The engine has been rebuilt!!

                          Burlington Diary April 2009

Tues.14.04.09. Returning from France after 30 plus days with a paint roller in one hand a hammer in the other with a yard brush permanently stuck up my arse I am pleasantly surprised to discover that the engine has been rebuilt installed and set up by Colin. This has been achieved despite further discussion regarding the authenticity of the head gasket. Several phone calls had been made principally to John of Paddocks, Max of Totally Triumph along with ‘some smart, pretentious fucker’ in the south. I do recall having phoned Phil of, the infamous GKN fame, to confirm the serial number of the correct part but this information seems to have been mislaid over the past month. I am now in possession of the original incorrect unit supplied by Paul of Engine Tekniks which I must return to obtain a refund which is likely as England winning the world cup.

The better news is that the car is apparently only ‘a few minor mods’ away from completion: no comment. 

Sun.19.04.09. Down at the Oak I discovered that the night before was Salty’s 60^th birthday. Attended by family with only close friends, we, unsurprisingly, were not invited, similarly neither was Lewis or Jack Eastham who is probably likewise gauche, definitely beneath the lofty aspirations of the Santus brood. Lowtie claimed it was a good ‘do’ with free ale, caterers orchestrated by professional ‘party planners’. Each room was decked out representing famous watering holes from the past plus some from the  present: ‘The Saracens Head’, ‘The Brocket’, ‘The White Crow’, significantly most of the fringe players found themselves in the ‘King Billy’ of Platt Wazz fame, the roughest pub in Wigan. After dinner the guests were treated to a ‘pub style’ quiz, Lowtie claiming the top prize with his correct answer to “what is the name given to a collection of Owls?”, a ‘Parliament’ boasted John firmly, incisively, classically demonstrating his unusual but extensive knowledge of the fish, fur and fowl. 

I still do not understand why any social event connected to Philip winds me up, drives me spiralling down into a black poisonous mood: re-inventing my response when I eventually become one of the favoured who have been requested to attend one of his backslapping soirees. Unfortunately I cannot come up with anything that improves upon ‘just fuck off’.