How I, One of Life's Star Members, Avoided the Jealous Wrath of My Social Class
Copyright by Dave Lassut 2012
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-908796-32-5
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-908796-33-2
email: frankielassut1@aol.com
This is about a solution to a problem that’s as old as the hills, so to speak. Jealousy sponsored anger amongst a mass of people who work, and are classed as working people. It isn’t an attack, it’s a point of view, with a rather wacky solution. Like it or not, everyone is born with an amazing mind, and free will. Some choose to use them and change their lives, while the general mass, as they’re called, choose not to (yet, tell them how and they aren’t interested, but, you’re a nut) ... but then choose to look upon others that do with jealous Hate Crime eyes. I’m not saying they’re all like that, but then I’d have to pick out what would obviously be the tiny minority. So, I’ll globalise and say, ‘they’re all like that’. That way, I may shoot a few innocents, but at least I’ll get the three guilty ones from the tiny minority; who can then die of shame. When those three are sorted out, I can then land my Palm Tree Chopper (helicopter), (It’s in the text. It was designed by Leonardo none the less), in the street or a car park, in amongst their hire purchase, and twenty year old ‘Mass Market’ (LOL) jalopies.
I’m really going to enjoy this. This is ‘real’, publish and be damned.
This work should therefore get me some real abuse, which I can then put in another book. So, if it doesn’t, I will be very disappointed indeed.
Author, and one of life’s star members.
(Are you one too? Are ‘you’ fantastic? Or are you a ...
‘Just me’, not too bad. Just potter along life’s cruel highway.)
***
Hate Crimes.
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***
Human Horror.
The poison in some human minds can make the venom of a Black Widow seem like sugared water.
An old mate of mine, a builder, and his wife, bought an old house in the country, with a little land. He built another house around that house, and made a lovely job of it. The long and short of it? The families would not visit etc, because they lived in the terraced city ...
Once upon a time, I was an inventor. I didn’t have any money to make real what I had in my mind though. I asked a friend, who had some cash, if his associate, a millionaire would like to ‘help’? He was scared to ask, and so, I got the millionaire’s number, and rang him (I was a bit nervous). He said ‘Yes of course’. He turned out to be a bit of an ego boy (twisted power in this case).
Never mind, we formed a company (before I discovered the ego), and, I actually got waged, and a company car. The car was borrowed from a friend of the original friend; it cost me in tax. At the time, I lived as a lodger with a working class family. The two lads, both a little misled (they fuck you up your mum and dad) had mates etc. The car was brand new, and ‘on loan’. One morning, because I suppose I was ‘rich’, with a nice new car ... ok, whatever ... I discovered a scratch right down the side. The green car was a victim of the green eyed monster.
Grrrrrrrrr! (That’s the green eyed monster grrrr ing, not me). Comply, or suffer.
I once had a Mercedes 280E car which I used for business and pleasure. I had it in a small town in the North of the country. A friend asked “Frankie. Why did you buy that?”
“Because it’s lovely for business and pleasure.”
“People will get jealous you know, it’s asking for it ...”
My mother tells me she was so good at languages at school, especially French, that she had to deliberately make mistakes in tests and exams to avoid verbal abuse from the other pupils. People will say, ‘Ah, that’s kids for you’. Well, it isn’t, it’s upbringing and conditioning, and an early attempt of the mass, to keep the mass ‘in line’ ... if you’re going to flock together, you may as well be with birds of a feather.
Comply!
Or Else!
LOL! I remember working in a factory, and a mate landed the charge hand’s job. He told me, charge hand now, foreman later (ambition knows no bounds). Then, he broke into a song. To the tune of, O Christmas tree o Christmas tree ...
“The ‘working class’ can kiss my ass
I’ve got the foreman’s job at last!”
His words not mine. After a short while, the whispered rumour was ... “That Jackson is a real wanker now.”
Not his real name of course. He forfeited his membership, even though his money wasn’t massive ... his ‘Authority’ was. He now got the brotherhood to do what they didn’t want to do.
I would do my very best to keep my membership, by complying.
***
Not a ‘proper job’, but it is a word ‘factory’
Part 1
THE CREED THAT LOVINGLY STAKES CLAIM TO MY ‘COMPLIANCE’.
One day, much later, I popped out of the same lady, my mother, and later (much later), discovered I had placed myself, with great accuracy, amongst the same mass; the ‘proud’ working class. Later on, I found myself doing something that I didn’t like, but wasn’t supposed to anyway, so that was ‘acceptable’ on a ‘wage’. But, the discovery that the wage would never allow me to drive a Porsche like some people did. But, nevertheless, I must learn to comply and be obedient (LOL!) You’ve gotta love it. This was baffling, because, in my true state i.e. a ‘soul’, I’m certain I never met a ‘stupid’ fellow soul; even the thought of that being possible is totally absurd (it wasn’t then, of course). This offering therefore has to be a comedy spoof. The subjects are green eyed jealousy and acceptance by those green eyed people; and the neutral culprit in the plot is good old money.
Human society is split by money, although the top of the cake says it’s blood.
The sub class: most of them don’t have any.
The working class: They have very little.
The middle class: They have more.
The Uppers: They have quite a bit, and ‘better’ blood.
The working class, who I’m supposed to be a member of, are convinced that if they stand together in solidarity, the ‘management’ will give them more if they fight hard enough, and, that if they vote correctly, the government will give them more nice stuff; a very yummy pair of ideas. These practices never seem to work though, even if the workers try again, and again, and again. Maybe next time. How sad. BUT! “If we just keep on doing the same thing, and doing the same thing, anddoingthesamethinganddoingthesamethinganddoingthesamething over and over again.”
But, to be accepted by these proud, hearts of gold, skint people, one must avoid receiving money over and above that you’ve worked hard for, in a job you hate. Woe betide anyone who does financially ‘yahoooo!’ They could be on the receiving end of keys down the side of the car. Stones through windows. Begging letters. Death threats, verbal abuse, sent to Coventry etc.
It first really hit home to me when I was on a grouse moor, beating (scaring the birds towards the upper class guns). The keeper, a sort of ‘mate’ called Bob, did me one of the biggest favours of my life.
One of the ‘guns’ shot a kestrel (naughty man). I walked forward to pick it up. Before I reached it, Bob shouted at me, in front of everyone, “David. Leave it, you’re JUST a beater!”
It shocked me, and I hated the man; now I love the man. It plagued me, I’m JUST a, I’m JUST a ... who the fuck do these lot think they are judging ME to be a piece of dirt?! I had also forgotten my sarnies, and the word got round. In the hut where we had our lunch, I was starving. The upper class were in the keepers cottage, feasting. Bob came out, found me, and said, “The gentry say that if you have no sarnies, then eat cake! Wa ha haaaa haaa!”. That’s when I began to build a guillotine. No they didn’t, I made that up. They were the nicest people possible, and the best I have ever got on with; totally, totally lovely people.
Nowadays, if someone I know rings me and says “It’s only me”, or “It’s just me”, I hang up. They got confused in the first place, but never do it now. They want to talk to me, they have to be people of high self value.
No horror story is worse though than the way the working class treat each other, and themselves.
Here is a bit of tongue in cheek ‘fun’, the class system as religion. The word religion means ‘to bind’, to stick together, to be as a group. I so, so love religion even though I don’t take part. Forgive me for this, religion should have a bit of fun in it, then I’d come (for the altar wine).
Starting from the ‘bottom’, so to speak.
The British Class-Religion system (Clagion?). It’s wonderful.
The sub class. Religion: Chavtrians. Chavtrianity is growing, they call themselves the Chav Army. How do I know? They, or some of them, told me.
The working class: Classtrians. A fitting name, Classtrianity, which reflects their ‘pride’ or their classy, low appreciation look upon themselves.
Is this fun or what?!
The Middle Class. The Middlemons. Kind of like well dressed (like clones) Mormons who come here from the States (thanks, thought I would lend you. Donny Osmond is great! Lovely man ... I’m after a publicity book burning. If it’s good enough for the Beatles ...), converting people to Joseph Smith-eology (his mates called him Psycho Smith. No they didn’t). Nice people to chat to, if you agree that is. If you don’t, you can go to one of their Bible classes and become properly educated (sense of humour guys! Forgiveness).
Middlemons hate Clastrians, and control them.
The Upper Classes: Eliterians. Out there by themselves, pacted by blood. Middlemons can’t become part of Eliterians because money can’t get you in.
Working Class Aged Pensioners: Dementians. This is the human equivalent of getting a computer that was programmed with garbage in (gi), and for a lifetime gave garbage out (go), and then short circuited itself, and was also infiltrated by a nonsense virus.
Tip. Avoid your own, and NEVER visit other Dementians, you’ll end up lost in gigo space.
Here’s the basic understanding before you consider taking theo-illogical degree at Uni, or night class:
The Classtrians are the proudest of the lot, but, are mercilessly ruled by the Middlemons, who just hold the money, and pick and choose from the stockpile as far as work goes. If the Classtrians get out of line and start to be ‘happy’, the Middlemons set the Chavtrians on them, and then let the Chavtrians off in court, which makes the Classtrians even more pissed off. Pretty simple when you know how; good old fashioned divide and fool, sorry ...’rule’.
The Classtrians are usually devout Christians or Catholics (fab religions), but lose faith easily in God, who is either nonexistent (he exists if they win over fifteen grand on Deal or No Deal, or a tenner on the lottery), or a bastard, because he won’t give them more money; and/or, won’t do anything to sort out, war, murderers, or people who harm children (they fuck you up your mum and dad ...). If a Classtrian comes into big money, they hate him or her, because he haw her (heehaw!) then becomes a Middlemon, who they hate with a passion.
That’s a kind of a brief summary of the class system in Britain seen as religion. Isn’t it fun!?
Back to me. Me me me!
It’s ok for Classtrians to swear by the way. My problem is this. I’m a writer, and a member, through birth, of the working class, a non religious Classtrian ... but, I’m not just a writer, I’m a ‘fucking’ brilliant writer, through my own admission (that’s self belief, not ego). I could therefore easily face the wrath of furious Classtrians who I’ve double crossed, together with the Inland Revenue, who now find me very desirable indeed (who I wouldn’t dare double cross). All that loving attention because of the love of God when she handed, and goes right on handing ‘soul expression’ talents out. What religion is God? An unconditionally loving, Non-elite- trian-mon (Nonelimontrian?). God has no time for this religion lark, and spends most of the time gut laughing at it; I bet. And that’s God’s one desire, to have a gut, so ‘he/she’ can have a gut-laugh.
But how bad is that?! I say I’m brilliant, and have an ability from God ... how dare I!
“Who do I think I am?!”
Mob: “Yes! Who does he think he is?!”
Look at it this way: I get rich. I’ll pay lots of tax to the country, with pleasure. This will pay for soldiers to protect you all, MPs wages, dole for people, hospitals, schools, pay off the banks next time, roads etc ... I’ll be a bloody hero; unsung and hated though I may be. Just cos I don’t shoot or bomb people, or have a uniform, doesn’t mean I can’t be a hero too, does it?
I may also incur the wrath of actual religious groups, and they may want to burn effigies of me, or burn my books ... they will have a job, have to burn their electronic reading devices. They could actually forgive me?
Hilarious! Imagine it. When it first comes to the
attention of my creed brothers and sisters that I’ve done something
above my station, actually enjoyed it, and made a stash, which is WCI
(Working Class Illegal). First of all the Classtrian mob
group would come round my modest abode, waving torches and shouting
abuse. My windows would be stoned, and when I ran out to protest,
they would grab me, tie my hands behind my back, and hang a sign
around my neck ... OUTKAST, KNOT ONE OF UZ; I know,
I know, that’s a little Chavtrian, but, there is always an
overspill of culture ...
I would then be paraded round the streets, ‘without’ a cross, but being crucified nevertheless.
The crowd would jeer:
“He’s not one of us, he’s one of THEM! A rich boy! A Middlemon”
“Too good for a proper job is ya?!”
They would throw rotten fruit, tins of economy beans, and empty beer bottles. They wouldn’t throw a photocopy of a Deal or No Deal application form in ball (wrapped round a brick) or sharp tipped aeroplane form (eye), because they would be scared that a brother or sister would see it and think they were fed up of being Classtrian, and then they would be jeered too (it takes a lot of back dealing, backstabbing, secrecy, and cowardice to be a Classtrian ... observe the staff of any ‘well stocked’ office).
“Won’t get a job and fight for better conditions with the brothers!”
“Won’t send his kids to skule so they gets a proper education like us!” (Got none, nerrrr!)
“Yaaaa Yaaaa! Crucify him crosslessly!”
Then some of them would force me to my knees, and then they would have a union leader walk up to me, ask me if I will repent, and give away my fortune ... “Which he got for enjoying what he does!” ... “Crucify him crosslessly brothers! Crucify him crosslessly! Boooooo!”
“Why can’t he be like us?!”
“Yeah! We ALL agree! Crucify crosslessly anybody who doesn’t agree with the proud majority!”
(how can you be proud of being constantly abused?)
If I refuse, I will then be fitted with the Crown of Normal Shame, which is a construction made from barbed wire, with flat, no overtime wage slips, job centre job slips, losing lottery tickets etc stuck to the spikes. The barbed wire comes from the fence surrounding the working class, a fence designed to keep traitors OUT, but cruel, unfair authority, IN (they’re the bosses and stuff the ‘grateful’ workers go crawling to, cap in hand, but hate in their absence).
Then, the parade through the ‘jeering’ streets carries on, to cries of:
“Who does he think he is?!”
“Too ‘good’ to be one of us is he?!”
“Look at him! Lord Muck!”
“Stone his car! Scratch his car! Send him hate mail!”
“Yeah! He can afford another one! N he can reed n spell no daught.”
“Doesn’t know he’s born!”
“Nooo noooo, we agreee! He doesn’t!”
Then I would live the life of an outcast elephant, or a wolf ... exiled to a life of ... nothingness, failure; impending doom. Oh God, I know I said before that I could easily stand the wrath of the people I’d wronged by ‘shining’, but maybe I couldn’t; I want acceptance and approval. If I could just be working class, but I can’t work out how to be happy and miserable with little hope, at the same time; that mindset seems out of my reach. Oh God! Why did you inject me with mad juice that makes me want to rise above the misery, and live a whoopeee life?! Oh Father! Why hast thou forsaken me?!
BUT
Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do!
So, I must find a way to stay amongst them, in order to not feel like I have betrayed my own creed! After all, they beat my mother into submission, and I must have her genes.
How can I achieve this goal of accepted non creed betrayer?! How can I be accepted by those who would persecute me for having a few quid, when I should, SHOULD,;;, ... be ... like; ‘them’; my none blood brothers and sisters (because it’s thicker than water, apparently ... Brian Cox would have trouble with that one).
How?
How?
Help me father, show me the way.
So there I am, stuck in a horrid limbo. Words to use to express myself on electronic paper bustin their butts to get out, but, if they do, and the world likes them, which they will ... I ‘fully’ expect; then I will get into trouble. Don’t imagine for a minute that you can be filled with words and not express them; not get them ‘out’. You have to, or they fester inside you, just like enough hatred or trauma inside you will make you ill, eventually.
So, in my case what do I do? I have to write, have to, have to, have to ... so, I have to, have to, have to ... work out a way of NOT getting published, so I can then empty myself of creativity, AND avoid the horrible pitfalls of success. Doled out by my creed brothers and sisters.
The next thing/problem is this. If I enjoy avoiding success, the Universe, which is like a bloodhound, will sniff that out, because the Universe can smell enjoyment, it reeks of honeysuckle and roses. And when it finds the good vibrations, it tends to crouch down, and shit good things for them, in an attempt to match them. A cow shits on the grass, the grass rejoices.
So, how do I avoid success AND hate the process? After all, I am working class, and the workers hate most things, and the Universe can’t smell them, so it passes them by with the nice things ... leaving them with the ‘same (old, used, exhausted, depleted) shit, different day’ experience.
(That was a clue).
I’m going to try. I really am. That’s a promise to myself, and to my bigger ‘family’. I don’t want to be kicked out of the house and made homeless.
Part 2: A tiny bit about me me me.
When at school, I was, and still am, academically thick (my mother was very bright ... what happened God?! Free beer at the pub quiz Prize money to pay t’t bills; and you fuck me up!). I was, and still am, stupid. I didn’t know that I was amongst a batch of people being prepared for the factory, and when I was told that it was ‘career’ time, I thought that was normal, and went with the flow.
About a year before leaving, I discovered, through a mate, the schools, ‘after school’ photography club. I didn’t even know what a negative was, but I went along anyway. I thought it magic when I saw my first black and white image appear; I was hooked for life.
I got older, failed my exams of course, and ended up in a nuclear plant destined to be an instrument mechanic; ironically, the job which required brains, and a good knowledge of maths, including something called calculus (I’m still baffled by it). I just wanted to take photographs, but you had to be clever to do that. I wasn’t clever, but I could do it. Maybe it was the attitude of the mining town I was brought up in?
Like most young lads, I looked at pictures of flash cars etc, but they were eighty and a hundred thousand pounds etc, and my starting wage was eighteen pounds a week; unless I lived to be about 300, I couldn’t have one. I also discovered over a period of time, a rather yucky part of human nature i.e. people who work in ‘proper jobs’ don’t like people who have lots of money; they’re jealous. It’s called working class attitude ... but, the people who choose to be working class are just that; green eyed. I wondered where all the people called Jones lived, because I didn’t know any. I wasn’t into rat racing either. My dad was into horse racing though.
I eventually left the factory, and gave everything up by selling my house, and went to Blackpool, because I’d somehow managed to get into the photographic college there, for a year; that made me irresponsible. At last, I was enjoying what I was doing, and would leave in a year and start making some money and having a good time.
I left the college qualified, and moved to Coventry, the famous Ghost Town. I suppose it takes a while to get established as a photographer, and couldn’t get much work, and when I did I had to wait more than ninety days for payment. I played and taught classical guitar too, so that brought in a few quid. When I couldn’t afford to turn the heat on in the winter in my flat, I still wouldn’t have gone back to the factory and its regular wage; it wasn’t worth it for the misery it brought me. I was seen as mad though, and got a few tongue lashings (better than being publicly crucified though).
I saw on the news lottery winners, whose families and friends now hated them because they had money, and I thought ‘Is having lots of money a good thing? Most people turn against you, some see you as prey, some want to cheat you ... what is it they say, ‘A fool and his money are soon parted’. That was a concern, because I’d certainly been the fool at school, being thick and all that. I thought it crazy that once I’d had the whole class laughing at me because the teacher read the maths exam results out, and I got zero; and then a couple of years later, I’m in a college trying to understand calculus ... ‘Onboard computer is aching as says, NO.’
I then, because my mate had been to see one, went to consult a psychic, because things weren’t looking good; I had a guitar shop by this point (I was about 33-34), and it wasn’t looking good. I saw the psychic, and she was ok. I like to make friends with people. I was at her house having a cuppa one day, when she handed me a book, “Here, read this” ... ‘The magic of psychic power’ by David Schwartz.
“I’m not psychic” I said. She told me to read it anyway. That was my introduction to what’s called personal development, or positive thinking; a big part of which is, money (the root of all evil, say so many who actually get jealous of people who have it). Then, I went to see another psychic, for a second opinion ...
Some of her words were, “You have to bring a talent to the front and investigate it. It could be music (no it couldn’t, it was doing my head in), it could be writing ...
In the past, I’d written stuff, but not much; I was a crap writer at school, and got asked why I wrote the same thing every week. It went like this:
One day I went to Blackpool with my mum and dad, and my friend came with me.
When we got there ... we had to follow my mother round for 40 days and 40 nights while she went clothes shopping. This was a terrible experience for two young lads who could hear the funfair and the penny arcades from the bowels of Marks and Sparks. Come on father, show your authority here. After all, you were once a lad, with needs.
Ok, the italics are ‘now’ but the teacher must have got sick of reading the first part ... I couldn’t help it though, that’s all that came to my mind. When 22, I wrote a poem/song for a girlfriend’s dad who was in an inshore rescue team; I did it very, very, quickly, because it came very, very, quickly. When I had the guitar shop, I wrote a letter to some international guitar world friends. The letter was mad, and consisted of trapping cats by putting herrings in your living room, and then making your own catgut strings called Pussy Strings. They all thought I was in a nuthouse.
And that was it.
Then I think I saw the psychic, made nothing of the info about bringing an ability to the fore and investigating it ...
I then got desperate for a job. The psychic’s boyfriend (after me ... he had NO chance) was a bus driver, and he had mentioned me getting a job bus driving ... but it was in Rugby; too far to go every morning and evening; and with my car falling to bits? Strangely, I ended up driving buses in Coventry, after I had decided I wanted to do it. That’s when the writing began. I started to put silly notices on the notice board. They grew to three and got too much. I then started to write at home, about the job, and tipped 62,000 words on paper.
But. I remembered about the trappings of what’s falsely called ‘success’, and did I want them? People would hate me. I’d get junk mail consisting of begging letters, death threats. Someone may kidnap my mother? (Ok, there are positive sides). My life of being broke and trying to ward off several debt collection companies at once would be over, and blandness would be the new way.
BUT! I couldn’t stop writing, as it is inspiration and therefore addictive. I needed a cunning plan to save my soul. I had read lots of book, including some by Russians ... all bland. The publishers were feeding the public the equivalent in books of supermarket tomatoes ... blandness. I figured then, that if I wrote bland tosh, I would become successful and the beautiful trappings, not to mention the public jealousy, would destroy me.
I therefore decided to be brilliant, so I could write to satisfy my inner being, and my outer being, but have no chance of getting published, because let’s face it, if the publishers suddenly started giving the public the literary equivalent of beautiful tangy yum yum tomatoes (wishful thinking), there would be a riot amongst readers, and public hangings of publishers.
That was my intro.
NB
Once upon a time when I worked in the nuclear plant, the lads there kind of relied on overtime. It was a laugh when the management didn’t need anything doing on overtime, so they stopped it. The workers immediately got the union to put on an overtime ban. When the work picked up and overtime came back, the workers immediately got the union to lift the overtime ban. How’s that for changing your mind?
You just are NOT allowed to get it, big amounts of it, for enjoying yourself. That’s a sin.
So. Back to my acceptance and approval plan.
Part 3
HOW I MANAGED TO NOT GET PUBLISHED, AND THEREFORE AVOIDED THE WRATH OF MY OWN CLASS OF PEOPLE.
(IT’S SO COMFORTING TO KNOW THAT THEY STILL LOVE ME BECAUSE I’M ONE OF THEM, AN ‘OBEDIENT’ ONE OF THEM. COMPLIANCE!)
I’ll probably keep hopping into ‘third person’, my literary ‘South Paw.’
In this case, the third person will be YOU, first person will be ME, and anyone else will be ‘they’, or something like that (you’ll follow it easily, being clever and all that). Why the other person should be the ‘third party’? I have not a clue.
This was difficult to write in places, as I had to obviously somewhat ‘twist’ logic to achieve my ‘failure’ outcome i.e. being a ‘consistent’ working class, hard done to, proud, bird of a feather … so, you may have to tip coolant over your smoking brain here and there.
I actually did a talk on this script to an audience one night because they were curious middle class people, and obviously some of the people couldn’t understand why I ‘didn’t’ want to get published? Mind you, there ‘was only’ coffee and tea available (so their logic was obviously clouded). And you should have seen them; all living in lovely houses in a nice country village. The enemy of MY people. I was polite nevertheless, and never espoused any jealous hatred towards this factory owning creed who abused MY people and made them hate getting up on a Monday (MoAnday) morning (and all the other moanings).
I could have started a protest about working conditions or something, but there was no rabble to rouse in the immediate vicinity.
***
When I was small, I did silly ‘ten trillion miles above my ‘station’ talk’ I would say, “Mum, when I grow up, I’m going to be a millionaire.” She would reply with a working class style inspirational statement:
“Don’t be silly. You’ll have to get a job, because I can’t look after you forever” (now, what kid could fail to be inspired by that?). It’s called reverse personal development, and I’ve used it in The World’s Easiest Job.
“But mum, if you were a millionaire, would you be happy?”
And she would reply: “I have a job, and I’m happy.”
She neglected to say ... Creed talk coming:
“But son, you have to behave in ways that ‘make’ ‘me’ happy, because I’m your mother. Got that? Good. Never forget it son, or you’ll never hear the last of it! Now, you have to get a proper job to make a living, to make me happy.”
“Hmmm? But mum, what if I’m not happy in the job?”
“To make ME happy! Meeeeeeeeeeeeee, meeeeeeeeeeeeee, meeeeeeeeeee. We’ll have to get you to the doctors and have your ears syringed.”
“But why’s dad doing the football pools and always betting on the horses mam? And why does he always put a brave face on when he gets up as 4.30 am on a Monday morning to go to work? Why is he miserable? It’s as though it’s programmed into his DeoxyriboNucleic Acid.”
“Look! None of the mumbo jumbo! Go away and bother someone else. Go away and think what job you would like when you leave school. Forget about money and being rich. Just pay your bills son, pay your bills; and save up and never, never, ever, ever, never touch it. Because you save up and never ever touch it, to leave it for ‘your’ children, to avoid feeling guilty; then live forever!”
As it turned out, and as you already know, I became a writer in later years (but not that later), and the trouble was/is, I’m bloody brilliant! (As I’ve already stated). ‘Oh damn’ thinks I. This could lead to my downfall, if I’m not ‘very’ careful i.e. money for loving what I do instead of breaking my back for my day of leisure, and having a crowd of people on my back with wrath that would make God’s look as if he was a pacifistic gay (nothing at all wrong with gays, great people).
My caring mother, who only ever wanted what she considered to be the best for me, will play merry hell if she sees me all happy after all the work she did whipping me into ‘normal’ shape to make ‘her’ feel happy. But there again, I’ve been told many times, “You’re not here to be happy, you’re here to work.”
Yes! Whipping me into a ‘normal’ 40 hours a week for happy-bills, shape. As far as some mothers (and peers) are concerned, money that comes to you if you don’t work HARD and suffer for it is ... guilt money; and it is never met well by others i.e. people who have to work hard. “Work hard for your money, that’s Godly”
So, I tried. I did ‘wanted and wented (new word! What genius!)’ for the ‘normal’ life.
It didn’t work though, and the harder I worked, it seemed the more I gave, less I got in reward, and the more bills I received. That though, according to my matriarch mentor was actually happiness; and I therefore, because I believed her, wasn’t prepared to compromise that. That’s what they say isn’t it, ‘Listen to your mother’? And the rest of the mentor clan too!
So. You have to work hard and suffer for your fair day’s pay. If however, you get money for loving what you do, that’s wrong, and you should then ‘normally’ expect people who work hard to not like you. If therefore you are successful financially for doing what you love, the ‘trappings’ will attract people who will make you unhappy, because they will hate you, with grrrrrreen eyed wrath (not to be mistaken with the brilliant, Tim Roth).
When they write the book of Frankie, the next Bible, they will say in one of the gospels,
‘He died tried to save them all’,
‘all’ meaning, in MY case, unpublished authors (and other talents
of course) worth their salt (other enjoyable ways of making money
advocates who are the wrong class, may adjust this to their own
needs).
Imagine, in town and city centres on Saturdays. The writing groups of (MY) frustrated unpublished authors will be out, shouting at the tops of their voices:
“Do you believe in Frankie Lassut?! He gave his energy to save all unpublished authors from outrageous success. Believe in him and ye shall be saved if ye are a writer. But do not fall for the wily charms of Lord of Hades, the keen publisher, for he will see you enter the gates of hell as friends and hangers on make your life beautiful with all sorts of sinful SKINfull goodies! Such as champagne! Be vigilant unpublished authors, and praise God himself for beautiful rejection letters!”
You may also get Jehovah’s Writenesses at your door with the same message ... love them, they have been sent by God herself to help you destroy yourself.
DISCLAIMER: SMALL PRINT (read VERY carefully):
Frankie Lassut is not liable for, or responsible if, some unpublished author (or dancer, singer ... etc) reads this, ignores the message, and then gets published and makes millions; and pisses his or her mother off, followed by everyone who unsuccessfully does the lottery. No compensation will be available from the third party to the secondary first party via any fourth first or sixth parties or any other that may try and bum a free lunch; that and any other bullshit legal jargon designed to baffle the working class.
Remember also, the working class love street parade crossless crucifixions of disobedient creed members.
Comply or die (emotionally).
This is ‘my reckoning’, based on experience, as you’ll see, concerning the world’s easiest task for brilliant writers (in this case), i.e. not getting published, and therefore not having to put up with millions that come as a result. And secondary (because it can be fun, ask Salman Rushdie) the wrath of those nutters you ‘offend’ with the ‘perspective’ in your work; that’s the stuff they don’t ‘want’ to hear.
This script though is based on the financial aspect of success. You see, I am, as well as being a superb wellbeing speaker, and a clonker of a photographer, I’m also an exceptional writer as you know! I write things, which it seems, no one who ‘really counts’ is interested in.
Despite this major/minor triumph (dependent upon your perspective) though, I do manage to get people to read my work, which is important for feedback purposes if I’m to perpetuate my life’s ongoing ambition to fail successfully as a writer. Success, especially the financial kind, ruins people, and causes their families to suddenly decide to befriend them again, and effortlessly hate them again soon afterwards.
Of course, it also happens with ‘friends’… you ‘know’ what I mean?
Nonfinancial success i.e. the skint success of failure for the ‘brilliant’, in the writing field, happens because tasteless publishers (it was either publishing or MacDonald’s after school) have been feeding the British public bland crap for so long (because sparkling brilliance from a page is too entertaining to be published by a professional; and the people have to be kept from feeling too good remember), that the public now believe (you can get the public to believe anything), like so many women in bad relationships, that “This is as good as it gets”, and so, they buy it and ruin bland writer’s lives.
The brilliant author, who would give the bland, depressed public a new lease of life energy, luckily, can’t get a look in, or there may be a ‘consumer revolution’, where the bladed Madame may be resurrected for publishers who have kept literary brilliance away from the very people who have been craving it. Saying that though, we brilliant wordsmiths should praise the bland publishers for their ‘double eye-patched (think Long John Silver)’ insight, in ‘saving our souls’.
I also know it will not concern you if you aren’t a writer, but it’s pretty bendable to your own discipline. Recently, writing wise, there has been a large growth in the ‘self-publishing’ industry. This is because thousands of bland authors land juicy contracts with ‘real’ publishers, to the ultimate ‘delight’ of those who ‘can’ actually tell good ‘meaty, funny, irreverent, interesting, politically incorrect’ stories. This trend though, leaves the true genius, who think they should at least try in order to educate the world with their words, at the mercy of evil ‘fat’ ‘we’ll publish you for a price’ capitalists who think they can, for that price, brainwash the ‘real writers’ into thinking that being published is actually ‘good’; do the swine’s have no conscience?!
But, nevertheless, there are possible masterpieces, due maybe to printing costs to the author, (pieces which would glue the readers eyes to the page from the very beginning) which remain undiscovered; ‘luckily’, while the author is still alive; and living in ‘skintville.’ deliriously happily, in acceptance of his or her daily tin of beans, but unbroken windows.
Brilliant authors, dependent on how prolific they are, may, in their lifetimes, have lots of near disasters by coming into sweaty palmed close proximity, to this wonderfully horrible, trouble making stuff called money; hopefully, they will be ‘saved’ by lack of it.
This poverty loophole even affects the highly intelligent, who went to Cambridge to study English (but can’t write), and still finds time to read a lot and study Opera, even with a seventy hour a week job driving buses, (he’s real, I know him). When questioned about the latest, mega successful book, from so and so author, or a successful new book from a new author, they say ...
“Ahhhh, that ‘thing’! Ha! Lacks in depth and warmth and has no clear path or genre, not to mention the idiosyncrasies of the inherent prose! And the dreadful syntax, form, dialectic, and mantrepusal inadequacies of the traminate logens. The man’s a successful fool!”
“Ahhh right?! Have you ever written a book?”
“Of course! Are you a fool too?!”
“More than likely. Erm, can I buy a copy?”
“No. The manuscript’s locked in a drawer! I take it out once a week and drink in some subtle word pictures and grandiose morbose selatationary inhumane reflective reflections of soliloquies inspired by the Great Russian writers”
“Why?”
“Why what? Hurry now you uneducated plebeian, my bus is waiting!”
“Why is it in your drawer, unpublished?”
“Huh! No publishers interested because it is too brilliant! And I can’t afford to self publish on my wages!”
See. He is saved! But he is also trying to convince himself that he is good. I, from my humble roots, think they call that ‘delusions of grandeur’.
Thankfully, I can’t get a publisher to look at my work seriously, for the same reason, i.e. cos I’m absolutely brill! (And my drawers are full of odd socks, a pair of Y fronts, and some KY jelly ((for my bike chain!)), no room for scripts really, but…). They say it’s because, amongst other things, I’m not a 100% cert (who is?) … but, I know different!
Also, because I can’t get a publisher to look at my work, brings me to the continuously refreshing fact that our beautiful God is not wrathful, but instead, unconditionally loving; and loves me infinitely because he/she will not allow my books to hit the shelves. At the same time, God must hate bland writers who lay back as the millions roll in.
Very confusing isn’t it. I still use the first part i.e. God loves us all unconditionally, proven by my fate, to argue the toss until I am blue in the face with city centre Christians who insist on God’s punishment. You have to forgive me, because I derive the same enjoyment from that as upper class people do when they go pheasant shooting, etc.
If though, one day they say to me “God punishes bland writers with riches beyond wildest dreams”, I will concede defeat, and walk away in shame and humiliation. I will then try and become a bland writer, and give the massive income to the church, in surrender. It’s a rather comforting thought though, that ‘once brilliant, bland cannot return.’
Halleluiah! Praise to the lord in the highest!
“Onward unpublished brilliant a-uthors! Marching as to ooo waaaar! With the reject letter of the Lo-ord, going on before!”
A worrying testimonial to my work i.e. some publisher’s BOUND to be interested now. Damn!
Just to inform you that I have deleted all my comments off your pics and when I have deleted all traces of you it will be as if you never existed. You have serious problems and you need to sort yourself out. You are tactless, self opinionated and anally retentive. You don't care who you hurt, or insult as long as you have your say, and you say it's all fun. I have actually defended you in the past when you have insulted one of my friends on My space. A very good person, who you chose to pass judgement on and called her working class. What do you think gives you the right to say stuff like that, (?.. surely?) you (Capital Y?) disgust me. Yes we may be working class, but the money in our pockets has been earned by us and not from handouts from the state. What do you live on Frankie? Probably, the taxes paid by "us working class" as you don't seem to have a proper job and sitting in front of a computer all day writing rubbish, doesn't constitute earning a living!!! (Oh No! I have potential!) You can't even sell your books!!!! (CORRECT!) Does it not say something about you and your silly books as no publisher will touch them with a barge pole. They will make good compost. I have considered deleting you several times in the past, you have just saved me the bother, that's all. Take a long hard look at yourself Frankie, you really need to.
You probably won’t [sic] even have the guts to read this e-mail anyway, but I will never know will I? And do you know what? I don't even care!!!!
(I reckon that deep down, my mother actually loves me, even though she can’t speak French. LOL!)
Not too long ago (my age, divided by the age of the universe), I was told that someone I met briefly in the past, an amateur film critic! Oh God! Big words! And complicated words, like ‘genre’, who hasn’t actually written a lousy bland book and made a resulting stash, has written a ‘great’ book, espousing to the reader, great tips regarding ‘how to get published’. No doubt, because it may lead gifted people who are prepared to go ‘bland for profit’... to; false friends, fast cars, big houses, women/men, expensive wines, great paintings, designer clothes, swimming pools, helicopters, Boeing 737s, caviar, fur seal cute pup coats, recreational drugs, cod from the fish shop, expensive music systems, the ability to sneer and ridicule those with proper jobs ... rack and ruin in fact ... these rich people always suffer don’t they.
And he got published; the poor bastard!
It kind of screws my head up that one. Someone writes a book called, ‘How to get published’, so they advise people how to get published. So, how did the author of ‘How to get published’ get published? Did he read a book called ‘How to get published’? And then write a book called ‘How to get published’, and got published because of it (?) i.e. after reading a book called ‘How to get published’?
Did he however write more books than that which didn’t get published, and so, read a book on how to get published, but still didn’t get published, and so decided ‘bugger it’, and wrote a book called ‘How to get published’, even though he couldn’t get published himself, and/but then get published with a book called ‘How to get published’? Did he then read his own book, and get his other books published?
Like a hall of mirrors isn’t it?
Hmmmm?
That hurt. Where’s the alcohol?! Paracetamol is proving insufficient.
However, he obviously dislikes brilliant writers. He is therefore a very beautiful being and a great teacher.
What was it George Bernard Shaw said, “Those who can’t do, teach.” And according to Woody Allen, who finished it off ... “And those who can’t teach, teach gym.”
Perfect drinking partners those two would have been.
I’d say, ‘those who can’t write good stuff only bland gumph, will reach a great height ... and those who can write good stuff brilliantly, can’t go to the techno gym, cos it’s far too expensive.’
Maybe I could join George and Woody for a lemonade?
SO, IN ORDER TO STAY SAFE AND NOT GET A ‘LOOK IN’, I LEARN TO WRITE BRILLIANTLY, AND MAKE SURE THAT I DRINK ALL OF MY MONEY (in the pub, complaining about the government, work, football, the weather etc, etc, with my brothers closely observing me). AND THEREFORE I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH SAVED TO ‘SELF PUBLISH’. Not really rocket science.
Writing’s easy! Anyone can do it (well ok, anyone but chavs and most people off My space, Badoo, Facebook ... etc), but like anything worthwhile, it takes a while to get unpublishly good. So, on my journey to ‘brillville’, once I’d written something, I get feedback to decide on its possible scrumptious failure merit.
Here’s how ...
HOW I GET USEFUL FEEDBACK.
There are basically three different types of feedback.
1. From a working class stranger, a brother.
2. From someone educated (swot scum), who therefore perceives that you’re not. (And I’ll admit to it ... I’m academically thick, which is another way of saying, clever and aware).
3. From someone who’s a friend, educated, and prepared to give you a calm and objective criticism.
Although, an educated friend is really a socially unacceptable thing in the working class, if the truth be told. It’s like a Catholic marrying a Protestant.
I’ll go southpaw now (third person).
1: The working class method.
This person, it has to be a stranger, and they have to be thick (there’s a 99% chance of this ... see previous letter from that woman. LOL!) They probably haven’t read anything in their lives, and enjoy working in a warehouse; I’ve worked in warehouses, don’t worry.
If they say that they couldn’t understand any of your work because it made their head spin, you can guarantee it’s brilliant and has no chance in the publishing world.
And, if you get the opportunity, do not sleep with their partner (actually, bollocks ... go for it!).
2. The Graduate.
This person (most likely a male, and already mentioned) will have studied English Lit at Oxford or Cambridge, and will see your efforts as dog dirt on the shoe of Literarycism (don’t worry, you can only pronounce it when you’re pissed anyway), and therefore you can virtually guarantee that it’s ‘brilliant’.
They will therefore, in writing, trash your work and tell you that you will never be Alexandoridof Solteniazsonifert (who’d want to be?! He probably gets a good kicking from the KGB every other day) ... and to ‘bin’ your garbage and spend the next thirty years learning the basics; you should therefore, hopefully be in grade 2 by the age of sixty five.
Great advice from a great teacher actually, and it renders you safe from success throughout the useful years, and saves on postage; and what good is money to a grumpy old bastard? But. In order to get deliciously turned down, you must send a script off via the Post Office, and hope they actually read it, and reply. You can then have an orgasm while you read the rejection slip, or letter … or both if you’re very lucky.
Still, gotta have as much fun as we can (as it doesn’t say that as an instruction anywhere in the Bible, although the Roman guards obviously enjoyed themselves on that fateful day), which means pointing out to these educated people who stumble onto your path (i.e. who all read the correct papers, listen to opera, and sit separately from the scum in the works canteen, as already mentioned), that sperm which has entered their bloodstream via their colon during happy times in the university dorm, can affect the brain.
Mind you, if they say that your script is completely bubble-less lemonade in ‘their’ ‘learned’ opinion ... send it off, you’ll fail, and therefore succeed brilliantly!
(You may have to read that twice? I actually spent about 50 minutes staring at it, until it made sense to me. And they say writing is easy).
3. The friendly constructive person.
When this person tells you where, in their opinion only, you may be able to make improvements to your work, and to maybe re write it with these new ideas in mind, take out all the juice, and make it bland, and therefore publishable! (They will also give you a blood transfusion, one of their kidneys, and see you right in times of abject poverty) ... throw a wobbler, and scream and shout at them for having the audacity to tell you what you don’t want to hear ... AND what’s more ... to sling their flaming fucking hook and never bother you again! EVER! Bastard!
They are as bad as person 2. Maybe even more ‘evil’.
When you have calmed down sufficiently using brandy, whisky, or pain killers (the car exhaust is calming, but a little extreme); ring person one and invite them round for dinner: this beautiful person is your one true friend and teacher! I think? (I’m not so sure anymore). Ask them to bring a bottle too. And remember, numbers 2 and 3 probably don’t have fit partners whom you can sleep with ...
Send your script off and wait for that/those juicy ‘ongoing class acceptance guarantees’ rejection letters. On the other hand, if you’re a sad loner whom no one likes (not even strangers), there is another alternative.
THE GUATANAMO GARDEN SHED FEEDBACK METHOD
Go to a reputable garden centre and buy a shed, after saving up for three years; blame the overtime ban, and bills. Make sure it is of fair size, and at one end there is a door, and the other a ‘small’ window. Place shed in your back garden so that the door is facing the street at the front of your house.
Go to a reputable fishing shop and buy some low breaking strain fishing line, i.e. the stuff that is very thin. You will also need a cheap rod and reel. Alternatively, go to a car boot sale, they will cater for you there no doubt. You will also be able to get some golf clubs, and an AK47 to deal with any pigeon or grey squirrel problems you may have.
Standing outside of the shed at the window end, run the line through the open window, through the shed, out of the door, and onto the pavement. Stick a twenty pound note to the end.
Wait for a bite, and reel in the ‘proof reader’. Make sure that when you get a bite, whip the rod back making sure that the reader doesn’t get a good grip on the money, especially if they’re Polish (I’m half Polish ... LOL ... thanks dad). I nearly said Kosovans.
There again, if there are Poles in the area, use fivers, and let them have them; because, if they can’t speekee Eeengleesh (except the amount twenty peee when they offer you a good price for your ten pounds worth of gold at a car boot sale), they aint gonna readeee Eeengleesh are they!
Reel money through the garden, through the shed, and out of the window, then rush at breakneck speed and close door. Put money on a stick, and leave outside window just out of arms reach to ensure reader does not escape while you are fishing for another.
Repeat several times.
When the shed has sufficient readers for objective criticism, i.e. six? ... Lock door, and re pocket all bait.
Throw in through window six sets of orange coveralls (overalls) and set of instructions.
GUATANAMO PROOF READER SHED CAPTIVE’S INSTRUCTIONS (available in 38 different languages, which should cater for 1/10 of the population. I’m all for cosmopolitan actually, I just like yummy cynical sarcasm).
1. Read story.
2. Make objective, honest, comments on A4 sheets with pens provided. (Collected from Capital One persistent credit card offer envelopes, Argos, or Barclays Bank).
3. Put sheets in plastic wallet, and throw out of window at 1pm each day, when sandwiches will be passed in. Drinks will be provided via garden hose.
4. Success in finding the stories are bland pulp, and therefore having a chance of a serious publishing contract, can then result in an immediate re write to add sparkle, humour and interest, during which time, the readers will be rewarded, i.e. loud folk music will be pumped into shed for 24 hours, non stop.
Fab eh!? Do you want my address reader? So you can walk past and attempt to grab the money?
***
The Useful Plagiarism Method.
Now, I shall go first person with Forbes, while YOU can be the brilliant writer.This one can be difficult to arrange, but here is a successful attempt. All you need is a job as a manservant; your wife as the ‘man’ you’re serving doesn’t count, and neither does your mother, if you’re a man on an apron string leash.
Hello. My name is Munroe Forbes Asquith Griffin, and, apart from being from the upper middle class, I’m a horribly successful author, and I would like to tell you just how I became successful, and hopefully encourage you to write your own book.
Firstly and most importantly, if you already have a manuscript, take a look at your situation, especially your parents. If they haven’t made it in life, why should you? Genetics, coupled with lack of experience will make you null and void, and you will have little chance of ever getting anywhere, so the tip here is ... forget it, remember what you were bred for, and get back to what you’re good at, i.e. working in a factory or a warehouse i.e. proper jobbing.
Myself? Well, I took a good look at my parents the other day, while we were having some fun playing polo and driving the Ferrari, J-Guar, Aston, Lambo etc collections on the private road, and I thought, “Why do I feel so dreadfully uneasy? I thought some more as the Daimler engine purred, and then it came to me! Yes! I’m bored. I think I’ll become a, aaaaaa, aaa, what can I be next? Hmmmmm? I know! A successful author!”
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