Using up my last days of leave to take a well earned week of slobbing around was interrupted by helping a friend move home. For this task, suitable transport was required and a van was procured for the afternoon.
Now, when visualising myself behind the wheel of such a vehicle, I imagined myself thus:
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| You're humming the theme tune right now, yes? |
Tearing around the streets of, umm, Southport, chomping on a cigar alongside a short-tempered slab of muscle, a man with serious mental issues and a man obsessed with getting his end away. We'd have moved all the plates and books using some kind of cannon constructed from farm equipment. What larks!
However, the reality is that I looked more like this chap:
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| The terror of the Greendale highways |
Oh well. Mind, Pat was rock and roll in his own way, wasn't he? The amount of tea he knocked back of the course of every episode, I bet he would stay up for days on end, bouncing off the walls. No wonder he drove in that erratic manner, taking tight turns at breakneck speed. Look at him! Even in that picture, we can see he needs to carry his own stash, lest he go "dry" between stopping off at Ted's and the Vicar's.
What I did work out is that van driving isn't for me. Despite the paintwork being mainly white, I didn't honk the horn at one woman in a short skirt or low-cut top all day, nor buy a copy of the Sun to keep on the dash. I'm best leaving it to the professionals in future.
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