A Moment Of Reflection (Part 2)

The car hits 100 mph as the black and white sign indicating that you are now only breaking the speed limit by a fair amount flashes past. The road stretches ahead in a gentle left hand bend. It's been raining but the asphalt surface is dry, only the white lines dividing the lanes to worry about. You turn in softly, throttle gently balanced and engine revving hard in fourth gear. Look around the corner, careful not to twitch the steering wheel, smoothly does it. The car glides, as happy to be driven hard as an inanimate object can be. The slight undulations on the floor feed back perfectly through the suspension to your hands as you let the car drift to the inside on the camber.

Unseen, the trees ahead have been dripping rainwater onto the ground, leaving the surface at the apex of the turn wet. The front wheels spot this problem first, the controls going dead and the front of the car inching to the right. Off the power, let the weight of the car help things out. The back wheels catch the slippy surface and slowly, slowly, the back of the car edges outwards, towards a spin and the suddenly all too close trees on the wrong side of the tracks.

A little opposite lock, hold the wheel firmly as it tries to kick and scrabble for grip. Get the power on, don't bottle this one for fuck's sake.

You have time to reflect on what music is in the CD player. Fuck, I'm going to look a faggot when they pull bits of that out of my face. Blasting through the countryside whilst listening to chick music must be removed from my to do list in future. I'm not wearing clean underwear but fuck it, this isn't one of those waking up in Casualty moments. This is the Big One, always somewhere ahead. I wonder what would happen if I just let go of the wheel, let the god of Physics steer the ship and the chips fall where they may?

Never one to back down from a challenge, you decide against it.

The tail of the car remains a few stubborn degrees out of line, dragging the action closer to the white lines that mark safety from the danger of an oncoming car. A Rover. I refuse to hit a fucking Rover, come back to me you bastard. A little more lock, you'll have to watch out for it coming back round the other way now. Come on you fucking piece of shit, straighten out and fly right. A millimetre at a time, the recalcitrant bastard does as it's told.

Straighten the wheel, back on the power, up to fifth and away, Peter lives to fight another day. Humanity and God breathe a sigh of disappointment. So does Peter.

Strangebuys

A popular hobby of mine is buying strange items and watching the checkout monkey's reaction to my purchases. Wait, it's not a hobby, I just have a strange existence and often end up well outside the realms of buying a trolley full of ready meals and twenty mars bars.

I've kept track of some of the stranger sets of items I've bought over the years and decided to list them for your entertainment. Frankly, it worries even me. These shopping trips occurred due to seemingly normal circumstances and at the time, seemed perfectly reasonable but to an impartial observer, it probably doesn't look good.

• 100 black bin bags and a bottle of good champagne (get drunk and get burying, fool).
• One 9" kitchen knife, An empty squirt bottle and 3 bottles of Red Bull (The Saturday Night).
• 3 bottles red bull, 1 bottle vodka, 1 pair yellow rubber gloves (The Fight Club).
• One bottle of cheap champagne after the London bombings. (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/in_depth/uk/2005/london_explosions/default.stm). Whilst queuing for this I thought it would be amusing to mutter "durka durka jihad mohammed" occasionally. I was right.
• 12 tubs of baby food, 10 pot noodle type snacks and 20 Marlboro reds (The Chav) The baby food was not for Peter, just so's you know.
• 2 packets of laxatives, 2 bottles of Red Bull, one large packet of toilet roll (The Friday Night).

As a side note, I would recommend against taking twice the suggested dosage of laxatives the day before you have to go to work as it seems to delay the effects somewhat. I'd forgotten all about taking them at around lunchtime one day, when the scat explosion took hold of me. This resulted in my having 8 fully formed, bowel bursting turd explosions within the space of around three hours, whilst my colleagues wondered what the fuck was going on. On second thoughts, I fully recommend this approach.

As another aside, visit the BBC tribute to those killed in the London bombings and try to pick out the ones you'd fuck if they were alive (or just intact). It makes me feel a strange kind of tingle deep inside my cold dead soul.

Peter's House Fucking Reeks Of AIDS

Fuck, my place stinks like a retard's ass the morning after a hard day of eating rubber bands and bits of string off the floor.

I've done the two week old dishes and taken out the two week old bin-bags full of decomposing babies and horse anuses, I've even scraped all the out of date food from the fridge (fight club anyone).

Yet still, walking into the Hotel Du Scat reminds me of the week I ate a Pizza Hut meal and accidentally shat it out into the washing machine instead of the bin, then washed my clothes in the rancid, bad pizza based shit.

I guess that having eliminated everything else, it must either be the puke down the side of the oven from last Friday's adventures or my shit-ridden clothes. Both are going to take quite some effort cleaning up.

Oh and by "adventures" I do mean "sitting alone in the dark, playing on a PS2 and drinking neat vodka because I was too hungover to go and buy any mixers". Sometimes even being Peter can seem to suck to the impartial observer, although I enjoyed the experience thoroughly. Takes all sorts, I guess.

Oh yeah and Pizza Hut; you fucking suck and it's your fault my fucking trousers are covered in fecal matter. Well, some of it, but I digress. Your pizzas are utter shit and you should hang your fucking heads in filthy shame.