TALL TALES

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

Entry #004

You ever have a kettle that’s more trouble than a toddler with a tummy ache? This one’s been leaking since I bought it off a bloke at the market in ’97. Spits water like it’s got a personal grudge. I could replace it, but that’d mean admitting defeat, and I’m not that sort, am I? Don’t go thinking I’m some fancy lass with a shiny kitchen, oh no. My tea’s brewed with grit and determination. I was at the shop this morning, picking up my custard creams—none of those poncy shortbreads, mind. That lad, Tariq, was behind the counter, faffing with his phone. Looked like he was texting the bloody queen. I said, “You’ll strain your eyes, you daft sod,” but he just grinned. Cheeky bugger, but he’s got a kind heart. Got a bill from the electric company too, saying I owe them a fortune. Shoved it in the drawer with the rest. I’ll sort it when pigs fly. The lift in this building’s gone kaput again. Heard young Zara from 10C swearing her head off in there yesterday, proper blue streak. “Bloody useless contraption!” she yelled. I had a chuckle, but I kept schtum. I was too busy lugging my shopping up the stairs, and a bag of tinned soups doesn’t exactly make you feel like a ballerina, does it? Life’s too short for moaning, but my kettle’s still steaming, so I’m doing alright.

Zara stood in the kitchen, holding a single sock like it was evidence in a crime scene. “You’ve nicked my socks again, haven’t you?” she shouted to Tariq, who was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a guilty smirk. Tariq didn’t look up. “I borrowed one. You’ve got enough socks to clothe a bloody army.” “One?” Zara said, waving the sock like a flag of betrayal. “This drawer’s emptier than your excuses, you sneaky twat!” Tariq laughed, tossing his phone aside. “You love my thieving ways. Keeps you on your toes.” Zara snorted, but a grin slipped out. The flat smelled of overbrewed tea and the faint whiff of last night’s kebab, a Saturday evening mess they’d perfected over a year of cohabitation. She chucked the sock at him and grabbed a packet of crisps, flopping onto the couch. “You didn’t do the washing-up,” she said, crunching loudly for effect. “You didn’t buy milk,” he fired back, stealing a crisp. They bickered through their tea, the usual dance of petty grievances. Zara flicked a crisp at him; he flicked one back, hitting her nose. “You’re a proper knob,” she said, but she leaned against him, swiping his phone to scroll through his silly memes. The lone sock lay on the floor, a silent casualty of their squabble, but their shared grumbling kept the night warm.

In the city of Bleakvale, where every lightbulb was dimmed to “preserve orderly thought,” the bulbs began to mutter. Not loudly—just a faint buzz, spitting out forbidden words: hope, chuckle, bogey. The Council of Subdued Glow called it “electrical dissent” and sent technicians to replace the bulbs, but the muttering persisted, cheeky and unyielding. Tariq, a delivery driver from flat 10C, heard one while changing a bulb in the hallway. The light buzzed: “Sod their dimness.” He froze, glancing at the Council’s cameras blinking from the corners. He should’ve reported it—unscripted sounds were illegal—but instead, he tapped the bulb, and it giggled: “Fart on their glow.” Night after night, more bulbs joined in, humming rude limericks and rebel quips. One near Marge’s flat sang a ditty about a councillor’s bad breath; another by the stairwell whispered, “Brighten up.” Tariq started scribbling replies on old delivery receipts—“Keep buzzing!”—and taping them to lamp bases. The bulbs seemed to flicker, their mutters bolder. One evening, a power surge made the building’s bulbs flare, casting wild, chattering light across Bleakvale. Kids laughed, repeating the rude rhymes; even Marge hummed along, tapping her kettle. The Council’s technicians scrambled, but Tariq taped one last note to a bulb: “Shine loud.” The lightbulbs kept muttering, proving even a dimmed spark could ignite a rebellion.