Dirt is Good. Things Move On
My dear old thing,
Dirt is good. Things move on.
I shall begin at the very beginning lest we trip over ourselves and get
all muddy. Last week saw a couple of pals and I in the secure charge of
three noble members of the local constabulary. Not as you might expect
clapped in irons on our way to get banged up having been caught good and
proper, our rackets tumbled. Rather the three custodians were escorting
us on a tour of the subway system of this bustling metrop for reasons
that I won't go into now. With an abundance of well, earth, underground
I emerged with dirty knees and palms but with a thoroughly enjoyable and
enlightening experience behind me.
While 'Down in the Tube Station at Midnight' my compleanno arrived and
so my, ahem, year passed at a hundred fathoms under the city. Returning
to base, in honour of the day the OB&C was kind enough to hand over
a super-deluxe-espresso maker (and massive consumer of leccy,
of which more later) and a pair of, wait for it, the very pre-soiled blue
jeans that so vexed me in my previous missive.
Now perhaps it was the aforementioned exposure to life below ground,
or something rather deeper within me. But no sooner had I laid my hand
upon the garment in question than I was transported, not back underground
as you might expect, but instead to Les Vingt-Quatre heures du Mans in the year 1951.
Midnight, eight hours to go and Coventry's Finest got rear-ended
by an upstart Mercedes. Things needed to be fiddled with under the bonnet
and the mechanics, being red-blooded Englishmen, were not in their rooms
(nudge nudge). There was nothing for it but for the driver himself to
don a pair of mechanic's trousers and thrust himself beneath the
noble beast there to tinker until the roar was restored and the Boche-mobile
could be bested.
Having affected the repairs he had no time to change back into his best
racing trousers and so completed, sorry, won, the race wearing his oily
mechanic's trousers.
Holding the trophy aloft he cared not a tinker's cuss for the scars
of battle apparent on his apparel. Any more than did I when the OB&C
instructed me not only to wear the new trousers but also to like 'em.
I can happily plead guilty on both counts.
All right so don't go getting all in state. Naturally they appear
only along with a pin point T&A and Bethnal Green tailored jacket, just as they would have on the podium.
At this point let make something perfectly clear. I had nothing whatsoever
to do with the recent leccy problems over here. All right so on the night
of my recent joyeux anniversaire we may have made full and free
use of the blender, music may have been played and yes, there was extensive
pressing of garments prior to that. And well, I may have caused my new
super-deluxe espresso maker (aforementioned present from the OB&C)
to overheat somewhat. But I refuse to bear any responsibility for the
ensuing darkness. The reason for the mishap, according to a chap down
the club who knows about such things, was simply that the five corporate
fat-cats who own all the electricity each refused to be the first to put
their hand in their pockets for a 50p for the meter. Nouveau Robber Barons
anyone? Plus ca change...
Must dash, sudden urge to roll in muck (where there's brass).
Yours in the pit lane,
S