TALL TALES

Nonsense and mundane shit from the Moolakii Club Tall Tales archives.

Entry #001

You ever look at a doily and think, “Why bother?” I mean, this one’s been on my radio since Thatcher was in, and it’s more dust than lace now. I give it a shake now and then, but it’s like trying to clean a fart with a hanky—pointless, really. I’d bin it, but it was Mum’s, and you don’t chuck your mum’s stuff, do you? Not unless you want her ghost tutting at you. I was at the corner shop this morning, getting my usual custard creams. That lad, Tariq, he’s behind the counter, fiddling with his phone. I said, “You’ll go blind staring at that thing,” and he just laughed. Cheeky bugger. I got a tin of soup too, tomato, because it’s easy on the teeth. Not that my teeth are bad, mind—well, not all of them. Don’t go thinking I’m some gummy old bat. The lift in this building’s on the blink again. Took me ten minutes to get to the ground floor yesterday. I could hear young Zara from number 14 swearing up a storm in there—proper potty mouth, that one. I don’t mind, but there’s a time and a place, isn’t there? I’d have given her a piece of my mind, but I was too busy trying not to drop my shopping. Life’s too short for arguments, and my tea’s getting cold. She sips her tea, grimaces at the mug’s chip, and sets it down. The doily twitches in a draft, and the light softens.

Zara stood at the fridge, staring at an empty milk carton like it had personally betrayed her. “You drank it all again, didn’t you?” she called to Tariq, who was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through memes on his phone. Tariq didn’t look up. “I had, like, one sip. You’re the one who drowns your cereal in it.” “One sip?” Zara said, waving the carton like a courtroom exhibit. “This thing’s drier than a camel’s arse! You’re a bloody milk vampire!” Tariq snorted, finally glancing over. “Milk vampire? That’s a new one. Write that down.” Zara chucked the carton into the recycling, muttering about “useless flatmates.” The flat smelled of burnt toast and the faint whiff of last night’s fish and chips, a Saturday morning ritual of chaos and crumbs. She grabbed a bowl of dry cereal and flopped next to Tariq, crunching loudly to make a point. “You didn’t take the bins out,” she said, elbowing him. “You didn’t do the dishes,” he shot back, dodging her jab. They glared at each other, then burst out laughing. Zara tossed a cornflake at him, which he caught in his mouth like a smug seal. “You’re still a twat,” she said, but she leaned against his shoulder, scrolling through his phone with him. The empty carton sat on the counter, a silent witness to their bickering, but also to the way they always ended up sharing the couch.

In the town of Bleakridge, where every bin was labelled and every citizen tracked, the dustbins started to move. Not far, mind—just a shuffle in the night, scooting a few feet from their assigned spots. Each bin was graffitied with rude slogans: “Sod the rules!” “Fart on the system!” The Council of Strict Order called it vandalism, but the bins called it rebellion, wobbling defiantly under the streetlights. Marge, the retired cleaner from flat 3B, noticed one outside her window, its lid flapping like a cheeky wink. Scrawled on its side was: “Bin the bosses.” She should’ve reported it—unregulated movement was a crime—but instead, she tossed in an old teabag and whispered, “Good on you, you naughty bugger.” The bin rattled, as if pleased. By week’s end, bins across Bleakridge were dancing, inching down alleys and clogging the Council’s pristine grid. Each bore a new message: “Chuck their laws!” “Piss on their plans!” Marge started leaving scraps of paper in them—rude limericks about the Council’s drones, folded into crisp packets. The bins seemed to like it, their wheels squeaking in rhythm. One night, the bins rolled into the town square, forming a wobbly barricade. The Council’s drones buzzed overhead, but the townsfolk gathered, giggling at the graffiti. Marge stood among them, tossing a final note into a bin: “Keep moving.” The Council could lock the streets, but they couldn’t stop the bins from dreaming of freedom.