Fuduppa fuduppa fuduppa fuduppa fuduppa
I tilted my head to the side. An odd noise was coming from my car as I drove down a narrow street toward the beer shop.
In fact, I noticed that the car had started bobbing up and down as if I were riding a three-legged horse at full gallop.
Fenrir's BALLS?!
I yelled as the FUDUPPA FUDDUPPA FUDDUPPA noise grew louder and the car frantically heaved up and down like a cheap hooker trying to get the job done before the next client arrived.
There was definitely something squiffy going on. I pulled into the side of the road and killed the engine.
Right you, you motherfucking ball munching bastart, what's going on?
I gave the car a kick as I hauled myself out of the seat so that it knew who was boss. I didn't want it galloping away and leaving me at the side of the road.
Oh. Oh bugger.
At the roadside, I could see what the problem was. My left front tyre was flat as a pancake and also looked a bit ripped as if it were a condom David Banner had been wearing before he stubbed his toe and went HULK MAD.
I chuckled. Fucking flat tyre, I had never had one before but there was a spare in the boot. I would have this torn old thing off in no time and the spare on.
Fucking doddle.
I sashayed confidently to the back of the car and yanked at the covering in the boot that concealed the spare tyre.
Ha, there it was. Nestled in its own special bat cave in the boot.
Something twisted in my stomach.
It was quite spectacularly flat. The rubber looked all perished like an old woman's flange that had been left out in the sun too long.
My knees buckled slightly.
I had failed.
I had failed a man test. All men should be able to start a fire, tie a Trucker's Hitch, nod their chin at girls in a sexy way without looking like a confused duck and also be able to change a tyre.
It was the law.
And here I was, unable to fulfil one of the sacred tenets.
There was nothing for it. I would have to phone a real man to come and help me.
With a burning sense of shame, I pulled my phone out and through a haze of fail tears tapped away at the number of the breakdown company.
Alright my son? What's the problem then, you never changed a tyre?
The breakdown man had arrived in a gigantic truck with powerful lights shining out from every orifice like the spaceship from ET.
He was a big and burly fellow who looked like he should have been menacing goats from under a bridge rather than rescuing damsels in distress such as I.
Of course I have fucking changed a tyre, ha!
I laughed slightly manically as I lied about my tyre-changing prowess.
I waved what I hoped was a gnarly man fist at the spare in the boot.
It's flat, so I was kinda fucked.
I doled out as big a testosterone-laden smile as I could and hoped that I wouldn't be found wanting.
Space-Troll looked at the spare tyre, then at me, then at the spare tyre again before finally turning to me once more with a quizzical stare.
Aye, it looks fucked all right. You not got any duct tape?
His eyes bored into me, weighing me with their heavy gaze.
My arse felt as if my stomach had thrown a cannonball at it and my insides lurched to and fro like a bouncy castle at a kids' party.
OMG, duct tape? Duct tape? Of course?! Duct tape fixes everything? I could have fixed the spare with duct tape somehow and gained my man credentials back.
I... Erm...
But I had no duct tape with me.
I realised that the man game I had winged for so long was over. The game was truly a bogey.
Wehhhhhhh weh wehhhhhh! Only kiddin mate, you cannae fucking duct tape a tyre!
He chuckled in a way that most likely made women swoon. Bleakly I remembered when I had been able to chuckle like that.
Not now.
I will get that fixed in two jiffs!
He headed back to his van and shortly returned with all manner of large metal things covered in manly oil and grime.
Friday eh? Havin a beer tonight?
He grunted as he heaved at my car's nethers.
Aye, I might have one or two...
I shook my head in disgust.
One or two million more like.
