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Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Beware the Tyre-Biter!

Greggles told us funny stories in the staffroom this morning about his old family dog, Patches. Patches was a cattle dog that lived on the farm with Greggles and his three brothers, sister and Mum, and apparently he was an excellent snake/rabbit/vermin hunter.

“Did he chase cars and bite tyres?” I enquired, already knowing what his answer would be.

“Sh#t yeah!” laughed Greggles. “He chased any car that drove past until he grew too old and took up sentry on the front steps like a ferocious Direwolf.” (see Game of Thrones).

                                Scotto and I endured our own acrimonious altercation with a particularly robust and tenacious cattle dog about ten years ago which led us to label the entire breed as “Tyre-Biters”.

Scotto was moving up to Townsville to reunite with the love of his life, Pinky, and the vivacious Pinky had flown down to the Gold Coast to accompany him on the 1600 km drive up.

 He’d already sent most of his furniture up in a removal van but had packed his miniscule hatchback (Lenny) to the hilt with the remainder of his worldly possessions. Each item had been meticulously placed into the boot and back seats with military precision allowing for angles, corners, tiny niches and intensive layering. I honestly don’t think you would have been able to squeeze a cat’s fart into the car with the amount of stuff he’d squished in to it.
                                 Lenny the Lanos

Precision packing in the extreme.

Just before we set off Scotto decided to call in to say farewell to his mate, Adam (owner of the Lord of all Tyre-Biters) and as we left Adam’s house the malicious mutt chased us down the driveway. 

Unbeknownst to us it managed to sink its yellowed fangs into one of our tyres.

Literally five minutes later, excited about the long, long road trip ahead, as we were driving naively down the M1 at 100 km per hour, singing merrily along to the radio, Scotto was suddenly forced to pull over as we realised something was amiss.

“F#%king flat tyre!” Scotto railed. “I’m going to have to take everything out of the f#%king boot to get to the spare!”

“You’ve got to be freakin joking!” I nervously squealed, watching the huge trucks hurtling dangerously past about three centimetres to the side of us.

He wasn’t joking. It took us about half an hour to unpack everything on to the side of the road. I was wearing a short flared skirt which flapped up around my neck every five seconds when another vehicle swished past, providing every unfortunate motorist on the Gold Coast Highway with more of an eyeful than they probably desired at that time of the morning.

Finally Scotto had replaced the tyre and we’d completed the arduous half hour task of repacking the chock-a-block boot.

Sh#t Yeah!!!!

Three minutes down the highway: 

“Oh noooo….” groaned my devastated travelling companion, “I forgot to tighten the f#%kin wheel nuts.”
“That’s okay,” I said reassuringly, “Just pull over and quickly do it, not a problem!”

“Ummmm…. The spanner is in the boot where the spare tyre was.”

And... I went on and married this man.

In remembrance of our friend, Adam Pallister who was taken far too young.