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