Saturday, October 28, 2017

Don't worry, be Happy.

Lights, Camera,Reeking Action

Do you ever lie awake at night worrying? About money, relationships, work, an upcoming journey, its your worry so it could be anything, you're only limited by your own lack of imagination, literally.

In my time,  sleep has temporarily abandoned me for worry about nuclear Armageddon, dieing a virgin, things said at work meetings "Wait a minute, was he saying I was slow?"  But just now, I'm worried about Guy Ritchie and the the films he's making. Its a long time since Lock, Stock and Snatch, almost 20 years. Sherlock Holmes was good, but recently, honestly, King Arthur and the something of whatever and the Man From U.N.C.L.E? Seriously?  So, and I'm sure he, and his by now near bankrupt backers, will appreciate it, I've been thinking about his next project, just the thing to get him back on track and making those zingy, gangstaramas.

A reboot, Guy Ritchies......The Mr Men. What about that? I've been working on the characters for him, just to get him started.

Mr Happy is the criminal king-pin. At his peak in the 80s, famous in Glasgow for his smiles better campaign, of course most of the smiles Mr Happy induced were with his Stanley knife, the standard late payment charge for his style of money lender. 
Get me this much ketamine,
I've got a date with Little Miss Stubborn tonight

Had to lay low in the Costas for a few years while the Teletubbies Gang grew in prominence, dealing their trippy shit, but now he's back with no time to waste, its time to show there is only so much Happy one town can take.

Mr Grumpy, the consigliere, the trusted No2. Always ready with crabby advice, the keys to the safe houses and Little Miss's on call. Made a fortune when the Gingerbread Housing market blew up and invested the proceeds in trafficking trolls from Hong Kong. He knows where the bodies are buried, he didn't dig the holes, but he supplied the shovels

Mr Fussy looks after the books, a master money launderer, shovelling money through countless fake businesses like Rent-a-Ghost or sending it off-shore to an anonymous Fraggle Rock bank account. 

Mr Strong is Happys personal bodyguard and driver, ex-pugilist and a bit punchy these days, but you wouldn't want anyone else in a corner with you, he just fits perfectly for a start.
Lucky Mr Bump had his famous murderers thumbs insured
Mr Bump is Strongs sometimes partner in crime, collector of dues, breaker of bones, its Bump that visits in the night

Mr Tickle is the safe-man and a handy pick-pocket. An ex Radio Misterland DJ, he did a stretch inside after 
Rosie and Jim made accusations against him, unfounded of course, 
at least according to him, 
Mr Tickle thought CCTV was a
terrible invasion of privay
but after the Bagpuss revelations, and the headlines claiming it was he that put the bag in Bagpuss, well, that mud sticks. 

Mr Bounce, is Happys psycho nephew. Down from Misterland while his old man takes a turn at her
What do you mean funny? Like a clown?
Do I amuse you? Huhh?
majesty's. Totally unstable and when he gets together with Mr Mischief, its mayhem. 

Mr Jelly is a compromised pharmacist, Happy knows he's into the Jelly Tots so he
has him writing fake Tramadol prescriptions to feed Misterlands opioid crisis, the only crisis will be if Jelly gets fingered by the old bill and locked up in Jelly Jail.

Mr Chatterbox, a once trusted lieutenant in charge of distribution, but suffering a moral crisis and Grumpy suspects he is ready to grass.
Fucksake,I told you coppers not to come to the house!!

And the distribution, the foot soldiers, out in the grimy streets, delivering merch and running the chem trail. 

Mr Busy: Goof balls
Mr Cool: Woo Woos
Mr Rush: H Bombs
Skinny and Dizzy: Mexican Horse


Whoa, this is good shit,

Scene 1: Mid-Morning
Dive bar on North side of town

It was a long, narrow counter, a regular bar fly propping it up like an architectural necessity a left hand could have drawn, taking in looped news and reading beer mats. Skilled at not noticing, important in this bar, but Mr Grumpy noticed everything, the back door, the hard cover and improvised weapons, fire extinguishers, tables, anything that would cause pain and confusion and vital seconds.  He had a choice of seats of course, even the few that were occupied, but took one on the back wall, facing the door and looking the length of the counter.  From here the row of whisky bottles on the gantry appeared as a thin copper line, soldiers, armoured breasts presented to a sober foe.  Mr Small, the barkeeps little hands sometimes appearing into view as he tried to reach and persuade an optic to comply with the weights and measures act.

Mr Strong strode in through the saloon doors purposefully, took a second to survey the scene but was followed by the boss before he had a chance to give the all clear.  Mr Happy looked less than happy, he looked like Mr Anxious as he planted himself  heavily in a seat across the table from Grumpy   And so he should, Mr Grumpy hadn't looked forward to giving him this news.  

Well?  Mr Happy chortled nervously.  Grumpy sighed, there is a team in town for you. Happy grinned that grin that he couldn't stop grinning, even when he tried really hard, it was a curse really.   Who is it, and who facking sent them, he giggled.  Its The Moomins, Grumpy replied with a tone of resignation, they're finally coming for you.  Mr Happy burst into a gleeful snicker, The Facking Moomins, those roly-poly gimpy fackers, what the fack are they fackers going to do , sit on me, stare me to death with their dopey faces, with their poncy hats on their simply drawn heads,  he guffawed. Grumpy thought that last epithet was a bit rich coming from a Mr Man,   That's not all Mr Grumpy snapped, his nerves getting the better of him and shortening his patience, even with the boss, Noggin the Nog sent them, and he's come to town too. Mr Happy stopped his guffawing, Fack, he chuckled. We're Facked.  

Over to you Guy Ritchie, this is more than enough to be getting on with.  See you at the BAFTAs

Lang may yer lum reek.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Beez Cheez Pleaz.

The Bleating Lum ,

Goats have no business making cheese,  cows should just say " Its OK goats, we've got this".  Cows already contribute about 96% of the worlds dairy produce, I'm sure they can squeeze out a little more if it saves us from goat curds.

For a start, have you seen what they eat?  Tin cans, cardigans, old bicycles, anything....and they say their cheese tastes tart!  Tart! It should be like licking a battery after eating all that junk.

A bumper crop of goats
But, there are about 1 billion goats in the world and they've been around for ages as small livestock. Incidentally, there is a class of livestock smaller than small livestock, microlivestock.  Do you want to hazard a guess at what might be microlivestock?   Well, I'll tell you, guinea pigs, rabbits and, get this, bees.  None of them, as far as I know, are in the cheese business, bees make honey of course, but they're not squirting bee milk out their teeny bee teats for cheese, though if they did, their ad would probably have the tag line, Bees Cheese Please, a shameless rip off of the classic Beanz Meanz Heinz, also having a farm with fields full of grazing guinea pigs sounds fun doesnt it?

Also,  boy goats act a bit strange when they get their horn on, to entice the ladies they think its a good idea to piss on their fore legs and face. Their face...... how even.....?
Why hello, is that goats pee I smell on your face?

Now, back in the day I remember being on holiday with a young lady, and an unfortunate series of circumstances culminated in me taking a wizz on her open, but not yet unpacked suitcase in the middle of the night, now, let me tell you, if anything sets us apart from the goats,  it's how we react to that kind of thing, I cant say she wasn't exciteable afterwards, but I don't remember her being particularly enticed for the following 10 days.

The 3rd most popular search result on Google when you type "Do "Do goats float?  That's a strange question, but I'm guessing its just a lame fishing expedition so someone can say " Well, whatever floats your goat" much as I've done just there, to shoehorn in that terrible joke.

I'm not saying goats should be made redundant, they have their uses after all, angora jumpers then you can eat them, scarcely believable but there is more goat meat eaten in the world by us lot than any other kind of meat,  no wonder the cows are keen to corner the dairy market, but I'm just saying stop with the cheese already.

Lang may yer lum bleat. 

Thursday, October 12, 2017

A Time Travellers Tale (I might have just dozed off for a minute)

Faithful  Lums, remember me?  No?   A blight  on you I tells you, I'm after the Brexit crowd anyway, you can tell them any old shite and they'll believe it.  Read on, for  tales  of such in-consequence that even I feel I'm plumbing new depths.

The cossetting shoogle of the carriage, the rhythmic clickety-clacks of the rolling stock, 8 pints of Stella
or maybe the gypsy curse, all ingredients for a great sleep.  But the drowsy awakening, the horror and panic brought on by the yawning realisation that your destination of choice is disappearing out the window at a gentle but accelerating pace.  This depth of despair can only be matched if you happen to wake up as an unexpected towns name slowly fills your view and growing consciousness. 

Wake up you bastard, we cant both be asleep! 

I've fallen asleep on public transport.  In an ideal world, it would be a bit like those sci-movies where the crew of the ship all retire to sleepy pods to enter blissful suspended hibernation for 18 years while they scoot through outer space, woken up by a friendly robot, with a cup of tea as they approach Mars orbit,  its not though is it?  Its me lurching for the last train home, sprawling across the nearest seat like a collapsing clothes horse, then travelling, unconscious, through time and space to a generally random place.

Harrow, Hainault, Perth, Tunbridge, Greenwich, Larbert, Orpington, that sounds like the stops on my triumphant and inevitable book tour, but its actually some of the places I've woken up after falling asleep somewhere else.

I was woken by a cleaner on the DLR  one night,  "Where am I" I inquired, Bank Station was the reply, a surprise for me, as I'd gotten on at Bank Station an hour and a half before,  " I got on at Fucking Bank" I exclaimed, to no real audience, the cleaner had already swept himself away.  Unless I'd discovered a time hole, I had trundled all the way to Lewisham, and all the way back, maybe more than once for all I know.  One aside from this sad story, was it was the night someone stole my hat, off my head, while I slept.  Imagine that! A more wretched hive of scum and villainy you will never find.

That's right, you've all got your hats, rub it in. . 

This scenario also played out while returning from visiting pals in Tunbridge Wells.  Catching the 2230 to Victoria, plenty time to jump on the last tube back to Stratford.  A fine plan, well considered and easily achievable, not well executed however. 4 hours later, shaken awake at Tonbridge, 5 minutes up the road from Tunbridge Wells.  I'd slept all the way to London, the hour and half to get the train emptied, cleaned and turned around, and all the way back.  It was half 2 in the morning, about minus 6 degrees with another 4 hours to wait for the first train to London, what do you do?.  I'll tell you what I thought I'd do, I'll just walk about for 4 hours, its not hard, one foot in front of the other for a half a shift.  Thing is, Tonbridge is about a quarter of a mile long, so once I'd done that 4 times, I felt a bit of a fanny, as well as  being convinced I was going to sit down somewhere and drift off into a hypothermic doze that I wouldn't wake up from.  They used to show adverts about that when I was wee, some fella, lost in the snowy woods telling himself not to fall asleep. 

Don't worry,  a Travelodge is up the road, £60 a night. 

I don't know if he did or not, but that bit stayed with me.  As did the ad about climbing inside old fridges in rubbish dumps and walking on icy ponds, The 70s were full of hazards, odd how they never mentioned the pervy DJs and the Molesters of Parliament though.   So, that made my mind up, with my remaining 3% phone battery I located a Premier Inn and parted with £60 for 3 hours shelter and a worry that I'd miss the first train home.  

£60 incidentally seems to be the rate applied to me for either a late night room booking, or a taxi home.  This suggests two things to me, either hotels and taxis are part of some great price fixing cartel, or my Truman Show producers are lazy bastards and need to get some creativity. 

This result was repeated some months later on the last train from Glasgow Queen St  to home camp at Lenzie Station.  That journey takes approximately 12 minutes, with a stop in between, so really, you would think there would be enough going on to keep me occupied for 12 minutes.  No, half past two I yawn and stretch and blink open my eyes, in Perth, the end of the line.  That's an impressive 55 miles, my most wayward snooze yet.   There are not many options at this point, fair city as it is,  so it was emergency accommodation again, I had to knock on a few doors but finally found an Inn with some room, I remember thinking if they offer me the stable out the back I'm ordering new business cards on Monday.

The Orpington episode is worth a mention.  This was the evening I had to try my luck at night bus roulette, often the last chance saloon if you want a dignified return home, at least without having to phone the World Bank for an emergency relief loan that would get a taxi driver interested.  Night buses aren't like day buses,  the routes seem random with unfamiliar terminus's.   Still I jumped on one I thought was going in the rough direction of Lewisham.  You have to treat night bus routes like driving a golf ball down a fairway, you have an idea of the direction you should be pointing, you might zig-zag a bit, but you'll end up nearer home than you are at the moment, so its all good.  
Next thing that dawns on me, is actually the dawn, dawning on me.  Looking out the window of the bus, now empty of punters, are trees, and fields with animals in them, cows and farms that look like the one in The Darling Buds of May.  Now I hadn't lived in London very long but my keen eye, even with my naivety, I realised  I'm not in London anymore.  I guessed correctly as it happens, I was in Kent.   The driver was helpful, just get off here he said, cross the road and you'll get a bus going back into town.  Great advice, thanks very much, very helpful,  I wasn't to bothered, an old hand now at these impromptu city tours.  An hour I waited as the sun came up, then the bus arrived , it was the same one, I could have just stayed on it, in the warm, I might even had gotten another 40 winks. 

I could go on, but you might be reading this on public transport and be nodding off with the sheer banality of it all, if so, well done for getting this far and my tip, just stand up, I've only fallen asleep standing up once, and generally speaking the bang on the face you get is quite effective at bringing you round.

Lang may yer lum reek.

Monday, October 17, 2016

My remarkable prophecy

Reeking Lums,  save yourselves, 

The end of the world is nigh,

They've been predicting that for quite a while of course, the Mayans were so sure they developed a countdown calendar and a tourist attraction, but all through the ages, people have proclaimed the ending is pending.   

Remarkably inaccurate and shit prophecies
Even Old Mother Shipton,  one of the stars of the Yorkshire tourist board , who like to tell you her hermit cave is worth a visit,  had a go.  She apparently said  "The world to an end shall come, In eighteen hundred and eighty one".  It makes me a bit suspicious that she had to make it rhyme, nevertheless, she had a go but  was ultimately a better mad old woman than she was a predictor of Armageddon's.  

Then consider, Camille Flammarion.  He predicted that the appearance of Halleys comet "would impregnate the atmosphere and possibly snuff out all life on the planet", but not the planet itself.  He came up with the effective medication of "Comet pills"  to protect against toxic gases, like deja bird-flu, all over again. 

And isn't it strange how end of the world prophecies tend to ignore real threats to the planet, like the Cuban missile crisis and the defrosting ice caps, its always angry Jesus coming back to kick our ungrateful asses.   
You don't need to be Nostra-F-Ing-Damus to see this coming. 
You would think with all that's going on in humanity the enders would be blasting out their grim predictions with confetti guns, the likelihood of one of them actually getting it right for once must be higher than usual. 

So how can I be so sure that things are close to the end when so many before me have been so obviously wrong and deluded?  Well, I'm so convinced that we are getting near the end of the road  because we have, in case you haven't noticed,  just about reached the zenith of swearyness.  

C*nt, a word so heinous and evil that I've even had to disguise it just then to prevent me vomiting all over my keyboard,  has become utilitarian, just a common expletive to add urgency, stress a point, get a little attention or make sure people know your seriously hard, or just serious...and hard.  We are using them as if they were an inexhaustible resource like trees and Elephants .    Once the ultimate swear word has become accepted as a viable option to describe someone who is a right prick, " What a C*nt" or or a state of extreme  tiredness or drunkenness " tell you what, that c*nts had 6 Malibu and pineapples and he looks c*nted to me"  or a task so difficult its almost impossible to comprehend " listen to this, after lunch they want us to  solve the faster than light neutrino anomaly, that's going to be c*unting tricky". 

So what happens when the ultimate shock value 4 letter curse become so ubiquitous and commonplace it loses its C-Bomb status?  Well, Its fucking obvious to me, civilisation as we know it ends and we all get to start again in the pre-swear stone age, like those c*nts the Taliban. 

When I was a lad, you might hear "Bloody" on the TV, that was heavy duty swearing,  but as Fuck became more common, probably around the time Thatcher was at full enveloping darkness,  Bloody became an almost polite sweary alternative to an explosive snarling fuck, I see the same thing happening now, folk slip a "fuckin"  in, not even when they are angry or upset, just as a little value add to whatever they are describing at the time.   How long before all the shocking fucks in the world run out and all we are left with is conversational fucks, we become so desensitised that for impact  we have to turn to c*nt, c*unting, c*unted...., c*unty doesnt really work, and then my friends, we are circling the sweary drain. 
We could be one rant away from the apocolypse

So how close are we to armac*nton?  Well,  Donald Trump wisely opted for " pussy" when describing how he likes to grab his women, he could just as easily said " c*unt", that would have been a serious escalation of the jeopardy we face, still, thankfully,  he's c*nting unelectable, so that would only leave us with a sitting
President, the Pope or The Queen of England to utter it then we are all fucked.  Prince Philip doesn't count, thank heavens.  
Oi, CUNT! 

So how do we save ourselves, how do we push back the event horizon of our own demise.   Rocket ships to Mars wont help, after the year long journey the first person off the spaceship will exclaim " if they  think I'm colonising a planet with they useless c*nts in there, they can go get fucked"  then they're right back where they started, er, before they've even begun. 

Its easier coming up with new anti-biotics than it is swear words, so we cant rely on that.   What we could try and do is recycle some old ones that have gone out of fashion though.  Try these for size, Zooterkins, Gadzooks,  Potsblitz.    I know, its hard to be satisfied with those, but in a sentence they might do the trick, " Gadzooks,  I've not shared that viral post on Facebook, now every Zooterkin will think I have nothing against cancer...Potsblitz!"  Fuck! we're all c*nting going to die.

This has been Reeking Lum reporting from the End of the World. 

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Macaron? Macawrong I say.

Reeking Lums assemble!

We have serious matters to consider.

One is shaped like a coroners slab, covered in chocolate, dessicated wood chip and is hard as a brick, another is a gaily coloured and fragrant sponge sandwich, that would look more at place in a bowl beside your bath, and the last looks like its been coughed up by a camel and left to dry in the desert sun, what am I talking about?  Macaroons, that's what,  and their obscure history and provenance.

Let the Reeking Lum untangle this holy mess with an in depth investigation of these so called Sons of Aroon, whoever he was.  “There can be only one” said immortal Highland Frenchie Christopher Lambert,  lets see if he was right

My investigations have taken me to the darkest corners of the web, it will take a long time to unsee some of the sights my eyes have had to endure, but as I try and make sense of it all, lets remind ourselves of the holy grail that is The "Lees Lees more if you please" Macaroon favoured in these parts, to prevent any confusion with inferior, less sturdy pretenders, I'll refer to it from here as The MacAroon. 
MacAroon: aka House Brick ( edible)

1931, to the east of Glasgow, a young grocers son, going by the name of John Justice Lees was experimenting with a new prototype confectionery bar,  if only he could perfect the smooth chocolate covered fondant, he would erase the disappointment his father felt when he flunked law school, "Michty me, I might be shite as a solicitor" young John Justice may have said " but by fuck, I'll be a passable grocer".  Time and again his trials failed,  the alchemy needed eluded him, until late one night, after a particularly disastrous attempt at making fondant icing with  sugar of all things (until then his experiments had used traditional mashed potatoes) ,  Mr Lees the senior visited him in the cellar, " What of all the fucks is going on doon here, ya useless wee tit? he inquired., "That Tunnocks bastard is over the hill cleaning up with they daft cocynut logs or whatever the fuck  he calls them, and your fannying aboot wi this, look at it, its brick cunting hard, it disnae even huv any tatties in it." With that he picked it up and to prove a point, threw it at young John Justice, hitting him on the temple and knocking him clean out and into a sack of dessicated coconut that Lees senior had won in a game cards.  Some hours, or possibly days later, young John Justice came round, starving and locked in the cellar,  all he had to hand was the rejected chocolate covered fondant slab, covered in coconut flakes,  He could have chosen to break down the door with it, or to bash his useless brains in as a final apology for all the disappointments his dear father had had to suffer, but instead he did  something surely only a genius would do, something so unlikely with an object like that, he ate a bit of it, and it wasn't bad, not as good as a Tunnocks Caramel Log, but nevertheless, edible, Quite unbelievably, an iconic legend was born, The MacAroon tolerated throughout the world and beyond.

All well and good, my beliefs had been reinforced with these discoveries, but the investigations had also thrown up suggestions of an older heritage, a possible lineage that stretched back to the old witch burning times.   This revelation had the potential to reset the clock of Macaroon evolution.  Simon Schama has nothing to say on the matter and Richard Dawkins would not even pick up the phone, so I had to search for answers myself.   

These ancient Google texts claimed that Macaroons have been around since the 8th Century, which even pre-dates the Ginger Nut.  They would have been baked by master baker monks in Venice, monks then, as now,  are prolific master bakers.  
 Macaroon aka Camel Phlegm
The secret recipe was then stolen by Catherine de Medici's pastry chef when she went off to marry the famous jousting Richard Stillgoe lookalike, Henry II of France.  And so sparked the the War of the Spatulas, a little documented confrontation between France and Italy that led to the catastrophic schism between the almond and coconut flavoured biscuit, as the Venetian monks knew it, and the camp  Macaron, with its soft spongy melt in the mouthiness, as the ponsy Frencheis liked to call them.

Later, two Nuns, fleeing the French revolution,  set up shop in Nancy and baked Macarons for the locals, they became popular and the Nuns sold so many they bought a house  and became known as the Macaron sisters, which by the way, isn't very imaginative.   I would have called them the Fancy Nancy Bitchin Baker Sisters.  All the Hipsters of the day would have went there probably, 

And that's how the Macaron became what it is today, well, almost, the Fancy Nancy Bitchin Baker Sisters Macarons had no colour or cream filling,
Macaron....aka BathBomb
they were basically a Farleys Rusk, but never mind, the cast was set for  all pretentious little cake shops that make fortunes charging £3.50 for a cup cake that has about 12p of ingredients in it and no obvious skill required to make the fucking things.

And so, my investigation into Macaroons was complete, apart from one curious side note, In Puerto Rico, Macaroons are called besitos de coca, or little coconut kisses.  My mind immediately jumped to kissing a coconut and an old girlfriend, which tells you all you need to know about her. 

Lang may yer Lum Reek. 

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Attack of the Vapours


I stopped smoking about a year ago, I turned to the vapours to do that and its worked, I've successfully replaced my nicotine delivery vehicle with a much less harmful one, though there is some ongoing debate about how much less harmful.

That debate seems to be kept going by the tobacco and drugs firms who stand to lose  business from those no longer buying their death sticks or supporting their expensive nicotine rackets.  Big tobacco shouldn't get worried just yet though, its hard to believe but cigarette smoking is still on the up, one in 3 smokers in the world are Chinese and they love it.

Also, there are people who disapprove, non-smokers normally,  not happy that their measured and wise decision not to smoke has been undermined somehow and of course its one less opportunity to just be super smug and superior about choices made and risks avoided.  They see us cheerfully puffing away like the Vital Spark with no apparent deadly consequences and think we are cheating at something. So they will grasp any of the flaky studies by obscure research bodies that indicate vaping is even worse for you than smoking, there will be horrible repercussions, diseases with names such as popcorn lung and the children,  think of the children, these vaping things are just a bridge to hard core Woodbines. They'll say sniffily, " but your not really kicking the habit, are you" so what?  Its not the habit that does any harm.  I just think its like getting snooty at a recovering alcoholic because of all the coffee they drink, The Reeking Lum says, Gie me peace!

Thats not to say being a member of the vaping community does not have its challenges,  you are often forced out into the smoking pens for a puff, which is like asking that same recovering alky to drink his coffee only in a pub and there is the vaping shops, the place you go to replenish your fluids.

My own personal dealer...I mean, works out of a little single fronted shop in a street where I think the rent is probably reasonable, if you get my drift.  Its tiny, but he has a large, old and battered chesterfield sofa in there where patrons can sit and relax and vape away the hours if they wish, chatting slackly about rigs and tanks and voltages and all the things that pass for hot topics in this particular sub-culture.
That means when you go in, its taken on the feel of a back street opium den, full of a thick sweet smelling fug and typically populated by a variety of characters.
Oooft,  this Witches Tit is fresh.
You'll have your lounging dandy students who fancy themselves as Oscar Wilde incarnate, or dangerous looking trunks of men that may have just stepped off an oiler from Murmansk or that uniquely Glaswegian creature, growth stunted by his mothers habits, 8 stone wet, the build of an empty track-suit and dressed head to toe in grey marl.

These fellas, very rarely women, and I will be in there choosing their poison, and this is when it gets weird.   My particular shopkeeper mixes his own and so gets to give them names as well, so I'll find myself asking for 30mls of unicorn blood, or "give me another bottle of Enter the Dragon", and "do you have any Mothers Milk left?"   Actually, I don't,  I normally say, " can I get a wee bottle of that dark purpley one"  "What" the shopkeeper will say, "Witches Tit?"   He should just wear a starry robe and a wizards pointy hat to complete the fantasy and be done with it.  Its better than smoking though, all you get from that is the joy of parting with a £10 every day, stinking clothes, yellow fingers, complaining teeth and gums,  disappointed kids and the promise of an early breathless demise.

Lang may yer lum vape.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

What is TX3TW? who cares? What day is it? Are you here with my dinner?

Calling all Lums, a message from the Reeking one.

Yes, I know, they are infrequent, but productivity is down right across the country, haven't you noticed?

Anyhoo, how are you both?  I'm assuming any remaining followers are still here because they have either lost their wits or have passed away alone and the body hasn't been discovered yet, though if that is the case, there will be 5 months of milk on your doorstep, so it seems unlikely.  Madness it is then, that should make things easier.

Despite all that time away I haven't come up with any new or original ideas so I'm going to float this as one, its called my Three Things This Week column, or TX3TW column, see how clever that is, and I've called it a column, like a a grown up newspaper has columns and indeed columnists, a Reeking CoLUMnist even, this is worthy of a BAFTA or something.

So, here we go, Three Things This Week;

1. Burger King deliver.  
I'll say that again, Burger King DEE-LIV-ERR!  

Not here of course, but not solely in the most whimsical corners of my own imagination either, but in Madrid.  I saw it with my own eyes, the Burger Kings little pawns, scooting about the city on little electric magic monkey bikes, there panniers jammed full of Chicken Royales and big Whoppers on their way to the hungry masses, keeping the restive populace happy,  the ground  less likely to catch a spark of a flame grilled revolution that could threaten The Kings bundom.  But why Madrid and as far as I can tell, only Madrid? Did Cortes bring the ancient ways back with Inca gold?  Who knows, but I want burgers on a bike coming up my street. 

2. Old people's playgrounds are Da Bomb.  
In the middle of Madrid there is a beautiful park called the Parque De El Retiro,  it appears to be, to be fair, a monument to Spains bloodthirsty colonial past and measles spreading but nevertheless, a lovely place to spend a few hours.   I did,  I sipped coffees and watched the beautiful people of Spain meander past on there way to  lie down somewhere else other than the place they were lying down before.  All that lazing about is OK for the young, the workers charged with keeping the economy parping along, but the oldies, they get to work out in geriatric jungle gyms.  Its great to see, special playgrounds for old folk to get some gentle exercise, I saw some old ladies sitting on a bench chatting away , probably about the good old fascist days,  but pedalling away on some cranks cemented into the ground and an old man, who might have waved The Armada off from Cadiz winding a big gear, like he was raising a bucket of gold from deep inside an Incan tomb, there were balance beams and little flights of stairs, no more than 3 steps, for them to climb.   It didn’t look the greatest fun, but Spanish pensioners looked fit and happy and I bet would beat ours in a race if it came to that.

3. There are worse places than Luton.
As well as magical Madrid, I also visited lovely Luton for the first time recently, I say lovely like a compulsive liar might say it when he really feels the urge to lie about something.  Its not great,  though the taxi driver said it was OK, there are worse places he said, and who could argue with that? Not me, there are planets that if you set foot on, your lungs would boil and your eyes would shoot out your head like a chameleons tongue before the contents of your body cavity rapidly expressed through your arse, propelling you like a shit powered rocket into a low and uncomfortable orbit.

I think Luton is well known for something, is it Bedford vans?

I don’t know, anyway, first of all the airport is a chaotic building site that extends beyond the arrivals area all the way out to the car-park, you get funnelled along between temporary plaster board walls, spat out into the concourse and funnelled some more between temporary fencing to the teeming bus stops, by the way, Luton is like the entry point for  millions  of Eastern European joiners and plumbers, I can only suppose that none of them have learned enough good English by this time  to offer to get the airport finished for a very reasonable price.  The Welcome to England experience isn't over yet though, the  Heras fencing is like a see through maze and it takes no little wits to find the taxi rank and when you do its not clear if you are at the back or the front of the queue.
The airport also seems to be the place where the Arnold Clark of private jets has set up shop.  There is a big Gulfstream place there with dozens of billionaire buses parked like second hand cars for sale minus the bunting and porta-kabin.  Big Trump size ones and tiny little ones like you might buy from Argos, well not that small, but small.
Things got better for a while, I was staying at Luton Hoo Hotel, very nice with grounds so large, when I left, the taxi meter had gone to £5.60 before we had even reached the end of the drive.    I got dropped off at a forgettable train station in what looked a forgettable town centre, circled by the usual retail park filler and hashed by the standard one way systems. There will be worse places no doubt.

More TX3TW next week, maybe.

How was that?  Apologies for the no doubt countless spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, or flourishes as I like to call them, it is 1am though, but, It might get better, I'm ever the optimist.

Lang may yer lum reek