raymond and Mr Timpkins Revue
By: Raymond Timpkins
Tags: Halloween, Fartchers, Raymond, Timpkins

Whilst we perform music and prop based nonsense, we also spend a lot of time writing nonsense too. Here it is.

Combining the Radio 4 long running tale of rural folk with samples of farts seemed like a good idea and indeed has been largely welcomed as a regular item on our Facebook page, facebook.com/raymondandmrtimpkins. A short blurb to go with each episode was necessary but expanded each time until it became the bloated, undisciplined cobblers reproduced below. This particular instalment was much too long for Facebooks draconian maximum word count so here it is in full.

The Fartchers. Ep 11 — Halloween

Ket Bastet rubs the bandaged bridge of his nose, sighing as more of his face crumbles away. He supposes he must be dehydrated and he probably is. Four thousand years in a dry and sandy sarcophagus will do that for you, you know.

Every day he reaches out with his evil, awful thoughts. His mind has become ever more focussed over the years as his body dessicates, held together only by the tightly wound bandages and recently, he has received back an appalling echo from, if anything, an even more malign consciousness than his own. He sees books and shelving but mainly a black and cold loathing for those who treat badlt the things they but mostly he senses a thirst. An aching desperate thirst, for blood!

He smiles carefully, cursing as his bottom lip drops off again, struggling with his clumsy wrapped fingers, puffing out dust in place of spit as he desperately tries to reattach it again. Not long now, not long and the world will be very sorry to feel his wrath as soon as someone, anyone but preferably someone absolutely terrible, digs him up from under this bloody awful layby, opens the lid of this bloody awful stone coffin and he can get a really nice cup of very wet tea.

In the days of the Egyptian Pharoahs, he had been a proper Billy big bollocks and no mistaking. An advisor and a courtier, he had tastes so corrupt that even his masters were often surprised and mildly revolted but his mind was like a steel trap and his ideas always seemed to work out well.

Once he had driven a chariot to Alexandria in a pandemic of plague, apparently to check out his eyesight, which no one really believed but it was when he was found anointing the Pharoahs favourite son with oils, entirely naked and with a very noticeable arousal that he was instantly prepared for his death, wrapped tightly in bandages, sprinkled with spices and lowered respectfully into a beutifully gilded and painted coffin before being sealed into his sarcophogus. No one was really that bothered by all his screaming and whinging on. He only stopped his whining when the faint noises of huge stones being manouvered above ceased. This coincided with the scant amount of air in his tomb running out and he made no more sounds for many centuries.

Sir Stephen Arsebarrows face was the next thing he became aware of. Not in the sense of actually seeing him but as a kind of lucid dream. A beaky nose housed on a thin face surmounted by an iron helm peered down at him through too small, too close together, rheumy eyes.

“Oh, I say. Look at that. It’s a mummy. How splendid. It would look fine at my Mybermole estate would it not? Have it lifted from this awful hole and transported home. I shall continue upon my noble quest. “

So saying he, turned around, too quickly, got his armoured foot cover caught on a carelessly discarded rake, the handle of which whipped up and smacked him straight bertween the too narrowly arranged eyes, causing him to fall backwards into the opened sarcophogus with Ket throwing up a cloud of dust that as it cleared, revealed that his helm had split in two leaving his head to crack like a softly boiled egg on the base of the tomb.

Sir Arsebarrow therefore never got to see his wish carried out but carried out his wish absolutely was and the sarcophogus made it all the way to Mybermole where it was displayed at his manor house until the locals were so sick of all the misshapen lamb foetus’ and the bloody milk from their cows that they rose up one night and mob handed with pitchforks and lighted brands carried the ancient Egyptians last resting place to the bog/ plague pit/ fly-tip spot/ latrine, at the edge of the village and threw it in, watching with satisfaction and relief as the heavy stone coffin and it’s contents sink from sight.



As October runs towards it’s creepy zenith, Mr Timpkins becomes ever more aware of the spiritual security standards around the caravan. A whole packet of Saxa has been spread liberally around every opening to the caravan, a mezuzah graces every doorway, fennel blocks every keyhole, rowan branch crosses dangle above the front door and garlic strings surround every opening to the caravan, ripening up to a heavy funk that can be smelt from the village hall quite clearly.

Recently, he has begun to experience very odd dreams about sand, dryness, multiple violent murders, world dominance and has really been appreciating his early morning cuppa far more than usual.

Mr Timpkins will tell anyone who will listen that he is not superstsitous but he is really, his irrationalities, he thought, were not something to announce publicly, though he did once disclose them to a bus driver called Derek in a portaloo on the seafront at Bexhill-on-sea before turning tricks in a Morrisons car park. After all, he had, in his prime, been a firm favourite with Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

raymond, being a massive idiot, eats a bulb every day and every day ends up spitting glass and blood down the sink, cursing his appalling memory before remembering it was a garlic bulb he should be eating, only to realise once more once masticating upon the overly flavoured cloves that he shouldn’t be eating raw garlic either and clawing at his burning mouth, spits the sticky detritus out of the kitchen window beneath which the soggy pungent mess builds to a sticky, slimy heap that does nothing to enhance the aromatic beauty of the surrounding area.

Anyway, early on the morning of the 31st, raymond wakes suddenly in his airing cupboard/ shoes storage area/ bed. Wind and rain lash the caravan roof and all the other parts of the caravan too.

Thunder cracks overhead, with the sort of gut shaking volume that Gemma Collins stilettoes jointly snapping might generate as she stamps her feet peevishly and demands the largest steak bake in the Basildon branch of Greggs, causing dread to settle in raymonds fat enveloped internal orghans as he wonders who or what might have disturbed his usually very deep sleep on such a stormy night.

Mr Timpkins, slumbering soundly in his cutlery drawer/ trouser press/ recycling box (queen size), guffs genteely, clawing at the air and mewling pathetically in his distress, before turning over and returning to his dreams of librarians and their spiteful, inky, exploring fingers.

raymond, now fully awake, lifts the kitchen window blind, and peers tensely into the lashing darkness. The librarian, her eyes glowing red, hangs in the air, head at an unusual and presumably very uncomfortable angle, hair hanging lank and wet, she spouts bloody vomit all down her front whilst chanting apparent nonsense. All around her the earth heaves and breaks. Old bikes, broken bottles and loads of fart ruined wireless radio sets lift into the air to be flung furiously away, each one not the prize she seeks.

Her head snaps suddenly up, her eyes meet raymonds confused cloudy stare. She screams and roars simultaneously, as she races at him. raymond closes his eyes, instinctively covering his grossly underused genitals with his hands but something is stopping the vampire bibiliophiles deathly advance, the rising stench from chewed up garlic repelling her blood craving death lust, throwing her up and back, away from the caravan.

Bravely, raymond faints, his largely empty though still very heavy head striking the taps of the sink, leaving him laying unconcious on the grimy linoleum until the first light of day prods it’s grubby digits through the thin blind.

A rising drone shot, (you’ll have to imagine this, partly owing to both a lack of budget, and a drone, but largely due to the fact that this is a written narrative and not a film of any sort. Thank you.) lifting up from the badly unmaintained caravan roof, lifting high into the storm scrubbed blue sky would show, a series of huge holes surrounding the litter strewn home of our heroes, stretching all the way from the road, right up to the litter bin, rendering the layby utterly useless for it’s intended task, which is, in accordance with it’s name, a layby, like so many ranndomly discarded, highly polished metallic discs or maybe small mirrors or, well, you probably get the idea.

raymond, stirring from his uncomfortable sleep and in deep need of a wee wee, steps yawning from the caravan, falling directly into one of the deepest holes, the thick soles of his sandals being absolutely no use as flotation devices, his feet sink quickly into the thick mud at the bottom, the water that fills the hole, entirely closing over the colourful woollen hat that covers his ridiculous head.

Mr Timpkins, awaking to a loud splashing sound worries that raymond has again forgotten to use the ablutory litter bins that ring the narrow confines of their roadside home and is once more using Mr Timpkins underwear drawer/ sald crisper/ toaster for his early morning urinary destination.

Stepping from the front door, he looks joyously up into the clear blue sky, inhaling the fresh cool air, which is a good thing as his sleepy stretch and journey to the lavatory/ bushes/ litter bin is saved from almost certain drownery by raymonds head and its newly found purpose as a stepping stone.

Looking around quizzically as he finally opens his eyes, mr Timpkins is astonished by the altered landscape.

“What on earth…” he exclaims. He was about to go on to say, “If this is young raymonds work, I’ll have his guts for garters…” channelling his primary school teachers bullying words from years ago but fortunately we have been spared such awful violent imagery, fortunately all the board rubbers have already been thrown at raymonds head and lost in the surrounding area, as two hands suddenly clasp Mr T’s ankles with frightening strength, he finds himself being launched into the next pothole over.

“raymond,” Mr Timpkins calls imperiously from his new position, backside pointing skyward, head pointing stright down into a muddy crater.

“Biffin” calls raymond soggily, his head surfacing damply from his watery home of the last five minutes.

“raymond, what on earth have you been doing out here. Will you kindly assist me from this mudhole!”

raymond clambers with difficulty up and out of the now half filled water hole and staggering over to Mr Timpkins, his waterlogged jogging trousers descending to reveal the sturdy top half moons of his spotty botty, grabs a handful of silken smoking jacket. With a grunt and a squeaky little effort fluff, he hauls Mr Timpkins into an uptright position, from which position he is able to more closely survey the chaos that morning has revealed.

“Is that an empty sarcophagus leaning at a crazy angle against the caravans bulwark, raymond? Now perhaps you’d like to explain your nocturnal excavations?”

“Biffin”

“Well, that is just what I’d expect you to say but look, here in the bottom of this sarcophogus what is this?

He holds up a scrap of thin, dusty bandage.

Biffin?”

“A mummy is on the loose you say? Well whose mummy?”

“Biffin.”

“A supernaturally awoken relic of ancient Egypt? Oh raymond. You know this reminds me of that time you insisted we had a nest of vampires in the library and my lovely Miss Booklicker was a creature of the night? Well, luckily I managed to stop you throwing that holy water all over her admirable, caninely enhanced dentures and I am so grateful that her admittedly very red eyes, exhibited such a surprising power to resist your attempt at staking her heart.”

“Biffin”

“Well, yes, I suppose there have been an awful lot of people disappearing from the village since then but I’m sure young Miss Booklicker is not responsible despite her nocturnal preferences and her reluctance to go into the hall of mirrors at the annual “Mybermole Show Your Bum for Jesus Summer Fayre.” Now raymond, I suggest you prepare brunch for it is nearly time for The Archers. I imagine those kippers we bought last month should be nice and ripe now which along with the pickled anchovy paste and seafood platter you stole from the Christmas party for the retired ex trawler men, should make a gloriously fishy repast. I shall stretch my legs in the direction of the library whilst you do so. Good day.”

Oh, I wish something would happen around here one day, Mr Timpkins thinks. I wish I had raymonds imagination. Vampires, mummies and all kinds of awful murdering happening here? Tsk. Whatever next raymond you flippin loon! Hah. As if…?

Grumbling, raymond retires to the kitchen, clattering around whilst Mr Timpkins concludes his perambulations around downtown Mybermole with an impromptu clamber up on to a handy vantage point, conveniently overlooking Miss Booklickers office window and then lays gawping into her window using his cunningly disguised binoculars. Many hours were spent at the caravan table disguising them as binoculars because who would ever think anyone would go to the trouble of doing anything so pointless as disguising something as the thing that they actually were? Clever right?

He is just focussing on the very worse for wear looking lady of his affections as her coffin lid is closed gently by an ancient bandage wrapped entity of utter evil when the bus, the roof of which he has been laying upon, leaves it’s stop and heads for Upper Bermole. The village is ten miles distant. Mr Timpkins howls his protests from atop the slippery roof of the inter-village charabanc but to no effect and if you think we’d come up with a cheap joke about entering Upper Bermole, then you are very mistaken. Just the thought! Really! You should be ashamed, you really should. Get out. Just get out now!

Anyhow, It is a very foot sore Mr Timpkins who returns home at precisely 2.03pm to tune his wireless to BBC Radio 4 for the afternoon broadcast of The Archers, and, for once, he is present in the moment and no tape-recording is necessary… spooky. raymond has, by now, eaten all of the seasidey meal with the inevitable impending effects on his under-trumpet.

As he bites down hard on the caravan door handle, he feels a chill run right through him, straight out of his arse, along the ceiling and down the wall. With that, his poot flute releases a blast of filthy shitrous oxide so meaty that it could be wrapped in pastry and served with dauphinoise potatoes, petit pois and a light gravy, the noxious whiffs bearing more than a striking resemblance to the opening of Dracula’s coffin.

Bum crumpets relentlessly rattle his clammy balloon knot until, having dropped a dress-size, he collapses, fully deflated, upon Mr Timpkins’s bum-chutney-splattered slippers.

Open-mouthed and with his bow-tie now pulled up to protect his vulnerable nasal passages, Mr Timpkins finally witnesses what has been causing the fanciful* contamination of his previous cassette recordings. Luckily(?), the entire, dirty episode (The Fartchers, Episode 11) is forcibly engrained on his very soul and, if you listen to the attached file, you can bear testimony to the overly-traumatic events of that feted afternoon via Mr Timpkins’s haunted spleen…

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*if you have a predilection for agrarian-themed melodrama (incorporating indigenous livestock) infused with a short-notice appointment with the arse fairies