Getting There

Any of those regularly using this place as a cure for insomnia may have noticed that I didn’t add any posts here yesterday.

I only say this because it is the first time in about two years that nothing has been added each day.

You may well think this is a result of me getting wasted at the Askean dinner (‘Dinner Date’) on Friday night – you’d be wrong.

Diet Coke may be full of unnaturally occurring stuff that seriously aids my bouts of irrationality and amnesiac behaviour but it doesn’t get you off your face, sadly.

This is somewhat unfortunate as, despite being overpriced for a tumbler of dark fizzy pop, it is nevertheless less costly than 8 pints of falling down juice of a handful of Oxys (hillbilly heroin to the crack connoisseurs amongst you).

Terry came with me as she had arranged for us to stay with our friends Frank and Petula.

Anyway back to Friday – a long journey from Turnip Town to the traffic jam that is the capital is always alleviated by having a witty and erudite companion to help while away the tedium on the dirt tracks out of the West Country.

Terry turned out not to be one of them!

I did however have the pleasure of listening to her snoring to punctuate the gaps between my amusing gestures at the muppets who seemed determine to complain vociferously as I raced the old tractor at 39mph down the middle lane.

In my defence I was still travelling considerably faster than the ponderous lorries seeking to overtake the horse and donkey carts next to the hard shoulder.

.

To add to the interesting journey every radio station that was likely to play a tune that was recognisable kept dropping out as I advanced down the M4.

So I ended up with the lunchtime muppet phone in.

I spent the first 20 minutes oscillating between shouting “oh for fuck’s sake” and “you bleeding moron” as a series of intellectually challenged twats gave their carefully thought out views on vital issues like “I’m proud to have voted ‘leave’, even if it does fuck up my grandchildren’s lives” to the being outraged at the extortionate price of turnip pasties in Tesco Express.

But then – a brilliant segment had me pissing myself – some comedy gold.

Jeremy Vino spent 10 minutes (no exaggeration) chatting to a bloke as he was (supposedly) shoving veg seeds into pots of mud.

Mr Growbag is, according to Vinopolis a ‘Welsh gardening genius’.

Dai green fingers told us what he was doing in between joke noises of squelching mud and digging.

At one point Mr Vine leaves actually said “is that a hammerhead shaped trowel I can hear you’re  using?” Obviously it wasn’t hammerhead but it was a specific shaped trowel he mentioned – seriously!

All the time I’m thinking – this is radio for fuck’s sake – even the muppets aren’t dumb enough to take this seriously.

The sound effects became even more hilarious as Taff rustled some paper and told us he was getting some compost out, whilst describing what a beauty his cucumber was going to be. “I can imagine” chortled Jerry.

As I said – comedy radio gold that certainly brightened the crawl round the delightful M25 car park that is laughably called a motorway.

Anyway we eventually arrived at Frank and Petula’s as sleeping beauty came out of her self- induced coma (presumably to avoid having to listen to my rants).

Still at least she hadn’t spent the last four hours going “are we there yet?”

After unloading the tractor I set off for Askeans and an enjoyable 90 minutes negotiating a mere 14 miles across SE London.

In the unlikely event that you are interested (or at least still awake) details of the dinner are in another of today’s posts.

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