Tits Up by Frankie Lassut - Read Online
Tits Up
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Quiet self time is liquid gold time, it is so very precious.
No quiet time, and noise prevails inside the human, and that’s the invite to madness, and in many cases, the doorway to the world of therapy. It’s not enough for sleep to be the only escape from an increasingly insane world.
Silence is golden.
Silence is our true nature.

To ‘chill’ (the modern word for meditate, or ponder), some people like to watch tropical fish (nothing against solitary ambitious goldfish).
Some like to drive to a country car park away from the hustle and bustle, eat their sandwiches, not talk, stare at a field, then go homeand think about what to have for tea (it’s called marriage). Some like to sit in, or stroll through a wood, hopefully an empty one. For others it’s the middle of a field. Just somewhere where they can be with nature. Nature is exquisite.
Some may be handed a back garden, in a quiet area, where, with a little work, they can create a beautiful ‘chill’ Nirvana. Somewhere lovely, to go and lose themselves, as in my case. I was lucky though, because as there were small sections of wooded area, I would be surrounded by glorious tits.

Published: Frankie Lassut on
ISBN: 9781908796127
List price: $2.99
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Tits Up - Frankie Lassut

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Page 1 of 1

***

Part 1. The chill out garden dream.

Tits Up. Part 1. This story is dedicated to Sarah Golding who laughed when I told her this on the phone, which encouraged me to write it down.

For the last 106 years (for that’s what it feels like) I’ve lived in a particular shared house in the Radford area of Coventry. When you live in shared houses, as I have done for 20 years (consciously unintentional), crazy things happen ... due to the magnetic quality shared houses have for loonies/ the disturbed; I can tell you, it is shocking what society can do to some people.

Where I live at the mo, where this true story is set, we have one who has several personalities who argue. He is drunk a lot of the time, leaves the gas on, and is always trying to contact aliens; he actually has a brilliant handset he’s constructed in his electronics lab of a room, in order to actually make verbal contact; which is a close encounter of the second kind?

He’s been playing round with it for ages, and can’t work out why they don’t call him back, as it must work as it is perfectly perfect to plan. He racks his mind over this which causes most of his problems ... but, he is missing the point. I’ve said this before in another wonderful work, and I’ll say it again. I have no proof, but I just know; do YOU know what I mean?

His spaceship is nearby, but when he came here he fell and knocked his head, and when he woke up he’d forgotten he was an alien. He signs on, and eventually gets a room here. He then had some strange urge to join SETI, and try and make contact. So here we are, he plays with his special two way radio all the time and it sends him mad modifying what is perfect, because, every time he calls the aliens, the radio on his spaceship dashboard speaks these words ... Hello. Can anyone hear me?. His ship is live, and merely waiting for his return. Like all alien ships it is clever, and gets its power from a tree; he attached the line with a special fitting.

Another, who was ‘parented’ to the brink of insanity, is convinced he is the partner of a famous woman, and wears a piece of meat around his neck so the dog will play with him (that habit is his mother’s fault). This particular journey began with a nice idea/request from the landlord (who is clinically insane ... don’t ask):

‘Could you do the garden? Be the gardener? Be the keeper of the garden?’

He asked this because he was in the middle of ejecting a particular person from the house who was giving hassle, who just happened to be the one who was actually cutting the grass; much to the relief to everyone else. This made him a hero, and the women in the house, at night (and on hot weekends), fanned him and fed him grapes.

You see. Shared houses tend not to have a domestic rota, and instead work on the principal of ‘I’m not doing it if they won’t’, while some simply act oblivious. It isn’t just men either.

A Little Landlord-ology:

Landlords therefore have to either go out with, or marry, their mother ... who then doubles as a maid. The more properties he has, the more knackered she looks. She also tends his crazed kids. I would suppose that, if in her CV, she has, ‘Was in charge of the ant farm when at school’, because that’s what it’s like; an ant farm in panic mode.

Landlords are also notorious for being tighter than camels arses (or fannies) in sandstorms. They tell people that they use part of the rental monies to maintain and upkeep the house, and when they say this, a halo appears around their head, choirs of angels sing (practicing for Christmas no doubt), and the Dragons ring them incessantly asking for an opportunity to invest. Well, no they don’t, and house upkeep is provided by car boot sales, and dodgy workmen who come cheaper than cheap who are usually found doing some dodgy dealing at car boot sales. If they bother to turn up, that same choir of angels get to do some more practice.

PS: Dodgy dealers at car boot sales are those who have watched Dickinson’s Real Deal a couple of times You can have it for six quid mate, worth one hundred and forty you know. Yeah, it’s Lall Leek glass, and this pottery was made by that Cliff bird; not Richards, erm … erm Clarice, but not her out of Silence of the Lambs. Yep, ok, a fiver mate. Do you want a bag?

I could ramble on about landlords (or car boot dealers) all day, but this little offering is about something completely different.

So, this guy who was to be ejected, would cut