Archive for the ‘Thinking’ Category
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For FUCKS sake don’t kick me…
Everyone’s favourite smiling man and King’s regular Mick Sutcliffe featured on Ken Bruce’s radio programme on Tuesday 13th September to try and reign as a pop music meastro. He failed. But here is the show for you all to listen to – and give him grief… Sorry Sooty! Enjoy…
Part 1
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Part 2
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Dear faithful readers, I have just had the worst day in the history of all human kind. I’m pretty sure there’s no god and I’m now a complete nervous wreck.
Last night, I arranged with the buyer of my trusty Starlet, the rendezvous to part with the vehicle. All was set for 6 o’clock outside his house in Menston. It would be a simple exchange of keys, money and Log Book details, and his friend would drive me back to Haworth where I would climb into my new Astravan and go for a relaxing pint at the King’s with 400 quid in my back pocket.
Did this happen? No.
This morning I set of to work in the Vauxhall, realised my error in Cullingworth, turned around and went back for the Toyota. This made me 35 minutes late for work as on the way back through Cullingworth I was stuck behind a farmers tractor. The slowest in existence.
Upon leaving work, my trusty sat nav took me straight to his front door in Menston, I was 35 minutes early. Status quo restored I figured. Whilst waiting with the nice young man for 6 o’clock to arrive, when my lift back to Haworth was due I decided to take him out for a spin, Ilkley and back was enough to persuade him that there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted it. 6 o’clock arrives, we step out of the vehicle and both lock our doors with our fingers. I had now locked the Vauxhall keys, the Starlet keys, my house keys, log book, MOT certificate, service history and pride inside the vehicle.
What happened next could not even be written by a team of script writers.
The next hour was spent attempting to break into the vehicle with a wire coat hanger. I’d seen it done before and thought there isn’t anything to it. Luckily the neighbour 2 streets away had one… I think a total of 17 doors had to be knocked on to acquire it. There I stand, 30 minutes later, coat hanger now bent beyond repair, feeling a bit stupid. I had even ripped the beading off the window to see if I could see any better, and realised my two acquaintances were now content to watch an idiot at work.
It was then that my lift back suggested he knows a trick to pop the lock with a screw driver. I told him he might as well and that I’d knock 30 pounds off the car to allow for a new barrel. We decided on the passenger side door. In went the screw driver, fucked the lock, and to no avail. Great. That was another 30 minutes of trying wasted.
Then I had a thought. My father, who wasn’t answering his phone as he is in Devon without his charger, was given a key just the other week in case he needed to move the car where I’d parked it… In Haworth. I also remembered I had a spare set of keys for the Astravan there, enabling me to drive back myself. All would be sorted. The three of us set off on the 30 mile journey Menston to Haworth where I turned the house upside down looking for where my father might have put the sodding keys. He’s probably got them in his coat fucking pocket in Devon. I then started looking for the spare Astravan keys, and realised they were safe in the glove box. Of the Astravan.
So, after my kind sister reluctantly allowed me to drive her car back to Menston, on the condition I didn’t crash it, back we went for another go on the previous two methods. And failed miserably.
I couldn’t believe this was happening, and the sky was now starting to bruise.
“Ah!” – I’m fully comp! I got out a hammer from my ‘lift homes’ tool box, and swang for the near side front window. The hammer swang back off the glass, astounding me – that glass is strong. Resident’s in area were then subjected to viewing yours truly taking a run up and belting the thing so hard that not only the glass got completely demolished but the hammer arm has put a large dent in the door frame. Ah, freedom at last.
I rang my insurance up – I’m not covered for windows. I rang Autoglass – that’ll be 450 quid because your not covered for windows.
At this point I was suicidal.
I’m now having to go to a breakers yard and salvage car glass, and that is not easy. I have left the sodding car in his garage and told him I won’t take any money until I’ve got it sorted. Him and his mate are now dumbfounded after watching the best night of comedy in Christendom and I’m now sitting in a dark room singing to myself to try and make the voices in my head go away. I’ve just consumed 20 grains of Valium and have started my third bottle of whisky in the hour. The only good thing to have come out of this is I didn’t crash my sisters car and can hear her and her boyfriend in stitches in the next room. I’m a broken man.
If it keeps up like this for the weekend can somebody at the Beatherder festival call me an ambulance when I electrocute myself on the microphone stand.
A big thank you to the friendly barmaid who recently wrote to her energy supplier…
It comes to something extremely twisted when a smiling local regular of the King’s tells you something so ridiculous that it tops almost every mishap that has happened to yours truly. But that is what happened last night.
The man, who shall remain nameless, once sampled a very hot curry from our good friends at Spicy Delight, and completely devoured it. Next morning, himself and another smiling regular went for a walk down to Lister Park to feed the ducks equipped with three slices of stale bread.
Whilst merrily chatting away towards the Lister Park lake the conversation came to an abrupt stop when our dear hero was caught short and made a cardinal error. He coughed.
Immediately he ran to the nearest bush to hide and relieve himself of anything else left to come and encountered his second problem, a lack of toilet paper. Out came the three slices of stale bread. The ducks went starving and the entire excursion rendered pointless.
He went on to say that using bread is a far better feeling than anything Andrex has ever invented, and on a brief spell of research I’ve discovered ASDAs own bread is actually cheaper than their finest bog roll. I dread to think about the contents of his toilet roll cupboard.
