Two age old conundrums which have confused apes for never: Which is more important, petrol or cake? Tough one. Good one. And the other… What does a bucket and a chariot have in common? That is a tad easier. Starts with an M and ends with an ape. Wuu. Lucky them! If you have been reading my gibber since way back when – when what? – or one of the hundreds of thousands of people to have read my book of gibber, you might remember my love affair with… The Bucket. Remember. Shudder. The One. Heartbreak. Ridicule. Agony. Frustration. Sadness. Despair. Delighted. Well, delighted when I eventually sold my old truck and stopped going on and on and on about it. My old truck which looked like a rusty old bucket. Smelt like fake tan. Kept breaking down. Which is the technical term for when you run out of petrol. Yes indeed, I am that clueless. Well, was that clueless. Slightly better now. Although this gibber begs to differ…
Yacht In The Sky!
Last Saturday. Pool party on up in the hills. Savage abode. Ridiculous. Looks like a big yacht, in the sky. Sticking out of the top of the Hollywood Hills. My old buddy Prince’s old abode. The Man is now staying there for a month. Nice little venue for a pool party. And by little, I mean huge. Lost count of how many levels there are… 7? 8 bathrooms? 40 foot swimming pool? Bars. Bedrooms. Nightclub. Cinema. Pool table. Jacuzzis. Kitchens. Windows. Stairs. Elevator. Walls. On and on… Forks. Knives. Spoons. Spoons?! (I know. Unreal!!) All under one roof! Everything one could ever want ever. As in ever. Well, almost…
Turns out I had the speakers which were needed for the music. Asked not to be late. Be. On. Time. We need music. No worries. I’ll be on time. You can trust me!?! Imperative I’m there on time. Imperative! Not actually imperative. More to show I can be when I’m told it’s imperative that I am. More like a bet was made. More like being told I won’t be let in unless I’m there before 4. Saturday comes. Balls. That time already?! Hurry on. En route. Actually, I’m on time. Close but still good. Until. Realised that I needed to pick up a cake. More importantly. Needed to pick up some petrol. The Chariot was limbo’ing low. Balls. Not part of the plan. Only time to do one. Cake petrol. Petrol or cake? Petrol cake? Cake or petrol? Caked in petrol? Eh, what? Focus. Ok… No one will care if I show up with an empty tank. However. Can’t really show up empty handed… Cake on!
Please Stop Talking
Chocolate cake. Carrot cake. Sorted. Giddy up. Let’s ignore the petrol conundrum. Except for the fact the Chariot is a talkative beast. Yapping on all the way up to the house. Reminding me exactly how many miles of petrol were not left in the tank. Drunk sounding GPS then taunting me with slurs of how many miles were left to the house. Quick bit of sums in my head… By my reckoning, divide the 8 by that 2, minus 1… Maths equations not boding well. Shh. We’ll be fine. House has everything I need, right?! Driving up the winding Hollywood Hills with a concerned Chariot counting down the petrol seconds and a drunk GPS in the corner slugging whiskey and slurring taunts, is dumb fun. Will I make it?! Will these ice-cream cakes make it before they melt?! Will we?! Yes we can! And we did. On time (So proud! Well done me. Ape). Happy days. Just as I hopped out, the Chariot slightly burst my bubble. Casually mentioning that only 1 petrol mile left. One measly mile. GPS with one last taunt… A healthy 8 miles back to the nearest petrol station. Once again, maths did not bode well. Don’t worry about that now though. Yacht in the sky has everything I might need! Right?! Party on!
Hi Guys. Push? Just Let Me Know, Ok?! Thanks Guys.
Speakers on the shoulders. Cakes in hand. Down the 7 flights of stairs. Work-out, over and done. Time to party on! Music. Booze. Dancing. Prancing. Panoramic views of L-Hey as the back-drop. Well actually, that’s a fibaruu. Did you know, the unreal view from all the houses on top of the Hollywood Hills – well the ones I’ve been in at least - overlook the Valley? Not Yelle. Amazing stuff! Inside ape, say nothing. Back to the views. And the party. Savage set-up. Dancing poolside. Playing fussball. Nice old way to spend a Saturday. Until. Pushed in the pool. Wuu. No worries. In my swimming shorts. Except. My phone was zipped up in my shorts. Zipped up, to keep safe. Tut. Minute I realised I was going in, my brain – in fairness to it – tried to kick in. Quickly! Must reach for the zip, whip out the phone, throw it in the air, duck in the pool, jump straight back out and then catch the falling phone out of the air, just before it hits the water. You can do it! Ok, brain, sounds like a really great plan! Well done for thinking of it so quickly! Unfortunately. My body was in the huh? mode. Got as far as reaching f… Splash.
Tried to revive it. Kiss of death. Slobbering all over it. No joy. Dodo. Tears. Stop crying. Making a scene. People are watching in bewilderment. No point crying over murdered phones. Annoying as funk. But build a bridge. Reminder that I should no longer take notes in my phone. Just have to go the old fashioned way. Pen and paper back on. Use the rememory to retrieve it all. Bit that was a balls, was that a fair few folk coming to the party were going to phone me, so I could give them directions if needs be. Anyone else have their numbers? No. Funk. Alright. Ehhh. Or. Actually. I know. I’ll just go home quickly. Get my spare phone. Back in half an hour. Ok. Good? Gold? Go! Run back up the 7 stories. Work out two, thank you. Chariot on. Drive off. Good work again brain! Spare phone all the way! Save the day. What could possibly go wrong?! Oh hello drunk GPS. Pardon?
Half way down my huh? brain woke up. Copped on. Petroleum. But we made it this far? We’re doing ok, right! Yes we can! Brain, we got this. The Chariot is smart. She’ll figure this out. But, my brain countered, what if we don’t make it. You do know you don’t have a phone to call anyone if you’re stuck halfway down the hills? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be stranded. More importantly, I don’t want to miss the party.. Shhh brain, you’ll be fine. And GPS, will you please shut up! Seeing as I haven’t figured out yet how to turn you off. Now. Back to living on the edge of destination unknown. Don’t worry, we’re doing it! Now we’re going downhill, my miles are going up! We can make it to the petrol station! Easily! We’re in this together. Stay strong. We’re not going to run out of petrol! Ride on Chariot! Way better than the Bucket. Ride on you whu… And then I broke down. Ran out of petrol. Have I not learnt from my past. Do all cars cheat and lie? How do I let myself be the victim, over and over. Just too trusting. Tut tut. The Chariot, just like the Bucket before her, left me down. High and dry.
Maybe Missing One More Thing...
Thankfully, let me down only a few blocks from the petrol station. Even better, two sound dudes strolling by hooked me up with a push. Thought I was Welsh. They liked the Welsh. So they were more than happy to help out this Welshman. Eh. Yeah. Works for me! Welsh accent on! Filled up. Home. Spare phone. Quick sandwich. Shh. Back to the party. Where it turned out that no one even needed to phone me for directions. Wuu! Go me. Clever clogs were on that day. Good old hoot at the party. Mighty night. Realised this at 4 in the morning. Just an ape and two buddies. Chowder. Maxwell. Keeping the party going in the swimming pool. Floating lilos. Flowing gibber. Chugging bottles. Of rosette. Obviously. Hardcore. Rock ‘n roll! Everything one would need! Except: Petrol. And. Fun. Girls. Wuu!?!
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