Live History With PCB!

Come with me back in time, loyal readers! Come all you adoring millions and fly. Fly with me o’er hill and glen and Perth services and some other hills, yea, e’en unto the sea that was known in the time of Our Lord as the Minch. There will be a toilet break in Skye.

Back in time we go…back…back…

*Noo nee noo nee noo nee noo nee swirly twirly noo. STOP!*

The year is 2007 and a startling discovery is about to be made in a cave by the shores of Loch Erisort on the island of Lewis in Scotland. A peasant of the land is out walking with his ipod and a quantity of fungi when some unAtlee-an weather sets in. Taking shelter in the cave ‘neath Mac Hammadi’s cleft, known to the locals as Big Bum Boulder, our young mycology enthusiast unwraps his fungi, gobbles a few and settles in for the duration of the storm.

Very soon – can you see? No pushing at the back- he begins to experience feelings of bliss and relaxation, all too quickly followed by feelings of clammy fear and moist anxiety. As paranoia creeps in through his head-holes, you might want to look away as he punches a giant spider to death. He does this because he has observed it nobly trying and trying again each time it fails and refails to spin a proper web on the wet rocks. This giant spider is mocking the boy, he knows it, and who are we to interfere? It scoffs at him to the insufferable tune of “I’m A Little Teapot (Nashville remix)” for giving up too easily in life; for not finishing his exams; and forgetting again to post his CV to the fish farm people; for always throwing in the towel at the first hurdle; for mixing hs metaphors, and perhaps worst of all, for proving his pa right.

But don’t be too angry with him, fellow lookers. He does not see that the spider is smaller than his thumbnail, nor that he looks like a doofus. He is in thrall to much higher forces than himself. He feels only The Old Rage Of The Rubbish ‘Shroom.

Now watch, time-pilgrims, watch carefully as, cradling his minced fist, the boy stumbles further back into the cave where it’s dry. See him lie down with every intention of being sad until the long, bad journey is over…

…But now… unexpectedly (“!”), the wonder sets in. See him rise and look around him as if he were a full-bladdered puppy in a fire-hydrant factory. Everything appears to him to be way cool, coolest ever. Wow! At about the same time the wonder hits his brain, his saucer-pupilled eyes alight on a series of primitive earthen jars. Oh, man! These are the best primitive earthen jars EVER! He goes to the awesomest one and pees in it. And then the next one. Drained, he tips a third jar upside down because he’s in the mood for that. From it falls a scroll, an ancient codex of some sort. Like, whoa! What ancient codexy shit is this?

The light is dim back in here but please refrain from flash photography, ladies and gentlemen. Even when I tell you that you are witnessing history – the uncovering of a secret 2000 years old. For what this glaikit-fizzogged youth has found is none other than the Lost Gospels of Mac Hammadi, soon to become known as The Big Bum Gospels then hastily renamed the Gospels O’ The Cleft then The Crevice Gospels and finally, after an emergency naming meeting, they were dubbed the Cnocstic Gospels on account of being found under a Gaelic hill.

These texts include The Apocryphon of Iain, The First Apocalypse of Seamus, The Second Apocalypse of Seamus, The Gospel of Mairi-Agnus and the Coptic Cnoctic Gospel of Donnie-Alec. Unfortunately, as we’ve seen, some of the precious documents, having being brought back by the heretofore unknown Lewis disciples; then guarded for centuries by those fearsome warrior ministers, the Knights Teuchter; and having survived, seemingly impossibly, the dumb, insolent snufflings of sheep and otter for these 2000 years – after all that – succumbed to the acid in the pee of our young fungus-eater.

Now lets all fly back to our homes and computers and I’ll tell you how the story ends.

*Noo nee noo nee and what have you*

Shroom-boy gets flown to London and interviewed by the BBC where he meets a wealthy “cougar” named Bridget who falls in love with his broad shoulders and his disinclination to converse much between vigourous coitus. He, with time, accepts her shameful second navel and they marry, move to the country and he never, ever invites his father to his posh house to watch the football on the massive High-Definition telly.

The mysteries of the Cnocstic Gospels are still being unraveled. There’s a lot of new stuff on Jesus, his likes and dislikes – couldn’t stand the sight of loaves or fishes, apparently, so that whole parable was personally very trying for him as they just kept multiplying all around him like that. Nightmare. And, although this is just hearsay, there are some quite juicy bits about the shepherds watching their flocks by night – all very shoosh-shoosh but known in scholarly circles as The Brokeback Fragments.

Luckily for us, one hot summer in the 90s, I had a torridish affair with the man who is now the chief curator of the Gospels, in the History Of Butterflies back-room of the British Library. Back then he was just in charge of the Insect Illustration (17th-19th century) section but he got promoted and we’ve remained close. I am therefore deliciously privy to some exclusive information on the Cnocstic Gosels, and have a report coming to you, gorgeous readers, on the most complete of the surviving codices, The Gospel of Peadair and The Twelve.

Bye.

16 thoughts on “Live History With PCB!”

  1. Wow! Just think how history might have gone an entirely different direction if Robert the Bruce had partaken of funny mushrooms! It doesn’t bear thinking about. (I wonder if that poor spider was really failing or this was just a fungi-induced fancy?)

  2. Teuchter! Now there’s a word you don’t hear too often in the Congo. I think you’d need lessons in Scottish just to pronounce it. It’s a pity Private Fraser from Dad’s Army isn’t alive to read your stories, Sam.

  3. Mary, not a fungi-induced fancy, I’m afraid, but a damp-induced reality. Thus , does nature cut us down.

    Nanas, t-yoo-khh-tur or chookh-tur. The Congo is climata non grata for most teuchters I’m afraid. Save maybe David Livingstone.

  4. Big bum boulder is poetry to my ears. My first husband used to aver it was only necessary to say bum to have me on the floor with helpless laughter. And I’ve always wondered who it was who peed in the gum boots in the basement of our shop. Robbie was his name?
    I’d quite like to taste magic mushrooms.

  5. “i’m a little teapot (nashville mix)”…that totally made my day. more than chocolate or booze even could.

  6. Pat, I have never tried any but it would be excellent fun to try them with you. Apparantly, they’re pretty easy to find if you know what you’re looking for. The Aztecs called them “God’s flesh” so we could dress it up as just a more edgy holy communion service when the police come to arrest us. I’m sure we could get a vicar to attend as a cover. Vicars love hallucinogenic drugs with a nice drop of sherry.

    Medbh, bum is a beautiful, word is it not? Two fulsome round consonants cleft by a guttural vowel Rarely do word and object combine so beautifully as in bum. BUM! BUM! Shout its majesty from the rooftops!

    Kara, oh no, you’re not drinking the right drinks, m’darlin’!. Have you tried a Buttery Nipple? It’s butterscotch schnapps and Baileys. Or a miniature Guinness – Tia Maria and Baileys? There isn’t a Nashville mix in the world better than a Buttery Nipple.

  7. Can you ask your friend, was it a new world wine which was transfromed from the uisce at the Kana bash? And the hand in the wound thing, that’s a bit of gas and liver behind the tunic?

    There’s an apopalyptic theme in the PCB pages of late, first the sheep and now the seamuses. You have news Sam, good news, it was all an ancient Father Ted sketch.

  8. Those little feckers brought the Chinese army to the banks of the Avoca a good number of years past. A tank regiment lurking behind the hedge as we waved farewell to a waxen bouncer would have remained hidden but for the leak of glowing, radioactive liquid onto the footpath.

    Such are the ways of excessively fungal folk, but that was long ago and far away.

  9. Cnocstic Gospels did it for me. Then bilingual puns are always twice as funny as monolingual ones, though they’re only 2/3 as funny as the trilingual variety and 1/4 … Okay, I’ll stop.

    Big Bum Boulder reminds me there is a back road near here favoured by the ladies of the village for their morning exercise*. It is known variously as Fat Arse Avenue, Big Bum Boulevard and (mistranslated as) B?thar na Th?in Ramhar.

    *A brisk walk or jog is required after you have taken the kids the 200m to school in your SUV and before you travel the 200m to the shops for the newspaper in your SUV.

  10. The Scot has a bit of a thing with spiders ?. I seem to remember a spider a barn and a King from someplace. Mind you it could have been about mushrooms. Once, while at O? Galliamh, had a conversation with a chap who made out that the old Celts had gr? for the mushrooms, hence the use of his garage as a huge Jamaican grow-bag. That he knew much of anything. Well, he was one of those you’ld not take the third light from his match, you’ld never know he might have a WW1 German sniper hanging around, he was the type.

  11. Experiments in my youth confirmed that the fungi of which you speak don’t taste that great. So my introduction to them came via shroom tea flavoured with an Earl Grey teabag. To this day I cannot taste nor smell Earl Grey without suffering a near flashback.

    I also wanted to mention that around here, if you were to lie down in a cave, you would almost certainly find yourself on an unnatural mattress of toilet paper and used condoms

  12. Eryl, you’ll be glad you did.

    Sniffly, I think everything that has ever happened was on Father Ted in one episode or another. The great human tapestry, with tea.

    Bock, “Such are the ways of excessively fungal folk” I’m sure you could get an ointment for that, toots.

    Sneezy, I once knew an Italian-Gaelicer with a huge bum. Ten Ton Thoiny he was called.

    Conan, thanks for the warning. Comhairle nan Eilean are putting up a “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign at the ferry as we speak.

    Vincent, Robert the Bruce, it was, in a cave with a spider. Your pal had a good line there. “No officer, I’m growing it as part of my cultural heritage, see.” They were defo on something, these ancient Celts. Too wasted most of the time to comb their hair or wash last night’s war-paint off.

    Kim, eeeew! How come everybody but me has ‘shroomed? I’m so gonna get some and then I’m so gonna go to Pat’s house, and then me and Pat are gonna shroom up a storm, a storm that storms purple rain and raspberry berets.

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