The Secret Life of Hospital Food

By Frankie Lassut

Have a stroke, it’s easy when you know how (it’s easy if you try ... no Hell below us .... ). Sit in a bed on a hospital ward and decide whether you should be angry or downhearted or feel blessed. Sit there for hours on end with only a wall and other almost completely stroke-disabled patients to look at. Feel the shift into an almost carnival atmosphere as the drugs trolley comes around and the yummy tummy feeling as the meals are served. Forget sleep as you get better (IF you get better) ... or, you can take charge of thought and tame your bad feeling, bored, despairing mind. I

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Lassut
• Release date: Apr 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781910103302

Frankie Lassut

I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now!I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn’t see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don’t really want to hear about it, it’s depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had ... Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a ‘job’ quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob ‘job’! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a ‘job’ (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman ... that’s called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I’d be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we’d have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell.I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can’t remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I’ve always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that’s all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy ‘you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel’. The bus station management weren’t pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone.The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that’s an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by the way is ‘brilliant’. The management didn’t like it, but bollocks to them.I couldn’t stop writing after that episode and I’ve been writing ever since, mostly cheques to people, such as the mortgage people and the gas board etc. I am so brilliant that I’ve lost all my friends because I wrote about them in my style which I believe is called Bizzaro. My inner being is a bit of a crazy horse, because whatever I write it has to be in that style, even the horror. It just goes that way. ‘Ordinary’ writing to me is like lemonade minus the bubbles ... I can’t bring myself to do it; but thank God I can still bring myself off. I need a selfie stick as I do that because the close focus on the phone won’t do it; how else am I going to post them on the Dark Web?Writing is like a drug. When I was writing my Millom book, the pictures that flashed into my head were so funny to me that I laughed myself into hernia-ville; my stomach tore. I got injured writing.You see, hernia-ville, a retirement home for people with stomach hernias; no comedians are booked to appear at that place.So, my writing is brilliant, so read the bloody stuff!I have actually suffered for my art. I won’t go to hospital to get it fixed because, well, I’ve written about that friggin place too.All that and now I’m an international bestselling author. I’m the only author in this world who has sold books on Mars (eat your heart out Tony Robbins), so I can say with certainty that Martians have fabulous senses of humour.What a profile!

Book preview

The Secret Life of Hospital Food

Copyright by Dave Lassut 2014

Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords

EPUB ISBN: 978-1-910103-30-2

BOOK ISBN: 978-1-910103-31-9

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THE GUILD OF NAUGHTY WRITERS.

Frankie is founder member of the Guild, which protects writers from people who get offended and, has contacts with the Russian mafia the Chinese Triads and Uma Thurman who really is handy with that sword ... all of these parties and the Guild exchange Christmas cards every year.

The Secret Life of Hospital Food

Your Inner Being likes to skip and laugh and think about things; your Inner Being likes to offer compliments and feel appreciation and contemplate something that is not fully understood and then feel the understanding come forth. Your Inner Being is just like your frisky two-year old who is eager for life experience. To meet up with your Inner Being just be more like that now.

---Abraham

Just to get you in the mood ...

NUTS

"I’m sorry to call you in at such short notice sir, but we’ve chopped your nuts off by mistake.

Oh bollocks! What’s the latest excuse?

It was a joke e mail from the Vet’s down the road which coincided with the arrival of the scalpels which had no step by step instructions with them.

What should I do?

Well sir. Nurse has gone to the supermarket to get some plum tomatoes, so aesthetically we can make you look ok. I’m hoping she doesn’t come back with those baby ones.

Oh, that’s clever. Can you put a plastic zip on my knacker sack, then if I ever get stranded somewhere or stuck on an island in a British flood area, I can always have a snack. Great place to carry pound coins too, never get successfully mugged. Don’t put one of those zip things they have on plastic bags of grapes, they’re crap.

Of course sir, but you will have to go on the five year waiting list to get on the six year waiting list.

Oh that’s ok, I’m retired, a useless old fart pensioner. It will give me something to think about while I annoy my wife at home and sit in the doctor’s waiting room, waiting to have my Prostate felt, get my cholesterol pills, blood pressure pills and any other pills she would see fit for me to take to keep me going for another forty or fifty years. My family will be thrilled as the money in my will will have matured beautifully by then, thank God for Totally Confused.com insurance. Unless you want me to die first lost on some waiting list?

Of course not sir. And that’s very good sir. In your peace of mind that your loved ones will be minted in fifty more years time, you could take up marbles and go around friend’s houses and play marbles. You could carry your marbles in your knacker sack. Having seen your knacker sack sir, I reckon you could get four marbles in there with your plum tomatoes.

Good plan. Why did you say marbles twice?

Just checking you don’t have dementia sir. Congratulations! You spotted the fact I said marbles twice, which was one of the official government tests for old people who have had their knackers mistakenly removed. That’s good for you, great for your family, yet a disaster grandé for the pharmaceutical conglomerates.

Hello doctor, nice to see you again ... why have you called me in?

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First of all, I didn’t ‘suffer’ a stroke. I wasn’t, and aren’t a victim. I firmly believe we all create our own lives with our great yet dangerous tool, thought. Saying that, if I created it, then how can I be a victim? My mindset was this (I’ll probably repeat it). If I created it, I may as well enjoy the ride surely I’ll heal quicker if I feel more good than bad? The truth is, I turned my brain into something that mimicked a slaughterhouse floor with a sea of blood to get some hospital food. The cover picture of the cottage pie (made from real cottage) was real, it’s name was Jim.

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SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER (more of a Saturday night brain attack actually).

It was Saturday 8th March 2014. I was going out with Evo to a nice country pub. It was about 7pm and my energy tipping point had arrived. I felt a bit strange which I thought was a painkiller I had taken, so I went to the loo to splash my face with cold water and go to the loo to release a No 2. In the toilet I splashed my face, but my legs still felt googly and my head was wishy-washy. My heart was a flutter too. I sat for my 2, did it, and then slumped off the toilet. My head landed in the wickerwork waste bin. The toilet roll tubes in the bin stopped me from nutting the floor. Since, I’ve modified the industrial hard hat by sticking toilet roll tubes all over it and I’m now worth millions (