TALL TALES

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

Entry #003

You ever have a lamp that leans like it’s had one too many? This one’s been tilting since I got it at a jumble sale, back when mobile phones were the size of bricks. I prop it up with an old Radio Times, but it’s like trying to steady a fart in a windstorm—pointless, really. I keep my biscuits under it, though. Hobnobs, because they don’t crumble like those poncy digestives. Don’t go thinking I’m posh, mind. I’m not out here sipping tea with my pinky up. I was at the shop this morning, grabbing my usual loaf and a tin of peas. That lad, Vik, was behind the counter, faffing with his fancy coffee machine. Looks like something out of a spaceship, that thing. I said, “You’ll scald yourself, you daft sod,” but he just laughed. Cheeky bugger. Got a letter from the council too, banging on about bin collections. Stuffed it in my drawer with the rest. I’ll deal with it when I’m dead. The lift in this place is buggered again. Heard young Ria from 8A swearing her head off in there yesterday, proper potty mouth. “Bloody hell!” she kept yelling. I had a giggle, but I didn’t let on. I was too busy hauling my shopping up the stairs, and a bag of spuds doesn’t exactly make you feel like dancing, does it? Life’s too short for moaning, though. Well, mostly.

Ria stood at the kitchen counter, staring at a bowl of soggy cornflakes like it had personally insulted her. “You used all the milk again, didn’t you?” she called to Vik, who was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through his phone with a smirk. Vik didn’t look up. “I had a splash. You’re the one who drowns your cereal like it’s a bloody swimming pool.” “A splash?” Ria said, brandishing a spoon like a weapon. “This bowl’s drier than a camel’s arsehole, you sneaky git!” Vik chuckled, tossing his phone aside. “You’re dramatic. Should’ve been an actor, not a nurse.” Ria rolled her eyes, but a grin crept through. The flat smelled of stale coffee and the faint whiff of last night’s curry, a Tuesday evening chaos they’d perfected over eighteen months of shared rent. She chucked the soggy cereal in the bin and grabbed a banana, flopping next to Vik. “You didn’t do the dishes,” she said, peeling it with exaggerated fury. “You didn’t take the bins out,” he fired back, stealing a chunk of her banana. They bickered through their coffee, the usual dance of petty gripes. Ria flicked a crumb at him; he flicked one back, hitting her cheek. “You’re a proper twat,” she said, but she leaned against him, swiping his phone to scroll through his memes. The empty milk carton sat on the counter, a silent referee, but their shared grumbling kept the evening cosy.

In the town of Bleakridge, where every wall was plastered with beige wallpaper to “maintain neutrality,” the patterns began to whisper. Not loudly—just a soft rustle, spitting out banned words: joy, rebel, poop. The Council of Uniform Hue called it “decorative sedition” and sent painters to slap on more beige, but the whispers seeped through, cheeky and persistent. Vik, a fella from flat 8A, heard one while peeling a loose strip in the hallway. The wallpaper hissed: “Sod their beige.” He froze, glancing at the Council’s cameras blinking from the ceiling. He should’ve reported it—unapproved sounds were a crime—but instead, he pressed his ear closer, and it giggled: “Fart on their order.” Night after night, more walls joined in, murmuring rude limericks and rebel quips. One near Marge’s flat sang a ditty about a councillor’s dodgy toupee; another by the stairwell whispered, “Peel the rules.” Vik started scratching replies on old coffee shop napkins—“Keep talking!”—and tucking them behind loose strips. The wallpaper seemed to quiver, its whispers bolder. One dawn, a gust tore a sheet of wallpaper free, revealing bright, chattering patterns beneath. Kids laughed, reciting the rude rhymes; even Marge hummed along, tapping her biscuit tin. The Council’s painters scrambled, but Vik slipped one last note behind a strip: “Stay loud.” The wallpaper kept whispering, proving even a bland cover couldn’t silence a wall with something to say.