I've got one of those in-car radio transmitter things, the ones that you plug into an mp3 player or something and it plays through the radio - you dig?
And it's pretty mint, mostly, but recently it's been getting a bit crackly. It's getting on a bit now and after an awkward first date with DK it's not really very talkative anymore. Tends to just be a bit ... well... staticy, I suppose.
It's ok when it's in conversation, as long as it's not straining it's voice. Me and my Geet Mint PR Guru take it with us on picnics onto the moors (pronounced moooo-ahs, by the way, as they are the Durham Dale ones) and it tells us stories. All very nice, even if my car smells of sausage roll and chilli crisps for days afterward.
But, on my way to (work) in the morning I find screaming is a good way to get myself prepared. I could do what some of my (colleagues) do, I've seen them scribbling away in huge geet big books, organising themselves and (planning). But I'm not into all that. My geet huge book is red and full of scribbles. Some of which look like spiders which I then see, much later, out the corner of my eye and terrify myself with. There is no planning.
Because I prefer to scream my way to work.
Problem is of course is that the radiotransmitterythingy can't do it. It's all croaky and rubbish when it yells.
Except, sometimes it isn't. I have discovered that, like most things, all it needs a bit of love.
I have discovered that if I hold it I can breathe new life into the machine.
Either I have magical electronic healing powers, or I'm a half decent conductor of radio waves, I dunno which, but I do know that it makes the shouty music sound better.
I know that Faith No More, on a Monday morning is now playable at high volume.
Only problem of course is driving one handed: generally frowned upon. So this morning I tried a new solution.
This morning on my way to (work) I wanted Shouty Dropkick Murphies. And I got Shouty Dropkick Murphies. By sitting on the transmitter.
This makes makes me fear for my ability to sire children now.
I don't like the thought of my crotch transmitting...
It cannot end well...
Why I wrote Disraeli Avenue for charity - The houses on Disraeli Avenue all looked the same, the same shape, the same size but behind each coloured front door there was a story, a secret, a need....
3 years ago