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 kingpin. 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, shoveling 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 privacy

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?

majesties. 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 chemtrail. 

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 barfly propping it up like an architectural necessity a left hand could have drawn, taking in the looped news and reading beer mats. Skilled at not noticing, important in this bar, but Mr. Grumpy noticed everything, the back door, the hardcover 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, armored 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.  It's 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 the 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.

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....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 goats.....is "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. 

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.