This post is about me going to get some new tyres. Because that’s how I roll! Does imbecillic gestures with arms and fingers.

Don’t tell me about the tyres motherfucker.

I mean, it’s a Saturday – we shouldn’t even be here. You’re fixing the tyres (that are leaking air) on my Rover (yes, I own a Rover motherfucker… you got a problem with that?).

The bloke is fixing the tyres, then he starts talking to me about them. Bastard.

First thing was that the front one had gone flat whilst the Rover lay dormant for a month. So I pumped the bugger up with my own generator/car pump thingy we bought off this insane American woman a while back.

So the bloke’s opener is “Did you pump with up yourself ?”

“Yeah”

“I thought there was something – it’s sixty five, nearly seventy. They’re only supposed to be thirty five.”

I laugh nonchalantly. His assistant chips in with “The back one’s flat as fuck too.”

“Yeah – could you do them all?”

Assistant wombles off, and I’m left with laddo, fucking moidering me about the tyres, then the rims, then how he’s going to do them, then sealing the tyres, or rims, or whatever. Telling me about the shit.

Now, it’s bad enough having to go and get the fucking cars tyres fixed on a Saturday morning in the first place like, but what I object to is the blow-by-blow from the fucking tyre bloke.

He goes on to tell me about rim problems, alloys something, bloody something about the pressure. Something about the weather and the pressure, something about something else, something about about the Anglo Persian Economy sidetracking conblifial Doturates on sky of Island. Something about (I just stopped listening and kept yeahing the flob)

Flob. On a bus-shelter roof, hanging down. Thick flob, some sinus in there probably. Dangling in the January wind.

So I gob on the floor of the garage, a real gooby fucker. No I didn’t.

I gob on the floor. And you should see the look he gave me.

“I thought you were a real man” I told him.

“What ?”

“What’s the problem with me flobbing on the floor of your fucking tyre hangar then you cunt ?”

“Nothing – it’s just the judgement that I find problematic”

“Well, you shouldn’t be telling me about the technical tyre shit on a Saturday morning then”

“I was only making conversation”

“You call that a conversation – shit, the woman who cuts my hair got more wit and wisdom than you. You should hear her theories on Britney and slimming”

“Come on – this is a tyre hangar”

“Okay, maybe you’ve got a point”

At which point I put his head in this spinning machine thing, welded and buffed his face into my rim, phoned up ‘Pimp My Ride Wales’ and got ‘Ice Taff’ to install a goldfish bowl into his arse.

It’s screening on Sky in April.

They tell me it’ll be the making of me – and help tyre boy boost sales no end.

I should be going now. My nurse has some new tablets for me. They’re stronger than the other ones. She assures me they are good. They fucking cost enough.

Peace out.