A tale of mirth, woe and unspeakable agony by guest writer Nigel "Scary's brother" Coleman
I have a new injury (readers may wish to update themselves on our hero's last brush with death here), sustained in such bizarre circumstances that I though I'd write it all down. Some background information:
* Alcohol was not a factor
* My postman is a lazy fat cunt
* My neighbours are all cunts, and I hope they all get testicular cysts (I know that's not very nice, but in my defence, I know how cunty my neighbours are; you don't).
Anyway:
Sandra (the soon-to-be third Mrs Nigel) and I were to spend a week in Jersey. This would (I thought) lead to may hours spent on the beach. Women can sunbathe for hours without getting bored, a bit like those little lizard things you see in hot, shit countries. Men, on the other hand, get bored and will fidget after about three minutes, due to a higher level of brain activity, probably. I decided to order some books from Amazon. And a CD, while I was there.
After the books were four days overdue, I constructed a scenario in my head as to what had happened:
My postman (fat, lazy, and as previously advised, a cunt) no doubt arrived, sweating, at the front door to our block of flats. Having buzzed my flat and had no answer, he then had two choices - take the parcel back and leave a card for me to pick it up from the sorting office, or press all of the other buzzers and lob my parcel onto the foot of the stairs for any fucker that happens to pass through. In my scenario, he chose the latter, a choice he routinely makes, judging by the stuff that I walk past most evenings.
Now, if I lived in Knightsbridge, Hampstead or Blackheath, say, this would not be a problem. However, I live in Chelmsford, Essex, as a result of circumstances that are too lengthy to detail here. Suffice it to say that I stick out like a sore thumb in my block of flats. I am the only person over the age of 30 and I'm the only one who owns the flat they live in (and by definition, the only one that gives a fuck about the state of the place). I am also the only one who wears a suit to work, whereas the only time any of these white-van larvae put on a suit is to go to court.
What I'm saying is that a big thick parcel with Amazon on it must have been well tempting - not that they would have been able to read the enclosed books, and none of them look like Radiohead fans to me either.
I took Amazon's advice and checked with my sorting office, just to cover that particular base. Perhaps the person at Amazon would like to actually go through that experience one day. I will spare you the details, but when I arrived at the front of the queue and explained that I wasn't actually there to pick up a parcel per se, but merely to see if one exists, you would be forgiven for thinking that I'd stuck my cock in his hand instead of one of those 'sorry you were out' cards, from the look of perplexity followed by annoyance on the counter bloke's face. So, home to Chav Towers, and Plan B.
I've had stuff nicked before (which will probably make you wonder why I don't get stuff delivered to work - I don't know, is the answer), so I decided that enough is enough. I'm going to catch the guilty little twat.
I got my complimentary tyre-changing gloves out of the back of my car (it's the one in the car park with the number plates in a legal type-face and without neon washer-nozzles and plate-sized speakers) and started searching the communal bins for my Amazon packaging. How good is it going to be to find my package with my name on it in some low-life's bin bag along with one of his Ocean Finance final demands with his name and address on?
At this point I am kidding myself that once I have found the incriminating evidence, I will merely hand it over to the guardians of law and order, the Essex Constabulary. However, as I delve deeper into the remnants of countless Iceland frozen Lasagnes and Chick 'n 'Ribs boxes (what passes as world cuisine in Chelmsford), my sense of indignation is deepening. Having fitted extra locks to my front door (well, wouldn't you?), I know how many blows of my highly-sharpened Chinese cleaver it would take to break through the wood of the Rat Boy's first line of defence.
I'm now leaning right into the final bin. There in front of me is the last bag. There's cardboard in that there bag; I can see it. My gloved hand isn't quite getting hold of it, even if I tip the bin. I bunk myself up on to the edge of the bin, so as to lean in with the edge across my midriff (or what passes as my midriff these days). Unfortunately, I am 37, not 17. I'm also nearer 14 stone than 10. I 'landed' with the edge of the bin across my ribs and I felt rather than heard a snap from within my chest. I involuntarily flew backwards across the bin shed and couldn't breathe for what seems like minutes but was roughly half a second. One broken rib. Arse. Plan abandoned.
The next day I'm on my way to Jersey (in what might as well be a fucking Sopwith Camel, incidently), 30 quid worse off after buying replacement books, and really looking forward to getting on that hired bike waiting for me at the hotel. I spent a week walking around like an old man and as you can guess it curtailed the old bedroom antics no end.
And the best bit? When I got home, there's this little card in my post box: "Sorry you were out. We're holding a parcel for you." Cunts.
Do you know anyone who wants to buy some paperbacks? I've had a great idea that I could sell them over the Interweb thingy and send them to people in the post. What? Oh.
I have suggested a foolproof way to track down the culprits: leave an Amazon parcel filled with dog turds in the communal hallway. Then sit quietly and wait for the screams. Killer bees would work just as well.
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