I was doing a small jet washing job this morning, and it was absolutely bloody freezing. The water was turning to ice as it hit the ground, and I had decided to call it a day and come back at the weekend, when up strolls Robert Falcon Scott, closely followed by a lugubrious Captain Oates.
We chatted for a while, then Oates declared that he had to go outside, and may be gone some time.
Several minutes passed, then Scott said that he thought Oates had sacrificed himself.
"Bob," I said. He lets me call him, Bob. "He hasn't sacrificed himself at all. He's fucked off to the pub."
Scotty, he likes me to call him Scotty too, was crestfallen to think his companion had deserted him and left him to his fate in the frozen wastes of Manchester.
I was consoling him with a warm Aloe Vera thigh massage, when a middle aged couple came walking by.
The ground was treacherous, and as they passed the bottom of the driveway, the female of the pair performed a perfect backwards half gimble, and landed on her ample arse on the tarmac.
The alpha male glared at me and Bob and launched into a vitriolic diatribe about his suing my ass, my spleen, my ears and a small electronic coffee grinder that I seldom use.
I tried to explain that this particular patch of H2o had fuck all to do with me. (My actual words.) But he could foresee a nice holiday in Madeira, and continued his blather.
We parted amicably. He with a shake of the fist. Me with a wave of the finger.
Bob (Of the Antarctic) climbed into his tent, and died during the night, leaving me to contemplate a looming court-case.
My meeting with Robert Falcon Scott and Captain Oates is fictitious
The fat arsed woman and her fuck-wit husband isn't.
