Yet another hellish drive home through the imbecilic roadworks of Wiltshire. And, like last time, something had to be done.
"Hi, you're through to Salisbury's Spire FM."
"Yeah, just an update on your traffic news."
"Go on..."
"I've got him."
"Wait... what... who?"
"The git who's in charge of those temporary traffic lights outside Porton Down. The ones that stay green for all of six seconds and leave you planning a his painful death as you sit for an hour with the charming view of the back end of a horse box."
"And you say you've ...err... got him?"
"Yeah, as I crawled past, there he was, tinkering about with the controls on the traffic lights, so I lured him closer with a tasty Pepperami, spanged him on the head with my trusty frying pan and bundled him in the boot of the car."
"Oh, good... err... I mean... Are you sure that's strictly legal?"
"100 per cent legit. We put him on trial, and he's going to be tied to a post at low tide at Weymouth Bay and left for the crabs. And when the Crustaceans of Righteous Justice have picked the flesh from his bones, we post him back to his mum and we won't even put a stamp on the parcel..."
*click*
"Can you play something by Phil Collins? Hello? HELLO?"
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