My mate is a clever bloke. The other day he goes out for a bit of shopping at ASDA. He pulls into the car park and, being a stickler for the old Lockdown Rules, digs out a half-bottle of gin from the glove box, scrubs his hands with it to kill the germs or at least get them pissed so they fall asleep, and off he goes into the shop.
If someone gets too close, he coughs really loud. A couple of times he’s shoved a shopping trolly up their arse. No warning, it doesn’t matter who you are. Rules is rules.
Sausages. He loves his sausage, so he does.
He got into a bit of a state over which ones to go for as there’s twenty different varieties on the shelves. He narrows it down to two different packs and decides he could really do with some advice. So, he looks up the number of the Audi Dealership on his Nokia. After all, Vorsprung Durch Technik has got to mean they know stuff about stuff. They’re the experts, right? He gives them a call; tells them his problem and there’s talk to and fro about oil and grease and such and in the end, he goes for the ones in the red pack. He gets them home, cooks them up and settles down for a lovely dinner of sausage, mash and mushy-peas.
Trouble is, they’re crap, the sausages. Horrible!
He picks up the phone and calls the experts at the Royal Institute for British Architects and tells them that the buggers at Audi gave him a bum steer, the sausages they told him to buy were rubbish, and what they gonna do about it! They pass him on to an expert Dentist in London who tells him they’ve had this kind of trouble with Audi before and suggests he gets in touch with his MP, which he does. The MP says he must give his sausages to the dog which, she says, is the least he can do for the poor starving children in Africa and Luton.
She tells him, all hifalutin like, it happens all the time and that’s why the Government never, ever, listens to experts. Never, she said.
True story, that.
© Rivenrod 2021
Pictures: Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona