Archive for July, 2020

Dread Rocks Holiday – the Podcast!

July 14, 2020

Those of you who are enjoying my bloodcurdling adventures on Dread Rocks Lighthouse may be interested to know that you can listen to me relating them out loud in what I believe the wretched youth of today call a ‘podcast.’

A voice that can charm the birds from the trees and the knickers off wanton ladies.

I’m humbled that Her darling Majesty could spare the time to give me a quote for my advertising blurb.

Click here for the full and, frankly, sexy experience!

Dread Rocks Holiday part 13 – the conclusion

July 13, 2020

At least the water was so icy that it had numbed me from head to toe. It’s said that drowning is a quite a pleasant way to die; well, preferable to garrotting or being eaten by a shark, but I’m not convinced. After all, people who tell us this didn’t actually die so are hardly reliable witnesses, and those who did succumb to the sea’s fatal caress can only inform us via a medium and we all know what charlatans they are. Ever since I crossed the palm of a Gypsy Rose Portillo on the seafront at Sidmouth via whom Rasputin assured me from the other side that Leather Nun would win the Grand National when in fact he ended up as dog food before the third fence, I have had very little time for the professional dead-botherers.

These idle thoughts drifted through my mind as the sea enveloped my head. I’d taken a huge breath, but I knew it would last less than minute and that would be it – curtains for poor old Stirling. No more books, no more appearances on Call My Bluff, no more wives… Had I written a will, I wondered, and to whom was it all left? Not the children and definitely not the Conservative party since they’d gone all liberal and wishy-washy and reneged on their election promise to bring back hanging.

My lungs were near as dammit empty of air, and I knew that despite my supreme self-control, I’d be gulping in a pint of briny any second. Any last thoughts, Stirling, old chap? Any last requests? Any sins to beg forgiveness for? I’d never got round to preparing my ‘Last Words’ but as no one would hear them they seemed a tad pointless.

Just as I had decided to stop procrastinating and succumb to Father Neptune, I felt something grab me by the scruff of the neck. I gasped – and was astonished to find oxygen filling my desperate lungs.

‘What the…?!’ I exclaimed. I was floating at great speed upwards with the water, not underneath it. Something was dragging me. With a supreme effort, I twisted my head around and came face to face with Old Jethro. He was clutching me to his chest as he swam effortlessly upwards, gills flapping rhythmically, his hirsute legs gently gliding side to side, just like the kipper his father probably was.

Light had begun to penetrate the gloom and I suspected we were almost back in the lantern room of Dread Rocks Lighthouse. With a rough thrust, Old Jethro lobbed me through the hatch into the lantern room at the top of the lighthouse. I lay on the floor, gasping like a landed haddock. I shook the water out of my ears and turned to help Old Jethro through the hatchway.

Safe at last,’ I laughed in relief, but barely had the words left my mouth than the floor lurched. I lost my balance and skidded towards the edge of the balcony. I clung to the railing with what strength I had left. I couldn’t tell what was wrong but I could see the angle of the sea and sky was all skewiff.

‘Quick, down the stairs!’ I gasped, but Old Jethro had other ideas. He grabbed me again and, before I could raise the slightest objection, leapt from the balcony towards the sea below.

Oh dear reader, I’ve leapt out of many an aeroplane during my wildly exciting life, but  there was usually a parachute clamped to my back. Now all I had as I plummeted towards the ocean and the rocks below, was a rum man/fish hybrid.

They say that in your final moments before meeting one’s maker, the whole of one’s life flashes before the eyes. I can confirm this to be true, and jolly exciting it was too. So much so I thoroughly recommend reading my memoirs The Devil Talks the Hindmost as I’m sure your own final moments will inevitably be rather drab in comparison.

My eyes were firmly clamped shut before impact, but as far as I can make out, Old Jethro threw me in the air before we hit the sea. He then dived under the water, but leapt back up to catch me before I could go under, much like a dolphin with a beachball. Although he didn’t balance me on the end of his nose – as far as I could tell anyway.

Then, skilfully swerving away from the lethal rocks in the vicinity of the lighthouse, he swam with me on his back at an impressive rate of knots. Now I understood how he managed to reach Dread Rocks on that stormy night without a boat.

I wanted to see what was going on back at the Lighthouse so urged him to stop. We turned around – and what a sight greeted us. The lighthouse was lurching at a 45 degree angle, and as we watched, it buckled completely and collapsed into the sea, much like a stiffy after a particularly tophole knee-trembler.

I can’t say with any honesty that I’d enjoyed my stay there, but it’s sad to see a historic old building demolished, even if it had long been a symbol of demonic evil.

‘I wonder what caused the ceiling of the cavern to collapse like that?’ I pondered to myself. Old Jethro supplied a possible explanation. He pointed past the ruins of the Lighthouse. A huge grey behemoth was surfacing. A whale? A Kraken? No, it was a submarine. Had that been the cause of the cave-in? ? A depth charge perhaps? Or maybe the ceiling of that underground cathedral was on the verge of collapse anyway? Who did the submarine belong to? The Nazis?

Old Jethro swam towards the submarine, riding the tsunami caused by the collapse of the Lighthouse. As we neared it, we could see a figure on the deck of the submarine. It was waving to us.

‘It’s the Captain!’ I cried in delight. ‘He escaped after all.’

But my pleasure quickly evaporated, replaced by a chill down my spine as I spied another figure climbing the hull of the submarine towards the Captain.

It was the Empty Diving Suit!

‘Captain!’ I bellowed with the full capacity of my impressive lungs. ‘Behind you!’

The Captain turned and saw the Empty Diving Suit. He instinctively raised his fists, ready to clobber the supernatural nuisance…  but the Suit didn’t attack the Captain. Instead, it just stood there facing him. Then it pointed at the mainland, followed by a dismissive hand wave.

By this time we’d arrive at the submarine.  The Captain looked down at me and shrugged.

‘I think he wants us to bugger off, Captain, The Nazis and Satanists have been routed, and now it’s time for us all to leave Dread Rocks in peace.

The Empty Diving Suit slowly nodded.

‘Fair enough,’ said the Captain and, with a farewell wave to me, he descended into the bowels of the submarine.

I clicked my heels and Old Jethro swam to a safe distance so we would not be dragged down in the wake as the Submarine dived back down to the depths.

The debris of the Lighthouse had piled up on top of Dread Rocks themselves, forming a small but barren island. Something would have to be done about that to warn shipping of the peril, but not a lighthouse maybe. Oh well, that would be a problem for the boffins to solve.

Bodies were beginning to float to the surface, a pitiful sight, but as they were Nazis I wouldn’t be wasting too much of my sympathy on them. At least they’d be feeding the local fish which was a damn sight more useful than they’d been in life. I hoped that Polkinghorn’s acolytes had managed to escape to the mainland. They were credulous dimwits, but perhaps without the baleful influence of their unholy Magus they could go on to live comparatively useful if dull lives. Mayhaps the local dogging site would give them sufficient carnal excitement without he added danger of infernal shenanigans.

I looked back at the newly-formed Dread Rocks island. The Empty Diving Suit was standing on its summit, its helmet under its arm, a noticeable nothing where a head should be. Its free arm was raised, palm outwards, in the universal ‘Halt!’ gesture, like a ghostly lollipop lady of the sea.

I saluted the spooky figure. It had after all saved us from the Obergruppenfuhrer.

Now what, I pondered aloud? Here I was on the ocean, naked except for a rather grubby sou’wester, all my essential luggage – and my wallet! –  buried under a heap of rubble. Oh well, at least the forces of evil had been shafted and yours truly had lived to fight another day. I’d been in worse fixes. As long as I could scrounge tuppence for the phone, someone would rescue me. Meanwhile, I fancied being back on dry land.

I patted Old Jethro’s rump. ‘Gee up, my piscine chum! Land ahoy and don’t spare the seahorses!’

And with a swish of his legs, we turned and swam back towards dear old Blighty. Who knew what horrors would face us when we returned. Had the plague wiped out nine tenths of the population? Would the survivors have divided into warring factions? Most importantly, were the Royal family safe?

But as the sea wind blew through my fine mane of snow-white hair, I felt confident that yours truly, Sir Desmond Stirling, best-selling author of Satanic chillers, war hero, patriot, television personality and devout nudist, could easily sort the whole ruddy mess out.

I wrenched off the sou’wester and flung it into the sea. When we made landfall, I was going to embrace my country, the greatest country in the world, naked as the day I was born. If I was to rebuild England and put the Great back into Britain, the only way to do it was Nude and proud!

The End….?

(c) Anthony Keetch 2020