The car-crash – the aftermath
Please get your tissues out for the poor old Fag Hag (and no, don’t unzip your flies at the same time you filthy sods) who was rear-ended the other night. Sadly the rear-ending did not take place in my bedroom with a tall, dark handsome stranger but on Crouch End’s mean streets whilst driving my darling little Mini.
After being thrown around like a Long Island Ice Tea in a cocktail shaker I staggered out to confront the author of my tragedy.
‘I no speak English,’ said the Saddam lookalike in the Nissan who’d written off the back of my motor. ‘We no do insurance, cash money please.’
Cash money please? What did he think I was – a hooker?
Anyway, can’t stop as I am off to somewhere called A&E where people in anoraks go when they get into fights – honestly, can’t they do VIP whiplash clinics?