TONY POSTULATES.....

My Journey into the Jaws of Hell
(or the humiliation of P533 NOC)

As a reader of various music industry blogs , I constantly read that what fans want is to "get closer" to their idols, to feel the "buzz", to be part of the "tribe". Speaking for myself, I feel I've delivered time and time again on this score.

Have not my readers trembled with me as I wait in the wings ready to make a prize prat of myself on national TV with Des O'Connor?

Have they not felt the hairs rise along the back of their necks as the curtain goes up on the Nolan Sisters reunion?

Then why should they not want to sit beside me in my blue Volkswagen Golf reg P533 NOC, as I travel to a gig in Aldershot with a severe case of norovirus (aka gastroenteritis) (aka the shits).

For those of you with a sensitive disposition, you should know that I have not been well recently, but am now feeling much better, thank you. Please make sure you wash your hands on a regular basis. Goodbye.

For the rest of you who want to see how a tired has been crooner who dared to dream was struck down by a Jeremiah like retribution…

As the songwriter said: Right on! Mr Writerman.

P533 NOC is my car and a fine one; you may recognise it if I play in your town, as it has "NO SPITTING" scrawled in large capitals down one side with a flick knife: the result of a misunderstanding between a former neighbour of ours and a group of yobs with whom she had a verbal disagreement. Unfortunately, the aggrieved yobs returned late one night and vented their displeasure on the WRONG car.
However the car gets through its MOT regularly and since we need to revamp our bathroom at the moment, we've got to go with it. For anyone who's been on holiday to Cuba, it's got that kinda vibe.

Of course, I'd much prefer to recount the events of the previous evening, when the Ukes had performed at the National Business Awards at the Grovesnor House Hotel in London's fashionable West End before 2000 well heeled guests. We had dined well (perfectly cooked lamb, mini beef wellingtons - a witty touch by Jean-Claude, crème brulee, coffee, mints). Strolling out from the opulent dressing room onto the mezzanine and glancing down on the Captains of Industry below, I found myself gripping the banister enthralled, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alastair Darling delivered a dazzling speech on the state of the economy. All we had to do was play was three songs and then a taxi home…………… but that would make a dull blog and everybody much prefers seeing a smooth talking smart arse get his comeuppance.

Right on! Mr Writerman.

OK so here's the meat,

Having returned from work at 4pm (I'm the last uke to be doing a "sensible" job from which I'll soon be taking a break) I jumped in the car with the intention of getting onto the motorway before the evening rush hour which is very busy in West London.

I felt fine, though although with hindsight, I realise it was coming up to 2 hours since I had eaten a Tesco "Value" Prawn sandwich. Realising that I needed petrol, I quickly dipped into the Sainsbury's petrol station and filled up the car. It occurred to me that it might be to my advantage to "go" so I asked the attendant if they had a loo in the gas station whereupon he said there was one in the main store. That would take to long and so I thought "sod it, I'll go when I get there" (the sat nav said the trip would take just under an hour).

I'd managed to get on to the M3, when deep in my gut, the "Value" Prawn sandwich started to weave its old black magic. A frightful series of abdominal gurgles emanated from my stomach and a slight sweat broke out on my top lip.

It was when I saw the sign saying "Next Services 20 miles" that I realised my terrible error.

Buttocks clenched, foot on accelerator, I counted down the miles down to Aldershot (the garrison town now synonymous with HELL)!

18 miles
17 miles
16 miles
I counted them down and knew I was in terrible trouble.

Right on! Mr Writerman.

When I got 5 miles from the next services, the turnoff to Aldershot came up quickly and thinking that I could park the car on the side of the road and nip off into the woods, I threw the car into third and accelerated down the slip road.

To my horror, I arrived at a busy brightly lit roundabout and after making a split second decision, swerved into a business park where I tried to find the darkest car park. Little to my knowledge it was the car park of Protouch Manufacturing Ltd Europe's No1 manufacturer & distributor of touch screen equipment.

Desperately rummaging around in the back seat I found (thank you sweet Jesus) a large tupperware container which (after yanking down my strides) I parked under me and let go. Though I was now incapacitated, in my rearview mirror I noticed one of Protouch's ever vigilant security officers slowly approaching the car across the deserted and windswept car park. Parking the now "full" tupperware container on the passenger seat (sorry! on your lap dear blog reader) I stuffed a children's colouring book under my bum and swerved out of the joint at top speed.

Right on! Mr Writerman.

Back on the motorway, I telephoned my wife to tell her about my terrible nemesis and to get her to tell the band I couldn't make the gig. I found myself in the slow moving traffic jam headed back into London. Feeling shivery and weak, I now faced the conundrum: keep warm and roll up the window and gag with the smell, or shiver and get some fresh air.

A further problem was the number of high drivers (SUV's, Vans and trucks) who looking over would see a grown man driving along with his trousers down. This was swiftly solved with a newspaper placed over my lap, a ruse which while looking suspicious was less embarrassing.

After a horrible hour, I arrived home, the problem now was exiting the car which, thank God it was dark, I managed to do and get into the house unseen.

My wife was out so it was loo, bath and bed.

Such was the violence of the smell in the car the next day, my daughter refused to get in when I picked her up from school soon after. Given her interest in all things "Poo" (she's three), I confided to her what Dad had done and she was suitably impressed and subsequently told all her classmates AND the teacher the very next day.

Despite extensive scrubbing, the car still smells like an RSPCA condemned kennel, albeit with top notes of Alpine Fir, Tahitian Coconut and Mulled Wine from three powerful air fresheners which hang from the rear view mirror.

So there you are - it might have been disgusting but I suppose it wasn't dull and thank you gentle reader for holding your nerve, the poo and keeping it real!

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