Chicken (in very posh frocks)
Slaughter has reminded me of the day when my normally meek and retiring Clark Kent persona slipped revealing the bad, bad person underneath.

I'd agreed to go over to the recently widowed mother of a friend's house and sort out some brambles, trim a few trees and other acts of foliage genocide.

I had put it off for a bit being a lazy git, but she kept being pestered by pikey tree surgeons, so I nipped over after work one fine evening.

Incidentally, what rat-hole do these vermin slither out of, as they always seem to find the recently bereaved and try to rip them off. Which, by the way, is exactly what I will be doing to their soft dangly organs if I ever get my hands on them. Fucking £200 to trim a hedge? *cough*

Aaaanyway at the time I had a shiny winky-extending German death machine (work) and a thoroughly shagged out Trooper 4x4 V6(mine), and as I knew that I'd effectively be parking in a bush I'd save the paintwork and take the big fuckoff truck.

This planet destroying baby seal drowning vehicle was (a) scruffy (b) filled with empty shotgun cartridge boxes (c) equipped with authentically rusty full kiddy crushing bullbars and (d) loud as fuck as it had been LPG converted and I'd had to fit a cone filter to avoid it backfiring and blowing the air filter off. Which is a good party trick but not advisable when you pull up next to a copper. Anyway, full on Deliverance type Redneck Wagen, or as close as you can get in Cheshire.

So off I grumble, find me doomed brambles and trees, hackity hack, rip chop slash etc until all was as smooth as a very smoooth thing. Off I rumble into the sunset, good deed done, etcetera.

Now the Bubba-mobile had one minor niggle. Call it a glitch. It didn't like indicating right. Not a bit of it. Several mechanics had over time driven themselves into secure mental units trying to work out what in the name of Bob Flipping Christ on a Bike was wrong with the thing. Now the lack of right hand flashy things is a bit of a downer when joining a fast dual carriageway in a vehicle with the aerodynamics of a breezeblock, especially with Eddie Stobart and pals going for the land speed record and adopting the 'Deathrace 2000' mode of HGV pilotage.

(And doubly especially when the bloody filter box explodes off again, but thats bye the bye)

So to finally get to something resembling the point, I head into Chester. Rumble rumble vroom vroom etc. Past the Racecourse. Oooh what was that pretty sign? Races today?

FUCKNUTS!

Now a characteristic of Chester Races is that every proto-scrote from the entire Wirral peninsula and the more genetically challenged areas of the North Wales coast descends in their squillions. All dressed up 'posh' of course. More silly hats than the Greek army.

Now by the time the races are chucking out, there is a steady trail of pissed up, urine soaked Scally Slappers meandering through the city, glowing orange when they weren't being sick in a doorway, silk knickers trailing elegantly from one ankle, and turning into permatanned hat-wearing harpies at the drop of a Breezer, causing Cheshire Constabulary to call out the Mounted Hitting People Unit.

And that was just the men.

No, not really. However they tended to revert to proto-chav and ditch the suit jackets, ties etc, and escort their shrieking Chardonnays in the direction of the station, occasionally rolling eyes heavenward as they endure the frenetic squawking, in the vain hope of parking their winky in Medusa's ladybits at a later time.

Now, one particularly endearing aspect of the pished-up Scally, Ned or Chav, is their complete and utter disregard of traffic laws, the laws of physics, and the fact that getting run over might smart a smidge. And there is one particular set of lights, just up from the racecourse, where the entire Chester traffic system is comprehensively buggered by these morons staggering across in defiance of those funny lighty-uppy green and red thingies.

(Nice bar on the corner, though. I'll have a large G&T)

Now, I ambled in a vehicular manner towards the crossing of doom, to be faced with an average of one car getting across per cycle of the lights, as we're dead nice in Chester and don't actually run people over (Except in Blacon). Brightly dressed twats and twatettes staggering uphill, bladdered into pondweed IQ territory by hideously over-priced champers, bling glinting in the setting sun. Bear in mind I didn't have A/C, it has been a long hot day, I had just been chopping stuff down, and I was in medical need of cold beer. I wanted through in a calm and orderly manner, as befits a tired and sweaty Scots Gentleman at the end of his day's hard labour. Eventually I get to the front. Lights go green..................(mutters)............(drums fingers)............(finds horn doesn't work either)..........(grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr).....FUCKIT. VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMYABASTARDS.

It was like the parting of the Red Sea as half the capacity of Chester Racecourse scattered in front of the mighty bullbars (which to be honest were held on with gaffa tape and could be better described as mousebars). A biblical moment as I cleaved through the crowd, with a convoy of other vehicles right behind me, feeling like a Pied Piper.

Didn't even slightly damage one of them, if you exclude soiling yourself. Although I thought the one particular genius who decided to run up the road in front of me to escape, rather than head for the pavement showed a negative flair that should be appreciated more.

Oh, the crime? Well if you exclude suicidal road-crossing while under the influence, leaving a machete, axe and saw on the passenger seat (oops), the horn was an MOT failure. Master criminal, me.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Wed 20 Feb 2008, 17:18, 4 replies)

Points for trying
but more points for hitting them.....

made me laugh out loud, thanks

*click*
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Wed 20 Feb 2008, 18:47, closed)

Hehehe
Gratz on actually getting through them, it's a complete bitch on the race days to drive anywhere near the course as you already know, but I'll deduct points for not actually flattening any though. ;)
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Wed 20 Feb 2008, 19:17, closed)

Foliage genocide
Inventive... *Click*
(Le Misanthrope last procrastinated on, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 0:43, closed)

If you hit a few of them
you'd win a medal.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Thu 21 Feb 2008, 2:36, closed)