Pete Peru

Hello, my name is Pete Peru. I am the co-author of “The Reeking Hegs”. I wrote it in collaboration with my writing partner and friend, Lord Tupelo. The story of the writing of TRH is a story in itself. It all began way back in 1987! Tupelo and I shared a cottage in Cubbington, a village on the outskirts of Leamington Spa in the U.K. We often got together in the evenings in Tupelo’s kitchen where we’d generally watch a bit of something on his tiny TV, drink a few beers and chew the cud. Up there he also had an old portable typewriter and one night, I don’t recall who initiated the fun, one of us started to tap out some sentences on the typewriter in a totally impropmtu manner. That done, the machine was passed across the table and the other carried on either responding to the prompt or going off at a maybe completely unrelated tangent. In this way we completed the first page or two of what was to evolve in The Reeking Hegs. Although sections of TRH were written in many different locations and more often than not upon anything that came to hand; scraps of paper, the inside of a cereals box…whatever, we stuck to that original method of writing a piece and then handing it over to the other to continue throughout. We both enjoyed the strange twists and turns this method produced in the narrative. We both enjoyed feeding of the other’s imagination. We were both awed at how, seemingly out of absolutely nothing, by some weird magic, the entire story grew, developed, mutated and took over our lives! That process was deemed “finished” in 1992, by which time I had moved to Spain. I lost contact with Tupelo and my copy of the manuscript sat in a box that somehow survived the turmoils and upheavals in my life over the next 25 years. In 2017 I decided to, once and for all, transcribe the manuscript version onto my word processor – I’d started doing this twice before but had never got it completed. This time I stuck to it and got it done. Having done that I thought I might as well present it for publication and was overjoyed when Montag Press of San Francisco came through with an offer to publish. However, I then faced the task of finding Lord Tupelo who I’d not heard of since 1992! Knowing the man I knew he would not be found on “social media” but as luck would have it I turned up another friend from Cubbington days, got in touch and was told that he and Tupelo met every Thursday for a game of table-tennis! Thus was the Peru-Tupelo axis re-established and in July 2020 The Reeking Hegs appeared in print.


This latest section will provide deepish insight and improve understanding with regards to the role of Hegs protagonist……………


Aspidisteria: Daughter of the Kiosk Magnate and beloved of I, but betrothed to none other the Solid King Solid Fume III! There’s no doubt that this is a marriage of connivance – her father the Kiosk Magnate is keen to cement his position of eminence in the upper stories of the Ugzcyk social anthill; and what better way to achieve that aim than to consent to the King’s request for Aspidisteria’s hand? Our hero learns of his missed chance while watching a documentary series in the smoking room of the Lone Icicle Bar…

“Continuing his esteemed review of architectural milestones, this week Professor Olduvai visits the home of renowned magnate, moose and muscleman…need I say more? However, contrary to all expectations of an audience with The Man Himself, our guide and narrator interviews his delightful, moon-faced daughter and heiress to his vast fortune, prospective queen and fishing hole favourite…Aspidisteria…This model Hal palace will be her wedding gift to her betrothed Solid King Solid Fume III…”

Aspidisteria: O yes, she likes poetry and the poet’s nimble tongue alright, but it seems he is nothing more to her than a mere dalliance. An amusement. She has her sights firmly set on the seat just to the left of the King’s in the throne room of Fume’s palace in Ugzcyk.

“Through the carnage on deck I spotted Aspidisteria standing at the prow, her locks flying wildly in the gale. She was casting sandbags into the waves port and starboard, shouting ‘Ballast! O! Ballast!’ It was then I knew I loved her.

‘We must find the captain! Only he can marry us now…’

‘A wedding! How lovely!’ she crooned, ‘But who is marrying whom?’

The King and his harmonious hatchet

The Aspidisteria/ I issue comes to a head in a later super apocalyptic scene obscured by smoking fires in a torrential downpour in which I is denounced and all, including his own self, is lost…


“The sky blazed white, and then went black for a long moment. Fullalov’s voice echoed the crashes. ‘Behold the confession and confess I say thee confess! Confess! Argh!’ He yelped as the winchables gave up on the strain.

‘Don’t think we don’t know about you and your lewd designs on the future queen. You even dared to ask for her hand?’ Fume’s regal orb was whirring my way at 33 and a third, occasionally sticking a little. ‘You! You dared! You! You dared! You! You dared!’

Thus was I summarily arrested. Fullalov screeched my guilt continually, the Iglibrarian repeated ‘Yes, he’s the one!’ over and over, and I stood no chance..”

ASPIDISTERIA: Beautiful as a moon or a Des Gusto tune, but wild and ambitious and just totally adorable.

ASPIDISTERIA: Victim or ruthless schemer? A sacrifice to wanton avarice or a skilled artisan of malice?

ASPIDISTERIA: Will she kick him where if hurts, or will she get her just desserts?

For the answers to these and many other questions you must without let or hinderance get yourself a HOT COPY of The Reeking Hegs. This wonder of classically modern literature can be had from any Amazone outlet as a paperback, audiobook or ebook.


Chameleon Death Squad: The story so far…

Some say this is Mr. Chris in a previous or posterior avatar.

Doctors Amazed

Medical professionals around the globe have professed amazement at the health benefits associated with prolonged sessions of listening to Chameleon Death Squad’s Aural Contamination Therapy’. Positives include a major increase in beer consumption, better shit eating preferences and a general all-round improvement in quantum mechanental health.

Potted History

The origins of the band are shrouded in mystery, but can be summed up thus: One day I was approached while minding my own business at work by one Harrogate Chris, a large and apparently menacing fellow who haunted the foliage and upstairs corridors of the place. I cowered in a dark corner, thinking that he might not have noticed me, but it was ME he was looking for.

Mr.Chris lays in ambush

H.C: Can you play guitar?

P.P: Yeh.

H.C: Wanna be in a punk band?

P.P: Yeh.

H.C: We’re called Chameleon Death Squad.


Soon after that we gathered together, the first Avatar of Chameleon Death Squad. Back then we played versions of other people’s songs; Pretty Vacant (Sex pistols), The Young Ones (Cliff and The Shadows), I only want to dance with you (Dusty Springfield), The sound of silence (Simon and Garfunkel)… to name a few.

That version of the band didn’t last. The drummer professed dissatisfaction with the musical content and the bassman advised against performing this in public.

Do not play these songs to an audience…

Chameleon Death Squad #2 arose almost instantly from the ashes of the original band. A new bass and drummer duo were incorporated – Guille 1 and Ürs von Wolfsburg. This band jelled and we began to substitute our own songs for the cover versions. We got along famously and really liked the new material we were putting together. We rehearsed diligently, got a dozen or so songs together and began gigging. Then the bassman, Guille 1, announced he was yet again to become the proud father and would no longer be able to form part of the band. A bittersweet moment for us all, but we wished him and his all the best and the search for a new bass player commenced.

The Squad #2. from L to R: P.P, Ürs von Wolfsburg, H.C, Guille 1

The honour fell to Guille 2, but this line up didn’t prosper. A nice fella and a good bassman, but G2 was in a deep schism scenario with his partner, up to his neck with work commitments and their dog…and lived just far enough away to make getting to rehearsals a bit off a pain. On top of all that…the Pandemic struck. It was a frustrating time of very few rehearsals, and socially distanced to boot. Eventually CDS and Guille 2 parted company and so the state of ennui lingered and we feared for the survival of the Squad.

Happily through a mysterious rhizome like substrata of ethereal contacts a new bassman hove to. Bill, from Grantham, Lincs.

With Lincoln Bill we have returned to the steadily diligent getting of it together, rehearsing regularly a bunch of songs that H.C. and I had now been playing for four years. To bring this part of the tale to a conclusion, Chameleon Death squad #4 played live on July 2nd to a small but appreciative crowd during the Festes Mayores of Sant Cugat.

You can check out some of Chameleon Death Squad’s music on Utube!!

Doctors around the globe have been astounded by the results obtained by subjecting members of the public to extended sessions of Chameleon Death Squad’s ‘Acoustic Contamination Therapy’.

Jinks and reels WAY DOWN SOUTH

The Tarifay beach. Morocco waits, yet is unattainable across the Straits.

Hello again fellow Heggery aficionados.

After too long a lapse I intend to resume my account which, in part, attempts to account for HOW we wrote ‘ The Reeking Hegs’. By which I mainly mean, under what circumstances.

In a previous entry to this Blog I spoke of our failed attempt to take the road to Morocco, seeking to follow the trail blazed by Crosby and Hope in their 1942 classic co-starring the delectable Dorothy Lamour.

Dorothy sanG sONgs of LovE

In the immediate aftermath of our return to the Iberian mainland we landed in Algeciras. Truth be told, the only attraction that place held for us was the ferry port. The way to Africa! After a day or two skulking the quays and getting ripped off by unscrupulous types selling vulcanised rubber disguised as hashish we concluded to cut and run. The only way to go was to go south, but going south could mean only one thing…well, it could have meant Gibraltar, but that idea didn’t really appeal to us. After all, we’d seen more than enough red post boxes and strangely helmeted coppers to last us a lifetime already. Accordingly, one fine, sultry September’s day we boarded the bus and chugged across the sierras to Tarifa.

There is a carven plaque above the remaining gate of the old city walls. It commemorates a sad event which took place in 1292. Tarifa was being attacked by the Moors ( who were working on behalf of one of the several Spanish contenders for the title King of Spain). The town’s garrison was under the command of one Guzmán, who happened to be loyal to another of the several contenders for the title, King of Spain. One day this Guzmán’s son was taken prisoner by the besieging army. He was told to surrender the city of his son would be executed. The story goes that this Guzmán threw his own dagger to the enemy forces below the city ramparts, admonishing them to do the deed using it. The kid got the chop, Guzmán saved the city for his candidate to the throne and became a local hero. I have to say, I wonder what his wife made of that?

Mira, Guzmán. Esto de darles tu cuchillo no me parece bien!

We got supplies of bread, cheese and wine in a tiny, odourous local store and headed for the beach. Wide as you like and pretty well deserted it was( see above). As we’d already spent much more than we’d bargained for, we decided to sleep there. That was fine, but when we set out in the morning to explore the town I chose to hide my gear under some grass and brush among the dunes rather than lug it about all day. The town was very quiet. Really quiet. Like, deserted. We spent our time sitting in shady spots and writing sections of The Reeking Hegs. Come the evening we headed back to the beach. I went to collect my gear. My gear had been found and looted. The bag was open and my sleeping bag was gone. This was a problem as, though the days were hot to very hot, the night was cool if not chilly down there on the seashore. I was dismayed. Without funds enough to pay for a bed in a hostelry, what was I to do? We wandered back to a Plaza and took seats at a table outside a bar. Spirits were low.

Tupelo was dead set against blowing a large part of our remaining cash on a hostal. I looked forward glum as could be to a sleepless night cold and assaulted by biting sand mites. There was nobody sitting drinking in the Plaza except us and two young women. Driven by need and fuelled by vino tinto I decided the time had come to act!

‘Sprachen sie Englisch?’ ‘It’s a dummy you eejit’

In a gentlemanly if brazen fashion I went straight over and invited myself to sit with them. After a short while Tupelo trotted across and a merry foursome we became. The ladies were Germans doing Spain by Interrail. More wine was quaffed and as the night drew in I told them we were poor authors and of my predicament. Totally unexpectedly they told us the place they’d rented had a spare room and we could sleep there that night. Vunderbarrrr!! My spirits surged. I was elated. I proceeded to drink as much wine as fast as possible in celebration of this turn in our fortunes.

I woke next day with a cyclopean beast trying to beat its way out of my skull and a terrible dry mouth. Tupelo was not sympathetic. He explained how I’d got totally assholed drunk, insisting loudly we speak only German; but the only German I knew, so he said, was ‘Achtung! Funf und Funzig! Seig heil!’ To make matters worse, the only one who’d slept that night was me, on account of my tremendous subsonic to ear piercing snoring and my refusal to wake up no matter how much I was shaken and berated. The Germans had left early without a word of farewell and taken Der schnitzel with them.

But…what does fund und funzig mean?

Tarifa had done me in. We went back to Algeciras, spent one day in Gibraltar – this was, in fact, the most productive part of the trip. There, at the very extreme end of the Rock, we wrote the ‘desolate space tip’ section of The Reeking Hegs. It describes well, in its reality mangled Hegs fashion, what we were seeing as we sat there.

Footnote. Tarifa at that time was not the place it has become since. It was and is a very windy spot, but the enormous strands of beach were practically deserted when we were there – as was the town. Since then windsurfing has become hugely popular, and Tarifa is, I believe, known as the ‘windsurf capital of Europe’ these days. Whereas we contemplated a scene like this:

I slept there.

Nowadays it looks like this:

OK. Until next time. Please share your knowledge of the Blog, and do you best to boost sales and help our drive to make The Reeking Hegs a rival for the Dan Brauns and Ken Follex of this world.




When doctors fly!!

The Doctor swoops. Trying out the famous low-altitude anti-biotics run-for-your-life run.

I yet await the question; Why, in the name of all that has wings and is blessed with the power of flight, does the Flying Doctor choose to use the aircraft so wonderfully observed in the above photo?

I, of course, refer to the Flying Doctor who makes but few but heroic appearances in the pages of The Reeking Hegs. After all, he could have chosen to fly something a bit more aerodynamic, like this ‘Master of the skies’ (no refunds) pictured below.

Or even something with two motors instead of one – a very handy feature when the carburettor freezes up thus disabling engine A, which on a single-engined machine indicates a possible punishing return to terra firma presently. Thus our heroic disciple of Hippocrates could have swooped over the arctic wastes of Ugzcyk secure in the knowledge that if engine A went AWOL, well, he’d still have engine B. That such a choice was available to him you may verify for yourself by studying the image below (taken south of the ice)

Belinda, 4th from the left, rescued after a skiing mishap.

Truth, as the sage once observed to the onion, is oftentimes stranger than fiction. The Doctor was swayed to opt for the Fokker Dr.1 Triplane, made world famous by Billy Smart’s Circus, for two principal reasons.

1: The aerobatic properties of the six-winged machine. While of little use in strictly medical terms, this feature was a cert to impress his beloved Belinda. What a dashing figure he cut as he Immelmanned polewards. Belinda, something of an aerial dare-deville herself, was suitably impressed.

See the nursing team and Belinda-on-a-wing. She is 19th from the left.

2] The Fokker Dr.1 triplane was not only unmatched for its aerial dexterity, but also for its latent pair of 7.92 mm machine guns. While some may find the notion of an armed to the teeth Flying Doctor paradoxical, the truth is that in an environment such as Ugzcyk and its wasted hinterlands such was life that the occasional need to put them to use arose below. I here refer to the strafing of Buck’s Full House, as recorded in The Reeking Hegs– an event that many applauded in response to the energetic efforts of the studio-floor animators. Busily dedicated as ever, the Doctor immediately abandoned the mangled Fokker and went to work on the unfortunate hosts of pieces of 7.92mm lead strewn across the studio floor, ably assisted in his staunching efforts by the demure Belinda.

So there you have it. Man and machine wedded and welded together in perfect harmony always ready to rise above the squall and bring succour to those in need . I leave you with an image of the hero himself, standing proudly aloof alongside his trusty steed: The Fokker Dr.1!

Fokker by name – Fokker by nature.

To learn more about the history of airborne medical attention look no further than The Reeking Hegs, available from any Amazone outlet in paperback, digital and audiobook format!!

Barriers were needed to hold back the hordes of Hegs crazed fans at the F.Covid festival, Clacton, Essex.





Neither Covid nor the mental rigours which are part and parcel of any such undertaking as I prepare for my free-diving world record breaking attempt can prevent this. So, take breath and try to read all before I get to 104 metres on just A SINGLE LUNGFULL.

In the true spriti of Dada the following Hegbite, lifted from the irreprable pages of The Reeking Hegs, is the result of purest random chance. By which I mean my blindfolded pardner has opened the book whereso’er she would and I herewith commit to the Hegbite Blog a transcription of the content of that very page…

As fate or density would have it, the page is numbered 269. The Canto is 10. This extract concerns the first time meeting of Little Knowing What and the Shaman

Latest image from James Webb space telescope exclusive!!!!

EXTRACT BEGINS::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Little Knowing What was but a speck of jetsam drifting through the lonesome gorse tufts and cries of ptarmigan. The Shaman approached warily. he had to placate and redirect Little Knowing What’s vengeful fury.

His scribe to be had never seen such a ghastly grey complexion and was certainly alarmed at the sight of the Shaman’s long eye stalks that waved forst to his left and then to the right in perfect synchronisation. For his part, the Shaman too was more than a little startled by Little Knowing What’s ravened aspect. He was altogether the epitome of the lost and redejected, unwashed and on the short side type of person. His continual snuffling and snorting speech patterns combined to produce an audio-visual effect more animal than sapient. They began a strange, sub-tool converstaion.

You are Little Knowing What, lost and despised.”

“You what?”

“No, no. Me Xcka…Shaman. You What.”

“Shaman? What’s that?”


“On your face.”

“Never mind that, What. I am come to speak to you of great horrors and viledungings in all the Heaving Plate. Consider the dreaded Loca, in engineering parlance not yet even thought of. Water, as they say, has no hair to hold onto. We must begin the nightmare and put an end to the dream.”

“By Bog,” murmured Little Knowing What to himself. “The fellow’s a cretin – but he might be tasty au gratin.”

Out loud he said, “Wouldn’t happen to have a lump of cheese on you, would you?”

“How did you know that?”

EXTRACT END}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

SO!! Take the plunge and join the happy people. Pack up all your fears and woes. Just get yorself a copy of The Reeking Hegs, available in paper, digi and audio format! No!! Yes!!




Peru Intipunku presents…

Featuring, From the cast of The Reeking Hegs: The one and only Ray and his Nephew!

Nice door, Ray!

Ray and his Nephew were trappers by trade, their office located on the outskirts of Ugzcyk, capital city of Solid King Solid Fume III. Having nothing much more than time to kill they agreed to take part in the search for The Reeking Hegs – or, more specifically, to locate and trap Mr.Yick; reputedly the only person alive or dead thereabouts who knew how to get them there.

Trappers were Ray and his nephew. It was with their assistance I resolved to ensnare Yick back into the plot so that he would lead me to the Hegs unwittingly. Yick? Yes, the rumour was he was back in the rooting, living out in the tundra, cryo-static in a grotto.

The Reeking Hegs, Canto 5

Their quest takes them deep into the frozen hinterlands of Fume’s kingdom. A place fit only for hardy folk. Foolhardy, perhaps, if your complement of legs was limited to but two. Ray and his nephew – well, probably just Ray – considered the accomplishment of this task would forever raise their names above and beyond the hoi-polloi of everyday trappers. His nephew was mostly engaged in naked combats with canines and/or cephalopods over his discarded furs.

Out in those there parts habitation was scarce. The ice ridges penetrated the dwarf pines and sedges. Among frozen creeks and ravines progress was slow. They eventually came upon a remote scarred landscape brimming rimy desolation and hardy mosquitos.

The Reeking Hegs, Canto 5
Have you ever considered just how very photo-shy your average mosquito is?

Their big lead comes after a chance encounter with a local yokel and Towser his pet husky. Initially productive of nothing more more noteworthy than a severe beating for Ray, the yokel mistaking him for a spook out for a bit of soul-stealing, things look up as Ray passes out. Having resolved the spook issue, the yokel leads the trappers to a remote graveyard. There , in the corner, they find Yick’s tombstone and immediately begin to assemble their trapping apparatus, observed by the yokel, Towser, The Reverend Fullalov, a flock of nuns and Yick’s ma.

Eleven bells and frozen wells

What happens in the graveyard is one of the top-hoorific passages of The Reeking Hegs.

Ray fought off a surge of leeches from his trench. He didn’t recall having anything like so much trouble on his last great trapping adventure, snaring a mighty grizzly five igloos high by the name of Ho Nazareth. The nuns cackled again, lightning flashed, and once more a ponderous tolling rang out from the bell tower at the centre of the Bog forsaken graveyard. Towser howled and the earth and leeches in Yick’s grave shuddered.

Whether they failed or not is a moot point, easily enough resolved. Let no more be said than their subsequent appearance in the narrative takes place on the studio floor of ‘Bucks Full House’, a highly by lovers of mayhem and gore rated TV quiz-show. Sadly, they distinguished themselves for causing much confusion around the fishing-hole and for the unexpected revelation of the nephew’s noble lineage!: The Reeking Hegs, canto 5

FUME: And Ray’s nephew is herewith knighted Duke of Disko Bay. Fetch me my trusted cleaver…

The Reeking Hegs, Canto 9

So folks, there in brief be the part taken by Ray and his nephew in the deepest mystery of all times. THE REEKING HEGS. Published by Montag Press, S.F.Ca, in 2020. Avail yourself of a copy – paperback, ebook and/or audiobook – from any Amazone outlet.



The environs of Sant Ponç, where nothing has changed in 1000 years

The year: 1990. I had been living in Catalonia (Spain to the ignorant) for 8 months. Easter had arisen. Lord Tupelo, expecting a searing heat situation, arrived for his first visit to my humble dwelling sporting his boar-hide shorts and fancy parasol. This visit had been carefully timed to coincide with my holiday from work days. Our plan was to write as much new material as we could for The Reeking Hegs and also to revise pages previously written. It was during this stay that quite a large part of what was to become Canto 9 (The Full House) materialised out of the ether and was set in stone, as they say. In truth, even as I write this it comes to me that His Lordship had actually arrived a few days before my Easter break began. I recall returning home one evening to find him in the most excellent spirits. It transpired that earlier during the day he had ventured out into the village and discovered the local “Body Gas” shop : Spanish Bodegas (Bo-DAY-gaz). He described to me in terms of great wonderment and delight how he had ventured inside and been gratified to find the place crammed to the rafters with barrel upon barrel of fvarihued wines. To make the discovery even more perfect, said wines were on sale at ridiculously low prices. Needless to say, Tupelo had seen fit to take advantage of such tremendous good fortune and had bought several litres of tinto (red). The tinto provided all the body gas we needed to focus our minds on the proceedings in and around Bucks Full House.

The Bodega with resident vintner family sporting the traditional Catalonian Noddy hat. A place where nothing has changed in 1000 years.

I now must needs backtrack in time a little.

Arriving, as I had, alone and friendless in the capital city of Catalonia the previous Autumn, I had felt the need of making some acquaintances to enliven what might otherwise be long days and longer nights. Some call it chance, others – A Mr.D.Vader comes to mind, prefer to see it as destiny. What happened was one day I saw a message glued to a streetlight. In short, it read, in english; “Do you speak english? Do you want to make money? Call this number…” I ticked all the requirements boxes and duly telephoned the number given (Streetside callbox. No mobiles at that time) I was invited to interview the following day. At the appointed time, all excitement, I went along to the address I’d been given. To say I was surprised at what I found there would be an understatement. There were a lot of people milling around in a large hall at one end of which was a raised dais. On asking around I discovered that all of them had been invited to this “interview” but nobody knew anything more than that. I sat and waited. As it happened, a young lady sat down in the seat next to mine and we struck up a conversation. During this conversation I revealed to her that I was very new in town, was currently lodging in a pensión in the not so salubrious Plaça Reial and was keen to move on and out. As chance or destiny would have it, she exclaimed that she was renting a big apartment in a swank area and needed somebody to share the space and the rent. Was I interested? (The job was a diet product pyramid sales type scam. We were scandalised and left early.)

A day or two later I moved into the apartment on the Paseig Sant Joan with Elisa. She was a New Yorker, had been in Barcelona for a while and had quite a circle of friends to whom I was duly introduced as “Pete Pru”.

The Passeig de Sant Joan, looking up.
No comment. Once was enough.

One of these friends was a Kanuck, name of Nick. A funny guy, very much the earnest student of fine literature of oriental provenance. He and I became buddies. Anyway, my stay at Elisa’s turned out to be a very short one. Maybe a week after I’d moved in I got a phone call from a man offering me a job with accommodation included, an offer I accepted and so, because of that, the existence of the Abbey of Sant Ponç, an 11th century abbey located near the village I now resided in, entered my awareness. The threads of this story tie together now, because it was through Nick that I was made aware of the existence of Wild Turkey and thus I have drawn together all the parts of this jigsaw and am ready to get to the ick of the gristle.

The job I’d been offered was in a village about 15 miles from Barcelona. Nick came to my place with a friend, Adam, also Canadian, who styled himself a “smell artist”. That was fine with me and Tupelo. Fine too, if not finer, Adam had with him two nice ladies. They were all agog with excitement as the plan was to head out to Sant Ponç ( A couple of miles away up in the hills that surrounded the village), light a fire, eat chorizo and cheese, pass the Wild Turkey around and see what happened. And that is what we did. My personal memories of the evening are limited to the initial proceedings; the gathering wood, the getting the fire going, the sitting around taking shots from the bottle.

I woke up feeling extremely rot-gutted and ill. To my surprise I was in my bed in my apartment. I had no idea how I’d got there. Tupelo, sprawled across the sofa, had gone a ghastly verdigris around the gills. The last thing I remembered from the Turkey shooting was encouraging one of the girls in her artistic jump the fire activity.

The hat made it especially special.

To enjoy the unique work of dedicated authors Pete Peru and Lord Tupelo get yourself a one-click ride to ANY Amazone outlet where you can regale yourself of a copy of The Reeking Hegs – paperback, ebook and audiobook available.


Conspiracy rumours abound with regard to the fact that HS2 is the chemical formula for disulphides. Are these mercenary short-term profiteers cocking a crafty snook at P.M.Johnson’s top Glasgow spend-in and fancy yapfest?

From Rooters on the hot-spot co-respondent Lawd Tulepo. Message reads:

CHURCH OF BONGO PLANS “BIG BANG” FOR HS2:   The first high-speed train to run the new HS2 line from London to Birmingham will be met by a giant drum, a Church of Bongo press release claimed today.   As the train speeds at 250mph through the remnants of Cubbyhole Woods, bulldozed earlier this year, passengers will find themselves participating in what Church of Bongo are calling “The Big Bang.”​

It is nothing short of monstrously ugly and expensive

  RUINS OF THE TEMPLE   The sturdy giant drum constructed mainly with reinforced, upcycled bamboo will be positioned on the track directly over spot marking the site of the hallowed ruins of the Temple of Bongo. The emplacement mountings will require expert calculations to allow the train, effectively acting as a drumstick, to rebound away safely. A dedicated team of quantum percussionists are working round the clock and are 100% confident of a resounding result.  Grandstands, pews and viewing platforms will be constructed nearby. Ticketing and VIP packages will be announced when the HS2 timetable is known.

                                             ​MONSTER DRUM:   Although the first train is not due until 2028, a well-known Belfast shipyard has already been contracted to build the monster drum, which is expected to measure at least five metres in diameter and weigh several tonnes.   It is planned to sail the completed drum from Belfast to Bristol on a fleet of specially commissioned coracles. From there it will be hauled up the rivers Avon and Leam as far as Offchurch, where the HS2 line passes overhead. It is expected that a simple trolley-mounted hoisting device based on wheels and levers will help complete the drum’s journey to its emplacement, less than a mile away.

Although only half the size of the real thing, the first prototype drum dwarfs Mr.Flash cabaret

                                              WHOOPJAMBOREEHOO:   Many Church of Bongo followers have been saddened to see the destruction of Cubbyhole Woods and the desecration of the Temple. But with today’s announcement the Church offers a ray of hope, and a special day of entertainment and whoopjamboreehoo to look forward to.   As CofB regulars say: Be there or be somewhere else! Bring a drum!

This news brought to you courtesy of The Reeking Hegs and Syndicated Highlights International Tabloids (S.H.I.T)Inc.

Pete Peru and Lord Tupelo, The Reeking Hegs co-authors and co-founding membranes of the Church of Bongo take the salute.

The Reeking Hegs is a profoundly wonderful text of the provoko-fictitious kind, published by Montag Press of San Fran Ca. no less fame and available in paperback, ebook and audiobook form from any Amazone franchise or outlet.


The Reeking Hegs Hall of Fame rides again! Who put the raunch in the judge’s paunch?

Moon rising in the sign of the Walrus.

Devotees and fans of The Reeking Hegs will, I am sure, have a good idea of the answer to the above question.

Step forward another of our shimmering constellation of characters in the strong female characters category – Mammadamn Spuloperov! Famed throughout Ugzcyk for her therapeutic healing and Carnomancing prowess, the Mammadamn features in settings so varied as to include her appearances as TV Hostess and Star witness in the trial of the Century. Passage introducing the Mammadamn herself in Canto 1 follows:

‘The next day we set sail ‘neath a blackly sky on Yick’s sloop, the Blood Soaked Noose. It was to be a cruise of mind-bending horror. Fortunately, I spent most of the time in Mammadamn Spuloperov’s sea chest undergoing psycho cream bliss therapy, you understand.’

This is possibly the first but sure isn’t the last encounter between the plucky narrator and herself. As he becomes progressively ever more and more deeply sucked into the quagmire of the mystery and horror of The Reeking Hegs, Private Investigator Seighton once again feels the need to consult with the Mammadamn in Canto 5:

‘I decided to consult with Mammadamn Spuloperov.

“Mammadamn Spuloperov invites you in.”

“No, thank you. I couldn’t. Really. What a lovely kiosk you have here!”

“I call it…my tea-chest.”

“Tea! Super. Love a cup!”

“I do not serve tea, you piss fly!”

“What! What do you serve then?”

Other members of The Reeking Heg’s notable collection of notables are also drawn irresistibly to her. Here be an account of Little Knowing What’s experience:

“Once he went on a Bank Holiday weekend excursion with Mammadamn Spuloperov. He returned confused and breathless, stumbling across the tundra until he eventually fell in with a company of block haulers engaged on the contract of a lifetime.”

The Mammadamn’s final show-stopping appearance in The Reeking Hegs takes place in Canto 12: The Trial. Before the excerpt bear with me as I attempt to summarise the scene. In Courtroom 5 Seighton is on trial for treason, or, put another way, for his life. The prosecutor, Mrs.Bayak, has called forth a new witness to the stand – Professor Enid Subótika. To his astoundment, Seighton watches as, instead of the venerable professor, the Mammadamn makes a spectacular entrance to the courtroom. It seems everyone present save himself is delighted.

” She sopranoed extravagantly, bursting forth from the box. Everyone drew in a breath at the sight of her galvanized tutu and the Black Feg Mamba that hissed at her tongue-forking reply. Mrs.Bayak capsized, half the jury fainted and Judge Whynot, unable to stop himself, ejaculated. The sweating gnomes sweated even more and the team of chests began to warp.”

Thank you for reading this far. Please share the blog with your friends and foes. Feel free if the need takes you to also comment. This place needs more COMMENTARY!! Have a pity for my faith in this project.