We have to start with a joke that is a very old tradition in this family.
DISCLAIMER – this joke has been reviewed and passed by the anti-homophobic lobby (my Bro) and is classified as “Fine”.
Scene – a pub where the landlord is known to be openly hostile to gays and ready with his fists. In walk Cameron’s two friends, Jack and Rory. Jack, tall, blond, blue-eyed and gorgeous, goes up to the bar and politely asks for two gins.
“What kinda gin ya want eh? Lotsa kindsa gin – oxy-gin, hydro-gin, Sanato-gin haw haw haw”.
Gritting his teeth and saying nothing, Jack picks up the drinks and tells Rory what has happened. Rory, despite them both being military police and able to handle a pub brawl decides that he would rather not get involved but he won’t let it go completely. Instructing Jack to stand by the door, he in turn goes up to the bar but this time asks for two turds. When the landlord looks dumbfounded, Rory growls,
“Lots of kinds of turd y’ken Custard, Mustard and you, ye big shit. Run for it, Jack!”
This is how the expression became almost sacred text in this household so when either ingredient is mentioned, like true Pythonists repeating the Four Yorkshiremen or the Dead Parrot Sketches, the assembly will respond with “Custard, Mustard and you ye big shit” and then fall about laughing.
So today when I made that famous telephone call to the garage up in town I was able to say “I know the mileage, just give me the price. Yup, fine – slap a “Vendu” sign on it and I’ll be up this afternoon to get the ball rolling.”
I was about to become the proud owner of one of La Poste’s “flying banana”s. They are much-prized around here because they are well-maintained by the postal service, have very low mileage and are not thirsty. They begin life as Renault Kangoos but I am not in a million years going to call him Roo.
He is perfect for our needs – great big space at the back for dogs and building materials (or even a single mattress if I decide to come to the UK on my own :D) and at 7 years old less than half the age of Astra or Myfanwe.
When looking at vehicles I turn into a pencil-behind-the-ear, roll-up in corner of gob sort of bloke and discuss anything but the colour. I don’t like stereotypes. I jumped in and took it for a test drive coming back enthusing about the clutch, acceleration and handling but asking if the brake pads weren’t new cos they were a bit vicious. Two centimetres on the brake pedal and you’re nearly through the windscreen. I got a bit more respect after that. No I don’t want to look at the pretty colour, thanks, I want to know how many litre engine, km/ltr, how many hp fiscale – that kind of important thing. Tsk.
But it will be known as Custard… it is OUR new van and one of the family so Badger might be the big shit behind the wheel – he’s better at it anyway tee hee. So now I need …….