THERAPY SESSION 3

Ingerland calling! Ingerland calling! Ingerland...!
Ha ha. No. It’s only me – honest. Yes - that’s right. Loony Lenny again.

Me and Barmy Billy, the one with acne and bad breath, were getting out of the car in Tesco’s car park the other day when this saney in a tracksuit comes jogging up, pouring in sweat. ‘Nice day,’ he calls as he starts to unlock the door of the car next to ours.

‘Yes. It’s Tuesday,’ says Barmy Billy with a nod of his head. ‘We like Tuesdays too. It’s a good day for shopping.’

‘Yes, Tuesdays are nice and quite,’ I tell the saney. ‘Are you late for work?’

‘No,’ says the saney, frowning. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well – you were running,’ I said. ‘That’s what people do when they’re late for work.’

‘I was running for exercise,’ says the saney. ‘It’s called keeping fit. And when I said it’s a nice day I was talking about the weather, not the day of the week.’

It was then that I noticed that Gormless Gordon, the short fat one, had joined us and was listening intently. ‘Yes,’ GG agrees, ‘exercise is good. I’ve been taking lots of exercise lately – ever since I had that health scare. I always park the car at the far end of the car park when I come shopping. Then I walk the whole length of the building. If I keep that up for a couple of months I’ll be like a greyhound.’

‘Health scare?’ gasps Barmy Billy. ‘I didn’t know you’d had a health scare. What happened?’

‘My heart,’ whispers GG, cautiously feeling his chest

‘Aye, you’re well over weight,’ growls the saney, disapprovingly

‘Was it a heart attack?’ I wonder.

‘Not yet,’ says GG. ‘But I’m in line for one.’

‘Is that what the doctor said?’ mutters Barmy Bill - anxiously feeling his own chest.

‘No. It was in the newspaper, The Guardian,’ GG tells him. ‘It said that Scotland has the highest number of heart attacks in the whole of Europe.’

‘But this is England,’ snaps the saney.

‘Yes. But I’m a Scottish person,’ says GG in a worried voice. ‘I was born and bred in Scotland. And Scottish people are in the most danger. It was in the Guardian.’

‘Being Scottish doesn’t give you a heart attack,’ snaps the saney, impatiently. ‘It’s diet and lifestyle. If you eat the right food and take plenty of exercise you’ll be OK.’

‘No!’ Barmy Billy butts in. ‘The problem is with being Scottish,’ he’s looking for a reason why it doesn’t apply to him, ‘if that’s what it said in the Guardian it must be true.’

‘Rubbish!’ snaps the saney. ‘If you have a heart attack it’s because you’re overweight and you don’t take enough exercise.’

‘I can’t help my weight,’ protests GG. ‘I exercise every time I come shopping for my convenience food and cakes. That’s three or four times a week.’

‘It’s a diet you need!’ snaps the saney.’

‘What diet?’ demands GG.

‘Five a day,’ I tell him. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to eat. I read that in the Guardian too. If you eat five a day you’ll live to be a hundred.’

‘Five what a day?’ demands Gormless Gordon.

‘Portions,’ I tell him. ‘Five portions.’

‘What’s a portion?’ GG wants to know.

‘A handful,’ says Barmy Billy. ‘A portion’s a handful. There’s a picture of one in Tesco’s.’

‘A handful? Whose hand? I mean - what size of hand?’ Gormless Gordon looks ever more worried and confused.

‘It’s just a hand,’ says Barmy Billy, scratching his head.

‘You can’t just say “a handful,”’ I tell him, ‘all hands are different. Like - is it a man’s hand or a woman’s hand?’

‘I dunno,’ says Barmy Billy, ‘just four fingers and a thumb.’

‘Black or white?’ I want to know.

‘It looks white in the picture,’ say Barmy Billy.

‘Thank God,’ says Gormless Gordon, ‘I don’t know any blacks.

‘What’s in this hand?’ I want to know.

‘I think it’s food,’ says Barmy Billy, ‘because you have to eat it.’

‘It’s fruit and vegetables,’ snaps the saney, impatiently.

‘That’s weird,’ says Barmy Billy, ‘serving handfuls of fruit and vegetables – are they all mixed up together?’

‘It’s unhygienic,’ says Gormless Gordon. ‘They should serve it with spoons.’

‘I don’t fancy a handful of banana and cabbage,’ I tell them, screwing up my face.

‘Five handfuls,’ Barmy Billy corrects me, ‘oranges and cauliflower and things – every day.’

‘Rhubarb and tomatoes,’ I grimace, ‘served by a sweaty hand.’

‘I hope they wash their hands after they’ve been to the toilet,’ whines Gormless Gordon, turning a bit green.

‘Are rhubarb and tomatoes fruit or vegetables?’ I wonder.

‘Does it matter?’ the saney growls.

‘Yes, of course it does,’ Barmy Billy tells him. ‘You have to get the proportions right.’

‘You don’t want a chemical reaction,’ I mutter. ‘I remember chemical reactions from school. They’re dangerous.’

‘They could kill you,’ whispers Barmy Billy in awe. He obviously remembers school too.

‘This is all too confusing,’ whines Gormless Gordon. ‘I wish I was born fifty years earlier when you didn’t have to eat five handfuls of queer stuff every day – just to stay alive. And I wish I wasn’t Scottish. It’s too dangerous.’

‘The government are filling your heads with nonsense,’ says the saney. ‘They pick numbers like “five a day” out of the air so they can frighten and control you. Then the press sensationalise it. Because it sells papers. Then the supermarkets hitch on to it and print pictures of handfuls of cabbage – so lunatics like you will scurry off and buy up all the fruit and vegetables. They’re all taking you for a ride. Where did they get this figure “five” from anyway?’

‘From the experts,’ says Barmy Billy. ‘And they should know.’

‘And it’s in the Guardian so it must be right,’ adds Gormless Gordon.

‘They got it from America,’ says the saney in disgust. ‘All your fads and nonsense start in America. And that’s where your “five a day” comes from. But... wait for it... some one over there has now thought up “nine a day.” That’ll be coming in here next.’

‘Nine a day?!’ gasps Barmy Billy. ‘Nine what a day?’

‘Portions!’ the saney tell him. ‘Nine portion!’

‘What’s a portion?’ asks Gormless Gordon...

A Shocking Story

***

Hello. I’m one of Lenny’s saney friends. The following anecdote is all the more shocking because it happened to two innocent friends of mine in my home town in Wales. I say ‘shocking’ because it reveals the attitude of certain British police toward their own people. I have changed the names of the characters involved in order to give them anonymity.

The scene is the bar in a local pub, half an hour before closing time. My friend, Taff, a hefty, middle aged lorry driver, is the only customer. He stands at the bar in his shirt sleeves, a pint of beer before him as he talks to the landlord – Rod, a calm, balding, plumpish, middle aged chap.

‘Quiet tonight,’ says Taff, taking a swig of beer then setting his pint pot back on the bar.

‘Always is at this time on a Monday,’ says Rod, coming over and standing directly in front of Taff. ‘People have work tomorrow, see.’

‘Yeah,’ Taff agrees. ‘But I’m all right. I’m on a rotating shift. Day off today, and a late start tomorrow. I drive a lorry. ‘

‘Yes, I know,’ Rod says, nodding his head. ‘One of those juggernauts isn’t it? That’s mighty hard work with a lot of responsibility.’

‘I love it,’ Taff tells him. ‘Been doing it all my working life. You’re the guy with the responsibility. Working all the hours God sends to keep this place going.’

‘Got to my friend,’ Rod tells him. ‘Got to keep my staff in a job and pay their wages, see.... Just a minute. There’s someone prowling about outside. I’ve had my eye on him for a while now. Hope he’s not casing the joint.’

‘Where?’ asks Taff, turning to look at the window.

‘There! By the door. In the shadows,’ Rod tells him.

‘Oh. Yeah,’ says Taff. ‘What’s he up to? I wonder.’

‘Dunno. Bit fishy. I don’t like it. There’s a lot of money in the till, see. Uh uh. He’s seen us looking. He’s coming in.’

The door opens and a man of Asiatic appearance stands framed in the opening. ‘You called a taxi,’ the man announces.

‘No. Not us mate,’ Rod tells him.

‘Oh yes,’ says the stranger. ‘You called a taxi from this pub. And I have come.’

‘You’ve got the wrong address mate,’ says Rod. ‘There’s only the two of us in here. And we don’t need a taxi. We’re locals. There’s been no one else here for over an hour.’

‘I’m telling you. You called a taxi,’ the man insists angrily.

‘And we’re telling you we didn’t,’ Rod says firmly. ‘So don’t push it.’

‘I say – you did!’ the man shouts.

‘We didn’t. Now clear off!’ Rod shouts back.

With that the man turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

‘Weirdo,’ Taff mutters.

‘Up to no good,’ Rod concludes. ‘He only came in when he saw us looking...’

Half an hour later; stop tap; Taff, still the only customer, stands with his last pint in his hand. Rod still stands before him on the other side of the bar as they discuss rugby and football. Suddenly there’s the din of sirens. ‘My God, what’s going on?’ Rod wonders as the noise hits a climax in the pub car park.

The door flings open and police in flak jackets come tumbling in like Keystone Cops. Frowning quizzically, Rod looks at Taff as if to say ‘what the hell?’

Taff opens his eyes wide, raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, ‘beats me,’ he mutters.

Police, eight of them, charge through the far doors into the lounge and toilets – obviously hunting a felon. ‘They’re out in force,’ Rod says.

‘Looks like a rapid response team,’ Taff decides, straining his neck to look through the window. ‘There are two cars and a wagon outside flashing blue lights. And this lot’ve got sprays or something ready for use. Maybe they’ve had a tip off about terrorists.’

‘Not in my pub they haven’t,’ snaps Rod.

‘Or drugs,’ Taff offers.

‘This place is clean as a whistle,’ Rod protests. ‘Just the same, it looks like a big one,’ then, ‘can I help you officer...?’ he asks politely as the biggest and ugliest officer comes marching toward the bar, flanked by two scowling colleagues.

‘Are you the landlord,’ demands the cop.

‘The one and only,’ Rod tells him.

‘We’ve had a complaint against you,’ says the officer gruffly.

‘Moi?’ says Rod in exaggerated surprise. ‘Are they complaining about the ban on drugs again? or is it cigarettes this time?’

‘Racism!’ snaps the officer.

‘You’re joking,’ says Rod, astounded. ‘Some of my best customers are English.’

‘Don’t get funny,’ growls the cop. ‘We don’t tolerate racism.’

‘Who made this complaint – and what is it?’ It’s Rod’s turn to be serious.

‘A taxi driver complained by phone. He said you called him to the pub at half past ten tonight and when he presented himself you called him a “black bastard” - and threatened him.’

‘Rubbish,’ Taff gasps, unable to contain himself. ‘I was here. I’m a witness.’

The three policemen spin on their heels, glaring at the upstart, ‘and who might you be?’ hisses the scowling spokesman, thrusting his face into Taff’s - eyeballing him - while his henchmen close in on either side. The rest of the team position themselves like a riot squad in the middle of the bar – ready to charge if Taff makes a wrong move.

Taff feels intimidated but doesn’t flinch and keeps his cool. ‘There’s no might about it,’ he says firmly. I am a customer. And I am a witness.’

‘Right! That’s it!’ the officer rasps, turning back to Rod. ‘You’ll be called to the station tomorrow to explain yourself to my superiors. They’ll decide whether to bring charges.’

‘Charges!? What are you on about? And anyway, I’m busy. I can’t come to the station tomorrow.’

The officer pauses then says ‘you look like a sensible man. I’d advise you to act in your own best interests,’ then he turns and heads through the door, followed by his retinue.

Rod stands open mouthed, gaping after them. ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ he says at last. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. And suddenly I’m a racist. Have they nothing better to do – like solving crime?’

‘You are the crime – being a British white male in Britain is offensive,’ Taff tells him. ‘You don’t need to do anything else.’

‘I don’t get it,’ says Rod, unable to grasp the situation. ‘Trevor MacDonald, a black news reader on ITV called Bernard Manning, a white comedian, a fat white bastard on television. That’s racism big style. But he got off scot-free. So where do I come in to this?’

‘You’re dead right. Racism is racism is racism,’ Taff tells him. ‘But in lunatic asylum Britain, the rules only work one way. And, like I say, only British white males can be racists.’

Lunatic Asylum Britain - by an inmate

Therapy Session 1

Hell-o! everybody. It’s mee, Lenny, the happy Inglishman. My friends call me - Loony Lenny. You’re all my friends so you can call me that too. Hell-o! I live in a place called Britain. I like it here . It’s a nuthouse. So it suits us loonies fine. Alice landed here when she fell down that rabbit hole. Half our leaders are potty and the other half are nutters. And a lot of them are as bent as a nine bob note. Hell-o!

I like the potty ones and nutters best. They cater for people like me - loony people. They make crazy rules and laws. And bring out lots of new words that end in ‘ist’ or ‘ism’ or ‘phile’ or ‘phobic.’ It’s complicated. But I think you are an ‘ist’ if you believe in ‘isms.’ But if you’re a ‘phile’ you should be locked up. Then there are the ‘ers’ – like abusers and wankers. I think they’re friends of the ‘philes.’ But maybe not. We’ll talk about them another time. Anyway, they tell us that we can’t be any of those things any more. Even if we didn’t know we were in the first place. It’s brilliant fun if you don't think about it. Hell-o!

Some potty people called a ‘government’ are in charge of the nuthouse. They tell us fibs. And we believe them because we‘re loonies. That’s quite a good game but it gets boring. Because that’s all the government ever do. Tell fibs. Hell-o!

There are some people who don’t like these nutters who run the country. The people who don’t like nutters are called ‘sane people.’

‘Sane people’ are scary. They use their brains – and think. And they criticise us loonies. We call them ‘saneys.’ We loonies think ‘saneys’ should be locked up. So we try to get them in trouble by calling them ‘ists’ and accusing them of believing in ‘isms.’ And we hint that some of them may be ‘philes’ or ‘phobics’ or even ‘ers.’ That’s good fun too. Hell-o!

But anyway, the most interesting people in Britain are the ones who look after us patients – our Keepers. Keepers come in lots of different disguises and use lots of different names – like... ‘councils’ and ‘services’ and lots of other confusing things. It’s exciting because the Keepers keep inventing more names and bringing in more rules. So you never know what’s right or wrong from one week to the next. Hell-o!

Keepers don’t counsel anyone of course. And they don’t give services. No... They just give us orders and threaten us with prison and things. But loonies need things like that don’t they. Some of us, who suffer from delusions, even vote for the Keepers. Hell-o!

Some of my favourite Keepers use names like... er... Social Services... er... Equal Opportunities... er... Equal rights... er... Health and Safety... er... Race Relations... er... Equality and Non Discrimination ... er... Brussels... and... er... oh yes – Trading Standards. Hell-o!

Trading Standards are very good. I know that. Because, in Wales, where I live, there’s a man who makes sausages. And he calls them ‘Dragon Sausages.’ Because StDragon is the patron saint of Wales. (or is that St Daffodil?) It’s confusing. But there is a dragon on the flag. Hell-o!

Anyway – Trading Standards examined these sausages – and their experts discovered that there was no dragon meat in any of them. Not one slice – any where. So they told the man that if he didn’t change his ways he would have his collar felt by the law. I should think so too. It’s disgusting - selling dragon sausages without putting any dragon in them. That’s conning loonies that is. Hell-o!

But listen to this. The man who made them said it should have been obvious that there was no dragon meat in his sausages. Imagine! What a rascal! It’s all very well for a ‘saney’ to say that. But who’s going to protect the loonies? That’s what we want to know. Hell-o!

But the best bit is – it was a loony who reported the ‘saney’ sausage-man. And it was a loony who threatened to take him to court. So the loonies won in the end. Hahaha... Hell-o!

And here’s another victory that I witnessed myself – first hand. A butcher gave a customer a bone for her dog. But there was a loony Trading Standards person in the shop at the time. And this loony Trading Standards person went straight in there and tackled the crime. She said she would report the butcher for committing an offence. Because he had to have a log-book and take the name and address of every person who got a bone – and the customer had to sign that they had received it. Now – there’s efficiency for you. Thank God I live in Britain where we have people who will stand up for us loonies and speak out. That’s what I say. Hell-o!

But this Trading Standards loony was even more efficient than that. She wrote to the butcher and said that her department would ‘be watching’ him. And he had to put all his bones in a dustbin. And the dustbin had to be marked ‘unfit for human consumption.’ Now – that’s uncovered a lot of crime that has. Because a lot of chefs and old women and people who work in kitchens make stock out of shin bones and things. And they’ve been doing it for centuries. No wonder people die. God. Come to think of it, my own granny did it. She’s dead now. (Probably died of bone poisoning). Thank God she is dead. That’s what I say. Because if she was still alive - I’d sue her for compensation. Because for years she was boiling bones and feeding us food that wasn’t fit for human consumption. Thank God for the loonies at Trading Standards and thank God I live in lunatic Asylum Britain. That’s what I say.
Bye for now
Back with more soon
Your loony friend – Loony Lenny... Hell-o!



Therapy Session 2

‘Hell-o! everybody. It’s mee again. Yes. That’s right. Loony Lenny, the happy Inglishman. Hell-o!

Me and my friend Barmy Billy were being good citizens yesterday; recycling all that packaging we get from the supermarkets. When along comes this saney.

‘What are you two up to?’ the saney wants to know.

‘We’re recycling stuff and saving the planet,’ says Barmy Billy.

‘What makes you think that recycling that stuff will save the planet?’ demands the saney.

‘Our keepers have told us it will,’ says Barmy Billy. ‘Our keepers live in the town hall so they should know. They’ve sent us a letter with instructions in it. It says we have to put certain stuff in this green wheelie bin; and some other stuff in these green plastic bags; the rest goes in that black wheelie bin over there. It’s very complicated. But we loonies press on regardless. Our keepers have put our addresses on the bins - so they can keep a check on us and make sure that we put the right thing in the right place.’

‘Sounds like surveillance,’ says the saney.

‘Oh, no,’ Barmy Billy assures him. ‘It’s a new game. The keepers are always inventing games. Then they tell us the rules and we have to obey. It’s good fun if you don’t think about it.’

‘Authoritarian state,’ the saney mutters.

‘You don’t understand,’ says Barmy Billy. ‘Our keepers are training us to save the planet. It’s called “going green.” Our keepers say that “going green” is the new “buzzword.” Me and Loony Lenny are very “green.” Aren’t we Loony Lenny?’

‘Green as grass,’ I confirm. I like buzzwords.

‘Green eh? So what was in this package?’ demands the saney, removing a plastic box from a green bag.

‘Asparagus,’ says Barmy Billy, ‘it tells you on the label.’ He gives me a look, as if to say, ‘this bloke can’t see past the end of his nose.’

‘I can see it was asparagus,’ snaps the saney, ‘and it says it came from New Zealand.’

‘We didn’t go to New Zealand,’ says Barmy Billy, shaking his head at the man’s stupidity. ‘We just went to Sainsburys in the car.’

‘Sainsburys - in the car?!’ the saney gasps, scratching his head. ‘Sainsburys is only ten minutes walk away - but you went by car?’

‘We haven’t got ten minutes to waste on walking,’ Barmy Billy tells him, ’and we have to do our shopping – don’t we?’ Some of these saneys don’t realise how important loony time is.

‘So you drove past a greengrocers and a Spa to get to a supermarket?’

‘It’s cheaper in the supermarket,’ Barmy Billy explains.

‘Hmm... So you’re saving the planet,’ says the saney, still scratching his head. ‘But you drive to a supermarket instead of shopping at your local shops. And you buy asparagus that’s been transported across the world from New Zealand. Don’t you know that there are fields full of asparagus all over England?’ He starts picking up packages, reading the labels then flinging them back in the bag... ‘These beans came from Kenya,’ he mutters... ‘And the strawberries from Spain... Yet Herefordshire’s full of strawberries... And your apples are from France... English apples are the best in the world, for God’s sake... So what makes you think you’re saving the planet?’

‘We recycle the wrappings,’ says Barmy Billy.

‘Green as grass,’ I declare.

The saney shakes his head. ‘You drive to a supermarket. You buy food that’s been transported round the world. Then you put polythene wrappings into plastic bags. And you call that “saving the planet”?’

‘Yes - the keepers’ men come and collect the bags,’ says Barmy Billy.

‘Green as grass,’ I pipe again. That’s my planet-saving motto.

‘The refuse collectors come round in trucks that burn oil,’ the saney growls. 'Then the stuff is transported in other trucks to some port or other and put on a ship. Then the ship rumbles off to China - burning more oil and causing more pollution – transporting your rubbish round the world again. Then the Chinese burn it on open fires and poison the world’s atmosphere with toxic fumes. And you call that “saving the planet”?’

‘But these plastic bags have been dyed green,’ Barmy Billy points out.

‘They’re plastic,’ the saney yells.

‘Green plastic,’ Barmy Billy insists.

‘Green as grass,’ I emphasise.

‘Why not use bio degradable bags for recycling?’ the saney challenges.

‘Our keepers get the plastic ones cheap. So we don’t have to pay so much Council Tax. We’re not mad you know,’ says Barmy Billy, slapping the saney down.

‘I don’t believe it,’ the saney whines ‘What was in these polythene wrappings?’ he demands, dipping into the green bag again.

‘Well,’ says Barmy Billy, ‘there was a cabbage in this one; and broccoli in that one; potatoes in this one...’

‘Vegetables!’ the saney gasps, aghast, ‘individually wrapped in polythene!’

‘All vegetables are wrapped in polythene,’ snaps Barmy Billy, astounded by the man’s ignorance. ‘Have you never been to Tescos?’

‘I don’t get it,’ the saney’s still whining, screwing-up his face in disbelief. ‘There’s no soil in these wrappings.’

‘Soil?’ Barmy Billy’s gobsmacked. ‘Why would there be soil in them?’

‘Off the vegetables,’ says the saney. ‘There must be soil.’

‘Vegetables are food,’ Barmy Billy’s getting worried. We’ve got a head-case on our hands. ‘You don’t have dirt near food. You’d die.’

‘’Course you would,’ I pipe. I know all about vegetables. ‘You put gravy on vegetables - not soil.’

‘Listen,’ says the saney. ‘I’m going to tell you something now. If you really want to save the planet, you’ll walk to your nearest shops. Then you’ll buy everything you need from them – including vegetables. And your vegetables shouldn’t be wrapped or polished. They should still look like they looked when they left the farm...’

‘Left the farm?’ Barmy Billy steps back – wide eyed. ‘Which farm?’

‘Vegetables are made by Tescos,’ I mutter, frowning in puzzlement, unable to understand why he’s suddenly talking about farms.

‘Then,’ says the saney, ignoring our confusion, ‘in your spare time, you’ll parade outside a supermarket with placards and banners – demanding that they cut down on packaging.’

‘He’s mad!’ Barmy Billy gasps, looking at me in bewilderment. ‘If they cut out the packaging – what can we recycle to save the planet?’

‘He’s a trouble-maker,’ I warn, giving the saney a hard stare.

‘And,’ the saney rambles on, ‘you’ll organise a petition to be handed to your keepers and the nutters in parliament – demanding that all the goods sold in supermarkets be obtained from the nearest possible source of supply...’

‘Come on,’ Barmy Billy whispers, ‘he’s a nutter. What about New Zealand butter? Let’s get away, quick! We’ve got recycling to do and a planet to save.’