oily oaf
7th May 2007, 08:23
The following is a searing tale of savage menace, tinged with tragedy and redolent with the sharp scent of cow's jobbies.
Those of you of a nervous disposition please look away now.
This weekend began with a curt invite to visit one of my twins who has recently left London and moved to a place "up Norf" with the singularly unappealing name of Leighton Buzzard. This was purely down to work commitments and has nothing to do with the fact that the dirty little sod was giving his lady boss a crafty nudge and got found out by his missus. Oh dear me no. That's rubbish that is.
Anyway with a heavy heart and a deep sense of foreboding I put Mrs Oaf's finest bondage shawl around her shoulders and made my way to the station and the moving, wee smelling, late, railway projectiles that lie within.
It was a poor start as the ticket clerk began punching me repeatedly in the face when I made it plain that I wished to leave the capital and head in a northerly direction.
Once on board I settled down with The Times Higher Educational Supplement while Mrs Oaf plumped for "Rampant Farmyard Matures" a romantic novella by Dame George Dubya Bush.
And then it happened.
As we drew away from Wembley station and left Greater London the sun which shines perpetually night and day in the great metropolis suddenly snapped shut. The sky took on an air of brooding menace as a flurry of icy sleet, stained black with industrial pollution clattered against the window.
My spirits plummeted along with the temperature as I noticed the changing vista outside.
Some of the houses seemed to have all their windows intact with one or two even sporting net curtains :eek: At the back of some of these properties was a small area of green matter occasionally punctuated by weird stalk like objects with coloured bits on top. On occasion I noticed humanoid shapes pushing whirring orange, hand held machinery up and down these verdant strips whilst the females of the species sat watching in deck chairs, smoking pipes, swilling from beer cans and reading hard core grumble magazines.
As the stations sped past I noticed too a most singular change in young peoples fashion which seemed to regress further and further back in time until eventually I noticed a pair of young lovers strolling hand in hand through a meadow in Hemel Hempstead wearing suits of armour.
At length we arrived at our destination and waited patiently for our boy to pick us up in his hay wain. He arrived ten minutes late, explaining that a couple of fields had been cordoned off by police after reports that the mayor had been spotted trying to get his leg over a young heifer just outside Dagnall Park.
I must confess that the first night I spent in this rural idyll was a tortuous affair. My ears strained for the familiar sound of urban traffic, the comforting almost musical timbre of the late night revellers chundering into shop doorways, interspersed with the soothing report of a double barrelled shooter.
Morning broke and I stumbled red eyed from the house to purchase a newspaper only to spot a fellow pedestrian walking towards me.
"Alright chief?" I ventured in time honoured fashion "Ow's it 'angin'"
My jaw dropped in rank disbelief as my companion instead or replying with the de riguer retort of "Not too shabby moosh, just a bit left of centre" the surly yokel doffed his cap and then had the sheer temerity to say "Good morning. It's a lovely one isn't it?"
It goes without saying that I left him a twitching, blood spattered heap, writhing in the gutter. Saucy git! :mad: .
Now look here I'm most dreadfully sorry but I'm rather afraid that by merely typing this diary of events I have lapsed into a deep and all consuming depression that only a skinful of London Pride Extra Heavy and a plate of whelks will lift.
I shall continue after my medicine.
Next up:
I batter an elderly farmer's wife into submission after she tries to convince me that those cylindrical woolly creatures with a leg in each corner can be converted into a mint sauce bedecked Sunday feast :mad: ...............with GRAVY!
Those of you of a nervous disposition please look away now.
This weekend began with a curt invite to visit one of my twins who has recently left London and moved to a place "up Norf" with the singularly unappealing name of Leighton Buzzard. This was purely down to work commitments and has nothing to do with the fact that the dirty little sod was giving his lady boss a crafty nudge and got found out by his missus. Oh dear me no. That's rubbish that is.
Anyway with a heavy heart and a deep sense of foreboding I put Mrs Oaf's finest bondage shawl around her shoulders and made my way to the station and the moving, wee smelling, late, railway projectiles that lie within.
It was a poor start as the ticket clerk began punching me repeatedly in the face when I made it plain that I wished to leave the capital and head in a northerly direction.
Once on board I settled down with The Times Higher Educational Supplement while Mrs Oaf plumped for "Rampant Farmyard Matures" a romantic novella by Dame George Dubya Bush.
And then it happened.
As we drew away from Wembley station and left Greater London the sun which shines perpetually night and day in the great metropolis suddenly snapped shut. The sky took on an air of brooding menace as a flurry of icy sleet, stained black with industrial pollution clattered against the window.
My spirits plummeted along with the temperature as I noticed the changing vista outside.
Some of the houses seemed to have all their windows intact with one or two even sporting net curtains :eek: At the back of some of these properties was a small area of green matter occasionally punctuated by weird stalk like objects with coloured bits on top. On occasion I noticed humanoid shapes pushing whirring orange, hand held machinery up and down these verdant strips whilst the females of the species sat watching in deck chairs, smoking pipes, swilling from beer cans and reading hard core grumble magazines.
As the stations sped past I noticed too a most singular change in young peoples fashion which seemed to regress further and further back in time until eventually I noticed a pair of young lovers strolling hand in hand through a meadow in Hemel Hempstead wearing suits of armour.
At length we arrived at our destination and waited patiently for our boy to pick us up in his hay wain. He arrived ten minutes late, explaining that a couple of fields had been cordoned off by police after reports that the mayor had been spotted trying to get his leg over a young heifer just outside Dagnall Park.
I must confess that the first night I spent in this rural idyll was a tortuous affair. My ears strained for the familiar sound of urban traffic, the comforting almost musical timbre of the late night revellers chundering into shop doorways, interspersed with the soothing report of a double barrelled shooter.
Morning broke and I stumbled red eyed from the house to purchase a newspaper only to spot a fellow pedestrian walking towards me.
"Alright chief?" I ventured in time honoured fashion "Ow's it 'angin'"
My jaw dropped in rank disbelief as my companion instead or replying with the de riguer retort of "Not too shabby moosh, just a bit left of centre" the surly yokel doffed his cap and then had the sheer temerity to say "Good morning. It's a lovely one isn't it?"
It goes without saying that I left him a twitching, blood spattered heap, writhing in the gutter. Saucy git! :mad: .
Now look here I'm most dreadfully sorry but I'm rather afraid that by merely typing this diary of events I have lapsed into a deep and all consuming depression that only a skinful of London Pride Extra Heavy and a plate of whelks will lift.
I shall continue after my medicine.
Next up:
I batter an elderly farmer's wife into submission after she tries to convince me that those cylindrical woolly creatures with a leg in each corner can be converted into a mint sauce bedecked Sunday feast :mad: ...............with GRAVY!