Heist movie

Right, lads. Thanks for gathering here in the seedy basement criminal headquarters round the back of the seedy basement criminal billiards hall. Grab a cocktail stick to chew. I’ve spread out a blueprint on the table so gather round and have a look.

As you all know, this is the big one, the heist of the year. We’re going to lift four million nicker in used five pence coins from the Coinstar machine by the tills in Morrisons.

First off, we all need code names. Kevil, you’re Mr Blancmange. Ian, we’ll call you Mr Trifle. I’ll be going by the name Mr Bread and Butter Pudding. No arguing now, those are the names, if you don’t like it you can walk out the door and miss out on the biggest haul of loose change this country has ever seen. Alright? Good. We’re all in.

Here’s the plan. Meet round the side of the Morrisons petrol station at 3.15. Mr Trifle and Mr Blancmange will be at the air machine feigning an argument about the correct tyre pressure for the rear wheels of a heavily loaded Dacia Sandero in cold weather. I’ll be in the shop buying a bag of Jelly Tots. If I come out and show you a car wash ticket for a number four programme with hot wax, the game is on.

At that point we all get into the Sandero sharpish. Mr Blancmange will drive. Mr Trifle will jump in the boot so the car doesn’t look too full. I’ll sit in the passenger seat and crack open the Jelly Tots. Then we swing it round to the front of Morrisons and ditch the wheels in a parent and child bay. They’ve got extra room for the doors to open and they’re right by the entrance. I don’t care if we get a ticket.

From there we make it to the Coinstar machine under cover of a montage. Mr Trifle will play in some lively montage music on a bluetooth speaker. Then we get indoors in five montage clips.

One, Mr Blancmange slides the stack of shopping baskets in the way of the automatic doors to wedge them open.
Two, Mr Trifle grabs us three copies of the free monthly Morrisons recipe magazine to hide our faces by pretending to read them.
Three, I’ll offer the security guard some Jelly Tots so he’s not looking at the CCTV.
Four, Mr Blancmange grabs a 10p plastic bag from the self checkouts and covers up the camera.
And five, Mr Trifle humorously pauses by the display of flowers to pull a rose from a bouquet and tuck it into the buttonhole on his suit jacket.

When we get to the Coinstar machine we have sixty seconds to get it away before the checkout supervisor sees what we’re up to and raises the alarm. Mr Blancmange and I will lift the floor panel next to it, revealing a manhole down to the drains. Mr Trifle will then announce that he’s “got this” and we will leave it to him to push the machine into the hole.

When that’s done we jump down after it and ride it away through the sewers like a big cash-filled surfboard. The current will tip us out at the riverside where we can get a number 65 bus back here to the lair.

Any questions? No? Good. In that case, you put your suits on and I’ll get the Sandero out of the lock up. Everyone synchronise watches. See you outside in five.

Watchoo lookin’ at?

What’s your game, Gene Pitney?

Why you so smug, eh?

I see you, dressed in a sharp suit and turning towards the camera. That’s not a wry look on your face, Pitney, that’s the look of someone who knows something. So what do you know, Pitney? Do you know that you’ve got a great voice and before your passing in 2006 you were well-respected by pretty much everyone? Do you know that not only did you have a magnificent set of pipes but you also played instruments during the early part of your career? I didn’t know that but now I do.

Are you hiding the fact that you are also a gifted songwriter and had your fingers in a lot of pies in the 1960’s? Pretty chuffed that you wrote the lovely song ‘Hello Mary Lou’ for Ricky Nelson, later covered by Creedence Clearwater Revival?

Something in your pocket, Pitney? Perhaps it’s a diary of the time you were present when the Rolling Stones were recording their first album. What’s that? May have played some piano for them too?

Well I wouldn’t be that happy if I’d written the piss stain train tracks of ‘Rubber Ball’ by Bobby Vee, a song so irritating it should have cement poured on its feet and be thrown into the sea. Get in the sea, ‘Rubber Ball’. No more of that, Pitney.

Remember who you’re dealing with, Pitney. You’ll be twenty-four hours from my fist in your chops if you come at me like that again.

Emergency Bean Grab: the fairytale comic

Back in February, you might remember I found myself in a terrible situation, and had to make three posts in a day. To warn everyone about this daring and hazardous act, I posted an Emergency Bean Grab Warning. It was only fair.

Ian was unimpressed, telling me in the comments that it was the worst fairytale he’d ever heard. But I took his criticism on board, and together we workshopped a much better fairytale about my February bean. He then insisted that I draw some pictures so we could get it published and make our fortune.

While I haven’t yet started negotiations with publishers, I am now pleased to share the finished artwork, which includes everything in Ian’s fairytale wish list: Medieval Europe, savagery, a misogynistic male Prince character, a plucky young sidekick named Ian, reaction shots of Ian, a friendly animal helper, bad weather, and some sort of woman.

I present to you Crich5156’s February Bean Grab: The Fairytale: The Graphic Novel.

Mrs Miggins is up to no good

Back in April, we learned that Mrs Miggins was redeveloping the heart of her enormous property empire. 75 Farringdon Road, the fine property where either Ian or I fell head over heels in love with the lucrative old crone, had the builders in.

I’ve been back to see what she’s done with the place, and I have to say I’m shocked. Take a look for yourself.

A respectable office building, you think to yourself. A fine example of the tasteful architecture and prime locations that have made Mrs Miggins the property magnate she is today.

I thought so too. But then I noticed something. Have you seen it? Look closer.

There it is. Miggins has handed her shiny new building over to Richard Sisskind of the Crossland Otter Hunt – the only UK hunt that chases otters across land and, presumably, then kills them in horrible ways.

Otters don’t deserve this. Otters are lovely. And I demand to know why Mrs Miggins – once the love of my, or maybe Ian’s, life – has taken on this brutal new pastime.

One thing is for sure. We will not be moving the Pouring Beans office to 75 Farringdon Road. No need to send me those fivers.

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.

Easter is murder.

I’m not quite sure what the marketing team at Mars had in mind for this one….

I can only assume from this packet of m&m’s eggs that Yellow m&m and Pink m&m Egg were love rivals for the affections of Green m&m Egg, and that for some reason Yellow has seen fit to slaughter Pink splattering himself and Green in the blood of his rival.

Do you think they picked up on the start of the Easter story, the bit where Jesus gets killed, and not bothered reading on to get to the more traditional ‘re-birth’ bit?

Christmas Dessert War

Christmas is nearly here. The season of eating a bit too much and feeling very full all day and still somehow continuing to eat Celebrations all afternoon. The season of Many Desserts.

This is the Christmas Dessert War. Pick a side and choose your favourite. Only one can survive*.

The candidates are:

Christmas pudding (with brandy sauce or custard, don’t mess me about with a drizzle of cream, nobody wants cream)
Christmas cake (with icing AND marzipan, and ideally a slice of Wensleydale on the side)
Yule Log (don’t choose this)
Other (please specify)

I choose Christmas pudding with brandy sauce. And if you don’t want any I’ll have yours.

(* all the desserts will survive and continue to be available for eating)

Report from Manchester

This week I made a short visit to Manchester, a city in the north of England that can be found on any map by simply looking at the wrong side of the Pennines. It was there that a large group of people who like blue things had decided to have a big meeting, though it was a bit different to the other meetings I went to because the people who like blue things seemed pretty sure they were in charge of everyone else, no matter what colour anyone else liked best. They spent a lot of time talking about how only old people like blue things and whether there was a way to convince young people that blue things are best. Outside the conference there were lots of noisy people who had big blue flags with little yellow stars on them, but strangely, none of the people who like blue things seemed to like the people with big blue flags even though the big blue flags were almost entirely blue.

Having had this experience, it is now traditional that I should share what I learned with the Beans.

The first thing I learned is that it rains in Manchester. I arrived under grey skies but it was dry. I walked ten minutes to the hotel. I checked into the hotel. I emerged again from the hotel, on my way to work, to find that it had started doing something that I can only describe as “rain”, though “rain” does not adequately describe the volume of water coming down from the sky. It rained for almost the whole of the rest of my stay.

My shoes were not waterproof. There are holes. They need replacing. They should, I now see, have been replaced some time ago. I spent the day with waterlogged feet. They did not dry for three days. I think I have trench foot.

The second thing I learned is that Manchester doesn’t like people who like blue things. There were a lot of Manchester people shouting at the people who like blue things and someone hung a big banner on a bridge that said HANG THE PEOPLE WHO LIKE BLUE THINGS. Maybe they distrust blue things because the sky is blue when it’s not raining and it’s always raining in Manchester.

The third thing I learned is that Manchester is bad at breakfast. The coffee was bad and the toast was bad and the bacon was bad and the only fruit was melon, cut up four different ways in four different bowls to make it look like there was lots of fruit, and worst of all, there was no jam. No jam at all.

There was also the saddest breakfast table in the world.

I mean look at that. There were two sad little stools under what appears to be a coffee table. Nobody was sitting there. Nobody would ever sit there. It’s a stupid place to have breakfast. Just like Manchester.