Thread: Act Your Age.

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

he would like advice on more rumunative options

Deep thinker is he?

Thanks WB
Missed that.
Regards
M.

Part 1? Where's the friggin punch line?

The old lad is motoring about and somehow he ends up in Swaffham , Norfolk.
There he bumps into Micheal Carrol - the bin man who won £9 million and proceeded to spunk the lot.



Several pints of carling later
and .....

How many parts to this, funny story?

Seven.

Is part 2 coming soon? Is this gonna be as strung out, painful and ill rewarding as I think it is?

I miss Glitterman. He had a sense of humor.

Being an Oldgit give us the seventh as I will not live that long

^ here you go:

Part 2: He buys the car
Part 3: Decides fuck that and heads off to Thailand
Part 4: Meets "Noi" a bargirl with a heart of gold who is "different"
Part 5: Nois "brother" moves in
Part 6: Our intrepid hero puts Noi in his will
Part 7: "Brother" staves his head in with a 2x4. Noi and brother live happily ever after.

PART 2:THE PURCHASE.

The salesman at the BMW Salesroom that day regarded himself as a professional in his trade, but he could not help but groan inwardly when Albert entered an otherwise empty showroom just outside of Hatfield’s main town. This was not helped by the fact that Albert had developed the habit of shuffling his feet when he moved and he had developed a slight slope of the spine which appeared to age him further. To initial external appearances he was going to be a real waste of time and irksome to an extreme. He seemed to all extents and purposes, one of those eccentrics that get their jollys by pretending to be interested in something way outside their means. It was play acting Walter Mitty stuff, and if you could not get rid of them and you got drawn in, you were obliged to assume the role of a male whore. Play the part, pretend the pretense, and pray to whoever was up there, that your services would not result in fool’s gold.

“I’d like to see your latest model” said Albert eying him benignly.

“Yes of course Sir, let me show you the latest BMW 7 Series which you might appreciate”

Albert noted too much emphasis on the “S” in “Sir” and the implication behind “appreciate” did not exactly endear him either.

“Cocky, young bugger” he thought. “Just hold your fire for a bit”

The salesman showed Albert a 2011 BMW Active Hybrid 7 and commenced the usual patter “This model Sir, normally only sold in the States is a mild hybrid and features a 0.4 kWH lithium-ion battery pack. The electric motor is combined with BMW’s 4.4-liter twin-turbo V8 and new 8-speed automatic transmission to accelerate from 0 – 60 mph in just 4.7 seconds.

“Is that fast?” asked Albert.

“Silly old fool” thought the Salesman “Oh yes Sir, I’m sure you will be more than satisfied.

Albert viewed the beauty of the car; the silver shine of the paintwork, the sleek lines of a mechanical predator, the soft sensuous womb of the leather interior, the complete presence of the beast.

“I’ll take it” he said.

The salesman was fumbling to find the correct words; having been wrong footed and for a moment lost his composure’

“Eh, eh. Good Sir. How exactly would you like to pay?”

“I’ll give you a cheque now” said Albert.

“We would of course have to have it cleared first” responded the Salesman a little too quickly. It was a reaction somewhat similar to that of the barber profession.

“No problem. I’ll pick it up the weekend. Does the price include a tank of petrol, or do you want me to add that to the cheque?”

“No Sir that won’t be necessary. It runs on electric!” He was still struggling to compose himself as the reality of the situation hit him. “We do have quite a good credit plan Sir that you might like to consider”

“Nope” said Albert “I’ll settle in one go. Is there a problem with that?”

“No No, of course not Sir. Its just that most of our Clients do not pay such a large sum in one go.”

“Well” said Albert “You’ve either got it or you ain’t, and I’ve got it.”

He wrote a cheque for 102,475 pounds and handed it over like a man settling a monthly gas bill. “Thank you young man and goodbye till Saturday.”

Upon that, Albert turned, smiled and walked through the swing doors. It had been a very good day so far.

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

The electric motor is combined with BMW’s 4.4-liter twin-turbo V8 and new 8-speed automatic transmission to accelerate from 0 – 60 mph in just 4.7 seconds.

Does the price include a tank of petrol, or do you want me to add that to the cheque?”

“No Sir that won’t be necessary. It runs on electric!” .

Crap. beaten to it by marmite..

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

Play the part, pretend the pretense, and pray to whoever was up there, that your services would not result in fool’s gold.


“We would of course have to have it cleared first” responded the Salesman a little too quickly. It was a reaction somewhat similar to that of the barber profession.

Horrible mate. Really horrible.

^ Seriously, do not give up your day job.

NH
Would not dream of doing so.
It pays too well. Obscene in fact!

Thanks for emerging from your private world to comment.

Best regards
M.

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

The electric motor is combined with BMW’s 4.4-liter twin-turbo V8

Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN

No Sir that won’t be necessary. It runs on electric!

Idiot.

I wish he'd asked to deal with another salesman...ffs...

I'm so overwhelmed by the responses so far, I'm bringing forward the next chapter, especially for my "mate"

Regards
M.

PART 3: GRAND PRIX.

He drove his brand new BMW 7 out of the car salesroom the next Saturday as planned. The salesman was now addressing him as “Mr. Higgs Sir,” and his Manager was in tow, equally obsequious.

Taking off down the A1 motorway through Hertfordshire, he floored it to 90 mph, enjoying the wind through the open window, blowing through what little hair he had left. He’d purchased a Rolling Stones CD as another little treat and Mick was belting out “Brown Sugar.”

"What do you think Dad? Amazing ain’t it!" he thought as he flew effortlessly down the fast lane, enjoying pushing the pedal to the floor even more. The big car responded like a lover in heat. Looking in his rear view mirror, he saw a police car behind him, blue lights flashing and siren blaring.

"I can get away from him - no problem!" thought Albert as he floored it to 110 mph, then 120, then 130 mph. At each straight stretch of road he effortlessly let his baby run, full throated and full of pride. At each acceleration he was pushed deeper into the control seat of this animal. He broke wind. Man and Machine in ultimate harmony. He had laid his spore. This was his car, his territory.

Suddenly, he thought, "What on earth am I doing? I'm too old for this nonsense!"

So he pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the police car to catch up with him.

Pulling in behind, a composed youngish police officer of serious demeanor walked up to the driver's side of the BMW, looked at his watch, and in that way of understatement unique to British coppers said, "Preparing for take off are we Sir?”

Albert, looked at the policeman, and replied, “Sorry Officer, I never realized the speed I was doing.”

“I must caution you Sir that the speed limit on this motorway is 70 mph & I recorded you reaching up to 130. I must further tell you” said the policeman, producing a note book, “That this is a very serious offence and that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

Albert rose to the occasion. He was having such a good time! He replied quite specifically and slowly,

“It’s a fair cop guvner. You got me bang to rights!”

The policeman paused, his pen had stopped moving. He stood up straight. Both cars were on the hard shoulder. The policeman looked around. No other vehicles were stopping and the traffic was sporadic and smooth. He leaned over and looked into Albert’s eyes. A depth of devilment, a spirit unquenched that refused to die looked back.

“If you think I’m going to stand up in a court of law, in front of a judge and lawyers and repeat the words you have just uttered, you can think again! Now bugger off you daft old codger and act your age!”


With that, he stood up straight away from the car window.

"Have a good day, Sir," said the policeman.

“And you too Son” said Albert, “I wont do it again” and winked.

I can't believe I've been dragged into this... come on, part 4...

PART 4: COUNTRY PUBS.

Albert was in love. His car was like a new woman in his life and the neighbours either side, noted the new found spring in his step. Daily he checked the oil & tyre pressures and two brothers down the street were contracted at 20 pounds a week to lovingly wash and clean and polish inside and out.

Of course there was the gossip on where the car came from and how could he afford to run such a thing on his pension? Albert kept “shtum” about the whole thing. In fact after being assumed for most of his life, a little notoriety was quite stimulating.

He no longer walked to the shops in the town centre, but drove the beast to the local Tesco’s, and parked in the most prominent position available, even if it was just to get a carton of milk or some special offer. The petrol used on such trips, invariably cost more than what he was buying, but what the hell!

Gradually, almost imperceptibly he started venturing further afield. He had never really enjoyed the pubs in Hatfield before. They were more the hangouts of the unemployed, the loud mouths or those pushing drugs on the weekend.

But he started to explore some of the pubs tucked away in the surrounding countryside. These were invariably the haunts of retired colonels, senior civil servants, horsey types and tended to be a bit clique in their cliental composition. But they served good country bitter with ample ploughman lunches and the adjoining gardens were secluded and peaceful overlooking adjacent fields of earthy root vegetables and swaying yellow rape. Albert drawing up in front of such establishments in the elegant silver BMW was guaranteed an automatic acceptance by those within. The car defined money and taste and class and an element of mystery about the owner.

Some in life feel a need to flaunt their wealth in the face of those that have it not. But Albert wore it lightly, almost casually. His jacket had leather elbow patches, and his watch was no Rolex, but a Timex his late wife had brought him all those years ago for his 60th birthday.

Anyway, one summer’s day in July about noon he had wound his way gently up the country lanes to the Horseshoe Pub near the village of Horseheath for a few pints of their current guest beer and had stayed longer than intended. Life was good. The beer was strong and slightly chilled as the British prefer, a blackbird eyed him suspiciously from the attached garden hedge, and the smell of cut grass hung in the gentle breeze.

He decided to leave, rose, strode down to the car, clicked the remote and slipped into the seat. Gently slipping the automatic lever into drive he eased out onto the main lane connecting two nearby villages and proceeded towards Hatfield.

A police car slipped out in unison from cover further down and followed him. They noted that the BMW was meandering slightly on the road. In fact Albert was unaware of their presence. He was ensconced in his upholstered leather seat, one arm resting on the window and was steering lightly, almost casually with the other. Mick the Lips was into the second stanza of “Hey You Get Off Of My Cloud” and Albert concurred with the aforesaid musician completely.

The siren of the police car gave a short wail, rather like a coven convention interruptus and Albert pulled over.

“Good morning Sir” said the policeman. “Is this your car?”

“Oh yes Officer, anything wrong?”

“Well actually yes Sir. We could not help but notice that when you left the licensed premises further back that your driving seemed a bit erratic. Have you been drinking Sir?”

“Yes Officer, just a few.”

“That’s OK then Sir, but I must ask you to take a sobriety test. Would you mind blowing into this please?”

PART 5: MAGISTRATES COURT.


The local Magistrate before whom Albert was scheduled to make an appearance was named Julian Dehart and was regarded throughout his austere profession as “one of the old school”. Erudite, educated and of a classical disposition, he was energetic and of an inquisitive nature. In fact he was somewhat like a living boys own adventure, in that he had never really grown up. He had never lost his zest for all that life held, but there were drawbacks. He had married well in terms of fortune and social standing to Harriett, his wife of thirty years. But he was, and had always been a man of impulse and unrestrained exuberance, whose channels of energy required careful attention and control. Thus, as he had attained a more sedentary physical aspect with the increasing years, she had, with seemingly innocuous subterfuge gently introduced him to the pursuit of painting which he now only indulged in on a sporadic basis. That passion sated she had even recently had him join a Forum on the internet. The latter had been a great disaster, as he had crossed swords with all sorts of individuals, whose work he had addressed critically, almost as if they were standing before him in his capacity as Chief Magistrate for the South Hertfordshire Region. The final straw was when he threatened to have horse whipped, one “Garibaldi” for lack of respect to established norms and of conduct unbecoming those who inhabited “This Sacred Isle set in a Silver Sea.” Julian’s membership had after several warnings from an exasperated moderator, been subsequently withdrawn.

He was not pleased at the rebuke and it was in this frame of mind that he sat this day to deal with what he regarded as a motley crew of riff raff, raggedly arsed miscreants, charged with everything from; shoplifting to causing a public affray and one case of driving under the influence of alcohol.

Why is this in Jokes ?

The only joke is the fact that it hasnt been trashed yet.