#98

by pauland1707

Well Gawd Blimey Missus, slap my (censored because it’s a naughty word not for delicate ears) and call me Charlie. Alternatively, don’t bother but do raise a glass of your favourite mucky beer to the rattle-trap charabanc of _Paul_And_Land_ which hurtles, with the brakes on fire, the power steering out of action, the air-conditioning eaten by dinosaurs and Sondra Bullock driving toward the sunlit uplands of Blog-Post #100.

Yes, it’s true, we have travelled via places which some, all or none would have never, or possibly would have travelled through previously because that’s what we do. Or don’t. We’re like that. Awkward. And other things but usually awkward. “Enough!” cried a young voice from the back of the room and the massed ranks of the multiple Eds, the folks at Jeff’s Bar and Grill, Shiny Dave and Shiny George, Tango Nige, the Worlds of Roys, Yvette from Ponty et al, a number of grubby people, Wynsor’s World of Shoes, Robert (aka Bobby, Rob, Robbie), Cllr Neil Poo*e and old Uncle Tom Cobblers all stopped. Well done young voice. Here, have a shilling for your troubles, go and warn Nobby’s Legal Services of Mirfield that their services may be required.

So where is the #98 taking us we hear you cry. If this were Bozzer-Land (which it isn’t) the #98 would be speeding us from Willesden via Kilburn, Maida Vale, Marble Arch and Oxford Circus to a final destination of Holborn*. At risk of pedancy, “speeding” may not actually describe the level of speed achieved on said journey but as previously confirmed this is not Bozzer-Land so it is no import. For goodness’ sakes, let’s move onto #98 favourite song by Mr David Jones (also known as Bowie and not Bowie Jones before you ask), a little tune name of “Golden Years”: “Opening doors and pulling some strings, Angel”. Shall we take this #98 to Spain and other places and leave all the doors ajar. Yes let’s! We can leave the car at Newark, (Anag) 6, and catch the train there rather than catch the train from here. It will be an adventure. And we can buy carpet and chairs and get a pension when others are being made redundant. And a pay-rise. What hoots!

Mr Rochester eyed Mr Making-Bacon MP with some concern. “Tell me, Mr Making-Bacon”, he started, “why is that you take your vehicle to some far flung place when one could so easily stroll across the park and obtain rail travel with so much more ease?” Mr Making-Bacon perused Mr Rochester with a wistful look to his eye and retorted “but one sees, Mr Rochester, one would risk meeting the common folk of the borough. And they would be unvetted. How does one deal with such common folk who would, no doubt, be in drink?” Mr Rochester, something of a singular common folk himself, thought deeply for but the merest second then looked straight into the black pools of Mr Making-Bacon’s eyes. His retort was swift and cutting; “You tosser” he spat before turning on his heel and stepping away swiftly.

Where do you go to weigh whales? The whale-weigh station. Aye than kew!

*In any other context this would be called education but Michael Gove is not another context. He’s a prannett.