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  • #16

    Superglue Fascist Episode 3

    Suffolk Constabulary, Martlesham, Suffolk


    The Road Vehicles (Construction and Use) (Amendment) (No. 4) Regulations 2003
    Incident 1473/9TU 14th March 2011

    Dear Mr Jingogunner,

    The Chief Constable has decided not to take any further action in respect of the above incident on the 14th of March 2011. Suffolk Constabulary advise that in future if an emergency arises you must not attempt to drive a motor vehicle because you might not be exempted under Section 5 Subsection 2 of the Road Vehicles (Construction and Use) (Amendment) (No.4) Regulations 2003 as you were in this case.

    Yours Sincerely

    S Timms, Inspector, Road traffic Unit
    On Behalf of the Chief Constable

    I just want to assure everyone that I did indeed carefully consider my situation, including important details like the law, the safety and well-being of the motoring public and of course, what I thought a sensible, mature, aviationarily cautious and unbold option would be. With such a serious loss of lift and planar function to my right wing, it seemed foolhardy to attempt to drive myself to the hospital. I decided the hospital would be the best place in case surgery was needed to separate hand, phone and fingers. Dr Patel's receptionist would only advise me to contact the hospital. I was able to use the landline for this and it only took 17 minutes to get to speak to a nurse who affirmed that I must go to the hospital and that they currently had a waiting list of about two hours. "But its really starting to sting and my whole arm is shaking" I whined pathetically, as I'm sure Mr Brianw will advise is sometimes the case with hurt, confused punters.
    "Are you losing blood , having difficulty breathing or fear that you might become unconscious?" she asked.
    "Well, um, no, not really, but my whole arm is shaking and my hand is superglued to my ear and the blood is running down to my elbow and my hand is going numb."
    "Are you elderly, infirm or disabled?" she went on relentlessly, as if she was reading from a list although I would put money down that it was an off-by-heart drill.
    Jasper would have answered in the affirmative, but I said: "No."
    Then you must get to the hospital yourself and wait." In the second or two before she rang off abruptly, I could hear muffled shouting, banging and splintering sounds. I wondered if the casualty department would still be intact by the time I got there, whether enough orange and grey plastic quasi-chairs remained whole for the seating of a two-hour long queue of hurt people. I wondered how many drunk and drugged there would be, how many singers, poets, performers and other societally relevant apparitions would be doing their thing. Ipswich Hospital on a Monday afternoon? Surely not many. Not like a hospital in say, New York or New Dheli or any other third world hospital. I mean, would there be that much actual difference experientially if you were in a hospital in Karachi, say, compared to a hospital in any large American or European city?

    I rang Ipswich Taxis. Sorry, big convention at the Holiday Inn, nothing free for 'at least an hour.'
    I tried other taxi firms with strong Suffolk accents and they were all busy. I began to panic, but then calmed myself with positive focusing, regular breathing and rational adjustments, just like Mr AFTS-Crash and other icons of aviationarily exemplary comportment, like Biggles, for instance. What would Biggles have done, how would Biggles respond to this or any other challenge? I went and got a couple of large towels and some gaffer tape and fashioned myself a sort of sling to stop the trembling. I lay accross the sofa in the conservatory with my feet on the back rest and my head on piled-up cushions lower than the seat, so that the blood ran back into my hand. (Mrs J allows feet-up on the conservatory sofa but not on any of the others). Stayed with the breathing. Ran through the off-by-heart of neighbours and friends. Duane and Dave (civil partnership at No 41). No good, had quite unjustly and without evidence accused me of homophobia and of being a 'nasty bigot'. Mary and Tim at no 40. No car in drive. Possibly a car in the garage, worth a call later, but marked them 'last resort' on the list heavy smokers, politically raving. No 42, on the other side of mine, Harry and Grace, famous academics, completely impossible to understand a word they say. No car in drive but keen cyclists, wear their cycle-helmets in the shower and in bed, I heard. Marked them as 'possible'. No 43, directly opposite, Sue Barrett, famous drink-driver and would-be sex symbol. Always good for a laugh but Mrs J doesn't speak to her and gets tearful if I do.

    The thing is, you see, when I first bought this house I didn't of course know any of the neighbours and thus made an attempt to be friendly, polite, affable. For those Americans who are reading this, if you are not familiar with English custom, there is no big welcome from new neighbours in England, you just wave or say 'good morning' politely, by way of greeting and your relationship often does not progress beyond that, even after twenty years or more, like Mrs Ostler at No 15. I believe its much the same in other European countries. At that time Sue Barrett seemed friendly and chatty. Or really quite, or even very, friendly and chatty. As readers on this site are aware, Mr Jingogunner is fond of chat and affability, foolishly naive as this policy has often proven. Can't help it, its a personality trait, sometimes undesirable in an extreme form but don't knock it, when written to order it can pay quite decently. So I reciprocated. She was fond of tight shorts and low necks etc. Can't say I objected, but I didn't then realize how alcohol affects some people. If she'd been your regular, foul-breathed, slurring, fat old woman, I would have remained cold, but she was then, I guess, somehwere in her late thirties and had a flat belly. She did not slur then (although she did later, when I saw her really drunk). She had a Suffolk accent, rather than the Standard English common to all my other neighbours, but it was kind of soft, not rough and straight off the farm. I always think, if only Mrs J would wear tight shorts, she would look much better than Sue Barrett whose legs are very good but not quite up to the Mrs J standard.

    Sue would give me a wave as I entered or exited my driveway. If I saw her in the village shops or pub, she would invariably saunter over and engage me in conversation., yew same ter be settlin' in noycely, its a noyce area ter live, sim noyce people live ruined haiya, that kind of meaningless but friendly-enough small-talk. I don't often go to the pub because I dislike the effects of alcohol; it induces Dr Lecter so easily in myself and others, but I make an effort to socialise about once a month, just to keep up with gossip. Otherwise, things would have developed much more quickly.

    Then, one morning, several months after moving in at No 40, as I was eagerly awaiting the return of Mrs J from one of her visits to Shropshire where she likes to Betty Davis her in-laws about, the front chimes went off. When I opened the door, there was Sue Barrett. She was sitting on the large mat, with one leg tucked under her bottom and one knee bent above the foot, struggling to arise. She wore a tight tank-top type titty teaser and a short skirt. I could see her gold thong. Her thighs were wrinkle-free, smooth, tight and white. Yes. I looked. I know Biggles would have averted his gaze, but you can always trust old Jingogunner to be sensible about these things.
    ' He'p me up, darlin', she slurred.
    Guess what? Yep, you got it in one, probably spirits - I found out later she chain drinks neat vodka. Nobody warned me, of course, the English are too polite to be considerate and realistic.
    The postman was striding down my drive and up the steps to the front veranda. "Hey! Jungoginner!" he shouted enthusiatically. "What wit dis womans you doing, huh, you nirghty mens, you, Miss Jungoginner she smack you, hehehehehehehe".
    " Marcheck, do me a big favour, help me get this woman back to her house before Mrs J returns, she will be back any moment."
    "Hey! I late for post, now I must go, goodilucky, goodilucky, bye bye, I must go quick now so bye bye! Goodilucky!"
    Yes goodilucky bye bye Marcheck, you cretinous little Polish pratt.
    "Jingogunner, needasiddeown, lemme siddeown."
    I began struggling to get her back down the steps onto the driveway. She was resistant and vocal.
    "Lemme siddeown, why carni siddeowninnachair, wassamarra witcha?" She was struggling to get back in the house. She wasn't a big woman, but she was relentless as an advert and drunk. I stopped trying to drag her down the steps and she sagged against me. "You sich a noyce man" she gurgled, sliding her arms about me and pressing her tank-topped-titties against my shrinking abdomen.
    When it comes to drunks, give me an aggressive male anyday. They can be physically corrected as necessary, slapped down, kicked out. But a woman cannot be slapped. Women drunks are a nuisance. I removed her clinging arms and held her up by them as she tried to enfold me. Mrs J could arrive at any second. I must do something quick. I focused my thoughts, marshalled my resolve and steeled myself for a difficult twenty minutes or so. Just inside the front door was the hall, with several doors and two passageways leading from it. One of these passages led to the conservatory from which another door opened into the garage. Mrs Jingogunner had taken the main car to go to Shropshire. But the garage housed the second car, a small two-door hatchback. It was in my mind that I would introduce the good Sue Barrett to the rear of the hatchback; the seats were always kept down because it was used for shopping and running about, buying gardening supplies and stuff for my workshop. It was not possible, I thought, for a drunk to open the hatch from the inside. Once inserted, I would drive Sue over to her house, get her inside even if I had to pick her up bodily. Then, return rapidly to mine. The sign of a great commander and a true leader is the ability to think on ones feet, to quickly make a Command Decision which is appropriate and correct, ask any captain.

    So, I got her into the hall by simply allowing her to embrace me and lasciviously rub her body against mine. I wished this had been an arousing experience, but it was not. I was focusing all my energy on controlling my anger and confusion while still flying the aircraft. I even got her into the passgeway leading to the conservatory.

    But then she started to take her clothes off.

    - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
    Unfortunately, I have to return to some other work that pays better than this, so that is all for Episode Three. Episode Four will appear within the next couple of days or so. Since every word of this story is comepletely true, all I have to do is type away from memory. Its great. I wish it was always like that; I often have to spend ages researching dry factual data. But stay tuned, The Facist Superglue of Mr Jingogunner will resume shortly. Meanwhile you might like to speculate, even before the investigation is complete, did she take everything off? Did he get to hospital and why might he have been charged under the 2003 Amendment? How do they actually separate flesh from glue? (please kindly don't spoil it by telling them, Mr Brianw) Stay tuned!


    • #17
      Thoroughly enjoying this sir.


      • #18
        Thank you

        Originally posted by Deadstick View Post
        Thoroughly enjoying this sir.
        Thank you very much indeed for your encouragement, Mr Deadstick. I am so deeply pleased if my attempts at humourous interaction have engaged people's interest. I had not intended to develop such a story, but now I can't stop.


        • #19
          ........... "when it comes to drunks, give me an aggressive male anyday" ....

          Well, hello, er, new in town sailor?

          Live, from a grassy knoll somewhere near you.


          • #20
            Superglue Fascist Episode 4

            I had opened the door into the little room between the conservatory and the garage which we call the 'laundry' (even though the washing machine it once contained has long since departed for the untility room next to the kitchen) in readines for struggling through it with an uncooperative drunk. When I turned round, there she was stepping out of her gold lame thong; her shorts already upon the floor. "How 'bowt some lovin', darlin?" she was saying coquettishly, " c'mon, jist gimme sim lovin."
            " Sue," I pleaded, desperate now, "Please, put you clothes back on, I do not want sex with you." But no, she was starting to work on the titty teaser. Not that I'd have minded seeing them, its just that after the already nude nubile nub between her thighs, they were simply an anitclimax. I always find it so irritating that I get mobbed by female drunks, but whenever, prior to meeting Mrs J and being informed that I was to marry her, I had attempted to engage good-looking women with apt narrative, they had always stood off, as if I was a mental patient. Even after Mrs J had brought permanent satisfaction and delight, female drunks continued to assail me another reason why I avoid pubs and bars. Gritting my teeth, I put my arms around her, clasped my hands firmly together in the small of her back, and began to lift her bodily into the laundry. She struggled and writhed, beginning to get angry, shouting "Pumeedeown Pumeedeown Pumeedeown!" She grabbed onto the door post with one hand, so I let go of her completely, used both hands to pry open her drunk's deathgrip, and then grabbed her wrists and began to haul her through the laundry and into the garage. As we got into the garge itself and up to the hatchback, I heard the crunch of tires on the parking circle. Mrs Jingogunner.

            It was a bit like when you reach V1, you must continue or crash. Out of time, of space, of grace, between rock and hard place. Mrs Jingogunner was not prone to jealously; she had no need. But she had returned to find me, or soon would, with a nude- from-the-waist-down Sue Barrett. I resolved that Sue must be confined to the hatchback, that I must continue until a postive rate was established. When I let go of one hand to pop open the hatch prior to Barrett insertion, she wrenched herself free and ran back towards the conservatory. I ran after her and managed to grab her tank top type titty teaser. She began to scream now, as if she was being raped. Her eyes bulged with fury, the red veins pulsating like the Balrog under the mountain. I wanted to cry "You shall not pass!" but was forestalled when a calm, amused, melodic voice said, "Jingogunner, what are you doing?"
            "I've just raped this woman, and am about to strangle her." I replied in a good approximation of calm and melifluous. Fortunately, Mrs Jingogunner has known me for many years and become accustomed to my ongoing desperation and confusion.
            "At least you had the decency to get her pissed first," she said, with no trace of humour.
            Sue's fury evaporated in an instant. She had not the forethought to cry '"Thank god youre' here at last, this bastard tore my clothes off and was about to rape me! Quick, call the cops!" Instead, she said waggishly, "We's jist ginna hev sim lovin, heow 'bout nother lil drink?"
            "Mrs Jingogunner, will you please help me get her into the hatchback and get her clothes back on?" I asked briskly, desperate to change the subject, "So I can drive her back to her house - unless you'd like to carry her?"
            We did not speak as we dragged the screaming, foul mouthed Sue Barret over to the car and, with only a few bumps and scrapes, banged her up.
            "So lovely to be back, dear," said Mrs Jingogunner sweetly, "would you like to ply me with liquor as well or are you just going to rip my clothes off while I'm sober?"
            "But there's no need," I said irritably, "we're married!"
            "Yes, but not for long."
            "Look, she was drunk when she arrived here. I didn't get her drunk, OK? I didn't tell her to take her clothes off. Because she was drunk, she wanted to have sex with me - as you well know, drunks always want sex with me. I tried to stop her but she got her shorts off when I turned my back to open the laundry door"
            I was distressed to see a tear threatening her still-flawless cheek.
            "Well why did you let her into the house, in the first place, everybody knows shes a drunk?" They do? Well, thanks for warning me.
            " While she was on the veranda she was struggling,. She was demented. I mean look at her now (Sue was punching the glass of the rear window, screaming obscenities, virtually foaming at the mouth) she was like this earlier, when she rang the bell. I wanted her to go but she wouldn't. I was worried you might arrive and be upset, I would not have wanted that to happen for anything, I would do anyting to save you distress. I thought the best thing to do was get her into the hatchback and drive her back to hers and chuck her out, then drive back and if she wandered back again I would have simply kept the doors locked or even called the cops. Macheck arrived while I was struggling with her. I asked him to help me but he said he was too busy. (Boy, just wait until he needs help) If you don't believe me, ask him when he delivers again tomorrow morning."
            She sighed heavily. "Thats just wonderful. Every house in the village will have heard about it by the time he gets here tomorrow. What am I going to say to Bert and Fiona (people Mrs J plays brige with, which I can never conceive of as being anything but pretentious, too thick to play it myself as I am) and all the others? They'll be laughing, we'll be the laughing stock of the village, if not the whole of Suffolk."
            We stood there, silently contemplating our frightful loss of face, imagining the rumours (he so nighty, Mrs J must smeck him, hehehehehehe) the embarrassed glances from recent receivers of gossip (aparently, we heard, they were doing it on the front veranda when she arrived back, poor woman, what on earth is she hanging with that slob for, he hasn't got a black farthing, she bought the house, you know) Mrs J caught my eye. The magic dimple appeared. I grinned back. Sue Barrett screamed. Mrs Jingogunner and I became convulsed with mirth. She kissed me.

            We decided that it would be impossible to get Sue dressed without bloodletting. I went and got a plastic bag from the pantry to put her thong and shorts in. Mrs Jingogunner got behind the wheel and I got in the passenger seat to keep an eye on the prisoner. There were no rear doors and the headrests made it impossible to climb into the front without first removing them. Better than a police car. Sue was still effing and blinding away as Mrs Jingogunner drove out the garage, around the parking circle with the cupid, down the driveway and out onto the road.

            There is a lot more to this story, and if people are going to very kindly put up with my clumsy style and weak plot structure, my rasping, corny sense of sexist humour, my ontological confusions and disintegral infinitives, then I will continue to post this tale, which has now got a hold and won't let go till its told. Unless you guys wake up and close down the thread as any sensible person should. If anyone has any questions about the events or people in the story, please ask because I probably would have told you already had I not forgotten to. Will get you back to the present, to how I got to the hospital, including something about lady policepersons these days, and an appearance by the incredible Unspeakable Ron. I think there might be an aircraft situation somewhere, but its quite a bit further on in the story. . . perhaps 3 or 4 episodes away . . .


            • #21
              Hello Sailor

              Originally posted by guamainiac View Post
              ........... "when it comes to drunks, give me an aggressive male anyday" ....

              Well, hello, er, new in town sailor?

              Have you ever been assailed by a female drunk, Mr Guamaniac?


              • #22
                Actually yes. It was worse than I really want to go into and yes, I too was drunk. I did nothing to provoke it and "worked through it" and yes a man can be raped.

                Yes I have been happily .. as much as you can be ... married for going on 30 years.

                Hmmmmm, probably why I've been reasonably sober (within reason), for the last 25; do the math.

                "The" first wife was like a Ferrari 308, tires never lasted and the hood showed traces of a prior engine fire. The second is more the Toyota truck, low maintenance, goes in snow and ..
                Live, from a grassy knoll somewhere near you.


                • #23
                  Get Out More, Socialise

                  Originally posted by guamainiac View Post
                  Actually yes. It was worse than I really want to go into and yes, I too was drunk. I did nothing to provoke it and "worked through it" and yes a man can be raped.

                  Yes I have been happily .. as much as you can be ... married for going on 30 years.

                  Hmmmmm, probably why I've been reasonably sober (within reason), for the last 25; do the math.

                  "The" first wife was like a Ferrari 308, tires never lasted and the hood showed traces of a prior engine fire. The second is more the Toyota truck, low maintenance, goes in snow and ..
                  Thank you so much for your interesting disclosure and strong, iconographic descriptive language, Mr Guamaniac. This is the sort of expressive stuff we need; it enables us to get out and about, in an imaginative sort of way. And sharing discreet disclosure is the essence of our primal need to socialise which all of us must meet or become mere shades of what we might have been. If one seeks happiness in marriage, I've often found, one can find only disappointment. I believe a keen trading spirit is the essence of a workable relationship, not counting the physical aspect of course, which always, in its metier and style, reflects the health or otherwise of any partnership. May I enquire, is Mrs Guamaniac a good cook?


                  • #24
                    Fascist Superglue Episode 5 Part One

                    Fascist Superglue Episode 5
                    Part One

                    So, back from the past present to the tense tense of the present present. It was the near future that bothered me, though. I could not avoid a Decision. I struggled to my feet, adjusted my towel 'n tape and waddled arround to no. 42, next door to mine. No idea why my house is 27 and I have 42 next door and 39 the other side. Do not appear to be any other 20 numbers in the street, although there is a 15. Ideal location for one so deeply lacking Number. Grace opened the front door. She was about to say hello and then saw my towel n' tape situation. "Oh dear," she said worriedly, "has something awful happened?"
                    I had to get straight to it, I had to get used to people laughing at me or I would never be free.
                    "I accidentally super-glued my finger and my phone to my ear." I said.
                    The reason I selected Harry and Grace for the honour of transporting Jingogunner to hospital was that they had very little sense of humour, preoccupied as they were by excessive ideation. Even now, she was clearly not finding anything humourous in my blunt admission of technological failure. She was rapidly scrolling options, possibilites, connections. " I was hoping you might be able to give me a lift down to the hospital."
                    "Harry has taken the car, he's at Cambridge until Friday." Her phone rang. "Excuse me."
                    "No, I deliberately metioned Kierkegard, he has the flesh and the bone, whereas the others miss the point, the present is not an alternative concept, it is the blood in our veins, and Camus realises the absurdity in this. Oh please, spare me, either we make a stab at the truth or join the Surrealists in their pit of despair. Yes, that's why I used das Zwischenmenshliche as a chapter title, so the reader is in no doubt. Look, I'm not going to argue with you, Miles, if you want to publish despairing nonsense, go right ahead, but I'm not going to let fear of critics dictate what I actually perceive to be true. In that sense I would have failed to define the experiential and emotional terms of reference for my own existence."
                    I stood there, feeling my hand slowly becoming numb again. I thought I would wait another couple of paragraphs and then try elsewhere. Then I thought, there was no car here anyway. I was just waiting to be polite, to not just rudely walk away while she was on the phone. But I felt I would be invalidated emotionally if I had to stand there and listen to this for a second longer. I walked. I looked back when I got to the gate and she was still there at the open front door, phone glued to her ear. I must define the references for my own existence, I must boldly move forwards before my blood all drained into my elbow. I've got a few books that Grace and Harry have written, some transcripts of lectures and semninars they've given at various centres of learning. Some of them are quite interesting if you have the time to construct concrete meanings from their abstract refrains, but they are all about what they think about what other people thought about what other people thought.

                    Then I thought of Mahmood Waziri and his wife, Mrs Waziri, at no 47. Mr Waziri had bought the house at No 47 a few years ago, but had then been busted for dealing drugs. His wife and 3 children remained at no 47 while he was in prison. I had often seen Mr Waziri standing outside his houe, at the bottom of his driveway, mobile phone metaphorically, ah, glued to his ear. Sometimes I saw various large cars collecting or returning him. Despite owning the house he did not appear to run a car. I don't think I'd ever seen him when he was not talking on his phone. Once or twice, when I saw him in the village, I'd said, 'Hello, Mr Waziri, lovely drop of rain don't you think!" He only removed the phone from his ear to mutter an irritable "umph" and immediately resume his phone call. I have never seen Mr Waziri smile. Mrs Waziri always walked behind him, clad head to toe in black with only her face showing, like a pale mask on a black rubber dildo. Behind Mrs Waziri, trailed the three little children, the eldest now about 5, I guess. I once found myself in the queue behind Mr Waziri at Tescos (like Walmart, only meaner). Last Christmas, that was. I had a bottle of good quality brandy. " Hello Mr Waziri," I said, "Happy Christmas!" He turned round, looking irritated, on the verge of attacking me. I sensed his loathing and disgust. "You must pop round for a drink!" I said brightly, thinking surely, now come on chaps, not even a wee drop at Yule?I won't tell, promise!In any case, whose going to know? Pop round to mine whenever you fancy a discreet little spot, please do. But he turned his back, didn't answer.
                    "We're having a little get-together tomorrow afternoon," I 'd said, determined to make contact, get a little gentle integration going. "No alcohol, just tea and nibbles Mrs Jingogunner has made. I'm sure she'd like to meet Mrs Waziri and we could sit in my treehouse and play with the video cam and the editing suite one of my clients lent me. There will be a couple of famous acdemics, full of pithy meaningless abstractions that leave everyone too polite to express their puzzlement, really, you'll love them ah, let me see, there'll be Tom Bonner, the famous writer, you know, he did those stories about a middle eastern family who settle in Hertforshire and he's loaded with really funny jokes." If Mr Waziri's beliefs did not permit relaxing in mixed company for convivial joking, banter, railery and general conversation, over exquisitely prepared snacks and the fine teas of the world, we could all be little boys together and leave the women. I was willing to make the gesture, reach out, hold my social preferences in abeyance. Mrs Jingogunner was as aware as I was of Diversity and the realities of Multiculturalism and its monstrous failure. I had this treehouse with deck chairs, loungers and a big electric heater for winter frolicks. I was helping some engineers write human-friendly instructions for consumer hardware and I think they decided to employ me for the job because they needed a professional idiot. The camera and stuff was terrific, you could make a short video movie and then put it through the suite, make people look fat or paint them blue like Avatar, make them talk-fart and all that. You could put their heads upside down on their shoulders and give them all violins, whith indigo, violet and rose skies, like a moving Miro paining. I felt sure it would help Mr Waziri um, integrate. Not that they allow art where he comes from.
                    He turned around and stared at me silently for a second or two. His eyes were like opaque black stones. Then he turned back.
                    "Sorry, Mr Waziri," I said anxiously, "Have I offended you? Just trying to be friendly, you know."
                    His mobile phone rang. Without turning round he commenced a conversation in, I think, Arabic, just a guess, which lasted all the way through checkout and into the car park where he stood waiting, presumably, for one of his fleet of cars to collect him. Yes, Happy Christmas, Mr Waziri. I concluded, in light of this historical review, that as an unbeliever who partook of Satan's brew, I would not be welcome or likely to recieve help from Mr Waziri. I decided to head for Mary and Tim at N0 40. As I hobbled along, Mr Waziri passed by in a long, black, expensive-looking vehicle. Using my left hand, which I hoped was not culturally significant, I waved until the vehicle was out of sight.

                    So, getting back to now, (always such a chore, don't you think?) I quit Grace and Harry's driveway and waddled accross to No 40, Mary and Tim. When I got there, they were smoking on their front veranda. Tim was on his phone. Mary got up as I appeared, took the fag out of her mouth and exclaimed "Oh God, are you injured, d'you need an ambulance, Jingogunner?"
                    "Its OK," I said, "I superglued my phone and my fingers to my ear by mistake."
                    "Your're not in immediate need of medical help?" Mary had been a nurse but now ran a florist's shop.
                    "I need to get to hospital so they can unglue me. Everyone is out or doesn't speak to me because I'm such a fascist, homophobic, ignorant, kufar bastard. There are no taxis available for another hour or so at least. I called the hospital but they have spent all their wages money on fighting oil-grab wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and now, North africa. There is no ambulance available unless you are dying, presumably and I read they've cut down on mobile paramedics. I was hoping you could get me down to Ipswich."
                    "Well we could have, but Tim has a case in Bury soon and he's got to leave like now." She turned to Tim and said stridently, "Tim, you've got to leave now!" Tim got off the phone, glanced at me, said a puzzled hello and bounced down the steps and over to his car. Tim is a lawyer.
                    Mary was concerned that I should get an ambulance. I explained that I'd spoken to the hospital and they seemed to be struggling and at their limits. I had thought of phoning the Nuffield Hospital or some other private medical money-grubber. Then I thought, no, I'll get there somehow and put the money saved into my emigrate-to-America-plan, where you have to cover your own medical costs but the pay is much higher, unless you're a pilot and work for love of the job.

                    I waddled back to my place, round to the garages and got into the ancient hatchback. My arm was hurting, particularly the fingers. I was irritable and starting to lose Number and Logic of which, in any case, only a standard pack was fitted to this type of aircraft. The local area map was in the right hand pocket, so I had to reach accross my body with my left hand to access it and I had to do this blind because my elbow-sling obscured most of the right hand door panel. I had to lift up the right elbow on the arm whose fingers were stuck to my right ear in order to allow the left hand space to grope for the map. There is no procedure for this in the manual.

                    I wanted to find the best and quickest route from Framlingham to the Heath Rd Hospital in Ipswich. Being to the west and south of Framlingham proper, I decided to use the A1120 and then the B1077, avoiding the A12, which according to a local news headline I once read, had a Mind of Its Own. A12 Has Mind Of its Own read the headline. I didn't read the prose beneath the headline because I didn't want to spoil it. I had in fact carefully cut it, with a scalpel, from its page, along with the date and the title of the rag, and got Frames Robert in Woodbridge to mount it for me under glass. Frames Robert is used to this, he once mounted a moustache (Mrs Jingounner didn't like it and wanted me to remove it) under glass for me. I won't go into the grounds for Mrs J's objection here, but it will appear later. He has mounted a lovely black and white photograph of a used nappy(diaper), a dead seagul, 3 empty cigarette packets and a sea-scoured plastic bottle of bleach containing a liquid of some sort which is just visible, but which we can guess might not be bleach. There is also a piece of driftwood with a jagged edge and the remainign three leters of a word which we can guess, again, was once Essex but is now reduced, or perhaps promoted, to Sex. It is entitled The Beach at St Osyth. Frames Robert has absolutely no sense of humour either, which is why I always employ him. He has never once displayed any emotion whatever about the stuff he has framed for me. So there was Jingogunner's flightplan: avoid the A12. The B1077 was a winding, lane-type vehicular carriageway designed for 15th century trader's waggons and is ideal for modern, superglue fascist, one-armed hatchback drivers driving 5-speed transmission, manual-shift hatchbacks. Ideal.

                    Part two of Episode 5 will appear shortly. That will conclude Chapter One of The Facist Superglue of Mr Jingogunner. Chapter Two might follow, depending on public opinion, general comments, complaints or cyberspace factors. The only way to really stop it would be to complain to the Superglue Moderators that its boring your tits off. Remember, you have not yet become acqainted with the Unspeakable Ron, with Naomi Chav Rap and Suffolk Sex Symbol Sally Silling, not to mention the good-looking PC Kate Hamilton who is not a sex symbol but is very sensible and hard-headed. I decided to go back to Times New Roman for the body of my text because its easier to read, the eye is more used to it from newspapers and books. Both silly and serious comments very much appreciated. Stay Tuned!