Death Trap III

I have had 2 cars in NL before this one and each one has attracted the name "Death Trap" this and that, either from the passengers' or mechanics' limited viewpoint. So I affectionately call this one "Death trap III". I find this goes some way to managing the expectations of potential passengers.

Reluctantly, I had to take 'Death Trap III' to the garage for a bit spit and polish on the engine. They call it a 'small service' and charge me 100 Euros for the pleasure but I'm not so easily fooled by their fancy talk. I am also concerned as to how he filled the washer bottle because he did not go anywhere near water all the time I was watching him. Hmm, but the bottle was full. You can hide a lot of things when you colour the water with yon blue stuff, apparently.

The worst thing about this whole tacky experience was not the water bottle or the money flung out the proverbial window but the endless drone of infuriating Xmas music crackling unjoyously overhead. The sound of a French toilet trying to disgorge its contents, in some direction or other would have been more interesting and entertaining. Although I have listened to French toilets and never thought, I wish I was sitting in Kwikkie Stingers listening to Croation mouth music. Assuming they were using their mouths to make those noises.

It was music to burn people by. They had obviously bought a bunch of surplus rip-off tapes from the market not realising that they were originally made to supply a very tight niche in the 'entertaining mourners and surviving friends and relatives at Xmas time' market. One can only imagine the other great marketing ideas coming from that think stank. Commemorative crematorium shortbeard baked right here on our own premises using our own supply of limitless green energy. Its to die for.

Demagraphics, they have you in mind, always. Ok, so maybe I have fallen off the dining table of good taste and manners but when you hear 'Be careful with that holly Santa, you may get a bad prick' sung in broken English to the tune of Trumpton, there is no where to go after that. You'll be singing it all day now.