Nyns eus goon heb lagas, na ke heb scovarn

There is no down without an eye, nor hedge without an ear


The land of Cornwall has long since fallen victim to a plague of absentee homeowners (so-called ‘Cuckoos’). This richesse dorée anglaise has swooped down on to many of the most picturesque locations in Kernow to buy up housing for their own very occasional use and sometimes ‘as an investment, dear boy!’

This has had the appalling effect of putting local housing beyond the reach of the indigenous Cornish. We cannot afford to buy homes in our own land!

As Fidel Castro (54) himself said (in a four and half hour speech on the subject), whilst on a state visit to the prosperous island of social justice that is Spargo’s Relubbus: “This is dispossession of the cruellest type. I led a revolution in Cuba because of the exploitation of my homeland by neighbouring America. Here, I see exactly the same type of exploitation of Cornwall by neighbouring England. Viva la Revolucion!!”

One such blighted village is that of Mousehole, where the children of local folk cannot afford – on their local jobs, if they are lucky enough to have one – to buy or rent houses to live in the place in which they grew up – ‘English cuckoos’ have taken their nests!

However, some folk are no longer prepared to take this lying down. An army of 15,000 highly trained vigilantes – all as well armed as the model on the left – have decided to take matters into their own hands and have developed a strategy to rid Kernow of the ‘English Cuckoos’.

They are starting quietly - with a free car-modification programme for the Cuckoos on the very infrequent occasions on which they turn up to occupy their otherwise empty nests.

As this picture of treated Cuckoo cars in Mousehole shows, every opportunity is taken to buff up the cars to a shine the Cuckoos will never forget.

The next stage of operations remains a closely guarded secret, the nature of which is yet to emerge from the top secret nerve centre and training camp for the 15,000 somewhere in deepest Kernow.

However, Cuckoos beware! - one would be right to fear the worst!

Such is the growing concern about the Cuckoo activity and the increasing heat of the Cornish response that Archbishop Desmond Tutu (72) has convened an academic conference to consider how the matter can best be brought to a peaceful conclusion.

The conference is taking place at the Relubbus International University (one of 65 higher education establishments in Greater Relubbus) and is believed to enjoy the sponsorship of the Greater Relubbus Urban Council (GRUC) Leader, Billy Spargo (109), himself.

Spargo is said to favour an annual Cuckoo tax starting at 250% of the market value of the home followed by a doubling of the amount each year. Archbishop Tutu endorses this proposal saying “No one with already a roof of their own in another village should also take a roof in my village, when I and others have none.

If they must be greedy, they should, at least, restrain their greed until everyone has their own home in their own village.

What kind of people are they that order two meals when they can only eat one at a time and when others cannot even order one meal?”


In our 15th July 2007 issue, we published news to a flabbergasted world of the astounding discovery of a hitherto entirely secret and hidden Roman colony situated in the difficult and often impenetrable terrain that forms the southern border between Greater Relubbus and the rest of Kernow.

Mirabile dictu’, as the ancient Romans used to say, the colony had survived as a perfect enclave of ancient Roman language, culture and civilisation.

Since the discovery, there has been a controlled influx of curious tourists and a flourishing trade between Relubbus and its Roman neighbour, which now calls itself Urbs Relubbana.

We consequently felt that it was time to revisit the ‘Urbs’ to see what changes this contact with the modern world had brought about. We therefore despatched one of our ace reporters, Archilaus Tresidder (14), to find out.

Readers may well recall that Tresidder received the Annual Relubbus Budding Journalist Award (13-year-olds’ section) last year for his ground-breaking expose of necrophilia at Nathan Cock’s hugely popular Chapel of Rest at Prospidnick.

Tresidder is pictured here with Cock, who gallantly volunteered to have his picture taken with the young journalistic author of his undoing, prior to being led away by police.

Tresidder’s gripping Urbs Relubbana report follows:

My mother woke me at 8.30 am so that I could make an early start. I ate a hearty breakfast of hot and well-salted porridge to fortify myself for the day and then set off to engage the famously difficult countryside that marks the border between Relubbus and the Roman colony.

The border between Relubbus and Urbs Relubbana is patrolled on the Relubbus side by officers of the Greater Relubbus Urban Council (GRUC) Border Police and, on the Roman side, by members of the local Legionary force, still proudly wearing the uniform of the 2nd Augusta.

On the Relubbus side of the border, in Farmer Treglown’s backfield, I was met by the strapping but cheery figure of WPC Loveday Tremain (26), whose name was familiar to me as she had come third in last year’s Nancledra Dogging Open.

She has asked me to use a photo from her passing out parade at the Prospidnick Police College, ”as my ‘air duh look good in that one!” However, here on border duty, WPC Tremain was dressed in standard combats on top of regulation cast iron, though pink, underwear.

WPC Tremain was largely complimentary about her new Roman neighbours, although she did warn me strongly about their fancy for chewing raw garlic cloves. She also told me to watch out for the strange fact that the women didn’t shave their legs, but that the men did.

Armed with this valuable information, I then pressed on through thick undergrowth, two streams, some marshland and then up through thick gorse until, emerging somewhat bedraggled, I found myself once more eyeing the strangely seductive figure of WPC Tremain. She said I’ss easier if you duh take the new road they Romans ‘ave built – over there”.

I blushed with embarrassment and, though my clothing bore clear traces of my struggle with raw nature, I was thankful that mother’s purchase for me of short trousers that were longer than average had saved my knees from getting scratched. I brushed myself down and continued along the fine new recently constructed Roman road, which, straight as a die, cut through the countryside uncompromisingly.

I halted at a great stone archway where I was met by Marcus Quintus Clemo and his close friend and colleague, Marcus ‘Julia’ Jago.

The two had been sitting playing with one another, whilst waiting for me. It seemed that games were important to the Romans. A small crowd of Relubbus tourists on route for the colony had gathered to observe them.

As soon as I pulled out my camera, the two Romans frantically gesticulated that I should not photograph them. The photo on the left accordingly shows them as close as I could get to a ‘full frontal’, as we ace journalists call it.

As I moved nearer to the two border guards, WPC Tremain’s words resounded loudly in my head as I was met with a fierce blast of raw garlic that left me gasping. Wholly unaware of their halitotic handicap, the two Romans smiled broadly, revealing just how much damage can be done if you do not visit your dentist regularly.

Marcus spoke: Salve! Quod facisne iucundus puer in hic loco? After ten minutes of mutual grinning in pungently garlic-perfumed air whilst I looked this up, I realised to my horror that he had said What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?

Amidst bluster and fluster, I withdrew and plunged on down the road towards the ‘Urbs’, having quickly registered that WPC Tremain had indeed been correct about these men shaving their legs. What would mother think?

My next photo captures a scene in the main Forum, which encapsulates much of the change that has occurred.

Truly, the Urbs has become a tremendous success with tourists. Comfortable chariots – like those in the picture – convey the visitor all around town.

However, this success has taken its toll. Witness the cigarette that driver Publius (who now likes to be known as ‘Derek’) is smoking. There is not a domus in the Urbs that does not now have a television set. 95% of the population over the age of 6 has taken up smoking and gets through a couple of packets of cigarettes a day. The abacus has been discarded for the calculator and change is the order of the day.

Unfortunately, I could not stay any longer, as I would have been home late for my tea, which mother would not have liked. I knew that I would already be in her bad books because of the state of my clothes and so, after taking this cracking shot of a smoking Publius, I scuttled off back home, musing on the merits of this mixing of cultures and, drawing on my school Latin, wondered “Cui bono?”-- “to whose benefit would it be?"

Archilaus Tresidderus (14)