Pay the Toll

You have to pay the toll. That’s the way it works.

In order to get past you have to stump up the money or whatever is needed. You have to satisfy the teller to avoid salmonella. You must grease the wheels to sort out your shady deals.

I am about to venture down South towards the magical, Icelandic borough of Royskopp in order to meet Sheriff Rockingham himself. I have heard terrible, terrible rumours of the gentleman who he currently lives with though. Hushed tones have informed me that Steve Steveingtons is a violent wretch. I once sent him a Superman t-shirt which he loved with all his heart. One day he wore it to the pub, somebody accidentally spilled some lager on it and the authorities are still finding bits of people weeks later, scattered around the neighbourhood. A man with a temper like this needs to be appeased.

So what do you do? I understand that Steve Steveingtons is a big fan of the Trek through the Stars, something from television. Biggles maybe? I have been daydreaming about weird things mashed together and this keeps popping into my head at work. I don’t think my pedestrian drawing skills have done it much justice, and it doesn’t look anything at all like the one in my mind, but I hope that it is enough to stop him knocking me literally into next week.

If this should be my last post let it be known that I regret nothing, not even all the Beans comics I wrote.

Stationary Harassment

I was the victim of a crime, a crime that mostly goes unnoticed.

As I returned the trolley to the bay in Asda car park I was greeted by the following sight:

Was this dog doing anything wrong? Not really, he was protecting the car until his owner came back.

Was I doing anything wrong? No, because I was returning the trolley to where it belonged.

So why did the dog look at me as though I HAD done something wrong? Where was the justification for the judgement in his eyes?

I did test this by clocking him on the way past the first time and walking slower on the way back. His eyes burrowed deep into mine, never flinching, never blinking. It was the longest five seconds of my life I’d ever experienced in a car park.

There was the chance that I looked like someone else or perhaps he was hoping I’d open the door and set him free.

Or maybe, just maybe, he was hoping I’d come a little closer so he could bark the fuck out.

I’ll never know what I did to that dog and, quite frankly, I don’t think I want to know.

Now Look Here

The first thing I want you to know is that, whatever the world may think, we are not judging you.

You may have chosen to leave your seafood sauce out in the hot August sun, why wouldn’t you? It’s your sauce. If your hob isn’t work properly then leaving it outside for nature to warm it up is a great idea. It saves money and is environmentally friendly. We admire what you’re doing and, boy, are we impressed!

The only questionable aspect of this whole affair though is that you may have left it out and forgotten about it, given that the sell-by date was several months ago. Perhaps you forgot where you left it and bought a replacement when you’re stomach started growling. Nobody is pointing fingers. We deal with facts here, not speculation.

We are not talking about you behind your back in hushed tones, far from it. Only, let’s have a little more foresight the next time you decide something is a good idea.

We’re only thinking about you. And your prawn crackers.

This is not breakfast

Most days I have breakfast at home before I go to work. I know how to do breakfast. Make some coffee, put some bread in the toaster. Some days there’s something more interesting like crumpets. Pour a glass of orange juice if there’s time. Any idiot can do breakfast.

Not, it turns out, the people who run the only food outlet in the building where I now work. No, as I descend the marble staircase into the atrium there are inviting smells coming from the cafe, but the company that runs the franchise don’t understand breakfast. The inviting smells will invite you to disaster.

During the day they sell health food. In the morning they sell insults.

Here’s their breakfast menu almost in its entirety:

Ham hock protein pot with poached egg, spinach and chia seeds: £2.35 [this is the size of a yogurt pot]
Scrambled egg protein pot with semi-dried tomato and marinated mushrooms: £3.70
Scrambled egg protein pot with chorizo and avocado: £3.95
Scrambled egg protein pot with Greek-style cheese, herbs and chilli: £3.70
Organic porridge with soya milk: £2.55
Coconut milk porridge with toasted seeds: £2.95
Cherry and pistachio yogurt pot: £2.99
Chia and almond bircher muesli: £2.99

That’s more or less it. There’s no bacon sandwich in there, no egg that is not scrambled, no porridge made with actual milk from a cow. (Fake milk from soya or a coconut does not actually make something that looks or tastes like porridge, it makes sloppy white soup with lumps in. I know because I tried it one hungry morning and it was worse than I could have imagined.) There isn’t anything bread-based, because bread contains wheat and wheat is not healthy. You can have a vegetable smoothie with your breakfast (including kale, cucumber and spinach) but you can’t have a slice of toast with butter.

There isn’t really any point to this beyond the fact that sometimes I get to work early and I want something to eat and when I go downstairs I find nothing but seeds and spinach. It just makes me very upset and very disappointed, and I don’t know how these people can do something like this to a fellow human being. That’s all.

The Cheek of It

This completely took me by surprise!

Now I am used to receiving abuse from family members, close friends, clients, the general public and the occasional letters through the post, but this is a new low. I was recently walking past a new development of houses and what did greet me upon turning my viewing eyes to the right? A sign in the window as above.

It would appear as though property is now turning its attention to me. I do not know what in particular it had against me and my award-winning personality and, quite frankly, I do not care either. I just wanted to make sure that this issue is brought to light so that others do not suffer in silence.

Thank you.

Chris’ New Favourite Song – ‘Broiler’

In ancient Latin a ‘broiler’ is a broken boiler. So many people have been brought to their knees because of a lack of hot water.

In accordance with Beans law, so it was requested that a song be written to accompany Christopher’s anguish at no longer being a Big Man (TM) and having to resume his role originally handed to him in a sock over a year ago.

I was the person handed that task and I am the one who has furiously sculpted the song that lays before you. There is no joy to be had in this post. If you are looking for sunshine and pickles then I would suggest you look elsewhere. Only doom and gloom permeate this blackened tune.

If only the National Whinge Line was still up and running. Keep your next of kin on speed dial.

Broiler

It was a Tuesday night,
I wasn’t feeling alright.
I knew I’d felt better,
As I clung to my sweater.
Inclement weather in May,
Added to my disarray.
Kettles wearing a frown,
My boilers broken down.

I think it’s the flue,
Problems, I’ve got a few.
The warranty’s out of date,
Got there two days too late.
Now that the meters teasing,
Everything’s slowly freezing.
Oh, there is just no pleasing,
Shunt’ be this cold this season.

(Instrumental break)

Glow worm, Valliant, Worcester Bosch

So, I am left this way,
In this cool month of May.
Engineer can’t come by
‘Til 3pm next Fri.
Over a week like this?
Fiddlesticks, ladles and whisks!
Combi’s left me so blue,
Tell me, what can I do?

Diddle diddle dee dum de dum de babaaaa badum

I hope this is sufficient for everyone’s purposes. Whilst this tale may not be true, it easily could have been.

Dear Beans… My Late Lucid Literary Lamentation

Dear Beans,

For some reason, which clearly escapes me, everyone on this website absolutely, positively hates my books. With a passion. With more than a passion. With big arms and a scowl.

Having sold eight million copies of ‘Running Away: The Me Within Me (Not You)’, I was expecting a certain level of praise and a huge dollop of respect for having conquered the literary world and the New York Bestsellers List for approximately seventeen weeks. What met me, however, was the kind of despair and ridicule best reserved for X Factor contestants who couldn’t get through Boot Camp.

I don’t understand. My book received several 5 star reviews and a glowing report from both Richard and Judy and also, Chris’ favourite, Su Pollard. So where does the venom lie? Is everyone jealous of my success, my fame, my bingo trophy?

I can only hope that my new book ‘Two Pumps and a Squirt – The Kevin Hill Story’ will seek to rectify the problems everyone has with my expressive and hugely successful way of writing.

Yours faithfully

Claim to Fame

Take a seat. Clean up your mess. In fact, you might want to reverse the order of those things. As long as you get them both done.

You should know that you may be within the vicinity of a local celebrity. Not that I like to spoil the surprise but the recent release of Dylan Moran’s newest DVD, ‘Off The Hook’, contains a very special treat for everyone. The main performance was recorded in London. The DVD, however, contains additional material that was recorded at The Stand in Newcastle upon Tyne.

If you listen very carefully you can make out two people laughing very loudly at the ensuing comedy. Audrey ‘Piledriver Transmission Cupcake’ J clocks in with two mighty guffaws and there’s an extended chuckle of chortles from Emma ‘Bat Pan Mants’ M. My laugh, sadly, was not robust enough to make the cut and therefore you will not be able to hear the lovechild of Frank Bruno, Jimmy Carr and Eddie Murphy tittering away in the background.

Pouring
Beans

Category: Sorrow