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Saturday, 9 April 2011

grand National sweepstake

editors note: andy still in hospital and he tried to organise a sweepstake for the big race here is how he got on

Good day beautiful people and a happy glorious Saturday to you all.
My attempts to organise a sweepstake with my fellow inmates for todays Grand National tested my progressively waning tolerance level to an unprecedented limit. I shit you not my friends, One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest is more factual than fiction. 

‎"Right my little band of friends, in this bed pan is the names of all the horses running in this afternoons big race and this is how out works".

I preceded to explain the whole concept of a sweepstake; the folded pieces of paper with a horses name printed on them, the entrance fee,the number of lucky dips into the bed pan per stake, ie: 50p gets you one pick, £1 gets you two picks etc etc...whoever picks the winning horse will win £10, whoever gets second place will win £5, third and fourth place will each win £2.50.

"Everybody understand the rules?"

The following is a true account of questions and events that pushed my progressively waning tolerance level to an unprecedented limit.

"How do you know whose won, do you decide?"

"If I dont win, do I get my money back?, I always like a snack from the tuck shop in the afternoon and I've only got enough money for me Mars Bar. (a sincere question)

"What do you want 50p for again?"

"Can I buy all the horses?, I've never won anything before"

Ray protested.."It's all a conspiracy to keep the proliteriat in the gutter". The global gambling industry and a little known Governmental department, that we in the know call by its pseudonym 'The Department of F@ck the Poor. Together they promote and exploit the dreams of the desperate lower working class into believing "that one day you will dine at the table of the Bourgeoisie" whilst all along stealing the little capital that proletariat are killing themselves for every day in the toil and shit of their existence. And do you know something, all this 'booty' is spent to adorn that dining table with a feast that you will never be invited to. SO F@CK YA GRAND NATIONAL"...At this point, I noticed all the other inmates had already left the table, leaving myself and a ranting Ray. Cheers fellas.

I retreated back to the solitude and comfort of my padded cell. I picked all the folded pieces of paper out of the bed pan and threw £20 in.

I now need a long deep full body meditation. I shall return to the external world at see if I've won the sweepstake. I've never won anything before.


editors note... the Peel Andys Local

Thursday, 7 April 2011

more from inside the block

editors note... more from Andy again nothing to do with food but funny passages from his facebook Diary

After eight days of being a denizen of the Sanatorium has had his dignity fragmented on a daily basis. Today they have finally desecrated the remnants. This final act included a nurse, a sock, a pair of swimming goggles and a Phototherapy Pod

He seems to have spent a lot of time in Camp Bedlam in various states of undress. This one took the biscuit. Now, before all you mothers cry out in disbelief "desecration of dignity? You want to go
through pregnancy and childbirth, sunshine". Well, he has. Three times (and he's managed to keep his figure). Ok, he concedes that the internal examination reminded him of those Lucky Dip's at the carnival. The ones were you inserted your whole arm through the hole in the box and blindly had a good rummage about, grabbing for the biggest prize. And after the birth of the slimy little thing, you have to lie there with your legs, strapped in stirrups, pulled up to your chin as a midwife sits inbetween, inches away from your traumatised genitalia and torn perenium, holding a needle and thread whilst you lie there with an inane Entonox-induced grin on your face, sipping a cup of tea. 

Now, if childbirth is as painful and undignified as you profess and he has been told many times (personally, the three labours and births he witnessed were worthy Oscar nominations) He therefore questions;



Being kicked in the b@llox is extremely painful experience but I know not of any male who would gladly and willingly revisit that experience.

Anyhows, back to the brave little soldier. This is the final act of binning the remnants of his dignity.
He is standing in front of Nurse Lilian, naked, his genitals stuffed into a trainer sock (Yes, A TRAINER SOCK, stop laughing, that he will have to wear where its supposed to be worn when he gets discharged. ON HIS FOOT) and a ridiculous pair of swimming goggles. She checks my colouring and body heat before locking him in the pod. He can see his reflection in the full length mirror on the far side of the room.

"Oh sweet jesus"

Right, that's him done. He's let the cat out amongst the pigeons and is now gonna turn off his phone before the diatribe, the thunderous written onslaught crashes his inbox

and finally a bit about Ray

is sat in the Sanatorium bell tower having a smoke with Ray who is on top form tonight. He is educating me on the galactic journey that Narmer and the Egyptians made to settle on this planet over 5000 years ago. He has promised to show me their star from where they came on the next clear night. Can't wait. Will someone please get me out of this place.

Monday, 4 April 2011

I,m John Merrick

editors note 'not much about food but this is funny'

‎'s soul has finally returned to its inanimate marionnette after yesterdays abandonment to go cloud hopping across the zenith. It is now pulling the strings as the marionnette takes centre stage, a matinee performance for the baying medical students in The Theatre Bedlam.

He is stood near naked in the circle of a Victorian operating theatre whilst 20 med students sit on raised benches in the round. Professor Griffiths is firing questions at them and inviting them down, one by one, to examine, diagnosis and give their prognosis. If he thought he was gonna be treated like John Merrick he would have worn a f@ckin potato sack over his head.

His own observations shows the girls are all wearing brown trousers, white or stripy blouses with shoulder length centre parted mousy hair. The boys all shop at Burtons and have had the same haircut since primary school. A collective of well spoken, well educated middle to upper-middle class children. Not a hint of Salfordian or Lancashire dialect is perceptable by the ear.

editors note ' andy is having a bit of a holiday! for more go click here'