And then I got robbed.Being a victim of crime isn't exactly a bundle of laughs, but I only have myself to blame taking the dog for a walk just as the sun set over Portland Harbour.
I thought I'd be fine, but as two burly shadows emerged from the bushes and blocked my path, I knew I was in for it.
"Evening," I said, hoping that the situation wasn't as bad as I hoped, but in vain.
"We're gonna rob you, innit."
Oh dear. Ali G has SO much to answer for.
"I beg your pardon?"
"We're gonna rob you, innit, or I'm gonna cut you with my flicky."
I was too terrified to remind him that statement was one 'innit' short and instead harkened back to my hazardous environment training, one of the few excellent perks you get from a career in journalism.
"Give us everything you got," said the second hoodie, "Or I cut ya. Innit."
My training, then, taught me two things. Depending on the situation, a nice former Royal Marine had said, you either do everything they say, hoping for the best; or you club them in the face and break their nose.
This was not a nose-breaking situation, and his "flicky, innit" was clearly a twig.
"What do you chaps want, then?" I ventured, hoping to get away with as little personal and financial damage as possible.
"Everything. Woss in that bag?"
I had forgotten I was carrying a small bag from H. Samuel the jewelers in my right hand.
"Oh, have a care, fella, "I pleaded, "that's my wife's Christmas present. Cost me a fortune. Do you WANT to wreck her Christmas?"
"Jus' f-ing gimme it," said the troll, "Or I stick ya, innit."
No point arguing. I f-ing gave him it.
Then, taking Falstaff's advice about discretion and valour, I fled.
I fled, not for my safety, nor that of Lucy Minogue - who had failed in her duty as a fierce guard dog throughout my hideous ordeal - but for what might happen if I wasn't hiding behind by sofa within the next thirty seconds.
For the long and the short of this story is this: Robbed, I was, for a small plastic bag containing a steaming fresh dog shit.
Good dog. GOOD DOG.
17 comments:
First footstep in the crispy snow!
Haha win!
Briliant. The moral of this story is to carry a bag of poo with you at all times, in case of molestation.
That is a crap story. :)
So what are you saying? We should all carry about our person a bag full of dog shit in a H.Samuel bag just in case we get hijacked?
I really hope this is a true story
You never know, he might have been desperate for something to put through a festive letterbox.
Alternatively you carry it in a styrofoam box.
Om...nom...nom...Kofte.
I protest that last label. This is both mirth and woe.
Lucy Minogue did not fail in her duties. She was just executing a stealth move. Had the 'poo in a bag' defence failed, she would have leapt to execute Plan B, the classic, never-fail-know-to-fail "savage their shoelaces" manoeuvre.
That'd show 'em. Innit.
Those robbers were clearly druggies and knew that you had some good 'shit' on you, man.....
Heard later: " 'Ere! Wot's 'is shit?!"
Innit.
They'll probably let it go hard then sell it on as "some good shit"
"Jus' f-in' gimme my Saturday and Sunday posts or I stick ya, innit."
Pffft. Time with family at Christmas. What's this blog coming to?
What? H. Samuel have started selling dog shit now?
Was it really Lucy Minogue's - or yours?
Either way - a triumph, innit.
Oh, yes!
Definitely a 'Good Dog!
Give her a pat from me, akay?
And an extra helping of dinner from now on, so she makes some XL turds!
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