Brain Fart ....

Another busy few days in the life and times of one OhBeJoe and no word of a lie. Was over in Manchester last Tuesday which in and of itself was rather uneventful. On Wednesday morning the yellow oil light started flashing on the dash of me motor so I had a brain fart and put too much oil in my car. I just kept on pouring and day dreaming and then the oil can was empty. The car didn’t like it, nope not one little bit. It went from sounding like a smooth petrol car to sounding like a clapped out diesel after about two miles. The yellow oil light went out all right, but it was the appearance of the violently flashing red oil light that caused me some concern. I had to organise a garage and get a car rescue type person to pick up the sick motor and bring it to the hospital. When I spoke to the mechanic I explained that I suspected there might be too much oil in the engine. How much is too much he asked. About five litres I replied. Sure that’s way too much he said. I knew right away that I had contacted the right man for the job. I was back in England again on Saturday so I had to leave said motor with him all weekend. I just picked it up and all is well with the world again.

So there I was over in Newcastle-Under-Lyme, again, and low and behold if the place wasn’t all abuzz with the news that one of the would-be terrorist suspects was arrested in the area and house raids followed. I think the guys name was Dr. Bashavan or something and his bestist pal was called Sinjin Jeep. Someone mentioned that they weren’t terrorists but rather they were just celebrating Ramavan in the traditional fashion. Whatever happened, the people in Newcastle have already tried and convicted them. Guilty as charged your honour I knew by the colour of his skin that he was up to no good.

Between floods on Monday and extra security I thought I’d never get the fuck out of Britland. I swiftly exited Dublin airport and due to my car being sick I had to get a taxi home. I hate taxis and their know-it-all-sure-the-worlds-gone-mad-no-money-in-taxi’s-anymore-cos-of-all-the-johnny-foreigners drivers but the driver I had was a rather pleasant fellow who was made out of the night time. He tried to feed me dry crackers as we breezed down the M50, I wasn’t all that hungry but boy did he enjoy his crackers. If eating crackers ever becomes an Olympic sport this fucker could represent Ireland. He took out three at a time, one for his mouth and two for the dash board, for later you understand. His English wasn’t great and my Nigerian is a little rusty but we shared pleasantries all they same. Then fuck me if he didn’t flip open the compartment between the two seats and produce a 2 litre carton of pineapple juice. Again I was offered, I wasn’t thirsty but it was the cracker remnants left around the cartons mouthpiece that sealed it for me. As he gunned the car round a roundabout there was shit and snot and crackers and pineapple juice all over the shop. He apologised profusely through a mouthful of dry crackers which only added to my mirth. I swear to jaysus he must have ate a half a packet of crackers between the airport and my home and when he wasn’t crunching he was singing wee ditties to himself and you know what, I’d travel with a mental dry cracker eating Nigerian taxi driver any day. He never complained once and when I gave him a five euro tip he blessed me, my family and anybody else who I might happen to bump into.

Max hand me the Jacobs ….