Danny Brennan pitched up extremely concerned about a cheeky bid, by a trader, on his 500 SL. Chris had previously sold Danny the car, earlier in the year, for the knock down price of £4000 but having fallen in love with the 850 CSi Danny has decided to unload the Mercedes for £6000. The dealer had already “chipped” (oily rag speak) Danny by £1000, wanted him to leave £160 worth of road tax on the vehicle and fix a minor fault on the sunroof. This bloke has more front than Harrods. Chris had a token fiddle with the car and offered two solutions. The first being to simply inform the dealer that he is taking the piss, the second was to go to Dick who could possibly fix the fault. I know which option I would have chosen but Danny went to Dick. We did try to warn him that Dick had once been an extra in “Deliverance” but unlike the Louisiana pig fuckers it would be relatively easy to find him, in Adlington, next to the canal, in the woods, tending his own hogs. Danny left, post haste, nervously saying that he would see us later in the pub. I expect he will have a shower before he turns out.
There was quite a full squad in the Oak when Jo and I arrived. Chris had earlier gone down with Toby Jug, but the gathering already consisted of Billy Green, Jimmy the Axe, Andy Lewis, Knocker, a bloke in a suit and Doc, the Landlord. They were discussing their imminent band trip to Porto. The makeshift band save all their gig money for an annual holiday to foreign parts, the problem being nobody in the group can clearly define the term ‘holiday’. The result is a chaotic seven days in the sun with disastrous consequences. In the past, they have missed flights, broken bones, suffered electric shocks, been locked up, stopped at customs with too much contraband, drank too much, eaten not enough, argued constantly, but even with endless problems they always have a memorable trip. The difficulty on this occasion was accommodation.
Doc had laboured tirelessly on t’internet for luxury villas in idyllic surroundings, all of which were rubbished by the other members. With one week to go they had no where to stay for the first night, their E.T.A. for Porto being 11.00pm. “If you think that I am going to Porto at eleven at night with no where to stay, you can all fuck off” stated Doc, with his negotiating head on. Billy replied that he would find somewhere for three days in Porto, on the net tomorrow. Jimmy the Axe smiled satisfactorily, Knocker nodded approvingly, as he does, so did the bloke in the suit, who was nothing to do with any of it and Andy Lewis shrugged his shoulders, having lost his passport with his driving licence the week before.
Everyone apparently content, the conversation jumped from “Bertie”, Merc 500 SL, Dick and his banjo, food and John Prescott’s meaningless, torrid affair with his very attractive 35 year old secretary. Green Fingered John discussed watering tactics with sleeping David, Saltette Robert proudly proclaimed that he was only allowed two pints a night by the Captain, Danny smouldered over the hard faced dealer but worst still, he lamented his rented house in Stockport that had been recently trashed by his absent, drug crazed tenants.
Robert, who by now was late for bed, Danny who craved another shower, David chasing home for dinner, Chris overtired and Psycho Toby all had by this time, left the building. Meanwhile, Lowtie’s corner was winning the shouting contest due to retaining the cup for a second consecutive year for ‘whispering over three fields’, the Doc was just turning ‘pertinent and relevant’ repeating his earlier request for accommodation, Mad John was talking to himself, Knocker was practising Wonderwall, the Axe was still smiling, Billy was “bigging up” Sam Alardyce, Lewis was on his mobile and the bloke with the suit was still there nodding. Jo and I quietly left for a chicken curry.
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