With this week’s Track of the Week from Ry Robson and …Get Evil

Listen here or…

The script, should you choose to read and not listen…

Intro tune: Rekkit

Song – Fontaines DC – Starburster

The Dog Diaries Pt4 – first published as; It’s Time… Pt11But it’s gonna be…

Keeping the Wheels on Track (as and still is the subtitle)

Ride it (sub-sub title)

Time and tide wait for no man (and dog), Chaucer said that in 1395. St. Maher said it in 1225, whoever she was. I just said it at 23 minutes past 2. Cherry the dog didn’t say anything but blew fragrant nonchalance to the wind.

We set to ride the wave North, chums. It was Friday 13th around 11ish.

Cherry navigated from the back seat. Traffic snarled three miles in. I switched to Google Maps Lady who said go the long way to avoid congestion. Traffic snarled 30 miles in. 20 odd miles shy of Birmingham things relaxed and I was able to let her rip. Argh, the old ones are the old ones.

Content with overtaking Lorries at 80mph the steering suddenly wobbled. High winds perhaps? A puncture maybe? It wobbled more. It wobbled till it morphed to an excited vibration… drrrr… Cobblestones on the M1, we must be North. It wobbled and vibrated some more, then veered right. An executive decision was to lie down. Cherry you selfish swine, that’s what I want to do. More wobbling, some bubbling and more veering. Then up ahead, like a beacon of light; ‘expensive mini scotch eggs, 1 mile on the left’. We veered the veer and wobbled her into the motorway service station. Argh yes, ye olde twilight zone of the motor service way. Haven’t we been here before?

My brother says the best service station is in Rugby. We’re yet to holiday there. One day Cherry.

So, to analyse the problem eh. I gave each wheel a kick. Don’t wear flip-flops for this at home folks. I turned the wheels, they stayed on. Cherry looked on, boredom in her eyes, ‘fuck it’ she gruffs, ‘let’s go, or we’ll be doomed here forever, like that Tom Hanks airport bloke with his plastic Wilson thing.’ I agree, though pretty sure she’s got her films mixed up, and we skedaddle outta Dodge.

Must fill up with petrol first. I forget the pin number, and exceed the limits trying. I found cash (result). In all the excitement Cherry set off the alarm in the car. We ran around telling Mr Manwaring not to panic, dismantled the alarm and settled down then set off at a steady 60mph. Out of the service station we rejoin the motorway and continue at 60mph. Traffic snarls, 30 miles in. Traffic remains snarled for the rest of the journey. We’re on a Toll road that only takes cards, but it’s sure to be de-snarly. And as if by magic the card works. Ugh! We snarl to our destination in one piece. I immediately walk to the pub, minus Cherry, ‘Fuck you’, she snarls, ‘I’m staying here’. It’s been a long day. I get to the pub and the card doesn’t work in the pub, and wierdly I find more cash. Wow, what a pocket. Who knew I had one like it. I must tell someone. The phone battery is low, so I cannot let anyone know about my lucky pocket, which is probably a good thing, because everyone would be tapping me for my lucky pocket.

I get dual priced in the pub, what is this Asia!, with a lower priced beer to compensate for the higher priced beer I had earlier, which ends up affording an extra one… happy. I tell a man who’s been talking about lorry trailers and bits of metal for the past 3 hours. He’s not impressed and goes back to a hex head cap screw with 5/8” hard flat washer.

I drink up and go home.

Song – Nia Archives – Unfinished Business

Lesser snarls and more nice

Next day I looked at a house, which was nice. I said yes, we’ll have it. I took the car to a man who said it would get me back South again, which was nice. We drove home and the currant bun came out. We walked barefoot on tiled floors and washed our paws under the cold tap without yelping… the weather has turned. Now I can’t sleep at night because I know the weather will turn again in a few months. On the plus side, I have plantar fasciitis, which is a kind of adult acquired flat foot, probably from a lifetime of flip-flopage. There goes my army career.

I bought a fish, lemon sole, and it looks  great. Rick Stein rants about it. Full of bones, the bastard, Rick and the fish. Took me half an hour to eat. I retire and take off my nylon shorts one-handed. They tangle and cling on the last foot with carpet friction. I fell over. Bastard Rick.

I spoke to a man about the house which was nice. But not so nice as it turns out, as he ignored my messages and his colleague thought I was a prank caller. The filthy swines. Down Cherry. I call again, and we’re back on track. Which is nice.

I hear from several self-publishing firms to publish Durban’s Bread. They want money, the pigs. I refuse. I mention I want it e-booked free then made into a film. I haven’t heard back.

Updates are, it is now and has been available on that long river site – plus, wheels are rolling in the direction of film scripts… watch this finger… ooh, nurse.

It would of course also be remiss not to mention the 2nd novel; Tales from the Hip – also available on the site – radioprimco at £10 quid a pop, get it while it’s hot, it’s lovely.

But back to the Doggy Diaries – darn, I knew they’d call it that…

A mechanic man down south whistles through his teeth and happily declares with all its technicality my cv-joint was knackered. He puts a new one in, which is nice.

Song – Jack White ft Q-Tip – Hi-De-Ho

I walk Cherry. Early morning dog walking is fraught with walking face first into spider’s webs in the woods. Mrs. Spider sat, cross legged, tutting, ‘it took me all night to spin those.’ ‘Sorry’

Through the alley of tutting spiders, into a clearing, I look to the hills high above. A lone figure walks its dog. And that’s when I see them, Zulu’s, thousands of them. Lined on the ridge, assegai raised, a booming thunder rumbles through the morn’s chill. They seem far away, but could be among us in 20 minutes. Me and Cherry form a square. And when we look again, woof, they’re gone.’ How do you do dat Cherry?’ She sits, tilting her head and drops a long stick of fag ash on the fresh cut grass and trots on.

The ridge

We trot on, into a branch enclosed alley. A splurge of bird doo-dah’s splatter the floor and carry just enough familiar hint of saag bhaji. Cherry mutters like a Marge Simpson sister, ‘that was close’ and steps around the bird’s delivery. Then I wonder just how many bugs they had for tea. And how many bugs are eating indian food. Then I wonder how many birds there are that need all these bugs to eat every day and so how many bugs there must be… and all those birds, eating all those bugs, every day…

Song – Ry Robson… Get Evil – this week’s TotW, plus accompanying this week’s storyline in TftH – available now on RadioPrimco

On that note – ta ta – Keep it turning, keep it wheel, keep it radioprimco.com

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