Clean Car

The trouble with sunshine is that it really makes me realize how dirty the inside of my car is. It's only dust, but I know I ought to clean it a bit. My old mate Rob used to be fanatical about the inside of his cars - he bought little "hot hatchback" cars when they were popular in England, back in about 1990. Peugeot 205 1.9 GTI, that sort of thing. When he got a new one it would be spotless and no-one was allowed to sully the interior with unsuitable cargo. I remember wanting to go and get a takeaway curry one night and he wouldn't allow it in his car because the smell might linger.

Anyway, I was living in a small town about that time and Rob brought a couple of mates over in his new car. Fergie was an old school friend with a big nose who let us watch pornographic videos round his house at lunchtime when we were kids. (He eventually had to "lose" his dad's video rental card in case he ever found out that it listed wall-to-wall softcore porn). The other one (let's call him KC) was a mental chinese kid who liked a drink, but had no tolerance for it. He'd usually turn bright red and throw up. I remember him on all fours on a set of steps alternately puking and complaining that "it's coming out my nose!"

So we had a few beers down the pub (except for Rob) and started adding vodkas. Fergie was out of practice and it soon started to show. We exacerbated the situation by having a foot race back up the high street, for a laugh. By the time we reached my flat he was hanging over a low wall, decorating the car park with his intestinal juices. Rob started to realize that he was going to have to take the drunken fuck home in his new car, and Fergie wasn't going to be done hurling for a while. KC, meanwhile, was rolling a large spliff and seemed to be laboring under the misapprehension that I was going to let him smoke it in my living room.

Fortunately I had a plastic sheet left over from a car service that we could drape over the passenger seat of Rob's new GTI. We installed Fergie, on strict instructions to vomit through the open window if necessary, and retrieved KC, who was standing under a streetlamp on the main road with an unfeasibly large joint in his mouth (think Camberwell Carrot).

A good time was had by almost all, but it just goes to show: greater love hath no man than that he would take his chunk-blowingly drunk mate home in his new GTI. Good one Rob!


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison