August 7th – A little light relief today,
something we should all indulge in at least once a week and a true story to
boot. I’ll start with today’s event.
On this day in 2012 the huge country and western star and
actor, Randy Travis, was found, by Texas police, lying drunk and naked
alongside his crashed-out vehicle, unhurt but most definitely unwell, at the
site of a demolished construction barrier. Bad enough, but you see this was the
second time the Texas
We all do it at some time or another; I can remember tumbling
out of a regular country pub haunt when I was in bands in the 60’s/70’s,
stumbling across the ‘A’ road out front (how I wasn’t squashed to a Frisbee
I’ll never know) rolling into a ditch and waking up the following morning
covered in frost; I say, in my defence that I was fully clothed… good job
really otherwise, after a night as cold as that, what is laughingly referred to
as my masculinity would’ve been
reduced even further and would have needed a microscope and pair of tweezers to
relocate… Anyway, on with the true story (with a little dramis integra injected
into it so as to play the scene) that I lay alongside Mr. Travis’ series of
unfortunate events so as to prove you don’t have to be a C&W star with a big
thing about religion to wind up in a shit-pile as deep as you are tall; it can
happen to anyone: kick back and enjoy:
When I lived in Brum playing in bands and sometimes having a
serious amount of downtime, I’d spend a lot of time with the band members at
one or other of our several favourite hostelries. No drunken rowdiness (well,
hardly ever) just drinking and shooting the breeze; all good clean fun. You can
probably tell I’m stalling ‘cos I’m trying to recall the name of the pub on the
Stratford Road, just outside of Shirley where we used to meet up…nope, gone…as
I think is the pub now, knocked down to make way for a garage or summat.
Anyhow, they used to have live bands on at this pub venue (as did most pubs
back then) and I can remember us gigging there on a couple of occasions, but
that’s not the point of the tale. We’d been having a drink or two and we all
left (I think there were three of us if memory serves) at the appropriate time;
22.30…! (Yup, the pubs closed at half-ten back then and didn’t open ‘til 11.00
of a morning, closed again at 15.00 and reopened at 18.00…read ’em and weep).
Anyhow, we were walking across what was a huge pub car park to where our van
was parked only to be met by a distressed, slightly undressed, very attractive
lady who spoke breathlessly as she adjusted her clothing;
“Can you, help me,
well, help the man, in my car…he’s stuck…”
Glances were exchanged;
“Erm, yup, OK,
er…where?”
“Just over there.”
She pointed to the far side of the car park where the overhanging
trees and lack of car park lighting bathed the area in semi darkness and
subtlety as she continued to adjust bra strap and blouse. We followed her. (Information
Block)
Do any of you remember the old Triumph Herald? There was the
Herald (four cylinder job) and the Vitesse (six cylinder job). You could get it
in hard or soft-top and one of the features was the bonnet which opened the
opposite way to a normal bonnet. Instead of flicking the release-catch and lifting
the bonnet up from the radiator grille end you had to release two chrome
catches from just behind the front wheels (one each side) and the bonnet opened
from the dashboard end; very sexy. This single, tilting movement revealed
engine, front wheels, suspension and the bulkhead of the dashboard so really
easy to work on, if you were a mechanic, say, or someone who needed to do major
work on the chassis or electronics in the dashboard and glove box… (Right, back
to the tale).
As we approached what turned out to be the parked hard-top Triumph
Herald, we could see the shadowy figure of someone inside the car who looked to
be in some discomfort and in a very strange position. On closer inspection we
saw that a man was facing down on the seats with his hairy arse in the air – we
could see it was hairy ‘cos his trousers and pants were down by his ankles.
None of us were daft (well not completely) so we clocked what had been going
on.
“Can you help him, he’s
stuck?” she asked.
“Erm…yeah, I guess.”
We all began to snigger. “Do you want to
pull up his pants or shall we do it?”
“I think you’d better.”
“Oh, OK.” We all
murmured, with little relish for the task. “We’ll
go on each side and sort of adjust you a bit, mate. That all right?” we
advised through stifled chuckles. “Can
you not turn over then?” one of us asked by way of conversation.
“No,” he replied. “My foot’s jammed in the glove box and I
can’t shift it, and it really hurts…”
“Right,” said one
of us, adding unhelpfully. “Bit of
crank-shaft maintenance was it?”
Any reply from the trapped man was quickly cut short as, on
us trying to move him he let out a yell of that would stop a pig a fifty yards;
“Oi! OW! OW! F’ fuck’s
sake careful! I can’t…twist, you’ll break me ankle!”
The lady was becoming more upset by the second.
“Alright, love…erm… Jesus,
that’s jammed alright.” Said one of us, stating the obvious. “Well, can we…?”
“No!” he snapped.
It was obvious things were not good;
“What can you do?”
asked the lady, tears running down her face. “He can’t stay like that; we’ve got to get home yet.”
“Well, we can’t shift
him, he can’t twist and free himself…don’t know. Ideas?”
“Fire brigade.”
Said one of us with finality and a tone of security that none of us felt. “Fire brigade; they’ll free him, they’ve all
sorts of kit.”
“The fire brigade!”
sobbed the woman. “But…can’t we…?”
“No!” snapped the
man.
“Well we can’t, and I
suppose he can’t travel like that back home, can he?”
“No!” she snapped, “of course not…but…”
“No ‘buts’, lady. It
sounds like he’s fractured that ankle as it is, certain by the way he yelled
when we tried to move him...your ankle does hurt a lot, does it?”
“Yes it bloody-well
does.”
“Then it’ll be swellin’
up a treat; that’ll make it even more difficult to shift…and more painful.”
The man gazed at the one who’d said this. “You’re such a fuckin help, you know that?”
“Sorry, just tryin’ to
spell it out; we can bugger off if you like, leave you two to it.”
“No, no!” Yelled
the lady, “No, please…”
“Then it’s either the
firemen or him travelling about like a stranded seal for months.”
She had the look of a rabbit in the headlights. “Right…right, can someone call the fire
brigade, please?”
I slipped off back to the pub…no mobiles back then…made the
call and returned. Everyone was just sort of standing around (well, he wasn’t,
he couldn’t, but everyone else was) trying to make polite conversation, the
sort of conversation that wouldn’t further upset an already extremely upset
woman nor draw attention to the fact that amongst the gathered group was a man
virtually levitating, face down over the passenger seat of a Triumph Herald,
with his bare arse in the air.
Eventually the fire service turned up, within about four
minutes I think ‘cos the station was only in Solihull
(so just up the road) and the government hadn’t yet chopped the service into
bordering on the useless in order to save money. To say the firemen were amused
(as well as concerned, I’m sure) at the man’s predicament is a huge
understatement. However, true to their training and dedication they eventually
controlled themselves and tried various ways of freeing the man (who by now had
goose bumps on both sides of his arse that were as big as his cheeks) but to no
avail. Everything they tried drew stentorian blasts of pain and distress from
the trapped individual and a gradually increasing amount of concern from the
lady. After a consultation to further assess the situation, and time taken out
to placate the lady, the firemen said that, yes, they could free him. You could
see the look of relief on the lady’s face; it was when they said that they’d
have to acetylene torch the glove box out of the car in order to do it that she
lost it completely.
“No! No! You can’t…you
can’t do that…please…!”
This job was going to be difficult enough as it was. To have a
near hysterical lady on hand as they did it wouldn’t help; it was then the
police turned up…on a bicycle, but he turned up, so…
With the help of a consoling officer the lady was removed
from the scene, the bonnet lifted (thank goodness it was a Triumph Herald, with
that tilting bonnet, remember? Ease of access?) the torch lit and the man and
engine swathed in soaked blankets so they didn’t add to his distress by setting
fire to the poor fucker.
It was as the flare from the torch reached its highest, illuminating
a good two-thirds of the car park, that the lady managed to take her leave the
policeman and run back to the scene, sobbing and wailing;
“STOP! Stop! Please…!”
One of the firemen stepped in front of her and tried to delay
her getting too close to the blasting torch. As she dodged round him the
fireman finished his cutting job and the passenger side of the car flipped gracefully
to the floor, the glove-box neatly cut in two, and the man rolled free.
“It’s alright, love,
it’s alright, he’s OK, he’s got a busted ankle but he’s OK…see?”
“Fuck him!” she
screamed, “What am I going to tell my
husband about the car?”
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