Rubble Club Archives

Hello, Rubble Clubbers, this is your friend, Madge Dumpling calling once again from the Stone Quarry of the Rocky Headlands of Undergrowby. For the interest of newcomers, you and your delightful pet rocks are welcome to join me any time. On all matters concerning them, I am a walking encyclopaedia of useful facts, figures and management tips. I am here to advise on general care, grooming, diet, peculiar ailments and seasonal matters. You can tell me all your happy (or sad) pet rock experiences. I will help you climb your every mountain and shoulder all your burdens as long as you are housing one of my precious little pet rocks. It is my intention to make sensitive pet rock whisperers out of each and every one of you. You only have to latch on to the correct state of mind in order to achieve it. Tune in to me once a week and my expert, skillful state of mind will gradually rub off on you. Before you know it, you will be thinking like a Dumpling and the world of pet rocks will open up to you like a magical mountain of rubble.
I am the quarrymistress, pet rock charmer and life-chairman of the world-famous Rubble Club which is held weekly in my lovely rock-strewn parlour. There is always a delicious buffet of home made rock cakes and speciality teas, and always something new to learn about your pet rock and its funny little ways. Every dutiful owner will be here to hang upon my every word, in case some gem of wisdom should fall out of my mouth which will change you and your pet rock’s life forever.
This week is gossip week, because it has been raining all week and the pet rocks are in a cynical, bad mood. It’s only natural, because in the wild, dampness chills and rots their lower extremities, finding all their weak, soft spots, crumbling them from the ground up, so to speak. A spot of rain now and again is welcome and refreshing, but relentless wetness, day after day, with no time to dry out is a poisonous climatic influence for a rock, along with frost and storm-force gales, for other reasons. A rock’s favourite weather is sunshine. When they are damp, all they can think about and wish for is warmth and sunshine. The bad moods associated with dampness are sarcasm and cynicism. The expression on the face is that of a spoilt brat, for which,(I know), I have only myself to blame for spoiling them. I fall for it every time. I can see they are listening to the rain outside, and working themselves up into a grumpy mood. Their eyelids droop a bit and I know they are thinking the worst of me, eyeing me up and down, challenging me to come up with some entertainment for themto take their minds off the rain. I have trudged around the beach in the rain looking for driftwood for the fire till my feet have turned an unattractive shade of blue, the wet hem of my petticoats slopping unpleasantly against my ankles, making them swell up unattractively. It’s a good job nobody has called in to see me in a way, because I am not looking my best. Anyway, to spite everyone, I am going to talk about them behind their backs. Unlike the pet rocks, who depend on me to entertain them to lift their mood, I have a voice and can unburden my dampness through spiteful gossip. So, here goes,
Spiteful gossip No. 1
That Granny Gray, my shopkeeper at the Magic Wand Factory Shop in Dickson Road, Blackpool has forgotten to hand out my specially-baked rock cakes to my devoted friend and prefect, Linedancer, who dutifully called in to the shop this week to collect her shiny new prefect’s badge. I don’t know what your pet rocks are having for elevenses, Linedancer, but whatever it is, it can not be better than the gritty little dainties I had prepared for them, if only the doddery old fool had not forgotten to follow my instructions correctly and given them to you. They were rightfully yours, so please demand that she gives them to you along with a sincere apology. Anyone else interested in a rock cake now knows they have to ask specially for one, because who knows how long it will be before she puts them on display where they belong. The incompetent old fool!
Spiteful gossip No. 2.
I swear that husband of mine, Malcolm Dumpling is turning into a giant pet rock. When it’s raining he mopes around, refusing to work, pretending he has lost his tools and doesn’t feel too well, etc.. His eyelids start to droop and his mouth turns down at the corners and he stands looking out of the window, watching the rain, his hands stuck like limpets next to the pet rock display on the windowsill. He waits for me to go out in the rain to fetch the wood, light the fire, bake the cakes and brew the tea then he sits down in his enormous rocking chair, eats and drinks while I tell him and the pet rocks amusing stories about the olden days and before I’ve even finished my first story, he goes to sleep (until I pinch him).
Spiteful gossip No 3.
Clockit Quick, the Time and Tide Inspector who lives across on the hill in the Watery Wetlands, predicted that the rain would carry on for another week, but he was wrong again. It’s fine today, for now at least. Perhaps he should stick to inspecting and stop predicting. He thinks he knows everything, but unlike me, he doesn’t.
Ah, I feel better now. I think I have turned the corner and am back to my old positive self again. It’s funny how other people’s (and creatures’) moods can affect you, isn’t it? However, remember, Rubble Clubbers, it’s your duty as pet rock owners to take responsibility for you own good temper, like I do, and when it’s raining, turn the lights on, light the fire, bake some rock cakes, crack some jokes or if you can’t fake a smile, have a good old spiteful gossip till you can gossip no more, as and when necessary. That’s my remedy for damp spirits. It never fails.
I have to leave you now, whoever you are. Please write to me to let me know you are there, if only to say “Hello Madge, the pet rock is fine”. It would mean the world to me, especially in the rain, when we can all use some outside warmth and support.
Till next week, I remain your faithful chairman and friend, Madge Dumpling.

Hello Rubble Clubbers, this is Madge Dumpling welcoming you once again to your friendly Friday pet rock fanciers meeting. I can only just squeeze you in, and all the chairs are taken (except mine, which I guard with my life). The Undergrowby gnomes (the Growbies) and their pet rocks have been here since early morning, chomping away on my world-famous rock cakes and comparing specimens. I have already had to bake two extra batches, and my kettle has been on the go non-stop.
The Rubble Club has never been so popular. It seems there is a sudden rush of interest amongst pet rock owners due to the strange phenomenon of pet rocks budding and giving birth left, right and centre. Mysteriously, there is a pet rock population explosion. There must be something in the air here in Blackpool that leads to mischief. Even aged dust gathering pet rocks have arrived at today’s meeting bearing newly-hatched young. Their confused owners have come to the meeting to show off their new arrivals, only to find my parlour overcrowded with more of the same. I tell them, and I tell you, I have had nothing to do with it, I have done no magic spells, put nothing unusual in my pet rock buns or meddled with the forces of nature in any way which might create this mayhem. Well, why would I? As you know, I have enough orphans of my own to deal with.
If you want someone to blame, blame Mother Earth. She is a meddlesome woman, much after my own heart (and like myself, a cake-baking genius). In Undergrowby, it is taken for granted that she has a hand in most birth miracles, invisibly, from her strange, warm, dark home down the Empty Hole in the middle of The Hub. We never see her, but we hear her clattering her pots and pans on baking day. To cheer her up and let her know we are grateful for her services to roots, foundations and birth miracles, we whisper fond messages and private confidences to her down the Empty Hole and we erect the maypole noisily in the Hole above her head once a year to make sure she gets up out of her winter cocoon, like the rest of us have to. She is invisible of course, in common with yourselves, you who are out there magically in cyber space, yet apparently capable of being in my parlour at the same time. Perhaps one of you is Mother Earth cleverly disguised as a Rubble Clubber, which would explain perfectly the sudden rise in pet rock birth rates. If I could only see you, I would follow each and every one of you home and watch if one of you disappears shiftily down the Empty Hole with one of my secret recipes under her arm.
In short, I have no idea what is happening, but if any of you would like to adopt one of these single parents, please come to the Magic Wand Shop on Dickson Road, Blackpool and sift through the crowds of them patiently waiting for new homes. While I have been talking to you, the Growbies have been slipping away back to their everyday business, their pockets stuffed with rock cakes, “accidentally” leaving dozens of their single parents behind, cluttering up my mantelpiece and windowsill so there is no room for my own little darling rockies to breathe. If this goes on I will have to create a new show category for these rare new single parents, to encourage the more competitive amongst you to adopt them.
After all, it might be the only chance some of you will ever have to win one of my red rosettes at the annual show. I usually win all the others, as you probably might guess.
I now have an announcement for someone who knows who she is. Your prefect’s badge is ready and waiting impatiently to be pinned onto your best frock.
And now, another announcement. I would like you all to know I have baked a batch of pet rock cakes from wholesome pet rock-friendly ingredients, (rubble, sand, grit, floor-sweepings, etc.), to sell in the shop for those of you with no talent or inclination to bake for your rocky little friends. Each cake will provide a lifetime of delicious food for an army of pet rocks. Just crumble a little tiny bit off the bottom of the cake into your pet rock’s personal dish and watch its eyes light up. It will recognise the world-famous Dumpling magic smell immediately, and be remembering the happy times it had here guzzling away with friends every Friday in my parlour. Go on, Rubble Clubbers, turn your pet rockery’s catering section into a nostalgic little patch of heaven with a Madge Dumpling original rock cake. A word of advice though, Rubble Clubbers,…Hands off! The cake is not for you, it is for your pet rock. Humans would not thrive on them, in fact your digestive systems are so fragile, you would be poorly if you ate too many, or any at all in fact. Pet rocks however, have the stomachs of a mountain and nothing less than my crunchy magical recipes will ever truly satisfy them. If you want one of my recipes, you only have to ask. I am not mean.
What’s that smell? Burning? I have to go and attend to my oven now, or the latest batch will be ruined. My invisible door will be open again next Friday, so until then, I remain your faithful friend and devoted chairman, Madge Dumpling.

Hello, Rubble Clubbers, this is your little friend Madge Dumpling at your service again, happy to accommodate you in my parlour for this week’s pet rock fanciers’ gathering. Now today I would ask you to keep a careful eye on your pet rocks, and not let them go frolicking off together round my parlour because it has come to my attention that we are in the middle of something of a mating season. Perhaps it’s just the Blackpool sunshine going to their heads and causing all the swellings, lumps and bumps that I am noticing on some of my prime specimens, but my highly developed Dumpling family magical instincts tell me otherwise. If I am right, expect to see them on the shelves in the pet rock department of the Magic Wand Factory shop in Dickson Road, hanging their heads in shame, lumps, bumps and all, looking for new homes.
Oh, crikey! As I speak, one of them is hatching out. If they all hatch out, we are going to be overrun with baby rocks. I’ll have to have a nursery wing built on to my parlour if I’m going to cope with it all. I mean, it’s not as if I just have my little rockies to care for, because as you know I am also a world famous caterer. My crunchy rock buns and gravel tea are the toast of Undergrowby, and I’m sure lots of Rubble Club members only put in an appearance for that little Friday taste of heaven that I alone can give them. I had not bargained for becoming a full-time pet rock midwife, as it seems I am fated to be. Rubble Clubbers, I think it is your duty to make your way to the magic wand shop from wherever you are and adopt one of these errant one- parent families and give them a new roomy start in life, far away from my overcrowded little parlour. They could be used as free baby-sitters for all your little pet rock orphans. It’s about all they are fit for because they are too hormonal and obsessed with parenting to be reliable at anything else, and lovable as they may be, they all like to think they are earning their keep, after all. I must warn you though that they will not part with their precious new offspring for hundreds of years and will therefore be useless specimens for entering into the annual pet rock show. There is, as you may or may not know, no category for one-parent families, but if I am left with them all, perhaps I will have to create one, (not that I am just in it for the glory of winning prizes, in case you were thinking the worst of me [although I do have a cupboard full of red rosettes, as you would expect from a world famous expert like myself])
I would now like to make a public announcement. The large broken boulders which have been toppled from the rockeries on the artificial ‘cliffs’ leading down to the sea on Blackpool’s north promenade are none of my doing. I know I told you that I spend most of my days wandering through tunnels behind the rocks looking for rock samples, but I am only six inches tall and am incapable of throwing huge boulders down the cliffs. No, it was not me. It was the work of some naughty young male vandals who took no notice of me when I told them off for doing it. I was shouting at them”Stop! Murderers!” through a slit in the rock face, but they were heartless creatures without a care for the hundreds of pet rock seeds that fell to their death that day. Anyway, I have given Granny Gray a full description of them and if they come into the shop they are not allowed to adopt any pet rocks, ever. That should punish them. I can’t think how else to proceed. I loved those boulders. I have a moments’ silence every time I walk past the gaping holes where they once were.
On that sad note, I have to leave you before I start to fall into a depression, which is against my nature, being made of rock hard true grit as I am, like all those who are born in the earthy, grit-laden gnomestead known as the Rocky Headlands of Undergrowby.
Before I go I must just tell my new prefect and trusted ally, Linedancer, that her yellow prefect’s badge is now ready. I found a pin for it finally. I found it on the steps leading down to the sea, attached to a rude badge which I tore from a cowboy hat which lay next to a sunbathing linedancer. Perhaps it was you, Lineancer, in which case, shame on you for the rude badge. Your prefect’s badge will be a much more fitting fashion accessory for a gorgeous trend-setting Rubble Clubber like yourself.
I shall be seeing you all next Friday,m meanwhile I remain your devoted chairman and friend, Madge Dumpling.

Hello, Rubble Clubbers, this is Madge Dumpling, your friendly, charming little chairman welcoming you once again to the world famous Rubble Club. Finally June has arrived, a lovely time for pet rock picnics in the sun, and time for me to get out my fabulous summer wardrobe. If only you could see me, you would be jealous. I’m all in yellow, with sequins, like a ray of sunshine. It cheers the yellow rockies up to see me dressing to match them. They love to guess whose colours I will be wearing today so I have to alternate my colours to show I have no favourites. Isn’t it nice to think you can give them pleasure by doing the tiniest thing? Of course, we Rubble Clubbers try to please our little pets in everything we do. My husband, Malcolm Dumpling couldn’t care less what I wear as long as I keep baking the rock buns and brewing my speciality teas , but the rockies are extremely attentive to detail, and give me that disapproving look if I’m looking less than fabulous at all times. I (and you no doubt), dress divinely because that’s what Rubble Clubbers do. That drab old Granny Gray, my gossipy shopkeeper, just can’t get the hang of good taste in clothes, no matter how I try to put her right. That’s why I won’t let her into the meetings. She tries to sneak in, but her frumpy outfits give her away every time and I tell her to shooo off back into the shop where she belongs, gossping.
She just told me a heartwarming story about how someone came to be a member of the Rubble Club. As you know, we Growbies are currently rebuilding the land of Undergrowby here in Blackpool because we outgrew our wildlife sanctuary in the middle of nowhere. Well, in Blackpool, people confuse the word ‘rock’ with ‘Blackpool rock’, which isn’t rock at all, but more of a coloured sugar wand. It is, apparently, a much sought-after delight and tourists flock into Blackpool in search of it. One such tourist came into the Magic Wand Factory shop in Dickson Road, and bought a bagful of pet rocks, mistakenly thinking they were Blackpool rocks, which they were, but not in sugary sense. That stupid old Granny Gray obviously was too busy gift-wrapping and gossiping to make it clear what she was selling. Well, luckily, the recipient of the gift-wrapped parcel, whose name is Joan, realised the true nature of the priceless gift she had received when she read their accompanying leaflet and did not try to eat them. Since the moment she met them, she and her rockies have all been inseparable. Her pockets are all bulging and frayed with the wear and tear of accommodating them all (this is a common tell-tale sign of a devoted pet rock owner without a handbag, for the information of those of you interested in detective work).
Apparently, this Joan has been learning to drive a car and could never remember the rules of the road, so in response to my advice which she heard first here at the Rubble Club, she read them out to her little rock pals who remembered them perfectly and precisely for her. Now, whenever she is on the road with her pet rocks in her pocket, she has no trouble remembering everything. The wonderful news is, they all passed their driving test together this week and she is treating them to a weekend in Blackpool as a reward. We are all going to have a reunion picnic on the beach tonight. If you are there, you can join us.
Meanwhile, someone has just choked on some gravel tea an there is spillage all over the table. I’ll have to go. Linedancer, before I forget, Your prefect’s badge is out of the kiln at last and now just needs a pin attached, as soon as I find one. Please be patient with me, you know what a full life I have. I have roamed around Blackpool, but there are no pins to be found so far, but have no doubt, I will succeed.
Till next Friday I remain your sparklingly fabulous, faithful friend and chairman, Madge Dumpling.