Well, I see it's been over a year since I posted anything on this blog, partly through denial of enforced changes in plan and not having the enthusiasm / motivation to commit to words the many thoughts passing through my head.
Anyway, amongst other things today, I spent an hour at the Hand Car Wash (HCW) where I was getting my LPV (Large Passenger Vehicle) some TLC. This in itself was not without irony, having not long before, purchased a whole load of new car cleaning stuff from Asda, returning home and looking at the task in hand and thinking "OMG, NFW (No fucking way)".
So, the first point to make about the HCW, it's a place where people go who CBA go to give their own car some TLC.
I should point out, my LPV is really used as a family car. My own six kids, their friends, my friends and the fact the having a large vehicle quite obviously means you will be more than happy to take all your friends shite to the tip, randomly collect half a kitchen from Ikea and will more than happily accommodate other people's "essential" camping gear they can't fit in to their Smart Car! Yes, they were sensible enough to think ahead, the smart car is perfect for 1.5 adults and a 1 man pop-up tent but their kids have to travel with me, along with all the extra crap.
Standing there looking at 9 seats layered with crisp, biscuit and bread crumbs, ground together over a year, mixed with sand, soil and shit, the odd regurgitated carrot from the travel sick kid who always sits at the one place they can't get out of before projectile vomiting last night's Quorn korma all over the child in front and the floor, recently tidied but still with a healthy quota of used food wrappers, shoes, coats, numerous odd socks, Lego pieces and a plethora of random paraphernalia. It wasn't a hard choice to make and the deserved and VGC (Very Good Clean).
However, the HCW isn't just good for those of us who CBA to give a VGC to their VDV (Very Dirty Vehicle), oh no. It's so much more. Let me explain.
In front of the queue was a 2 year old white Audi, driven by an ageing Asian man (AAA man). Apparently he ordered a full valet and would wait while it was done. From looking at the couple and the car, I would postulate that this is probably their weekly drive out, probably via the Mosque and M & S. If my car had looked like their BEFORE it had been cleaned, I would have said it was spotless. AAA man repeatedly inspected the work by running his finger along a just-polished piece of glass and inspecting it for signs of dust.
Of course, this left a grease trail on the glass and the diligent valet man dutifully dabbed his chamois to remove it. This process was repeated on several occasions, who knows how long, my attention had shifted.
In front of me the line moved forward slowly. The car in front was not a VDV either, it was a NCV (Nearly Clean Vehicle), with lowered suspension, over-sized alloys and a fat-ass exhaust.
However, my excitement at inching forward was all too much. A young chap came up and I tentatively asked how much it would cost for a wash and vacuum. I had to say, I was a little scared at this point. He eyed the VDV / LPV up, thinking "shit guys, this one actually does need cleaning" and muttered £15. Fortunately, my fake, stick-on tinted windows, with little holes picked in them by children, prevented visual contact with the interior. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was waaay worth it!
I was thrilled to be beaconed forward by another of the crew. By this time there were 4 other VSV's (Very shiny vehicles) in varying stages of post-wash buffing and hoovering, another couple NCV's pulled up behind me.
I sat in the warmth as the team surrounded my VDV and began spraying, wiping, cleaning and waxing. The comfort I gained from knowing my VDV would soon be a VSV was immense and it wasn't going to take me three hours graft and the onset of hypothermia to complete. The winds were blowing the water from my car on to the others behind. I wondered if this was by design, to make the job a little quicker and to recycle the water or just to ensure the car behind really did need a wash by the time their turn came.
However, the true amusement didn't begin until after I parked up in the dry cleaning area and got out. I had left my phone at home so couldn't send pointless texts, browse facebook or check my emails or ebays for the 14th time that hour! Whatever would I do? I paced hurriedly over to the kettle then away again, unsure if I could use it. I repeated this little dance three times, trying to decide what to do before plonking myself on a sofa that was so soft it almost swallowed me whole. My legs firmly back on the ground, I peered around hoping no-one else saw me. They didn't, I think.
Opposite was sat a late 20s chap, clean shaven, well-pressed, buried in his iPhone rip-off phone, pretending to do important stuff. He had an almost new GiT (this is what I'm sure the makers meant to write instead of GTi, were it not for the dyslexic signwriter). You know GiT's when you see them, although you usually hear them first. The GiT is the one who drives right up your arse in town, with the stereo, sub, amp 1 trillion watt mega blaster turned on full, shaking your bones to Dr Dre and waiting for that moment you leave more than 18 inches in front of you so he can roar past. The only difference between a GiT driver and a seventeen year old, is the age of the car. GiT drivers probably still don't have kids, they have have learnt what make a good ride.
The next car after me was driven by an almost middle-aged, bald and quite well-spread fellow. The car was a Mondeo Ghia, lowered suspension, 18" alloys, sports skirts, NOS and something else from Fast and Furious I can't remember. I figured by the time you get to this age ( my age incidentally) you're too large to fit in to a GiT car like a Golf, so you have to move up a notch. I also decided that he probably doesn't get that much good sex, didn't have kids and wasn't married, using my Sherlock-esque powers of deduction. This man cam and sat next to my on MY sofa. Shit, did this mean I had to talk or could I just do what we Brits do so well and just pretend he wasn't there. I opted for the latter, fearing the inevitable discussion about horsepower and penis size would otherwise ensue. I decided this car was an FFV (Fat and Forties Vehicle), driven by someone who still has that 17 year old zest for powerful cars but was way too much spare time and cash.
This option allowed me to continue my observations. Next up was a Very Clean Vehicle that didn't need washing, it was also an SUV (stuck up vehicle). The SUV, which annoyingly I couldn't identify my make and model within 15 seconds, or indeed at all (infuriatingly), for those that don't know, is like a family car that's overdone the body building meds. The Stuck Up Vehicle sits just that little bit higher than all the pleb cars on the road, the bodywork is that bit more overstated, giving the driver that feeling of supremacy on the road. These are usually driven by people in the late 40s or early 50s with a good deal of money behind them, often couple of kids or so. These would easily accommodate a couple of larger than average people and their over-indulged children and the manicured poodle in a personally crafted poodle pouch.
However, the Stuck Up Vehicle was to be outdone, overshadowed and left feeling more than a little inadequate by the following ACV (Almost Clean Vehicle). Yes, here was the STV 4x4. The Stuck-Up Twats Vehicle was a Range Rover, clearly never driven on a country lane let alone a field or somewhere with actual dirt. 4.5 litres of disgustingly wasteful engine fronted by gregarious and illegal bullbars with enough inner space and outer ruggedness to house Jeremy Clarkson's ego at a squeeze. Almost new STVs are owned by those who really do think they are God's gift yet would have a coronary at the thought of breaking a finger nail or getting a spot of mud on the wheel. The ST's that drive the V's know that you can't damage their car but if they so much as touch your car, it's a write-off and drive accordingly.
Oh and by the way, Mondeo Man did start a conversation that confirmed by suspicions about horsepower and penis size, he had a lot of horsepower....
... which concluded my trip to the HCW. My LPV was now a VCV. I can see my reflection in the dashboard, I do actually have carpet on the floor and the windows do actually work now. I truly believed I had faulty glass before. My lovely VCV won't remain so for long I'm sure, but I remain happy that although I can't do 0-60 in 1.1 seconds or drive at 270 mph (Mondeo Man can allegedly), my horsepower is small and.... (hmmm I won't go there).
Anyway, amongst other things today, I spent an hour at the Hand Car Wash (HCW) where I was getting my LPV (Large Passenger Vehicle) some TLC. This in itself was not without irony, having not long before, purchased a whole load of new car cleaning stuff from Asda, returning home and looking at the task in hand and thinking "OMG, NFW (No fucking way)".
So, the first point to make about the HCW, it's a place where people go who CBA go to give their own car some TLC.
I should point out, my LPV is really used as a family car. My own six kids, their friends, my friends and the fact the having a large vehicle quite obviously means you will be more than happy to take all your friends shite to the tip, randomly collect half a kitchen from Ikea and will more than happily accommodate other people's "essential" camping gear they can't fit in to their Smart Car! Yes, they were sensible enough to think ahead, the smart car is perfect for 1.5 adults and a 1 man pop-up tent but their kids have to travel with me, along with all the extra crap.
Standing there looking at 9 seats layered with crisp, biscuit and bread crumbs, ground together over a year, mixed with sand, soil and shit, the odd regurgitated carrot from the travel sick kid who always sits at the one place they can't get out of before projectile vomiting last night's Quorn korma all over the child in front and the floor, recently tidied but still with a healthy quota of used food wrappers, shoes, coats, numerous odd socks, Lego pieces and a plethora of random paraphernalia. It wasn't a hard choice to make and the deserved and VGC (Very Good Clean).
However, the HCW isn't just good for those of us who CBA to give a VGC to their VDV (Very Dirty Vehicle), oh no. It's so much more. Let me explain.
In front of the queue was a 2 year old white Audi, driven by an ageing Asian man (AAA man). Apparently he ordered a full valet and would wait while it was done. From looking at the couple and the car, I would postulate that this is probably their weekly drive out, probably via the Mosque and M & S. If my car had looked like their BEFORE it had been cleaned, I would have said it was spotless. AAA man repeatedly inspected the work by running his finger along a just-polished piece of glass and inspecting it for signs of dust.
Of course, this left a grease trail on the glass and the diligent valet man dutifully dabbed his chamois to remove it. This process was repeated on several occasions, who knows how long, my attention had shifted.
In front of me the line moved forward slowly. The car in front was not a VDV either, it was a NCV (Nearly Clean Vehicle), with lowered suspension, over-sized alloys and a fat-ass exhaust.
However, my excitement at inching forward was all too much. A young chap came up and I tentatively asked how much it would cost for a wash and vacuum. I had to say, I was a little scared at this point. He eyed the VDV / LPV up, thinking "shit guys, this one actually does need cleaning" and muttered £15. Fortunately, my fake, stick-on tinted windows, with little holes picked in them by children, prevented visual contact with the interior. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was waaay worth it!
I was thrilled to be beaconed forward by another of the crew. By this time there were 4 other VSV's (Very shiny vehicles) in varying stages of post-wash buffing and hoovering, another couple NCV's pulled up behind me.
I sat in the warmth as the team surrounded my VDV and began spraying, wiping, cleaning and waxing. The comfort I gained from knowing my VDV would soon be a VSV was immense and it wasn't going to take me three hours graft and the onset of hypothermia to complete. The winds were blowing the water from my car on to the others behind. I wondered if this was by design, to make the job a little quicker and to recycle the water or just to ensure the car behind really did need a wash by the time their turn came.
However, the true amusement didn't begin until after I parked up in the dry cleaning area and got out. I had left my phone at home so couldn't send pointless texts, browse facebook or check my emails or ebays for the 14th time that hour! Whatever would I do? I paced hurriedly over to the kettle then away again, unsure if I could use it. I repeated this little dance three times, trying to decide what to do before plonking myself on a sofa that was so soft it almost swallowed me whole. My legs firmly back on the ground, I peered around hoping no-one else saw me. They didn't, I think.
Opposite was sat a late 20s chap, clean shaven, well-pressed, buried in his iPhone rip-off phone, pretending to do important stuff. He had an almost new GiT (this is what I'm sure the makers meant to write instead of GTi, were it not for the dyslexic signwriter). You know GiT's when you see them, although you usually hear them first. The GiT is the one who drives right up your arse in town, with the stereo, sub, amp 1 trillion watt mega blaster turned on full, shaking your bones to Dr Dre and waiting for that moment you leave more than 18 inches in front of you so he can roar past. The only difference between a GiT driver and a seventeen year old, is the age of the car. GiT drivers probably still don't have kids, they have have learnt what make a good ride.
The next car after me was driven by an almost middle-aged, bald and quite well-spread fellow. The car was a Mondeo Ghia, lowered suspension, 18" alloys, sports skirts, NOS and something else from Fast and Furious I can't remember. I figured by the time you get to this age ( my age incidentally) you're too large to fit in to a GiT car like a Golf, so you have to move up a notch. I also decided that he probably doesn't get that much good sex, didn't have kids and wasn't married, using my Sherlock-esque powers of deduction. This man cam and sat next to my on MY sofa. Shit, did this mean I had to talk or could I just do what we Brits do so well and just pretend he wasn't there. I opted for the latter, fearing the inevitable discussion about horsepower and penis size would otherwise ensue. I decided this car was an FFV (Fat and Forties Vehicle), driven by someone who still has that 17 year old zest for powerful cars but was way too much spare time and cash.
This option allowed me to continue my observations. Next up was a Very Clean Vehicle that didn't need washing, it was also an SUV (stuck up vehicle). The SUV, which annoyingly I couldn't identify my make and model within 15 seconds, or indeed at all (infuriatingly), for those that don't know, is like a family car that's overdone the body building meds. The Stuck Up Vehicle sits just that little bit higher than all the pleb cars on the road, the bodywork is that bit more overstated, giving the driver that feeling of supremacy on the road. These are usually driven by people in the late 40s or early 50s with a good deal of money behind them, often couple of kids or so. These would easily accommodate a couple of larger than average people and their over-indulged children and the manicured poodle in a personally crafted poodle pouch.
However, the Stuck Up Vehicle was to be outdone, overshadowed and left feeling more than a little inadequate by the following ACV (Almost Clean Vehicle). Yes, here was the STV 4x4. The Stuck-Up Twats Vehicle was a Range Rover, clearly never driven on a country lane let alone a field or somewhere with actual dirt. 4.5 litres of disgustingly wasteful engine fronted by gregarious and illegal bullbars with enough inner space and outer ruggedness to house Jeremy Clarkson's ego at a squeeze. Almost new STVs are owned by those who really do think they are God's gift yet would have a coronary at the thought of breaking a finger nail or getting a spot of mud on the wheel. The ST's that drive the V's know that you can't damage their car but if they so much as touch your car, it's a write-off and drive accordingly.
Oh and by the way, Mondeo Man did start a conversation that confirmed by suspicions about horsepower and penis size, he had a lot of horsepower....
... which concluded my trip to the HCW. My LPV was now a VCV. I can see my reflection in the dashboard, I do actually have carpet on the floor and the windows do actually work now. I truly believed I had faulty glass before. My lovely VCV won't remain so for long I'm sure, but I remain happy that although I can't do 0-60 in 1.1 seconds or drive at 270 mph (Mondeo Man can allegedly), my horsepower is small and.... (hmmm I won't go there).
Hmm, that is a VAS (Very Amusing Story), my UCB (ultra-Cynical Brother). the HCW you went to must actually be a respectable outfit that exercises it's COC (Care of Customers) policy. Most of the HCW's in Lincoln have customer waiting rooms that are DDS's (Dark Dingy Shitholes) with filth everywhere EXCEPT the magazine table where you'd expect it to be. The idea of actually having a tea or coffee from their "facilities" is sickening, as by doing so you're likely to end up in ICU with SFP (Severe Food Poisoning). Even sitting down is a cringeworthy experience because the sofa is so dirty its a MHH (Major Health Hazard). The toilet is a TFD (Total Fu#*ing Disgrace) that looks like the one out of Trainspotting and doesn't even have a FFF (Fully Functioning Flush) and quite likely has a fag end and maybe someone's fecal matter floating in the sludgy water. I presonally prefer to wait outside, even if it does mean WAA (Walking Around Aimlessly) for HAN (Half An Hour).
ReplyDeleteAnyway, I CBA to come up with any more TLA's (Three-Letter Acronyms) as there are quite enough here already, and it reminds me of being back at MBS (Mouchel Business Services) where they STC (Seek To Confuse) everyone by inventing as many TLA's as they can possibly think of. So, OTB (On That Bombshell) I shall sign off and send a TOT (Text Or Two) on my HTC.