On not being able to get rid of Bongo
As you know, I'm a sensitive, understanding kind of person. The kind of person who is only too willing to pass on advice based on my own life experience to the benefit of friends, family, colleague and complete strangers. I see it as my duty to offer an elegant solution to any problem that would – in the long run – benefit the whole of society.
Take this little episode as an example:
For some reason that eludes me, others seem to think that I am some sort of authority on the safe disposal of Bongo. A sort of pornographic version of the people who decommission nuclear power stations without millions of people getting killed TO DEATH.
And so it happens again as a friend sidles up to me with a practiced sidle and says: "Scary – what's the best way to get rid of Bongo?"
That old chestnut.
"I've got a large quantity of Bongo – of a highly specialised nature that I need to get rid of. It seems such a shame to let it all go to waste."
Also: That old chestnut.
"How specialist," I ask, "is this Bongo?"
"And how much – in terms of metric shedloads - of this Bongo do you need to get rid of?"
I mull the issue for a while, trying to strike a balance between the volume of Bongo to be discarded; its scud rating based on the Scaryduckworth-Lewis method; and of course, the likelihood that the filth may fall into the hands of the easily corrupted.
The guru of Bongo disposal, I reach a decision.
"My advice to you, then –"
"Would be to purchase a hold-all from a charity shop, jumble sale or market stall -"
"Place the Bongo inside – "
"And leave it in the grounds of your nearest Scout Hut."
"Dyb dyb dyb"
"Also, I promise NEVER to report this conversation in my blog."
"You're a gent."