Jankys second most haunted hood, is up where the fella has to “do some crime to earn a dime”. Way up in the frozen North of this fair city, lies The St Johns Wood Hood. A place of cultural but not class mix. Where Arab lives next to Jew in good grace. Where the biggest deli is named after a second world war German tank [odd], the largest mosque is not half a K from the main synagogue, and every so often in the summer, thousands turn up in their gang colours [yellow and orange ties- soooo batty] to watch our boys take one helluva a beating. Yes Lords is in the mix here too.

But THE greatest attraction to the Wood-hood, is but a 2 tone road marking made famous by hippies back in the day.

Abbey Road.

As in- “Sir, could you tell me the way to Abbey Road?”

If Janky had a buck for every time he has been asked dis…he could pay off the Greek debt. Well maybe the Irish one at least.

The world’s most walked over zebra crossing is just down the street. You can hear it from afar, as the cars just lean on the horns all day as tourists and geeks cross back and forth time after time whilst being videoed by their bro’s. I’ve never seen less than a twenty car tail back as traffic has to stop whilst Sven gets his album cover snap.

To celebrate this musical milestone, the café in the tube entrance changed its name from St Johns Wood station café – to “The Beatles Café”

Too small to sit down in, they hand out free directions to The Crossing, and bedeck the shelves with the finest Mop-Top-Tat.

All you need is love….fridge magnet, Sir?

Ringo lunchbox?

Back in the USSR keyfob?

Beatles alarm clock…since when did they ever use one.

No tat too weird here.

Janky gets hits frothy fix each morning whilst staring at a fake Fab Four by the counter.

Last week it got broken into.

The perps had hit Highgate tube station caff [ soon to be the Karl Marx Kafe – he’s buried down the end of the road..yup, by Ed Milliband’s dad]..and looted it down to the flapjacks.

I asked the Beatles Barrista what had been taken, as it looked quite tidy still.

Surely the Yellow Submarine plushy. Perhaps the stylish Apple Records cravat. Oh come on, Abbey Road mug n mousemat. I’d go for one of those.

“No”, she said “it’s a bit embarrassing actually, they didn’t take anything”

All you need is cash…ta da da da da.

And we empty the till every night.

JCF

Summer is a nightmare around Janky’s hood. The young offenders are all out for 8 weeks, air conditioning doesn’t exist in any crib and worst of all, a home boy can’t sit outside a pub and smoke. All the tables are taken by pasty white-boys who have spent the whole winter inside shivering.

So Jankster has a special place he goes to avoid all dis disharmony. A place only seen by a few geeks and travellers incapable of reading a map correctly and so end up lost here.

Stuck in the far east of Hungary is the complete antithesis of my hood.

No concrete, gunshot and bro’s.

No crowds, sirens or fractious ho’s.

Just a fuggin giant swamp. Plains as far as you can see, strange reed houses, horses pulling carts and weird grey cows.

Best of all, it’s the only place in the world that has woolly pigs.

Yo bro – I shit you not. The pigs look like they’re wearing something knitted by your Nan. Pig-sheep. A dangerous world for the Jewish ovinologist. Mistakes could be made. Yaweh and Allah will strike thee down farmyard loiterer.

I call this place Elysium. Others call it Hortobagy.

The last place in the EU you can still see a genuine peasant, and one that is happy to smile through sun cracked lips and show a total lack of dentistry.

Janky loves it.

The smell of the wind from the Urals…plushy cow-slipped meadows..WHOOOAA, I am soundin’ batty here. Sorry.

But like all perfect places, there is a downside. Hortobagy is SO rural, the concept of a hotel has not quite arrived there yet. A crib for the night must be sought in a town many miles away.

Debrecin. And this hood has to be the second most boring place on the planet.

(Janky and Shoeman have experienced the first. The capital of Brunei. A dump called Bandar. When you have to hang out in a Courts furniture store and a Baskin Robbins ice cream parlour on a Friday night- for fun, you know you are in an alcohol and excitement-free state. Sad, considering the antics the Sultan’s brother gets up to on his private jet outside of Brunei air space.)

Debrecin is so dull, all the locals left and it’s now populated by students suckered into doing dental degrees to keep Hungary’s main earning machine going.

But lo- help is at hand from the local tourist office. When in doubt, have a festival.

But Debrecin town council have strangely foregone the easy money from cracked up youngsters listening to faded German electro-pop. And the Proclaimers.

They went for “The Stuffed Meals Festival” and “The Double Sausage Festival”

Once again, je ne tu merde. See below.

But this later proved to be a clever ruse. There is no one easier to rip off than a double-sausage-hunting-hungry-Hungarian. And Janky.

The Magyars have created a paper currency that has a pale blue note worth 10,000 forints. They also have a pale blue note worth 1000 forints. 30 quid versus 3.

And guess who bought a 1 quid sossy that cost him 29 quid. TWICE.

Yes, this steet wise mutha got done with the “you only gave me a 1000 note” when I clearly did not. The cops are wise to this and always side with the locals. For a fee later of course.

No wonder they have a Double Sausage Festival. Double the con.

Woolly pigs are worth more than gold, I tell you.

JCF

Janky’s been hit twice this week with the same shit. Out drinking and wilding with the Shoeman on da Lavender Hill [such a sweet name for such a dirty ole road] I witnessed an RTA. Two bros in a white van pull out and side-on a Beemer coming from the road in the opposite direction. Thuuuud on the two door sportster, both drivers get out, look and have a laugh. All seems cool.

Oh no, not according to our overworked emergency services.

Seems there’s a dude in the back of the BM. But the two drivers don’t seem to worry and call 5/0 for the usual insurance shit. Plod turns up, and lo decides they can’t open the opposite door to get the back seater out, so call the Fire Pigs.

Within 10 minutes, we now have 4, yes that’s FOUR fire engines. They then call support, so we now end up on the Lavender with nine emergency vehicles, for a simple side swipe.

Do they open the opposite door for the passenger?

Of course not, they punch out the back window, and cut the fuggin roof off.

Out the bloke was taken, straight onto a back-board and into one of the 3 ambulances.

Maybe Janky missed something, like a severe knee injury, or a concussion. Let’s hope the guy gets blue lit to the nearest infirmary.

Nope. Health Pigs stay another twenty and then bimble off afters.

So no emergency really then.

9 vehicles. 30 workers. 40 minutes of the Lav closed. All the crap yellow tape. Dehooded car. All for a bump and a sore leg.

Over-reaction?

No. Not as bad as Janky’s when someone from the pub voyeurs asked him if they could have a cigarette.

“Do you know how much they cost now??”….

“9 quid a pack- sorry mate, but pop to the shop up the road- they sell them there.” Red-trousered-fogester agreed and did just that.

Cut to 2 days later, and Jank is celebrating his new e-book hitting the heights of Top Ten of the download lists with Candide the co-writer.

In Brixton.

Not my turf.

Outside bar. Janks is approached through the metal bars keeping the street folk from customers.

Same Q. “Can I have a fag” Same reply from the man. Different response.

Next thing there’s a knife out and an attitude to make the soul lose faith in the south of this fine city.

Weird hood man.

So Gideon, stop jacking up the fag prices. One day a homes is gonna get stuck for your easy tax raisin’ pleasure.

And badder still is that you can buy un-taxed shit in any street corner there and it’s still cheaper than 20 Benson Gold.

Let’s see how Uruguay works out.

NOTE TO SELF – Janky, if you ever see a hombre wearing a T-shirt from a rare dive destination you have also been to, e.g. Tofu Beach, Mozambique. Do not shout loudly at them saying you have been there too and did they see a manta ray as well. They will turn out to be an utter tool from Gateshead and will follow you all evening with lame stories of their life, other holidays in China and why they have a limp moustache and the muscles of an AIDS patient and in an accent you still can’t fully understand but are too polite to say so.

Life fools.

JCF

Janky’s drug of choice has been more and more demonised over the last few years. There was a time when this legal high was “cool”, and all the kids did it. Now the Jankster is seen increasingly as a loser and a pariah for his addiction to his daily fix.

It’s an odd world where cokesters are seen as high achievers, dopesters as free thinking liberals, cracksters as richly experimental and ketaminesters as wackily festival-funny…but the few remaining fagsters, are just boring old coughy gits.

Janky is thinking of getting a bit more with the times for his needs.

So thank St Stuyvesant, the patron saint of emphysema and general wheezing, for pub legal, battery powered, water vapourising, nicotine delivering..…E-fags.

And thanks to the fine ho who showed Janky the light.

Well not quite, you don’t need a flame any more.

Just a micro-USB port on your laptop.

i-padders beware!

The tipping point to unbox this initially strange object, that did remain on my kitchen table for a few days, like a modern totem to yesterday’s evil, was one of the Organisation’s team having a whinge.

Janky was tabbing away old school in the car with the team at close quarters in the back, setting up the next days drive-by.

“Oh, stoop smoking. I smell of tobacco. My hair stinks. My clothes are gonna have to be dry cleaned…etc etc”

You never got that in the old days on the tube, planes and trains when sparking up.

I had to placate her with a voucher for Lenor and some Febreze handy-wipes.

“Well, I smell of that fruit you just ate. Its fuggin revolting. I put on my new 007 aftershave and all I can whiff is pineapple..” was my response.

Janky Lesson in Life 38:

When absolutely in the wrong, bang to rights and totally cornered by your own guilt, there is only one way out.

Go on the attack with the bizarre.

Wife: Why the **** are you in bed with my sister?

Errant husband : It’s only because you don’t cook me enough vegetables.

George Washington Senior: Did you cut down that cherry tree?

George Junior: NO..it was a troupe of beaver from Idaho aided by the Cherokee. They got in through the hole in the fence YOU failed to fix Pop.

Federal Judge: Why did you let off two explosive devices?

Council for D. Tsarnaev: He was trying to raise awareness for NORAID and the Real IRA.

You get my drift.

My team never eat fruit near me now.

But the next day on the drive-by, I took the E-tab.

And it works…no odour and a nicotine hit to stop a mad honey badger in search of Sugar Smacks.

But therein lies the problem. Within 4 toots my lips were tingling and a heady rush ensued reminiscent of the day a bottle of poppers fell uncapped into the footwell of a Ford Escort on Nightingale Lane.

“Sheeeit”, I said to the posse, just how much nicotine’s in this damn thing.

Yup…18 mg. that’s equivalent to 40 Woodbine.

But…and here’s the rub, there’s 30 TAT [tokes-a-tab] per ciggy. Do your multiplication..that 18mg is delivered over 1200T with evil old cigs.

I sucked trendy funky USB fag dry in about 100T.

No wonder I still can’t feel my nose.

I sincerely hope they have tested these on school children and Beagles before letting them loose on my manor.

And whilst on the subject of yoof and smoking. Fly-Ass had his first home-boy busted for this at the Young Offenders Institute in Oxfordshire he attends. The bustees Dad was more pissed off that the 50 quid fine was going on the fees rather than docking a day off the kid’s ‘time off for good behaviour’.

“Don’t know why he does it or how he got caught” he mused whilst pulling hard on a Marlboro as we both watched YOI take on Datchet Modern at cricket.

Apparently the Warders smelt it a mile off.

Now here’s a solution…..

JCF

A lot of you out there have been pesterin’ Janky for his lucid and informed opinion on THE hot debate.

No, not who would win in the Octagon between left and coalition. ( It would be left - as Balls has an MMA blue from Cambridge) or

Did we actually win in Afghanistan, or was it a draw?

Nope, of course it’s all about Mrs T. Love her or hate her, her death seems to have resurrected the 70’s and 80’s more than those cheap compilation CD’s that HMV were giving away at the end of their existence.

You ask…Yo! Janky, what does a boy who grew up in Dorset’s ghettoes and who was around all the time of her tenure - think of the Iron Ho?

Well you may be surprised, but Janky thought she had a lot of cred.

For those now cussin’ their computers and dissin’ Janky loud for this comment, please hear this.

She was so far ahead of her time, it will take those not as wise as this mo’fo 20 years to get it.

The Falklands: Do you remember how dull TV was in 1982? I do. Ask the Fuggin Family for fugs sake. Nationwide. Test Card after 11pm. No nudity or Adult channels thanks to Mary Whitehouse. Mrs T gave us a War to watch, but not someone else’s like ‘Nam or Korea…our very own one. She also knew that in no way were our brave footballers ever going to beat the Argies. She has been watching the tapes of Maradonna at Newells Old Boys when he was 15, and knew full well we would be spanked in 1986 by them. She gave us a far better Victory against the Corned Beefeaters than The Hand of God was against us. The same holds for France 98 and our loss on penalties. We took your boys on your own doorstep. Ha!

Thanks Mrs T.

The Mines: Here’s an experiment. Put a job ad in the Durham GumTree for “Workers wanted to work in claustrophobic conditions, 200 feet below the ground. Only the healthy need apply as you will get silicosis, pneumoconiosis and emphysema when older. Chances of death by entrapment or fire very high.” How many gritty Northeners would go for that now. None. They all work in Local Bloody Government now up there. Or in the new Jacamo store in Gateshead. We would have to get the Poles to do the work, and that’s where we got the coal from anyways during the strike. Saved on the transport for the workers really. Ahead of her time.

Thanks Mrs T.

Privatisation: Back in the dark days, when Janky was setting up a new Skunk Franchise..he had to wait over 2 weeks. Yes over 14 days to get a sodding telephone put in the crib. I would lose first mover advantage in a new estate to the Irish, and that money would buy C4 for the Troubles. Now BT even help me to market my goods with free websites and online payments. Happy days.

Thanks Mrs T.

If you’re still spittin’ at this old fool, then I heard these words from a fine Sageist.

“I may not like her, but I know I don’t like those who hate her more.”

And as an old Grandee said…”You could not have solved the mess that was the 3 day week, strikes and Rubbish Britain without being divisive”

No more power out at 7pm 4 days a week and uncollected rubbish causing cholera again.

Thinkabbboutiitt!

She did make one huge mistake though. She would have been wise to Americanise politics and take a running-mate for her elections. Behind her was Dennis. By her she should have taken the obvious choice. Yes…

Mr T

What a ticket that would have been,

Mr and Mrs T.

Scargill – “Mr and Mrs T- we ARE going to strike and you cannot stop us..”

T Team – “Cram it fool, or I shall introduce you to my friend – PAIN”

PMQT, Steele (Lib) – “You are a divisive Government pushing poverty onto everyone”

“ Watch Yo mouth Bitch or I’s gonna fill with my fist”

BBC Interview – “ Your policies are killing this country”

“ I pity the fool who did your mother, Robin Day”

Street Protestors – “One rule for the rich, out out out”

“I believe in the Golden Rule..the man with the Gold…rules”

You see what Janky means.

Her cred would have been stratospheric, and a Sainthood by next month.

Mind you..

“Mr T, I need you to fly now to Maastricht and help me persuade the French to change the treaty…”

Aah, well it was just a theory.

RIP

JCF

There was a time in the past when this gray haired old Janky fool had youth but not the looks. Trying to get illegal substances at the age the 16 was hard for a Gang-Banga, especially so in the not-so-mean streets of Dorset villages in the seventies.

Forget weed, MDMA, PCP and psychoactive anything, the drug of choice in them days was L.

Yes, Lager.

Such were my roots that the worst that anyone could do was order a pint of Heineken. There were harder beverages, but mainly sold on trains to another hood.

British Rail, pushed only McKewans Export, sadly now unavailable- lessin’ you go to Inverness – but why would you?

(There are some that like dark architecture, mealy Scots and youth in turbo charged Citroens. MM)

Anyways-up. When born in 1962 and sixteen and if asked your age you had to subtract 2.

Easy Eh. That would be 1960.

Ain’t too hard for the young drinkers and substance abusers in the green pastures of Hardye Land.

But it was for some. No matter what the need for L. No matter who surrounded them on a Friday night, they could not work it out.

“Are you 18?”

“Yes oi bee”, such was the local accent.

“What year were you born?”

“1962….oh shit shit…”

“Gettouttamypub”

And so young gangstas would cycle back home to watch Noel Edmonds and regret their mathematical dyslexia.

But we have moved on as a society, eh?

Now even the most dopey and spotty, can knock up a fake ID to prove not only that are they 18, but even to get a bloody bus pass if they want.

Thank you Photoshop and whoever sells laminators.

But it ain’t all plain sailing.

You can still be caught out. A slip of the tongue. A bit fatigued on a Saturday night, and you fall back to those Old Days of “Not-Being-Served” as you cocked up the age.

I was in the queue behind a pretty mum and daughter.

“2 for Django Unchained please, oh it’s an 18..by the way does she get half price as she is 14?”

“Err. No and she can’t come in”

They both had to see Madagascar 3.

At least it was in 3D.

We always have to do the math.

JCF

A lot of you have been writin’ dis fool about my fine “handle”- as I believe sweaty truckers used to call each other by in the 80’s. CB radio…those were the days…or maybe not.

It was shit and we have 4G now.

Janky Cracka Fool.

Well I have to admit as a babe above the font, with the Holy Water a dripping off my brow, that different words may have been said.

JCF came to me in a vision I once had at the Vatican. As the light poured in through the stained glass, reflecting off the Bernini sculpture, I was dazzled by its brightness.

“Janky, Cracka Fool?” came the noise to my right. Surely it was God. Though it could have been the berd at the time offering me a dry biscuit as she thought I looked pissed of.

I believe the former- and am dubbed so forever now.

But there may be a need for an even newer name.

Thank you Starbucks!!

In the past few weeks, this green tax paying chain has taken to becoming most personal.

“Latte etc please”

“What’s your name Sir?”

The effrontery.

I refused the first time and walked out to go to Costa, where they are trained in proper coffee etiquette.

It is strange that a lot of people have this immediate reticence when asked this at Starbucks. Maybe we’re not American enough where they all reply with “Hal, and I hope you’re having a great day too”

I haven’t seen one single customer happy to respond.

Yesterday, and yes I did go back after they promised to pay their 300 quid tax owed, the lady in front of me was asked this.

She mumbled quietly. She was asked again but no sound was uttered. Eventually the word “Maureen” came out.

“Skinny latte for MAUREEN”

Her shame wasn’t helped by the guffawing and sniggering from the queue behind. This was Battersea after all – you can’t be called that round here.

And so here is the solution to your coffee naming distress.

Janky now has his very own “Starbucks Name” and I suggest you get one too.

We know why they do it and they ain’t gonna stop.

Nooooo, not so you get the right drink. What they do is find all the old cups and use your name as data, for socio-economic demographic spreadsheets. Then they market different shit in different areas according to all this useful info.

My local one would be selling caviar and shrimp if it wasn’t for bloody “Maureen”.

So now when “latteing” down the Northcote I reply:

“Lord Derek Spanner – L-O-R-D etc” I spell to them.

“I’ll just put Derek, they try to say”

“No. Address me as Lord Spanner on your paper cup”

The crowd, or should I say queue love it. It’s street theatre. It’s 1:0 Janky over the man.

So come on world – the odder the better.

Think Hippy kids (Moonbeam), War crims ( General Bokase ) even BBC paedos (Stuart Hall OBE).

Hey, what about one of those awesome Sri Lankan names…it’ll need 2 cups.

JCF

The terms “profuse watery diarrhoea” and “Her Majesty the Queen” have never sat well together in Janky’s world.

I am sorry but there are some things which I cannot accept, that create the feeling of cognitive dissonance as my psych evaluator calls it.

That stunned swirly feeling in the brain, dizzy even - when a set of fixed beliefs held for a long while are suddenly contradicted by new information.

Like when you find that your Ma ain’t your Ma.

Or Vanilla was lip-synching.

Or your semi-automatic bought in good faith is in fact a replica.

So, the very thought of our beloved head of state sat there on the Throne dropping 3 litres of watery swan and caviar residue out of her Royal ass puts Janky’s world into a spin.

The Queen just does not use the loo. Unthinkable. And then to frankly get sick and have to be permanently attached to it….whooooa.

Well at least its put talking about our bowels back in vogue again. When Janky used to travel this planet in his student days, that was always the main subject of conversation when 2 said globetrotters were to meet.

“How’s Chang Mai?”

“Terrible- rubbish bogs, got food poisoning, lost a stone”

“What about Laos?

“Even worse, got dysentery and ran out of paper…had to use a stray kitten”

Etc etc. Merry times

But the internet killed all that. I was there as it happened…1996 in Bali.

“How’s Ubud?”

“Sucks…bad browser speeds and absolutely NO internet cafes…”

“Whaaaaat dude. In that sentence you have not mentioned your colon or transit time, but this new-fangled Internet thing…”

The world has never been the same since….til Her Maj had to issue 2 new Royal Warrants to Bayer for the Ciproxin no-doubtedly used intravenously and Andrex for the Wet Wipes.

Now we can all talk lavatorial again.

God bless ‘er and her Anus Horribilis.

JCF

These have been in the news for a while.

The latest episode of thatcompletely daftguy surely should win a Darwin style award.

What can possess a man to buy 2 eccentrically coloured kitchen knives (I mean bright lime green for Gawd’s sake), then promptly hold them to his own throat outside Buckingham Palace. The Queen wasn’t even in. Doh.

Surely he knows how to tell if Her Maj is at home?

Yes…if is she’s in, the curtains are open and the washing’s out on the balcony. If she’s out, they do something with the flag.

So our hero stands there with these garish blades to his own throat and gets a few thousand volts for his trouble.

This does also give the Feds a dilemma.

If he had pointed the blades at his feet, and had an Argos bag in one hand – he could have just been returning from said store round the corner in Victoria.

Likewise if it had been 2 cut throat razors to his neck – surely shaving in front of a palace is not illegal.

Anyways 5/0 decided on caution, what with so many tourists around and pulled the trigger. However did anyone see he actually didn’t drop but came back slashing before falling twitching a few seconds later?

Yes our boys in blue have low grade tasers.

Cheap Chinese rubbish, not the top o’ the range Yankee models. Local Battersea news pieces have focused on this, pointing out that the crooks now have 1 million volt stun guns. Cops’ tasers only run to 50 thousand. And the hoods simply buy them online. Easy.

Now armed with this information Janky felt he needed such a tool for “self defence” as well. Thank you BBC London for showing me how easy it is. Now that’s what the news should be for.

But lo’. Our journo’s got it wrong. 1 million volts is at the minnowy end of the spectrum.

I can get 4 million volts. Much better.

( At this point, I know you all want to know, so I will explain. A taser shoots out electrodes that penetrate the skin whilst still being connected to the gun by long wires. A stungun is hand held and needs to be pressed against the lady at the cashpoint – sorry I mean felon trying to sell dope on your turf – sorry I mean when defending yourself. If you are touching said stungunee you will be OK. There sorted.)

If you don’t know which you prefer, then Janky suggests you buy one of each. A taser to drop ‘em and a stungun to finish them off at close quarters whilst they are twitching.

Each taser is reviewed like a book on Amazon on the US sites. But what concerns Janky is this mesmeric way it seems that all new American purchasers of these products have to try it on themselves. And these guys are allowed to buy guns too!! Geddoutoffhere.

See these comments:

“What went through my mind as my dog ran into my bedroom to see what’s up was I hope I don’t ever get zapped by this. I think just hearing the POP this gun makes is almost enough to scare someone off. I did finally zap myself for just a second. Just so you know I’m 6'6 250lbs and I felt it throughout my body for just that second. I do believe that if held on to for longer it would have dropped me to the ground.”

Sorry mate, you meant to add, I’m 6’6, 250 lbs and fucking stupid.

“When the Barracuda 3Mill arrived, I couldn’t wait to test it. The last taser I had I shot my brother with and he just laughed at me as it was so weak. This one was ways better. He never got up”

More sensible thinks Janky. That’s what siblings are for.

“I don't have the guts to try it on myself. I think I will have to practice drawing it. Quality is great as far as craftsmanship”

Draw it? Craftsmanship? No self test?

Bro’ you are such a fag.

Janky had settled on the Barracuda 4. Yup 4 million volts off a couple of teeny batteries. Problem was it couldn’t arrive at my crib as the Feds had staked it out. So the sellers agreed to label it “Electric Pet Flea Remover” and I got it sent to an ex-ho.

Trouble was I forgot to tell her.

Trouble became that she used it.

Trouble is now she won’t give it to me until I pay 2 grand for the pacemaker, therapy and fur transplant for her pet.

Man that sucks.

I feel like taking some kitchen cutlery up to Buck House and letting the world know how I feel.

JCF.

Janky has a theory. It’s a concept on “The Equality of Global Emotion”. There is a finite amount of happiness and sadness on this planet.

For every lottery winners’ joy, there are a few million sadness tinged losers.

For the death of every despot, the tears of his followers equal the joy of the new leadership who will have their hands in the till.

When Bieber gets married, the caterwauling teen girls will exactly equal the sighs of relief of the teen boys who now will have the full attention of their lovers.

Trust Janky, this does work. Next time you feel ecstasy, try to think if anyone will be feeling conversely morose for you to feel your emotional high.

Nobel Prize please, the Swedes, for this.

Anydoors, this concept was put fully to the test yesterday.

Janky took fly to a footy match. His team versus mine. I was “up their end” as we had done the reverse last year.

8:0 Yes, eight fucking nil.

Fly was buzzing like an ant on Dexedrine. Janky sat there with a stake through his heart.

By 4:0 Fly was flicking the V’s and calling his progenitor “ a loser”. There’s gratitude from the lad. I could have made him support my team as most fathers do, but I let him make his own decision at 4 years old. He owes me, I tell you.

In these situations, there is only one remedy.

This is Concept number 2. “Our Tune Relief” I call it. Let’s look around to see who is worse off than ourselves, as Simon Bates used to amuse us with in the 70’s.

And so….for your delectation, amusement and downright festive folly, let’s see what Janky has dragged up from the bins at his local GP surgery.

This shit is for real… f’real.

"MYSTERIOUS CALF MUSCLE PROBLEM. Began two days after the low pack pain. I was on the toilet playing my portable game console. It was a good game so I was sitting on the toilet longer than usual (maybe 10 – 15 minutes). As I got up my right lower leg was asleep, apparently the blood circulation had been cut off. My left calf muscle felt an acute pain in the central upper calf muscle, of postage stamp size "

Call of Duty I assume.

"I am very much intersted to buy Viagra. Have a question. Does Viagra contains any animal fat/meat. Or any ingredient of viagra is drived from animal fat/meat. Your response on this subject will help me to make right decision. "

No, mostly it’s derived from wood.

"One patient claims she can only smell petrol, oranges and kippers and wants to know what to do.... "

I assume remove herself from the Esso Fish’n’Fruit Counter.

"I think i have the bends from gas embolism using a vacuum flask to part of an organ of my body. Although it has been months passed but i feel a little bit dizzy at times but i don't know whether that is relate to my slight blood pressure or not. Please advice. "

No it’s related to hoovering in the nude.

And finally.

"Me and my wife are currently trying to conceive. However, I am worried because she works around car paints. She works in a workshop that mixes car paints and has barrels of it stored all around. She herself does not mix the paint, she works in a small office, but that office is inside the workshop and the smell of paint still reaches that area. I would like to know if there are any risks for conception and pregnancy while working in this environment. She once told me she planned to work there while pregnant, but that worries me also. "

50 shades of gray, no doubt.

There, much worse off than Janky.

Only 8 nil. We did have 10 minutes of the first half.

JCF