The Hell-Raising Rock and Roll Adventures of Alice Pooper and Iggy Popsicle

By Frankie Lassut

Can two rag dolls of rock gods Alice Pooper and Iggy Popsicle help save the world?

Can the two of them persuade governments to stop the rot? We shall see.

Rock On Man!

Just think dear potential reader. If you have but the faith of a mustard seed, surely you can trust the power of hell raising by two great exponents to come up trumps.

Rather controvertial book! For some folk that is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Lassut
• Release date: Dec 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781908796066

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!

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The Hell-Raising Rock and Roll Adventures of

Alice Pooper and Iggy Popsicle

Copyright by Dave Lassut 2011

Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.

EPUB ISBN: 978-1-908796-06-6

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-908796-07-3

email: [e-mail]

Good Golly Maam!

Cover pictures by Gracie McStacey, age 7 (although she was 6 when she drew Wog and Honky and didn’t know what racial hatred was).

It’s said, Ask and you will receive

But … be careful what you ask for, and try and be clear in your asking, you may just get it! (Ask any shellfish what happened to its ancestors) …

***

‘Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.’

Steve Jobs.

***

The two ragdolls in this novelette were made by a very talented woman from the North of the country. She has a shop full of dolls. She carves the faces from wax, sometimes depicting people she knows (she buries the corpses afterwards … population 2,456 4), and I ‘dare’ any of you to spend a night in the shop. That’s because some who have taken the challenge tend to disappear, and then another doll eventually appears in the shop (I’m joking of course). If, however, you’re extremely brave (and can stay awake all night?) and you fancy the challenge (no alcohol allowed, that’s cheating), please send your measurements via e mail to me, as Gilly may just like your face. I’ll pass them on prior to your meeting, as there is no point in her having to remove some of one end of you (usually the legs, as chests are hard to hack through) to make you shorter to get you into a ‘guessed size’ woodland grave. She likes to dig in advance (guessing the size of the hole wrongly then having to make adjustments wastes valuable doll making time). She also hates having to carry an axe as well as a shovel when she has a body slung over her shoulder.

I’m joking (not). Her work is ‘amazing’ and it takes her around the world. A beautiful hand crafted doll of your child, or wife? What a memento!

Photo by me (that’s my mother, second left, large hat)

INTRODUCTION

Once upon a time, if I remember correctly (as I lost the newspaper cutting), a shopkeeper in Cheltenham put some ragdoll golliwogs in his window. Bad move apparently, as this was considered racist, politically incorrect, and offensive, and he was arrested and sent to jail for a while. There were also lots of other racist golliwog stories going around.

There was another guy who had his radiator grille golliwog ‘arrested’. He had a lot of trouble from the white middle class too; or people who would like to imagine in their wildest dreams that they’re middle class (they should at least ‘try’ being human first). His best friend was a black woman who loved golliwogs ... I contacted him, that’s how I know.

A lovely girl I worked with once got into trouble for apparently coming out with a racist statement; her husband was black. I also remember watching American detective/police programmes in the seventies, and recall the black people calling the whites, ‘honkies’. The term may even have been used in a