be forgotten.

New Volunteer: So, what brought you here, the desire to help the common good, a passion for the preservation of the purity of nature?

Volunteer: Me? I mean yeah that’s cool but you know (whispers) they have the best sandwiches in the land and (dramatic pause) biscuits.

Scene 2: Duddingston community garden, where food is grown by the locals and the place for the walking of the dog. On their journey the Dirties gained (well bribed, conscripted etc.) some more members.

Local Resident: Oh valiant Dirties we are immensely grateful that you answered our call for help. There is so much that we could not achieve without you.

Seasoned Dirty: Gather your tools, there is much to be done.

The volunteers scatter and being to work on their respective jobs

Volunteer 1 (pushing a wheelbarrow): This hill is mighty steep, but this sand and gravel must be moved to its rightful place! (beginning to tire) Must get to the top, must get to the top…. (collapses in exhaustion and another volunteer takes their place.)  

Volunteer 2 (planting trees): They are beautiful aren’t they, to think that this tiny sappling will eventually grow into a majestic tree.

Volunteer 3 (digging over ground): Look potatoes! We could use this as ammunition, err I mean to feed the starving! (quickly gets back to digging)    

Scene 3: The Hearth (fireplace), where the Dirties go to receive a well-earned break from their hard work. Much attention is given to the puppy that one of the locals have brought along.

Local Resident: Without your work, we could not have restored the great forest or removed those Minor Trip Hazards, we are eternally grateful. Please accept our gifts of some hearty broth, wholesome bread and sweet, sweet cakes.

The Dirties eat ravenously and talk endlessly about their hard-work (and pet the dogs) over the meal.

Seasoned Dirty: The time has come my friends to begin the game that is Ratchet Screwdriver, a test of strength, endurance and dirty-tactics. Those who succeed shall have proven their worth to this cause.

The volunteers gather in a circle and violently try to prevent each other from getting to the Centre, which is a place of divine privilege. There is much grunting and shrieking.

Volunteers (talking over each other): I was so close, Is Britain an island? Is eye-gouging allowed?….. Ratchet Screwdriver! (everyone dives into the center)

Local Resident (watching from afar): The Dirties have some rather strange rituals for people dedicated to helping the impoverished.

Town Elder: They work in mysterious ways my friend, very mysterious ways.

Volunteer: Let us dry ourselves by the glowing hearth. (stands close to the flames, steam beings to emerge from his clothes.) Arrrgggh! My buttocks are on fire!

Volunteer 2 (laughing): Don’t be silly it’s just the water evaporating. Now let’s get this fire roaring.

Well fed and watered, some slowly return to their original work. Others coppice some willow and dig swimming pools for the humble toads. 

Volunteer (excitably): Look I found some real treasures while digging, some bricks, some glass and some fancy bits of pottery. (holds up tiny blue speck)

Volunteer 2 (staring into the distance): We have done a good thing today, I think that I feel (pause) content.

Leader: Come fellow Dirts, let us return home to the ale house and celebrate another successful adventure. (cheers from the volunteers)

Narrator: And so they took the long road back home, the townsfolk watching them go in wonder. The treasures they found now reside in the Duddingston museum for all the public to view in awe reminding them of their saviors. Once again these noble souls have helped to make the world a slightly better place.

Curtain Falls, THE END

 

Written by Peter Tyler

‘Twas 3 weeks before Christmas,

When all through Roslin Glen,

All the Dirties were working, including a Dan.

The leaves were raked from the horse steps with care,

In hopes that the biscuits soon would be there.

The Dirties were nestled all sung ’round the fire  A good toasted marshmallow their only desire.

And Emma with her tree-hat, and I with my stars, had just dreamed of going to Mars.

When all in the glen, there arose such a clatter,

We sprang from our seats to see what was the matter.

Away from our work, we ran like a flash,

Turning our sprint to a 100 metre dash,

The sun on the leaves of the great growth of trees

Didn’t help much, we still couldn’t see.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But Gareth and Morgan (and no reindeer).

With arms full of biscuits, all lovely and wrapped,

Our mouths were son all a-gapped!

More rapid than beavers, we descended upon them,

But they kept us back with a spade and a yell!

“Now, Cameron! Now, Emma! Now Jesus and Miguel! Now Lizzie! Now Amos! Now Holly and Tizzy!”

Emma hugged Roy, who attacked her with ferns!

NOW GET BACK TO WORK BEFORE ALLAN RETURNS!”

Happy Holidays!

By Lizzie Rhoades

[Fragment 5: ‘A new fence; a new bed; a new danger’]

The dark, frosty, chills of winter swept in on the wings of November’s old age and the birch woods of Pishwanton shivered, stark and silver. These trees are young but wear an ancient atmosphere on boughs cast desperately upward away from the earth. Pishwanton, once the throne-camp of the old Pict bear-kings, possesses an uncanny air that only thickens as the nights draw longer and brings dreams of troubled depths.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, however, Frances la Vache experienced no dreams of any kind. That is not to say that she was deep in dreamless sleep but, instead, that she was quite awake. Lying in her shelter, legs folded under her, Frances was unable to find a comfortable position on the cold, hard, mud. “If only there was something softer on the floor in here”, she thought to herself, “still, nothing to be done, I might as well make use of this time now that I have it”. Giving first a brief harumpf, Frances brought up some warm cud to chew and, staring hard into the darkness, returned to the thinking that she had been doing on the subject of quantum gravitation earlier in the day.

A chorus of human voices disturbed Frances from her ruminations late in the morning. This was, in her mind, somewhat of a travesty given that she had been approaching a theoretical breakthrough. “A pox upon these simple-stomached bipedal barbarians”, she lowed. The people in question were unaware of what they had done and were busy listening to instructions being given by their overseers for the day: Toffee the dog and his human assistant, Margaret. In addition to Toffee being given uninterrupted love and attention, trees were to be felled, felled trees were to be cut into logs, logs were to be sharpened into stakes, stakes were to be pounded into the ground, and a fence was to be woven around these stakes. This sounded like a lot of potential clamour to Frances and so she got to her feet and walked, stately and serene, out of the shelter and toward quieter ground. Several of the humans gasped “lawks! what a big cow!”. Frances rolled her eyes, “wait until they see the form I am yet to assume”, she thought.

The workforce, assembled from the tribe Dirty Weekenders, soon got to work wielding their saws, hatchets, hammers, and bare hands. Cries of ‘timber!’ rang through the cold air, and felled trees were dragged over to the fence. The wyrd energy of Pishwanton caused the some issues at the start, skewing senses of scale and perception: a 5’ log became a 6’ log that in turn became a stony-faced goblin chanting dirty blues lyrics by Bull Moose Jackson. A twisted staff that had been seasoned for two years in only westerly winds and the tears of ravens was brought into play by Overseer Margaret to counter these difficulties with some success. Work continued and, a safe distance away, Frances sat slowly composing an epic poem in complex meter.

After a couple of hours, the rumbling of stomachs demanded a break for victuals. Heading back to the main building in Pishwanton, the Dirties reconvened with several other of their number who had been hard at work clearing bracken from another area of the site. Munching on sandwiches, they were observed by a group of seemingly identical cats. One cat sought to curry favour with the humans, rubbing himself against their legs, whilst the others watched from a distance and slowly advanced. The seemingly affectionate cat was not popular with his brothers and sisters. “Little Woogle will ruin our hunting”, transmitted Silent Womble Shufflepots to Scentless Wumple Shufflepots, “he is drawing attention to us”. “Patience, Silent Womble”, Scentless Wumple responded sagely as she crept a little further forward, “their attention is limited and we are crafty: we will prevail”.

The family Shufflepots did not, however, prevail, as the Dirties were drawn back to their labours before they could meet a particularly feline fate. Bracken-clearers resumed their wrenching and up in the woods more stakes were sharped as an impressively-woven fence took shape. Pishwanton wood is not so easily mastered, though, and, as dusk descended and tools were put away, mishap was but narrowly avoided. Martha, one of the prime fence-weavers, had started to fall under the power of the sweet-smelling and pliant birch and was forgetting the world beyond; as she continued to work, the wood between her fingers seemed to intone “join us, join us, become the fence, become the woods, join us”. Projects Coordinator Will, aided by the wandering spirit of Toffee, acted swiftly, grabbing Martha’s shoulders and shouting a counter-incantation of sorts before she could incorporate herself too far into the fence. The troupe then made their way back down to the bus and Frances was finally able to return to her hut. It came as a pleasant surprise to Frances to find that the humans had placed a large quantity of comfortable bracken there for her.

As the sun disappeared and a mist descended, the Dirties headed back to the lights of city. Progress of the minibus was impeded for a while by the curiously slow and erratic driving of a car in front. As Nina eventually managed to overtake the troublesome vehicle there was discord in the car. The Shufflepots stared angrily at the taillights disappearing into the distance. “I told you to press the accelerator harder, Little Woogle” snapped Silent Womble, “now we’ve lost them”. From down by the pedals Little Woogle defended himself, “perhaps if you’d work the gears better it would be easier”.  “Stop bickering and have patience, you mewling imbeciles”, said Scentless Wumple as she manipulated the steering wheel with her front paws, “we know their ways now: we will prevail”.

 

Amos Abrahams