Posted on by JonnyB

“We are talking,” and here, Len the Fish leant in conspiratorially, “the dirtbox.”

Short Tony nodded sagely. There was an interruption from the other end of the bar.

“Excuse me yes, I am looking for ze pigfarm?”

The visitor was foreign (nb the ‘ze’, above, represents this) – possibly Polish or North European, a quiet, slightly hoarse voice. He wore a blue suit with a dazzling yellow tie that was just imperceptibly too wide. A man not dressed for the pigfarm.

The Angelic Barmaid blinked at him. It was her first night, and so far very standard questions like ‘could I have a pint of beer please’ had seemed to confuse her.

“Pardon?”

“I am looking for ze pigfarm? Apparently it is near here?”

She looked round for help. Several people were trampled in the rush.

“What pigfarm?” asked Ron. “There are pigs all over the place.”

The man shrugged slightly helplessly. “Just ze pigfarm.”

“Have you got a name?” demanded another regular. “You must have a name?”

Another shrug. “I do not have a name. Just ze pigfarm.”

“Well what are you doing there? That would help.”

“I have to meet a man.”

“What man?”

“I don’t know his name, I am afraid.”

Ron changed tack. “Well there are loads of pigs in that direction, he offered, pointing out of the window down the road. But no pigs in that direction. Does that help?”

The man thought. “Not really. But thank you.” He worked his way round the bar, asking about the pigfarm hoarsely and sheepishly. Eventually a consensus arose that he should drive to the farmhouse closest to the nearest pig field.

He thanked the bar in general. We wished him luck and he departed, yellow tie lighting the way.

Somewhere, there is a man hanging around pigfarms. Waiting for a rendezvous that may never happen.

I go to fetch food.

Posted on by JonnyB

The LTLP is confined to the sofa with bruising, a sprained ankle and a broken leg. Despite this, she has been reasonably cheerful and positive about events, and patient with my attempts to help her. She may have had one of those head injuries that changes your personality. I will monitor this.

I drive from the Chinese Pub, a bag of delicious-smelling Chinese food on the passenger seat, the Proclaimers entertaining from the stereo. Around me, all is dark as dark can be – farmland and woodland for miles in every direction. The wipers thwip-thwap across the screen. I met no other cars on the way, I have met no other cars on my return.

There is an alarming noise!!!

The car pulls sharply, and starts dragging. Clearly a tyre has gone, quite spectacularly. The wheel rim makes an ‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’ scream as it scrapes the rutted lane. This scream is doubly-worrying; I decide I must Do Something About It and acordingly turn up the Proclaimers. Rain blatters against the glass as my mind races.

I last changed a wheel when I was about six years old, and, thinking about it, I suspect my father was just being kind by thanking me profusely for my help. It is just not the sort of skill that I have needed to acquire. I haven’t a clue where the jacking points are, although I suspect they are underneath somewhere, and I have left my mobile telephone at home so I can’t call for help. Although I’m not sure I’d get a signal anyway. Or help. I am in the absolute middle of nowhere.

The wild night suddenly becomes quite threatening. I can see myself in the opening scene of a ‘Jaws’ spinoff, the Police Chief pausing before filling in ‘possible cause of death’ with his typewriter. D.E.E.R. A.T.T.A.C.K.

I could use the monosodium glutamate in the kung po chicken to fix the tyre!!! Except that the Chinese Pub is proudly MSG-free. Curse these multicultural liberals and their failure to integrate. I will not starve, however – but without Wikipedia to hand I can’t tell how long I can eke out my food without poisoning myself with botulistic rice. I should eat the rice first, the kung po chicken tomorrow and perhaps the duck in aromatic sauce the next day. I can burn prawn crackers for warmth.

‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeee’ goes the wheel. ‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeee’ goes Charlie Reid.

At twenty-five m.p.h. I seem to be making some form of progress. I really have no idea as to whether it’s a good idea to continue driving on the rims – the only experience I have in this technique is from ‘America’s Wildest Police Chases’, where it usually ends in prison, disgrace and a patronising lecture by a silver-haired ex-sheriff. But that programme may be selectively edited. I cannot tell. I am a bit disappointed that there are no sparks, however. There are always sparks.

But I resolve to continue. It’s not un-worrying, but the alternative seems to be my lifeless corpse daubed in sweet and sour being gnawed at by ferocious muntjac. I reach the lights of the village with relief, consider stopping at the Village Pub for assistance but decide against it as the regulars would laugh and steal my Chinese food.

I arrive home. Dinner is cold. There are complaints. Later I will discover the cost of buggering up a wheel rim like that. Today I drove to the hospital. A stone smashed my windscreen.

Posted on by JonnyB

OK – it’s a dilemma isn’t it?

Mr Angry’s flatmate nominated me for the 2006 Weblog Awards. For which I am grateful. Mr Angry’s flatmate did not nominate Mr Angry, which left Mr Angry pissed off. But I am not worried about that. He is angry. That is what he does. The clue is in the name.

So I got through to the shortlist. Which, again, I am grateful for. As well as the nomination from Mr Angry’s soon-to-be-ex-flatmate, someone, somewhere has looked at this and made a judgement that it is worth putting on that list. I don’t know who that person is. They might be an idiot, for all I know. I do not care. Somebody likes it – which is why I do it.

There, my interest should end, as the process from thereon is a vote (and you can vote every day – arf!!!), which is where these things always crash and burn as any sort of meaningful process.

But it doesn’t. Because I am a secret psychopath who needs to win everything I am involved with otherwise I start killing children. Which is awkward socially.

Plus I would love it – love it – if all the earnest blogging new meeja paradigm types saw the results and thought: ‘WTF? The best blog in the UK is some bloke going on about his village life in Norfolk? When there is serious discussion taking place about the ID card situation in the Lebanon? This is a fiasco. I had better write an earnest post about it on my web log.’

Anyway. You can vote for me here. Every day – arf!!!

Posted on by JonnyB

I frown as I grip the telephone receiver.

“But what about getting up in the middle of the night? If the Baby needs comforting?”

Abuse pervades the copper wires.

“Oh. Right-o.”

I leave the Baby in the capable hands of the Cheap Babysitter and set off on my mercy dash. The Fens are dark and eerie as I speed along in the moonlight.

It seems to me that if you are going to get run over, then you may as well get run over in the ambulance bay of a major hospital. The ambulance people certainly appreciated it, being able to register a 35-second response on their official govt. statistics form. This will allow them to sit around drinking tea and writing their web logs before pootling up to the next client fifteen minutes and twenty-five seconds later, still maintaining their response time average target.

Oh yes, the ambulance people would be suspects, if the authorities had not already identified an old lady brandishing a Renault Megane. But did she act alone? My mind races.

I worry that the finger of suspicion will point at me, after the falling-through-staircase/electrocution fiascos. But they were accidents, I swear. I may have to do a tearful TV appeal just to prove that it was not anything to do with me.

I pull up outside the hospital, parking illegally in a place that you are absolutely forbidden to park in, ie convenient for the door. I can see her through the glass – she looks all right enough, just a bit flatter than normal. Some bits of her are in plaster.

There is a pissed off look on her face. I wheel her to the car and pour her in.