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PREFACE 

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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 25  MY GUITAR AND AMP

  THE WIFE WONT LET ME SELL IT

My dearest becomes Meatloaf, Alice Cooper and Garry Glitter all at the same time

 

 

The chain is there for a good reason

Two years ago my son, presumably dreaming of big money, drugs and loose women decided to buy an electric guitar and amplifier. After a year during which we and the neighbours suffered many headaches he decided that even the most mediocre of rock stars has at least some talent. He had not, so discarded it saying it was the guitars fault, and had we bought a genuine Fender costing thousands he would now be a Brian May.

 Like so many of his projects and short lived fancies it was laid to one side and forgotten. We still have a pony in the garden shed from the time he wanted to train as a cowboy. My wife who wanted to bond with the boy had been trying to learn the guitar with him and was, despite her over developed muscley forearms and hands, doing rather well, so she took up the challenge and continued to learn to play. Dreaming of money, drugs and loose men she got together with some aging rockers from the whist club and formed a group.
They rented a small room in the village hall to practice in but due to the noise and vibrations the plaster was cracking off, windows were coming loose, and walls were in danger of collapsing. The group were kicked out and so used an old barn miles from any where with a petrol generator for power. Being very remote no one heard or saw them during these practice sessions. The only clue was that a herd of cows in the vicinity started giving curdled milk; at one time they produced cream cheese. These curious events and the band playing were not linked, a fact we would come to regret.
One morning last April my wife brimming with excitement told me that the band had been invited by the vicar to play a “gig” at the summer fete. He obviously equated old people and guitars with Val Doonican, rocking chairs and silly jumpers. (How wrong he was).
My wife is never one to do things on a small scale, she herself is a rather large scale, in all aspects from her personality to her foot (singular…the other is a wooden copy) She immediately started to arrange light and sound systems, and even some fireworks which I thought at the time would be sparklers for the old dears at the front to wave during sing-along time, (wrong).
The bands preparations went on in secrecy so that we would all be surprised when the curtain went up. (We were and the curtain went up but not in the way we envisaged).
The day of the fete finally arrived. My dearest always enters the cake competition as it is the only time she gets to bake in a big army catering sort of way. She never wins; in fact the judges stay well away from any of her creations as they have a tendency to cause damage either by exploding, falling over, or just causing tables to collapse under the strain. One year a judge actually swallowed one of her angel cakes he was immediately  rushed off to hospital by air ambulance with extreme stomach pains and a mighty wind problem( from both ends). He was in intensive care whilst the offending cake passed through his system. It emerged three days later exactly as it went in, only slightly tarnished by gastric acids etc.    As   per normal Mr. Ostlethorpe the hill farmer gave a sheep herding demonstration and as per normal he used Roger, an aging sheepdog well past his best. What Mr. “O” did not know was that Roger was in the barn where my little electric enema was practicing with the band and was now a profoundly deaf canine. Off went the sheep; off went Roger in hot pursuit oblivious to the frantic whistling of his owner telling him to heel. Roger trained to obey these sound signals was intent on chasing sheep in his strangely quiet world,

Roger in his strangely quiet world

We imbue animals with human characteristics and would assume the dog would know it was deaf, but a dog has no conception of “self” to that degree, the absence of sound was just that, an absence. The dog was unaware of his inability to hear the whistles and so could not adjust his behaviour accordingly and look for other signs.
Mr. Ostlethorpe Unable to grasp this concept and with mounting frustration started to yell and scream, as his flock and dog disappeared into the tea tent scattering old ladies and hand bags as the sheep hurtled through to emerge the other side draped in table cloths and fancy cake decorations. Luckily as they emerged my wife, arms waving wildly, stopped them in their tracks; here was something scarier to the sheep than the dog. (My wife has a way with animals, be it a charging bull elephant or a gerbil they all seem to recognize her as the alpha, top dog, the Capo etc, their instincts tell them quite rightly to be afraid, very afraid.) I think it’s something to do with her open pore problem and associated odours plus her great weight and presence. The sheep had to make a decision, to either stand and face this unknown but very awful threat when every sense said flee, or turn and face the dog that generations of breeding told them to fear. They did what most animals including humans would do in this insoluble situation and froze as a great mound of sheep droppings appeared.
There is an old joke about the trainee lion tamer given a whip and a chair and told to enter the cage. He asked what to do if the whip did not hold back the lions and was told to use the chair and if that failed to throw the pile of dung that would be behind him, at the lions. When the trainee said how do I know if the dung will be there the answer was there will definitely be some there.

Sheep do not need a leader they just need someone to copy, their minds are a blank, when one makes an action they all follow, not because it’s the best thing to do but because they can think of nothing better. One of the sheep looked up, the flock taking this que as one bounded up the sloping side of the marquee and stood milling around on the roof which started sagging dangerously with their weight. The unfortunate people inside just recovering from the initial stampede looked up in horror as the roof of the tent slowly sank upon them. The lucky ones chose to escape through the door guarded by the dog which just nipped at their ankles, the unlucky ones escaped through the other opening and faced a mound of fresh sheep droppings through which they had to wade to safety. Fortuitously the sides of the tent stayed up and formed a sheep pen to await the sweating and swearing Mr. Ostlethorpe. Roger just sat there in his silent capsule of time waiting for a whistle he would never hear again. A few weeks later Roger was savaged to death by an avenging flock of sheep that crept up behind him.
I digress, back to the reason for the sale.
The time had arrived for the band to perform. The “warm up” group was a string quartet who had played various tunes, lulling a lot of the audience into a stupor or sleep; most of them were in the chairs to rest aching feet and have a nap, not appreciating that four musicians who had spent a lifetime honing their skills to the n,th degree had just played the best Mozart they would ever hear. They duly finished and left the stage to a smattering of claps, “well done,s, and a “well held sir” from an aged gentleman rudely awoken by the clapping.
The curtains supported by a wooden frame made by the woodwork night school closed on a raft of straw bales with plywood on top which was the stage. After fifteen minutes during which there was a lot of banging and curses. The curtains opened to reveal a rock group consisting of three musicians in various stages of decrepidity, the worse being the bass guitarist who was supported by a zimmer frame, colostomy bag hanging from the handles. Behind and dwarfing them was a huge bank of amplifiers twenty foot high and spanning the width of the stage giving a whopping 20,000 watts of power.
My dearest ever one for the big entrance had placed a trampoline just off stage onto which she now jumped from a fifteen foot ladder. At the same time she pressed the switch that would unleash a fireworks display just in front of the stage. What the audience saw of this was my wife a cross between Meatloaf, Alice Cooper, and Gary Glitter flying through the air firmly holding a guitar, performing a scissor kick, accompanied by a long Comanche war scream. Bright explosions and sparks erupted from the front of the stage. Whilst ten foot in the air and falling fast she bought the plectrum down with the full force of her twenty inch biceps across the strings. What she meant to play was A minor chord but the profuse sweating had made her hand slip and barred on the wrong fret, the chord she actually played was the original lost one and we were about to find out why people kept on loosing it. The resulting pulse of sound started deep within the bowels of the bass amps, and travelled with increasing speed and ferocity to emerge as a wall of sound, but not just any sound, this was a throbbing living tangible thing, it breathed, it had life, and it was hungry. For too long it had laid dormant slowly building up energy, waiting for the gateway to this dimension.
The sound travelled out and hit the hot sparks from the fireworks, fanning them into the curtains and bales of hay which immediately burst into flames consuming the stage in a mighty conflagration. The four players pushed as if by an invisible hand were thrown in front of the pressure wave and with the audience were scattered as so many dead leaves on a stormy Autumn morning. The weakened sound travelled out in a great arc slowly diminishing until two miles away much to its own surprise it died out, as in so many cases where anticipation is greater than the act it had prematurely spent itself, instead of feeding and getting stronger it had lost control and dissipated. Much the same way as young man on his first date.
A scene of utter devastation was revealed when the debris had settled and the smoke cleared. A tangle of blue rinses, tweed and Burberry. Only one** person was seriously injured the rest had just grazes and bruises. My wife, soot blackened and charred from head to toe stood in a daze not sure what had happened but very certain that she did not want to repeat the experience.
The guitar miraculously escaped any damage and was found on its stand in the middle of the next field just sitting there waiting in anticipation for someone to strike the strings, it seemed to be smiling a deep satisfied smile of one satiated, all it needed was for it to be smoking a cigarette.

The only person to remain unscathed was my next door neighbour who the previous week had joined the strap it down club, and had strapped himself to a tractor and strapped the tractor to the ground,**** oh you doubting Thomas’s

The guitar now sits in the corner of the box room the strings gently vibrating in tune with nature, waiting, watching, very tense and highly strung. That is the reason it is chained. We were going to sell it on ebay but my wife says that it says no, its mission is incomplete. It is resting building up its strength. Lets just hope the chains hold when it decides its time has come.

** The one person to be injured was Mr. Yakamoto a follower of Zen who had based his whole life on trying to solve the question “Does a smaller sound travel faster than a loud one? Through his Zen teachings and the proverb 'The quieter you become the more you can hear.' He had come to the conclusion that it did, and so over the years had shut his mind to any sound louder than a soft sigh. When during the debacle someone yelled at him to duck he did not hear, consequently Mr. Puggs prize bull being blown at great speed across the field landed on top of Mr. Yakamoto breaking his leg.

**** See story 13 Selling Ratchet Straps.

 

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Copyright © David B Forrester 2008