Rubble Club Archives

No, Rubble Clubbers, don’t run away! You might not recognise the place, it’s so squeaky clean after my husband Malcolm’s spring cleaning episode, but you are indeed here in the Rubble Club Headquarters, my cosy little parlour here in the Stone Quarry Cottage at the foot of the Rocky Headlands of the land of Undergrowby. I know, clean and tidy is not always cosy is it? We’ll soon have it nice and messy again, don’t worry.  I have been making a start on the untidying by experimenting with new tea mixtures for this week’s spectacular buffet. I am wracked with guilt by my poor culinary performance last week, when I invited you(selfishly) to do a little self-catering. No one dared to rummage around in my cupboards, for fear, no doubt,  of appearing impolite, and consequently everyone went away hungry and thirsty for the first time in the history of the Rubble Club. I was hoping at least one of you would have had a go at baking and brewing. Goodness knows you have all seen how it’s done by my own fair hands often enough! Some day I hope to appoint a deputy cook (who will be given his or her special Rubble Club Deputy Cook’s badge)who can take over from me when I am feeling out of sorts. So far no one has appeared to volunteer for the job, but like the eternal optimist that I am, I live in cheerful hope.

You will, I dare say, be longing to taste my aforementioned new tea blends, samples of which you will see scattered fetchingly around the newly-swept floor, despite Malcolm’s protests. Well, there is a green tea, a white tea and a teabag tea. Which would you like? As you know, the chief ingredient of all my teas is finest Stone Quarry gravel, and I was sick of people refusing my tea, saying,” Oh, I only drink green tea, or I only drink white tea,  tea bag tea,” etc.. I searched around for some new exciting(not at all secret) ingredients to satisfy the wide range of tastes in my circle of tea-drinking friends. They were all locally sourced and organic. In the search for green gravel, I put on my swiming costume and dived into one of Granny Gray’s fish tanks. I selected some nice bits of gravel coated with that slimy green stuff which, when boiled, makes a lovely fishy-tasting dark green tea, greener than anything you have ever tasted before. See what you think.

If green tea is not quite to your taste, perhaps the white tea will surprise you with its unusual whiteness, for a tea. I crumbled up some of those dried-up left-over porcelain scraps from Granny Gray’s waste clay bucket, added them to my basic gravel tea recipe and they dissolved into a milky, delightfully chalky-tasting liquid that I have called, simply and truthfully,’heavenly white gravel tea’. If you do not like it, please do not pour it into the sink because it blocks up the pipes, like most of my tea blends. Because of this problem, my new teabag tea has come to the rescue for those who have plumbing. I have designed some cute little bags, each one different from the rest, sewn from scraps of Granny Gray’s laddered tights,(she assures me they are organic) which I snatched from the washing line and laddered myself so she would give them to me free of charge. I have stuffed the little bags with my finest gravel blend and stitched them tight so the gravel stays in the bag. The large teapot on the right is full of teabag tea which I have called “Delicious Drain-free tea”. Which is your favourite, I wonder?

In my new, shiny clean kitchen I now have plenty of clear space to do a big batch of baking to accompany my new teas. I am in the mood for innovation, and I am wondering what new exciting ingredient to add to my rock cakes along with the Scottish oatmeal (kindly donated by the sackful, as you may or may not know by Linda, Deputy Head Prefect and chief knitter for the Rubble Club, from the Scottish land of Kilmarnoch). My quest led me no further than to the desk drawer of Grandad Gray, my computer clerk, who likes his medicinal sweets. He has developed a taste for a strange health tonic sweet known as ’sherbert dips’ which have a useful little black stick of liquorice stuffed in the end, to help scoop the health-giving sherbert into his mouth. He buys them by the dozen in springtime, (I suspect it is to counteract the aching joints afflicting the elderly when suffering from the spring fever), so he never noticed when I popped one into my basket in the name of research. I, ever keen to improve the diet of my pet rocks (and their owners),  by way of random experiment, have chopped up the liquorice stick so it looks like delicious black gravel and sprinkled it along with the fizzy sherbert into my baking mix. Now wait, I know they taste shocking, and not at all as delicious as my usuals, Rubblers, but if we could only acquire the taste for them by patient, devoted practice, think how healthy we would be!

And now a question for you, Rubble Clubbers. Would you swap your pet rocks for a pet donkey? One of the pigeons on the Blackpool Promenade asked me that question when he caught me smiling fondly at a donkey enjoying his mid morning carrot on the beach. Although they are lovely and stinky, love my rock cakes and give me free rides all the time, I would not have room for one in my parlour, what would I do with all that poo and where would I find all those carrots? No, pet rocks take some beating as the perfect pets. Even when I have hundreds of them all over the house, they are no trouble at all, bring endless good luck, (do not need a great big field to live in) and give me unquestioning devotion at all times. What more could anyone ask?So, Rubble Clubbers, if you find yourself tempted to buy yourself a pet donkey, ask yourself if you would not be better off with a nice new pet rock, and a trip to Blackpool with a bag of carrots. There’s always a donkey here that you can borrow and sniff in exchange for a bag of carrots, and when you have done that there are hundreds of trouble-free pet rocks waiting to be adopted at the Magic Wand Factory Shop on Dickson Road, Blackpool. You will thank me later for my good sense.

And with that I will leave you and wish you a happy week full of nice surprises, and until next week I remain your devoted chairman and invisible but earnest friend, Madge Dumpling.

Hello, Rubble Clubbers, I am over here in the bed cupboard with my eyes closed, resting. Luckily for you, a gust of wind has blown the door open, because I just don’t have the strength to walk far enough to let you in. I have had such a busy week here in the Stone Quarry I am worn right out. The Scottish oats and grit are on the shelf, if one of you would kindly mix up the rock buns for the buffet. Yesterday’s gravel tea over there in the teapot will have to do for the drinkies, unless someone wants to gather the gravel and brew some more. No? Come on in and sit yourselves down quietly then. I have some photos to show you, sent to us by the lovely and talented Linda from Kilmarnoch, who is now the Rubble Club’s chief knitter and pet rock fashion-house owner. If you want to order some for your own little rockies you can contact her on member@lindanagle.wanadoo.co.uk   I am pleased to notice, by the way, that she has made a Zen garden out of that otherwise unemployed glass dish containing sand. Linedancer, you have set a new  Zen garden trend. Do you have any advice for other would-be Zen garden makers? Are there any rules?

You will notice that the pet rocks are modelling Easter bonnets and football supporters’ jumpers, hats and scarves.Oh if only I had as much energy as Linda! But it’s no good, I haven’t. Everyone else is rushing around doing the spring cleaning, planting seeds, starting new year projects, but they haven’t been awake all winter like myself, have they? My husband Malcolm, for instance, he is full of the joys of spring….”Just give me a lift with this boulder, Madge,”….”Here, shake this rug out this while I sweep under the couch, Madge,”….what does he think I am? His slave? So anyway, to make the point to him and anyone else who thinks I have nothing better to do than spring cleaning and shifting boulders, I have taken to my bed cupboard with my pet rocks until the heavy work is over. Could someone pour me a nice cup of gravel tea to perk me up? Thank you, Rubble Clubbers. You are always there for me, like the eternal flame of true friendship, the kind that never dies. It’s a good job you came.

Since I have taken to my bed, however, no one but you has been to visit me and bring me little treats, as I had hoped. Granny Gray, my shopkeeper, whom I thought I had trained to cater for my needs,  has no doubt been having a lovely time chatting to (and delving into the private affairs of) the throngs of interesting visitors in the Magic Wand Factory Shop on Dickson Road. I am sure she must have noticed I (and my ladder) have been absent from beneath the shop counter, but cruelly she has chosen to ignore it. I wonder how long I have to be absent before anyone would come looking for me? The Blackpool weather has been fabulously bright as usual, the kind of weather that puts people in the mood for adopting hundreds of orphan pet rocks, but I have been too out of sorts to comb the beach for new specimens. If there is a pet rock population shortage as a result of my absence from the fireside hatchery, blame it on Malcolm, and Granny Gray and everybody else.

Thanks to you, Rubble Clubbers with your darling little pet rocks in your pockets, I am feeling much better. All I needed was some attention, wasn’t it? Now I know someone cares enough to visit me,  I shall have to shake myself up and return to my work. My friends and gossiping partners, the pigeons from the Promenade, will be missing me and my stale rock cake crumbs. There is a lot of exciting digging and building work going on along the Promenade, making way for what they are pretending is a new seafront gathering place for events and spectaculars. The visitors who like to stroll along the Promenade eating chips and the pigeons who patrol around the Promenade in front of the tower begging for chips have been temporarily ousted by the diggers. They must be starving!

In exchange for stale rock cakes, I persuaded them to stand on their wildlife rights and perch across the road on the seafront buildings and watch the developments from high above, on my behalf. I, who have no wings, cannot get on top of the buildings, so the pigeons have to do the job for me if they want their crumbs. You see, Rubblers, I (and the pigeons) suspect the workmen have heard about the growing popularity of the Rubble Club (and, to a lesser extent, the pigeon fanciers clubs) and are preparing a new, bigger venue for our meetings. I like to keep an eye on this new venue, so I can advise them on colour schemes, etc., when the time comes for us to move in. Meanwhile, I have told the pigeons to say nothing to the workmen. It will be nice for them to think they have surprised us with their lovely gift. I am making myself a glittery new gown ready for the presentation ceremony later in the year. Linda from Kilmarnoch, my deputy head prefect and official Rubble Club Knitter, must have guessed. She sent me a knitted Madge Dumpling mannequin doll, a taylor’s dummy,  a replica of myself in every way, complete with knitted pet rock in one hand and knitted basket in the other. If I were made of knitting, it would be an uncanny resemblance, (although I am considerably prettier of course, I hope you realise, Linda) so I am using it to try on and do alterations to my glittery dress. If it looks lovely on the mannequin, it will be sure to look even lovelier on me. I must ask Grandad Gray to photograph the mannequin so I can show it to you next week. If you want a little knitted  Madge in your life, you will have to contact Linda and ask politely how many hundreds of pounds it would cost.

I am feeling even more animated now, Rubblers. You can stop making the rock cakes for the buffet now, …they are not quite to my standard,….and please stop thumbing through my secret recipe book unless your surname is Dumpling. I am still feeling rather feeble but I am nevertheless back at work again, baking and pet rock whispering, like the true hero that I am. You can sit back down on the couch with your little rockies where you belong. Thank you.  I shall struggle on, and by next week I should be back to normal, once again your true friend and irreplaceable Chairman, Madge Dumpling.

The Blackpool sunshine is flooding in around you as you let yourself into my parlour on this holiday weekend. You are like Easter angels of light! I hope you have presented your pet rocks with their little Easter eggs. Oh yes, they know all about spring festivals and their accompanying gifts and they will be expecting one! If you have no chocolate eggs to spare, please do not, under any circumstances, present them with a full sized hen’s egg. It will upset them beyond consolation to see an egg gone cold, abandoned by its mother hen. They will think they have been invited to the chick’s funeral. Most of them, after all, are orphans themselves and if it were not for me with my Dumpling magic, and you, dear, kind Rubble Clubbers, for homing them, they would have been abandoned, alone and unappreciated themselves, waiting to be smashed underfoot, or mixed into a rock cake recipe, much like hen’s eggs. Do not underestimate a pet rock’s boundless compassion for life’s other creatures, Rubblers. If anything, they are somewhat hysterical with it, but you would never guess because they hold it all in unselfishly, much like myself, for fear of being a nuisance. So, if you have no chocolate to spare, make them a nice little easter card for now, or shape little eggs from gravel tea-leaves mixed with oatmeal, like I do. It’s the thought that counts!

On to the mailbag. Thank you for your kind wishes, Linedancer. I wish you could have seen the lovely pet rock knitwear delivered to me from Scotland, hand made by Linda from Kilmarnoch. I was under the counter at the time, and when I heard Granny Gray shrieking with delight I shot up my ladder to have a look at it all. No one spotted me. It was as if I were invisible! Linda’s daughter and delivery girl, Debz,  found some likely pet rocks to model the stripey knitted outfits and they looked utterly adorable in them.

There was a little jumper , an Easter bonnet, a stripey hat and a couple of scarves, one in tangerine and white, for Blacpool football supporters like myself, and one in blue and white for Kilmarnoch supporters. I insisted Granny Gray sent the knitwear models back home to Scotland to show Linda the finished article, and Debz took some photos which she promised to send to the Rubble Club so we can show you all, but so far she hasn’t. When she does, you will all want to order some for your little rockies, direct from Linda, whose email address I will give you. Linda loves to knit and knit and knit, as we all know. For friendship’s sake, Rubble Clubbers, give her something to knit!

Linda’s letter mentioned that green-faced old Wanderella Windmeddler, the Wandmother of the Magic Wand Factory, and asked whether I had been in trouble with her for stealing her membership and website while she was asleep all winter long. What do you mean Linda? I have stolen nothing. I merely offered shelter to her winter visitors and it is not my fault if they found they preferred my pet rocks to her magic wands as a result. It serves her right for being selfish and sleeping so soundly. That love-struck boyfriend of hers, Wobbin the Wizard, will no doubt come to the rescue and put her back on her magic laptop soon, so all you wand collectors out there, (if indeed there are any left), try knocking on her door at the Magic Wand Factory website.  She is, in any case,  probably still unwinding her tangled winter curlers and will not open her door to anyone, not even to Wobbin, until she is looking her spring best. She is so vain, she even enters beauty contests! Imagine!

Think yourselves lucky, Rubble Clubbers that you have me as your chairman to entertain you all through the dark winter months. I unselfishly forgo my sleep for the sake of my little rockies(and you, Rubblers) and I am not vain enough ever to wrap curlers in my hair. After all, I have lovely sticky-out grey-brown hair, don’t I? Why spoil it with curlers?

I am pleased to announce that many more new families have adopted pet rocks and hundreds (well, one or two)of their delightful accessories this week, and many repeat visitors to Blackpool have returned to the Magic Wand Factory Shop on Dickson Road for more and more little rockies.  I hope they are all going to write to us and turn up every week at the meetings like you, Linedancer, Linda and Debz, who deserve a medal of honour for your constancy to the cause. We can only wait and see. But you know me, I am not the pushy type like that Wanderella Windmeddler. Linda, if I see her magic wands wearing little Kilmarnoch supporting knitted hats and scarves with a “Made in Scotland” label, I will know you have been distracted from  your pet rock-keeping by magic powers other than the Dumpling kind.

As it is such a lovely day, I am going to take a few pet rocks in their Easter bonnets for a stroll along the Blackpool promenade. Every now and then I will take a rest and listen in to a few conversations as I sit under a bench full of tourists, writing notes. It gives me inspiration for my pet rock bedtime stories. You should try it. Just pop your pet rock in your pocket, get on a bus to Blackpool, visit the Magic Wand Factory Shop and Granny Gray will point you towards the Promenade where you will find me, hard at work under one of the benches. The pet rocks will be posing away in my basket,winking at passers-by and showing off their lovely hats. You can’t miss us, although I have to admit that occasionally, to some, I do seem to be somewhat invisible. If you decide to come, I will see you soon,  but if you are staying put, I will leave you to finish the buffet until we meet again next week, and meanwhile I remain your hard-working chairman and sincere friend, Madge Dumpling.

Hurray! Spring has sprung and the other Growbies of Undergrowby, my friends, neighbours and family, are awake again after their long winter sleep. I am Madge Dumpling, quarrymistress, Chairman of the Rubble Club and world-famous pet rock expert. My home here at the Stone Quarry of Undergrowby(see map) is the headquarters of the Rubble Club of which you are a member, or you would not be here. If you wish to learn the magical art of pet rock whispering, you will need to hang upon my every word because what I do not know on the subject is not worth knowing. You may take notes.

My parlour is already filling up with dutiful, yawning Growbies and their excited little pet rocks, thrilled to be out and about again in the fresh air and mingling with the spring  membership. It will  make a change for someone else apart from myself and my neighbour, the Time and the Time and Tide Inspector, Clockit Quick, to be awake. Even my snoring husband, Malcolm, the Quarrymaster, has finally woken up.

When the official Spring Drum Thunderclap Drumroll was played by the Undergrowby Drummer far away in the  easterly gnomestead known as the Spring Green, the pet rocks heard it and rejoiced. They have better hearing than me. I heard nothing, and Malcolm would still be asleep now if it were not for the pet rocks on the shelf by his bed cupboard rattling against each other noisily, doing their alarm clock impersonation.

Malcolm, like all the other Growbies,  is very superstitious. At the change of every season he likes his lucky thingamajigs  all around him for safety, and so do I , but I am content with having the luckiest creatures in the world all around me,…my pet rocks. Malcolm, on the other hand,  has fingers in all kinds of magical pies( including my own world-famous gravel pies),  and I never know what lucky whatnot he will be bringing home next.

At this very moment he will be running back from the Spring Awakening Ceremony at the Hub with his lucky maypole ribbons, freshly plucked from this year’s maypole after the dancing has finished. He will have swapped the ribbons three times with different strangers to bring about the magic within them. He will tie them to the door knocker of the Stone Quarry and there they will remain for three months bringing in lucky spring magic. When the three months is up, spring will be over and their work will be done.  They will be burned on the Summer Awakening bonfire ceremony in the Summerlands, which is to the south of here. He will return, rosy-red-faced from the bonfire and pleased with himself, warm bonfire ash singeing his pockets. Before it goes cold he will scatter the ash in front of the house to bring in the lucky summer magic. Oh it goes on and on. Sometimes I wonder if he is a Dumpling at all. He’s such a worrier and a dreamer, unlike myself, with my feet firmly on the floor, like the mountain that I am. When he gets back, from the maypole I’ll point him to the housework which has been piling up since he has been asleep. He can’t expect me to do it. I have my pet rock whispering to do.

The buffet has  special seasonal ingredients for your delight this week, Rubble Clubbers, chopped fresh nettle stings. They have wilted a bit sinceI chopped them the day before yesterday, so the sting might have faded somewhat, but if you concentrate and imagine well, you might get a sense of that spring stinging sensation amongst the rock cakes that we all love so well. Spring just would not be the same without it. The gravel tea has a sprinkling of thorn blossom stalks to help your circulation if you are a bit stiff after just coming out of hibernation, like the Growbies.  It will do you good. Enjoy!

On to the mailbag. Congratulations. Linedancer, on your brilliant idea of making a Zen garden especially for your pet rocks, who have been trained to be wary of plants, especially trees, who are of course potentially hazardous to pet rocks. My only question is this, …how big is this Zen garden if there is no room for you in it? Is it just a plant pot with gravel in it? If so, that is fine and understandable, but if it is just that the pet rocks are taking up all the sunbeds and refusing to move along politely and let you sit down, you will need to take them in hand. They have been trained by me to be mannerly at all times and it is your duty to insist upon it. I know you are a forest creature yourself, Linedancer, and it must have taken some self-control to set aside even the smallest of spaces with no seed-sowing and green planting, purely for the sake of your pet rocks.Thank you, Linedancer. Your dedication never fails to impress me.   Rubble Clubbers, I insist that you follow the example of your head prefect, Linedancer, and make a nice gravelly Zen garden for your little rockies.

Linda from Kilmarnoch, my faithful deputy head prefect,  you requested information about the size of girth of male pet rocks. It is about two inches but they are all slightly different. Do I sense a knitting spree coming on, Linda? You, I feel, are destined to open a pet rock knitwear store, and I recommend Blackpool for the new venture, because in Blackpool, not only are there Undergrowby pet rocks being adopted by the nice local population and kindly visitors, there are also those edible pink stick-like, faceless Blackpool rocks, who would look rather fetching in a nice bobble hat and scarf in the colours of football teams. If they were dressed in your designer knitwear, their predators, the humans, might think twice about eating them, thinking perhaps that they were tiny thin people on their way to a football match. They might then be allowed to live long enough for me to practice my Dumpling magic on them, perhaps cure them of their unfortunate minty stickiness and make their poor, frightened faces visible to unbelievers. Be quick and move to Blackpool, Linda!

As Linda pointed out, Linedancer’s rockies should count themselves lucky to be living in the most divine holiday destination in  the world, Blackpool, and stop pestering to go to visit Fred and Squishy in Australia, which is not, as I understand, a bad holiday destination itself, though not up to Blackpool’s standards. As it happens I already have several parcels full of desperate, fearless, pioneering pet rock orphans waiting in a volunteer’s queue to go to Australia as soon as Fred and Squishy’s owners and their pet-rockless friends and family send them their aeroplane tickets….unless of course someone else adopts them first.

Next weekend is, I understand, a holiday weekend, known in Blackpool as Easter weekend, and so there will be a great rush of customers for my lovely pet rocks and their Easter accessories(Easter bonnets, Easter eggs, and Easter egg and chips on a plate) on display in the Magic Wand Factory Shop on Dickson Road, Blackpool. Granny Gray, my doddery old shopkeeper will have to have all her wits about her and concentrate for once. I shall be under the counter all weekend, supervising her and  listening in to cheerful  conversations and comments by the hundreds of visitors who I expect will be coming through the door. One of them might be you, Rubble Clubber, I know, and if you mention my name, Madge Dumpling, I will hear you and I might even climb up my ladder with a special gift for you, or at least throw one up to you from under the counter. Remember the magic words….MADGE DUMPLING.

And with that I will leave you to finish the buffet and shake off the winter cobwebs all over each other. Malcolm will be giving the place a good old spring clean before next week’s meeting,  and I will be scattering a nice familiar new layer of grit on the cushions in case you might think you have arrived at the wrong house. Until next week then, I remain your invisible friend and dependable chairman, Madge Dumpling.