Copyright by Frankie Lassut 2015
Published by Wonky Books at Shakespir
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BETTER THAN AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN GRIMSBY (Depressed looking Werewolf spotted hitching a ride out of Grimsby, thought to be heading for Bognor-Regis … may have frying pan into the fire syndrome).
DEFFO BETTER THAN-HOWL (that was easy).
BETTER THAN JURASSIC WORLD (Q1: Have all the Jurassic filmzzzz used the same script? Q2: Did anyone notice?)
2015 came. After years of waiting for technology to advance the species the species had managed trick technology and had managed to manage advanced technology. Technology itself wasn’t sure it liked to be accompanied with advanced thinking; destruction technology found that so boring. Actually, people were instead living in Hell.
The latest Terminator film hinted that everything was going to be ok and, as a result of the great news, people were living ‘Drudgement Day’ yet actually thinking that Judgement Day with the ‘hatred launched’ big bombs and stuff may actually be … a refreshing change. Apocalypse hopeful men pre-queued outside of suitable buildings waiting for job interviews for jobs like … sorting through rubble looking for blown off limbs. ‘Hope-y-kokey’ was in the air and every time an aeroplane went over people forgot terror and looked up, half-knowing that soon they could be a ‘rubble operative’ picking up bits of cannon fodder everywhere for minimum wage and overtime each week; life was destined to be good (humans are always at their best when the shit hits the fan, and at their very worst when there’s no shit but a really nice fan with three speeds, in a heat wave accompanied by a petrol shortage and a hosepipe ban).
Women talked optimistically:
“Yes Carol. If I find one of your dismembered legs, I’ll be really careful with it and I’ll take it home and wash it first and darn the leg if needs be, before I hand it in.”
“Oh thanks Trish! I’ll do the same for you.”
They hugged and shed a tear each, for friendship in a possible time of probable great celebration in the face of a managed disaster is a wonderfully emotional thing.
Sarah Conneur asked her kids what they wanted for tea.
“How about sausages, crafted from fat and rotting bits of various domestic animals (true, cos Jamie Oliver told us and showed us) and instant mashed potato … hmmmm? And Sweet, straight from the field three years ago, frozen tasteless peas?!”
“Ok. And how about a salad with some lovely red bland tasteless tomatoes?”
“Oh mum! You know that we’re of a generation of working class kids who are used to ‘scientist abused’ bland, no taste stuff, but really, please don’t try and introduce cosmetics to our diets! Stop being a food aesthetics slave! Don’t worry, we compensate for the bland lives we live with weed. This is the great awakening mother. The Age of Aquarius! Duuuuh! You’re so not with it. Stop trending ‘duuuh’ mum. Duuuh isn’t a trendy thing to trend.”
“But I’m Sagittarius, what do I do? Pretend I’m Aquarius? Order a birth-stone from Amazon? Dye my hair aqua-blue? Learn to read theTarot? Become a white witch?
But then Masterchef came on the constantly on telly and interrupted her flow.
“Oh! This saddle of rabbit is gorgeous!” Said Monica. Monica immediately started a trend.
Within one day, you couldn’t get an air rifle in England for love nor money and ferrets were more expensive than designer Rotties. A week later there were no rabbits left in the entire UK and lots of people had had saddle of rabbit ‘once’. If people wanted rabbit saddle again, someone would have to start rabbit farms and hope that in a few years time supply could match demand. Maybe there might be some future in rabbit farming? Foreign investors began to buy up people’s allotments through ‘tax sexy’ offshore companies in order to start rabbit farms. This began a trend in farmers growing carrots and rabbit farmers bought them by the ton from supermarkets, but only straight ones of a certain length … bent ones or ones that looked weird the rabbits wouldn’t touch and, the supermarket reject piles could be seen from outer space as little orange dots. Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall (a hero of our times if ever there was one) threw such a wobbler he crapped his pants jumping on the spot yelling ‘aaaaargh!’
Away from the insanity of the post apocalypse cities and ‘in’ the insanity of the post apocalypse English Lake District, sheep farmers who were tucking into such delicacies as New Zealand lamb, Jersey Royals with their wives’ home made mint sauce for tea and Danish bacon sandwiches for breakfast, also saw Masterchef, which was closely followed by a dog food advert which stuck as close to bullshit as it could … ‘Mmmmmmmmmmm your dog will love the mmmm juicy … mmmmm tender chunks of BUTCHER’S mmmmmm MEATY REJECTS sllluurppp dog food (lots of happy dogs running across a field after a truckload of fresh steak … after being starved for a week).
Joss Naylor, Lake District shepherd, fell runner and personality, watched with interest and had a creative thought. He had spent most of his Sellafield wages (and ex Sellafield worker) on that Butcher’s animal seconds crap and now wanted his dogs to have something decent to eat … now, what could that be? Hmmmm? thought Joss and the Universe, which loves a challenge, began to organise a little pressie for him.
Rule No1 of the beautiful Universe: Ask no questions; just deliver (so be careful what you ask for).
I, the author, enjoy the freedom to use characters from one story, in another story if the occasion may be enhanced in order to entertain you the fabulous reader. So …
That very night, Joss (who honestly is very real. A Lake’s shepherd and famous fell runner … I worked in the same place as him for a while, see The Atomic Shepherd, c’mon reader, make it trend) went for a pint at The Bridge Inn (where the World’s Biggest Liar competition is held). It just happened that a brilliant genetic engineer, a Mr Albert Falfa was passing through and Joss got talking to him. The engineer got on great with Joss as he was a fan of fell running but unfortunately wasn’t good at it because he had one leg six inches shorter than the other. Upon hearing Joss’s story and desire, Al Falfa told Joss what he could do for him and Joss was very keen, even suggesting that Al might try running ‘across’ steep hills rather than up them, with his short leg on the upper side? Joss took delighted Al’s number and promised to ring.
Joss’s inspired book ‘Across Fell Running For People With One Leg Longer Than The Other’ has so far sold hundreds of copies for those people with stacked shoes who fancy jog-rambling where otherwise it was difficult without very, very expensive bespoke designer Nike Stacked-Sole trainers, which no one had thought of anyway (you heard it here first).
The next day, Joss talked to Copeland Borough Council and said he had a plan to reduce the amount of tax paid by Lake District Traders who were selling far too many expensive 100% real wool sheep keyrings to tourists (they sold brilliantly because the wool had been washed in monosodium glutamate which contains traces of Cocaine). The Council liked the idea and gave it their full backing (providing no one knew and doubly providing they got some money for their charity ‘Poor Us’). Joss immediately upon return home got on his plastic ‘Sheep Lake District tourist shop phone’ and phoned Al.
Al got on the internet to his favourite site i.e. dna.com and placed his order.
A few days later he visited Joss and they both administered the DNA to Joss’s favourite dog, Meg … she could be the test pilot.
Al had done this many times, his most special job being for the British Government (can’t tell you about that one). He had also turned a Heronry at a country park called Coombe Abbey into a Pterodactylry and a rather strange one where he had injected a man with stag DNA which he had played with a little. You see, he orders the straight DNA to save time and then plays with it … like a modern day chef with puff pastry (why bother making it?).
Meg was injected with Velociraptor DNA, which had been AL-altered, so she just showed the characteristics but no physical changes, except her eyes, because Velociraptor eyes are fab.
To cut a medium length story short, Meg would go out with Joss and when they spotted a tourist, or better two or three of them, all juicy ramblers …
Joss would give a tweet or two on his whistle and Meg would be off at speed …
‘Come by lass! Come by!’ Shouted Joss, and Meg would herd din dins for a while for fun. She would pen them if there was a pen, separate one from the flock maybe … before pouncing and having her fill (it’s hard to take the sheep dog out of a Raptor Collie). All in all, fresh tourist meat is healthier than the Butcher’s Reject tinned crap (unless maybe if one of them is on Simvastatin or chemo?).
It doesn’t end there, you must be joking. The tourists these days have loads of electronic gear, posh phones, credit cards etc. There are Lake District farmers and shepherds who are very clever and can find the pin numbers in their secret labs, hidden in cellars or barns. Actually, all they really do is insert the card into the slot on the side of their snazzy TV sets and the TV then displays the pin on the screen (what used to be rustic is now e-Rustic). The farmers and shepherds got together with Lake District traders and worked out a way to make lots of money with all this great gear, which included high performance cars, snazzy watches, yachts, launches … wallets filled with Queen’s head beer vouchers. It was wonderful, there were less tourists crapping the place up, but now the tourist industry was much more lucrative than it had ever been (if you know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge).
But, all good things usually get gooder (‘come to an end is simply a silly belief) … and getting gooder it is.
Tourists are beginning to go there because they don’t believe in Veloci-sheepdogs/Raptor Collies that eat tourists … it must be ‘sheepshit’? Some of them want the scare of the chase.
Chavs want ‘prestige status symbol’ Rappies. The police want them for their work. Drug dealers want them to fight off the police with. It is probably a good job Shep on Blue Peter wasn’t one …
John Noakes: “Well, hello Frances, thanks for bringing in Percy, your ‘on his back legs’tightrope walking poodle. Shep! Get down Shep! Oops! I’m very sorry Percy, Frances seemed like a good owner.”
A great upside? The Government are now getting even more tax from the Lake District. To balance out that great gift to our leaders, a tax free, secret HM Revenue upside for the shepherds and farmers was also created i.e. they can sell ex-tourist i Pads, phones etc., to the not yet ex tourists in pubs, providing they have wiped the blood off that is.
To provide these circular goods, the hiking shops will greatly promote fell walking and rambling and the TV will show it a lot as a very healthy holiday pastime … and V-sheepdogs do need to eat remember; and the poor things do have voracious appetites.
The new English Lake District WELCOME TO sign showing a Raptor Collie and its weekly tourist kill-spots.
It’s wonderful what can be created when science decides to take the taste out of our once beautiful tasting food after they took it out the first time by removing monosodium glutamate; which is like telling a Christian their advisor, Satan, doesn’t exist.
For instance, I have come up with a great idea with lovely rabbits which are now back on the up since rabbit farming began (but breeding wise, they still can’t compete with chavs? Maybe if rabbits could get benefits?). Have your gourmet saddle of rabbit, but what about this? ‘Saddles FOR rabbits’?
Your kids can have hours of fun putting their Action Man dolls etc., on the new semi domesticated family posh dinner/pet (it’s called Micro Rabbit Farming … comes under ‘living off the land’).
If your rabbit is a bit placid (depressed), the Rabbit Electro Rodeo Saddle can add to the fun. Two electrical contacts on the bottom give the bunny a shock from the Rodeo Bunny control box, and wild rabbits can’t half jump and wiggle in mid-air when ‘poked’. If you’d like to see your kids put on a real live bunny rodeo and charge their friends to get into your garden, Warwick Davies’s little people model/actor agency so I’m sure he can help by providing a few cowboys and cowgirls? Please don’t buy them a sheepdog puppy, it may ruin the show.
Please don’t be scared to go to the Lakes, it’s only a story (it’s true). If you do go, don’t even feel that you had better be careful, because being careful is complete codswallop. People say to me ‘be careful’ … of what? Being careful can have a person walking around like a paranoid freak in a state of negative expectation. Here is a little thesis on being careful.
Beware of stupid do-gooder people who say ‘be careful’ when you are leaving the premises in order to take life by the horns and live it to the full; the prissy bastards don’t know what the freak they’re talking about!
Ok, ‘be careful’ may mean ‘don’t climb to the top of the multi-storey car park and tightrope walk across a telephone cable to the block of flats opposite; because you like to live life on the edge. But, if you are innocently walking along the street when a passing plane accidentally drops a bomb, which goes off near you and throws you several hundred metres to your landing place, in some nettles. How were you supposed to be careful? Learn how to fall and land?
The best way to ‘be careful’ is to stay in bed … but, what if you’re laying there snoozing at 11.30am, in the winter, when a tiny shard of ice leaves a cloud. It falls and grows and, as it hits your roof it is a nine foot long jagged spear which goes right through your chest pinning you to your bedroom floor/living room ceiling. What makes it worse is that you were just about to get up because you’re bursting for a number two. Things you’re supposed to be careful of tend to happen as quick surprises. The statement ‘be careful’ is therefore a crock of shit uttered by someone who is walking the earth half asleep i.e. a pointless mode to come here in the first place, so they should all FOAD.
Something it’s hard to ‘be careful’ about. This man, whose life is about to get lousy, was sitting down on a park bench contemplating something important, when a lump of wild 666 Blue Tac (born of a toy jackal) which was whizzing around, saw it’s opportunity.
Blue Tac, (which can fly like a vampire i.e. when not in bat mode) when it is bored likes to form itself an arse, fly backwards into someone who was contemplating’s face, grip their nose between its arse cheeks and refuse to let go. You can get Blue Tac ‘be careful’ kits, but you have to be bloody quick because it isn’t slow stuff.
Be careful now! Toodle ooo!
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I was fortunate enough to spend the first thirty years of my life in the English Lake District. I hung out with the sheep farmers in the hills, shot clay pigeons and stray farm hands on their land, told and listened to stories in the pubs. Joss Naylor, an old mate of mine who is in this story would probably laugh his head off at it, after all, he was involved in the Worldâ€™s Biggest Liar competition. I say probably because there is always the hope that he might sue me and do me a favour by dragging my name through the silage using some hick Lawyer who represented the alleged guilty in the Texas chainsaw incident. I find Lake District books a bit boring which is why I like to write them in this caricature style which is a lot more interesting and entertaining (I find ... you get the info plus the fun). As you reach the top of Hardknott pass, you can turn and look back down at Eskdale Grike and Gragley Rock. It is a fine example of a glacial groove Zzzzzzz! My version: As you reach the top of Hardknott, you can turn and look back down to Eskdale Grike and Gragley Rock ... and see a â€˜black magicallyâ€™ given life, Swiss Army sheep keyring featuring a deadly bottle opener, a knife and something for getting sheep out of Chelsea Tractor wheel arches. It was lost by a tourist, found and energised by a Warlock sheep farmer ... itâ€™s heading YOUR way! Soon you will be in the hands of Lake District Pagans, and later that day, campers on the lower lands will say â€˜Wow! Look at that fire on top of Hardknott!â€™ Much more interesting. Enjoy the ditty. It isnâ€™t very long, but I know how to use it. And, if you ever catch Joss Naylor rooting through your bins ... please tell him.