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GENERAL ITEMS
FOGGYDAVES CANTENNA 
THE EVIL OVERLORD LIST

THE EVIL MINIONS GUIDE

OTHER EVIL/ HERO  GUIDES
A FEW VERSES 

NAMES I CALL MY WIFE & SHAKESPEAREAN INSULTS

COLLECTIVE NOUNS FOR ANIMAL SPECIES

SOME OTHER EBAY SALES WITH STORIES

THE REAL MEANING OF HAYNES MANUAL INSTRUCTIONS

SALAD FINGERS

TOMTOM SATNAV SAG BLUES

 

KITE MAKING PAGES

REVOLUTION KITE MAKING

 

CONTRIBUTIONS FROM READERS

STORIES BY HATTYMENDER  

STORIES BY HELEN WORRALL

 

STORIES  AND EBAY SALES

1     AN OLD LAND ROVER
2     EBAY
3     SELLING AN OLD LAND ROVER  
4     SELLING WHEELS AND TYRES
5     A NEW JOB AT THE FUNERAL PARLOUR
6     SELLING VIDEO CAMERA
7     MY BIRTHDAY TODAY
8     WITCHERY PART ONE
9     SELLING CANVAS HOOD
10   WITCHERY PART TWO
11   SELLING CARAVAN HITCHDRIVE 
12   WITCHERY PART THREE
13   SELLING RATCHET STRAPS  
14   WITCHERY PART FOUR
15   SELLING GOAL POSTS  
16   WITCHERY PART FIVE
17   SELLING A HI VIZ COAT
18   WITCHERY PART SIX

19   SELLING 3 TONNES OF CLAY    
2O  WITCHERY PART SEVEN
21   SELLING A WHEEL CLAMP
22   SHOPPING AND THE HESITANT DOORS
23   SELLING AN OLD PAIR OF BOOTS

24   THE REAL DE VINCI CODE

25   MY GUITAR AND AMP

26   SELLING MOTORBIKE PANNIERS

27   HALLOWEEN

28 SELLING A HIGHWAY CODE

29 ZEN AND THE ART OF  LAND ROVER MAINTENANCE

30  SELLING A CIGARETTE LIGHTER AND A TRIP TO SCOTLAND

31  CHRISTMAS LIGHT RAGE

32  METAMORPHOSIS

33 SELLING AN AMBER BEACON

34 THE UNIVERSE IS A  BIG PLACE

35 SELLING A  BLOW LAMP

36 SELLING BOOTS UPDATE

37 SELLING A  TORCH

38 SELLING A MOTORBIKE JACKET

39 SELLING A POWER JUICER

40 SELLING A HORSE WHIP

41 THE BOAT

42 SELLING LAND ROVER SIDE STEPS

43 SELLING A  TOW / RECOVERY CHAIN

44 SELLING LAND ROVER BULL BARS

45 SELLING THE FOGGYDAVE CARRIER BAG

 46 CARAVAN RAGE OR AGINCOURT DEUXIEME PARTIE

 

 

 STORY 43 SELLING A TOW / RECOVERY CHAIN

Where my wife heads the neighbourhood watch,buys a Russian soldiers uniform and things get scary

PDF file of original Ebay sale 

             

Below is a transcript of the description on the original Ebay advert

BRING A BIT OF BLING TO YOUR GARAGE

80ft of 10mm diameter STAINLESS STEEL CLOSE LINKED CHAIN

This comes with 2 x Galvanised hooks.

This has been in my workshop for many years. Some links have been scuffed slightly when I have moved it around during the time I have had it 

As this chain weighs over 90kilo's it is for collection only from Glenfield Leicester. (LE3)

Just think yours could be the garage/workshop/atomic bunker that people will be talking about.

The garage next door may tow in cars with an old rusty steel chain, but not you. If you bid and win on this shiny sparkling chain people will point, people will notice. "Hey there's a man who tows with style, I must get him to tow my cars". This could be the best investment you make this year. Forget the £3k tuning equipment, the new car lift, buy this instead you know it makes good financial sense. I had thought of starting up my own garage just so I could use this chain it looks that good.  

How many garages spend £50k on a state of the art recovery truck. Get it airsprayed and have every nut, bolt, and fixture chromed, and then let themselves down by using a rusty length of recovery chain. Bid now, you know it makes sense.

Let us not forget that special breed of person 'The Land Rover Owner'. You have just spent thousands of pounds on Mud tyres, Snorkel, Winch, Bull bar, Bellypans and diff locks. You have got the roof rack, seat covers and a 'burn your eyeballs out at a 1000 yards bank of spots. What else is there to buy? What would add that finishing touch, the cherry on the cake? mmmmmmmmmmmm. Well look no further you have found it. My chain. Imagine a length of this chain wrapped around your bull bar or swinging from the roof rack. AWSOME don't you think? Bid now, be a winner, be a trend setter.

Ladies, what about buying this chain for your Landrover loving hubbies for Christmas. Think how their eyes would sparkle when they opened up the present on Christmas morning. OK, it would take a fair bit of wrapping paper and Santa may moan at the weight (He could do with loosing a few pounds anyway) but just think of the pride you will have at the next Landrover club off road day when everyone will ask. "Where did you get that wonderful chain from"? and he will say, "My wonderful caring wife/girl/boy friend gave it to me as a present. Bid now, show him you love him/her/it.

The reason for this sale is told below

We live in a close of twelve houses, our hovel being at the “Mouth” of the close, at its junction with main road. The gentleman on the other side of the close was our neighbourhood watch coordinator who, after many years of dedicated service, twitching nets and curtains and being nosey decided to give it up. This was firstly, due to his age and secondly, because the window cleaner was committed to the local sanatorium two years ago, his windows being so grimy his view was severely impeded.

The reason the window cleaner ended up in the loony bin was that he had a bad experience whilst up his ladders cleaning our windows. He was unfortunate enough to clean our bedroom window when my wife ‘The blimp’ was putting on her corsets. You have heard of the expression. ‘You cannot get a quart into a pint pot’ well in this case you can, or to be more explicit, the wife can. We do not talk here of the standard corset for overweight ladies but the super corset, the corset containing titanium rods, carbon fibre and the material used as arrester wire on aircraft carriers. 

The nearest analogy I can think of is the humble sleeping bag. Your sleeping bag comes in a pouch. You take the bag out, sleep under the stars and in the morning try to put the bag back in the pouch, it won’t fit. You end up squeezing the bag into the pouch more often than not ripping the pouch in the process. Now imagine you get the sleeping bags mixed up and you try to get a double sleeping bag into the single pouch. This is my wife putting on her corsets. This is what the window cleaner saw, and worse still she had her back to him, and worse still she was bending over. There are some things a man must never see. The robot in blade runner may have seen “Things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate”. But had he seen what the window cleaner saw he would not have been so chirpy. I would try to explain the contortions, sounds, and other sense stretching sensations that is my wife putting on corsets but the words have not yet been invented. I can though explain what taking it off is like. It’s like a 20 man life raft being inflated in a very small room.

 

And this is where he story really starts

It was during one of my Little Methane Megaphones rants about crime and criminals along the usual lines of ‘If I had my way they would all be castrated’ and her moaning about the ineffective neighbourhood watch that without thinking I said

 “Well why don’t you do it then?”

This was another classic case of ‘The moving finger’. As soon as I said it I regretted it. In the silence I could hear her brain working, cogs whirring, gears meshing, cobwebs splitting. After about a millisecond she agreed and in a few days had put her name forward to the committee.

 I should have known what would happen. Last year my dearest was asked to look after the local after school infant cub and brownie group whilst the leader was in hospital with a bad case of Rangoon Crut. It took her just four weeks to turn them into a radical infant freedom cell, causing havoc and mayhem, demanding McDonalds for school dinners and four  hour play times. Also that the head teacher of the local infant school be hanged from the school gates for being such a sour puss. It all came to an end in the second week when they staged a sit in demanding that all students have X boxes and four hours a day X box time on Call of Duty. It took a squad of riot police and several canisters of CS gas to quell the unrest and bring the “sit in” to a close. This unrest was put down to bad drinking water. My wife, Glenfields very own  Che Guevara put it down to bad parenting. I put it down to the wife.

 

 

Now she was being asked to ensure the safety and well being of twelve houses and their occupants. Scary, very scary.

As there were no other candidates my dearest got the job.

All went well at first, and it seemed my fears were ungrounded. She handed out leaflets and invisible marker pens, passing on any warnings of scroat activity in the area. The alarm bells should have rung when she started security checks on all properties in (as she put it) “her patch”. Clip board in hand she did a full inspection and noted down all the “weak” spots and “ingress” points with lots of mentions of red zones and blue zones. My cellar workroom was taken over as “HQ Bunker one”, and before long maps and charts adorned the walls. One benefit was that my wife bought one of those army cots and insisted she sleep in the “nerve center” in case of emergency. Things were definitely going from bad to worse, although I did have the bonus of quiet nights with her sleeping downstairs.

 It was on a Saturday trip to Nottingham, and Anchor Supplies, (these are suppliers of army surplus stock), that I knew we were in trouble. The reason for the trip was to get some work clothes for me and the lad. She spotted a lift up barrier, one of those red and white painted poles seen at border crossings. It had a sentry box attached with machine gun slits and razor wire. As the company needed the space my wife got the lot plus a Russian Generals uniform for £50.

And so within two days the mouth of the close had its own border crossing complete with chains across the pavement to stop cyclists and  any terrorist hoody bomber type people who could creep around the barrier.

 My wife in full uniform stood guard. I was so proud of her as she paced impressively up and down her wooden leg making a reassuring thump on the pavement as she did a smart about turn.

 Sunday morning came and all was quiet on the Foggydave front. This though changed when Mr. Crutch from No 6  wanted to drive to church with his  wife.  Upon arriving at the barrier he started to press his horn. My uniformed one studiously ignored him. On seeing this Mr. C got out of his car and pushed the barrier up, but not far enough because as got back into his car and moved forward the barrier come crashing down upon the bonnet of his Jag, fury gripped Mr. C and with a roar of his V12 he forced his car under the bar which bounced and jarred across the roof clattering onto his boot as he sped out of the close only to collide with a police car which had slowed down to see what all the commotion as about. After cautioning Mr. C and his wife they approached my uniformed one, asking her what the **++** she thought she was doing. My wife pointing to the “unadopted” sign under the close name plate told the police they had no jurisdiction, but offered them a cup of tea.

All went well for a few weeks.

Having a security barrier at the top of the close gave the residents a real feeling of security. Had it stopped at just being a barrier then I think all would have been ok, but deep in the “bunker” my wife was making plans to “contain and secure” the perimeter. In English this meant putting a razor wire fence at the end of every ones back garden along with booby traps and flood lights. She had also recruited some of the occupants into her “Home Guard” and they strutted around the close yelling at people if doors or windows were left open or car doors unlocked. The final straw came when she tried to invoke a curfew whereby all homes would be locked by nine pm.

A meeting was held with all the residents and it was decided that the security situation although very reassuring was beyond control and should be abandoned. I think my wife was secretly pleased as she was missing most of her soaps on television. Also the tight fit of the uniform was causing a lot of irritation under the arms and in the gusset area. Dictatorship was ok but it was hard work and long hours.

And so the security system was dismantled. The barrier was so badly damaged by Mr. C that it was only good for scrap. I did though put a door on the sentry box and am using it as an outside loo.

 This just leaves the chain, to sell.

For some reason my beloved asked if she could keep the cellar as she had spent a lot of time putting up the camouflage wall paper. I sometimes hear her at night, talking into an imitation radio, sounding just like Monty as she plans and executes invasions of Nottingham and Birmingham. Sending “her boys” out on impossible missions. I am though getting slightly worried as she is growing a small moustache and slicking down her hair. She finds that with a wooden leg the “clicking” of heels is out of the question, but is practicing the “Goose step” looking somewhat like John Cleese on a bad leg day. I would at this time ask readers to email in and suggest other uses for the chain but I really don’t want to know what Delores of Soho would use it for.
 

I can guess.

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My wife is still the Neighbourhood watch representative and a few weeks ago Glenfield was designated a Smartwater area.

One of the problems the police face is that when they recover what they think are stolen items they cannot prove they were stolen because they do not know to whom they belonged to in the first place.

Smartwater - This clever solution boasts a DNA-like chemical code, so when the water is scanned with an ultra violet light it gives a unique code Number for that particular house. Very clever. Now this stuff comes in a little bottle with applicator. Dabs of smart water are put on household items so that should they be stolen and recovered by the police they would know to whom the articles belonged.

We were given a bottle to try out.

My dearest put a dab on each individual brick on the house. Who I ask you is going to steal a house. Mind you one corner of the house is in imminent danger of collapse due to the lack of bricks. These have not been stolen but are on the lounge floor having been thrown through the window by the angry mob of local parishioners who turn up most weekends armed with pitchforks and burning fire brands. Chanting “burn burn burn”, apart from one dyslexic who chants “nrub brun bunr”. We are used to this and take little notice.

She even put a dab on the lads forehead which burned his skin the results of which look like an Indian Bindi.** I am so glad she did not put any on herself . One of my day dreams is that she gets hit over the head and suffers permanent memory loss and cannot find her way home,  giving us all a break.

**A few years ago the wife thought it was such a good idea when the police started asking people to stamp  and etch their postcode onto bikes etc. That she was going to tattoo our post code onto the lads forehead. The only reason it did not happen was that she broke the darning needle she uses for  picking her teeth. She was then  going to carve it in with a rusty pen knife but desisted for hygienic reasons as she may have cut herself when carving.

 

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

It’s the police sir, is this your wife?

No I do not know this woman honest guv.

Oh in that case we will put her in the sanatorium for the rest of her life. If only people would stamp their post code on their foreheads  this would not happen

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm peace at last.

Conversly I could be hit over the head, suffer memory loss and be put in a sanatorium.  Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm  peace at last. Whatever!!

 

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Just think if MGM had had a chain of such generous proportions and superior strength as the one I am selling King Kong would have remained chained up and the heroine Fay Wray, or for our younger readers, Anne Darrow, would not have suffered the apes bad breath and sweaty palms as he looked closely upon her beauty. Also the Empire state building would not have needed urgent re pointing .  A building job done by Ernie Zapowski self employed builder and Gerbil abuser, who would rather have spent the time with his wife. The fact he was away from the marital bed meant that Mrs Freda Zapowski did not conceive and Ernie Zapowski Junior, would not invent the perpetual motion machine that would have alleviated global warming at a stroke. It did though give the Gerbils a much needed rest.

I tell this story to show that even though you think you may not need this chain at this time, does not mean that you may not have need of its services later on. Consider the possible (at the moment not known) ramifications on humanity should you fail to bid. I also tell it to make you aware that Gerbil abuse is not just an urban myth.

Even now your next door neighbour may be planning a trip with his beautiful wife to the deepest jungles of Africa in search of a giant something or other that may need restraining, when it finds its love for his lovely wife cannot be consummated. You will be there to save the day AND make a big profit.

Imagine ……. A mighty roar echoed through the streets as people fled the slathering monsters terrible wrath. It seemed as though nothing could stop it satiating its terrible thirst for retribution and blood, human blood, as it crammed innocent bodies into its gore soaked maw. ………. But what is this? ……. Someone runs towards this monster and surely to his pain wracked end. …. He is carrying a long sparkling chain ……. He speaks. …… My name is (insert your name here, either your proper one or a hero type name)  

“I will manacle the beast with this wonderful chain auctioned by *Foggydave on Ebay, that I, in my wisdom bought at a really good price.”

Rushing forward he whirled the chain around his head and lassoed the beast, bringing it crashing to the ground **impaling itself on a lamp post as it fell. Our hero stood upon the chest of this once mighty animal, chain held aloft as he was cheered and feted for the hero he was.

This wise man had saved humanity and for his reward he had the choice of many beautiful (insert ‘woman’ ‘men’ or whatever floats your boat). And lived the rest his life in luxury and style. But always at his side, just in case was ‘The Chain.’ The chain you see on the picture above.

 

Bid now, you know it makes sense. I also think you will stand more chance of meeting and conquering a giant monster than you have of winning the lottery.

 

* Thanks for the mention.

**An alternative ending for animal rights activists would be that it was knocked unconscious and sent to exile on the Isle of Wight.

 

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Picture this. …. Dawn breaks on another normal day, but not this one. Oh no this particular morning it was not the wife kicking you in the ribs that woke you but a weird eerie sound much beloved of composers in old Sci Fi movies incorporating the Theremin. You open the front door to be greeted by an alien flying saucer its owner a ten eyed quadrupedic  glypto monster trying to tether the floating saucer to the lamp post outside your house. Because it is using its equivalent of duck tape it is not succeeding and minute by minute getting angrier and going a sort of pink ochre colour. You see the problem. You hurry to your shed and get the chain you had the forethought to buy. You  rush out into the street. You speak to the alien.

“I (insert your name here)  will manacle your flying saucer with this wonderful chain auctioned by Foggydave* on Ebay, that I, in my wisdom bought at a really good price.”

 

Alien--   “**&&^^$$$$$    ***££    ¥¥§««¡¡°°°”  ( Trans “I am only staying two hours, how much, earth blob thing”? )

 

(Insert your name) --“£2 per hour to you glypto mess”

 

Alien -- *$$£*   *%%^^” “” &&* ( Trans “OK as long as you clean the windscreen and fill the washer bottles”)

 

 (Insert your name) -- “No problem”

 

Alien -- “££$$  ^^^^^ $$*&^%$ ()&*%£$%  &^%$£% ***^%£$  *&^%!!! )))*%^$£”£&” %%$ &&^ (((((     ))) (Trans  “Thanks”)

 

And so you tether it to the lamp post. The Alien is on his mobile. Then more saucers arrive, because you bought a lot of chain you can tether them all up to the lamp post.

Next thing you know your street is the main stop over point for anyone travelling to the Orion  arm outer quadrant 6th vector of the milky way.

Next you get a catering van and serve hot meals and large mugs of tea. Why stop there? Open an intergalactic transport café.

In the not too distant future you may open a chain of  ‘Big (insert your first name here)s. Feeding the Galaxy’ Restaurants on every route from the hub to the outer rim.

 

Bid now you know it makes sense

 

 

* Thanks again for the mention.

** A bit like Gypsy travellers, one arrives, finds a spot, rings his mates and soon you have a whole lay by full of  people in caravans offering to tarmac your drive and cut your trees.

 

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 I have just been away for a few days. I took my computer which did a nasty on me and broke down. Well would not turn on. I am at home and type this on my old Compaq M300 which I keep for emergencies. I am sure my wife put a hex on the one I took; it was perfectly ok when we left.

Mind you I should have seen it coming. We went caravanning last weekend and my dearest was rather miffed that I take my computer everywhere and could not live without it for a day.

 

“Im fed up with you bringing that thing everywhere you go, you can’t live without it even for a day”

She said as she picked her nose (Part of her morning ablutions, to clean out every orifice, yes I do mean ‘every’ orifice).

I retorted.

“Why can’t I bring it. I bring you out into the beautiful countryside for you to relax. Well this is my relaxation. What more do you want”?

“I want us to be together, to do the things we used to, go on long walks, …………. Be young again.”

As she said this she leaned over and touched my knee. This would not have been so bad but I was wearing shorts. I have become immune to the many plagues and pestilences that from time to time afflict my wife, but there is still that chance she may have caught a new strain. Also our marriage has gone far beyond the casual touching of the knee. I could see where this was going, time to change the subject for that was a place of nightmares, a place I did not want to go.

I had to change the subject.

“Of course I can live without it. I bet you”

Why do I say these things? Have I not learnt anything during this constant conflict we call marriage.

“Aha we’ll see about that”

That is when she went off in a huff to lurk about the other caravans and talk to other caravan owners about  barbecues, solar panels and of course the perennial problems with the Elsan point.(where you empty the loo).

So that  is the reason I was without my computer for 53 hours and 14 minutes. I could have counted the seconds but that would have been silly wouldn’t it? I now know how drug addicts feel when they go on ‘Cold Turkey’ or when an alchoholic goes without a drink.

 I would not mind but there is no help out there. Had I been a drug addict, alcoholic, or giving up smoking there would be telephone help lines, the Samaritans, even the church, but no. There was no help.

Why not?

I thing I may start a help line for distressed computer users, who at the end of their tether, either through having no computer or having an insoluble problem, can contact and receive soothing words and sage advice.

I actually had to write with one of those old fashioned things, …….. I think they call it a pencil on wait for it ……. Paper, yes real paper. And scissors. …… The scissors were for cutting and pasting, only this was cutting and sellotaping. How did authors of old do it before word processors and computers?  

-----------------------------------------------

 

I have a small computer type poem

 

On the QWERTY keyboard of life.

By Foggydave

 

There are only the letters you type with.

On the QWERTY keyboard of life.

A missed key can mean the difference

Between happiness or strife

 

When you press the key be very sure

The letter is what you want

On the keyboard of life there is no delete

No erasing or changing of font

 

Does it matter if the spacing

Of the words is a little big

Life is never going to be perfect

It will be always be WYSIWYG

 

 -----------------------------------------------

 

Delores of Soho has contacted me to suggest a different category to sell this chain in. A category I find a little hard to believe.Although strangely fascinating. Why would someone want to be wrapped in this chain,

 

 

  ----------------------------------------------

 

If Englebert Humpedinkle had had a chain like mine wrapped around him when he sang Please Release Me, it would have been a smash hit.

 

It was, and he did it without your chain.

 

 I talk here not of Gerry Dorsey aka Englebert Humperdinkle who by the way was a Leicester lad, but of one who came before him. Englebert Humperdinkle aka Arthur Fiddler well known entrepreneur and vaudeville artiste who sang the same song without the shirt collars and flares. Sad, very sad.

 

What’s so sad about it? 

 

Had he had my chain around him on stage it may have protected him when an out of control  Woolly Mammoth attacked him.

 

They don’t exist

 

Oh it happened a long time ago.  His funeral was a sort of ‘Flat Pack’ affair, they just kept folding until he fitted the coffin.

 

How would the chain have saved him?

 

Just offstage in the wings his wife and her lover were doing unspeakable things inside a Woolly Mammoth pantomime costume

 

What things?

 

I cannot tell you they were unspeakable. Anyway he saw them, and she had seen he had seen them, panicked, and charged across the stage. He tripped and fell and the Woolly Mammoth landed on top of him.

 

So how did he die?

 

His wife was rather big.

 

A bit like yours then?

 

Why did you say that in a whisper?

 

Right then so how would a chain have saved him?

 

His wife had a phobia about chains. It comes from her first marriage to an escapologist.

 

Houdini?

 

No his name was John. Who's is this Dini of whom you speak?

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Thankyou for reading the story. If you would like to read more about the adventures of my wife etc just go to my web site www. Foggydave.co.uk

 

Due to holiays and other commitments I will not be listing another item until the end of September.

 

All the best Foggydave.

 

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The chain sold to a Northern gentleman from Middlesbrough who knows a good chain when he sees it. We were caravanning when he came to collect it, which was maybe the best thing as my dearest has a thing for Northern chappies and flat caps.

Copyright © David B Forrester

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