Fleeing
London has become a pest-pit. A boiling soup of what can only be described as tourists, foreigners and >:shudder< the working class. Like Henry, like Charles and like all who consider themselves Gentlemen, I have decided to leave London (yes, I am tired of it, fucking tired of it) and take up residence at the family's ancestral home for a while. This will recharge the batteries, soothe the spirit and have the effect of plunging one into a broth of home, family and decently trained dogs.
I have chartered what can only be called a French car. I spent seven seconds mastering the controls and half an hour re-tuning the radio stations on the pre-sets from various po[/rock/chart shit to radio three. This means the next person to rent the car will not have to worry about quality radio or accessing the Proms.
Dante's Inferno would have been a lot shorter had Virgil been a mini cab and had the inferno been the M25. Dante would have told him to go fuck himself, with a stick, smeared with jam and not gone into hell. Unfortunately, for those of us who want to break out of London, we have the M25, or as it's known this weekend, the Ring of Fire, to cross first. Then again, I was doing it in a hired car.
Oh yes. The hired car. There is something very special about a hired car, it's clean! There could have been a murder in that car, there could have been a dirty protest in that car, there could have been a fox hunt and a seal clubbing in that car and it would still have been clean for my collection. That car was cleaner than my house, cleaner than my fridge and, I have a suspicion, cleaner than my mouth. It was clean.
And the hired car is not bound by the same laws of physics as your own car is. Two words, Engine degradation. For instance, am I going to do the ton for thirty minutes at a time in my own car? I don't think so. But a hired car. Oooohhhh, let's see what it'll do!
Say what you like about the French. They are bunch of cunts and they can't build cars. Sod papa and sod Nicole, the fucking Clio is a mobile pissoire. You put you foot down and thirty minutes later it goes a bit faster. Such is the life of the diesel. However, once you get up top speed, nothing stops you. Especially not that porche driver - god, how humourless is that, just because I was on his bumper asking him to move over.
Actually, he was okay, the real problem is the speeding rust piles you just know are held together by will power, rust and DVDs of the Fast and the Wristuourous.
It's official though, Heathrow is the hottest place on the surface of the planet. At least it was when I was sitting on the M25 underneath the flight path of the return charters from Benidorn. Maybe it's the sunburn from the passengers that makes everything hot, but it certainly seems, as the tenth Boeing screamed across my sunroof leaving tyre marks, that there may be some truth in the link between global warming and untaxed unrestricted air travel that fucks the environment like a sex addict with a prozzie voucher.
I have chartered what can only be called a French car. I spent seven seconds mastering the controls and half an hour re-tuning the radio stations on the pre-sets from various po[/rock/chart shit to radio three. This means the next person to rent the car will not have to worry about quality radio or accessing the Proms.
Dante's Inferno would have been a lot shorter had Virgil been a mini cab and had the inferno been the M25. Dante would have told him to go fuck himself, with a stick, smeared with jam and not gone into hell. Unfortunately, for those of us who want to break out of London, we have the M25, or as it's known this weekend, the Ring of Fire, to cross first. Then again, I was doing it in a hired car.
Oh yes. The hired car. There is something very special about a hired car, it's clean! There could have been a murder in that car, there could have been a dirty protest in that car, there could have been a fox hunt and a seal clubbing in that car and it would still have been clean for my collection. That car was cleaner than my house, cleaner than my fridge and, I have a suspicion, cleaner than my mouth. It was clean.
And the hired car is not bound by the same laws of physics as your own car is. Two words, Engine degradation. For instance, am I going to do the ton for thirty minutes at a time in my own car? I don't think so. But a hired car. Oooohhhh, let's see what it'll do!
Say what you like about the French. They are bunch of cunts and they can't build cars. Sod papa and sod Nicole, the fucking Clio is a mobile pissoire. You put you foot down and thirty minutes later it goes a bit faster. Such is the life of the diesel. However, once you get up top speed, nothing stops you. Especially not that porche driver - god, how humourless is that, just because I was on his bumper asking him to move over.
Actually, he was okay, the real problem is the speeding rust piles you just know are held together by will power, rust and DVDs of the Fast and the Wristuourous.
It's official though, Heathrow is the hottest place on the surface of the planet. At least it was when I was sitting on the M25 underneath the flight path of the return charters from Benidorn. Maybe it's the sunburn from the passengers that makes everything hot, but it certainly seems, as the tenth Boeing screamed across my sunroof leaving tyre marks, that there may be some truth in the link between global warming and untaxed unrestricted air travel that fucks the environment like a sex addict with a prozzie voucher.
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I'm confused.
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