Oh mighty gods of MOT, I beseech thee: make not mine bill larger than the gross national product of an small country. But the gods of MOT didst look upon mine supplication with scorn.
"Thy front brakes are shot," the High Priest didst say, "and thy fog light is mightily fucked, as are thy brake lines."
And mighty was mine lamentation. "Oh High Priest of the vengeful MOT gods," I didst wail, "How much will this set me back?"
And long was the pause, and mighty the sucking in of breath between his teeth. "Thinkest thou of a number, double it, add the total number of feet on a millipede and the bra size of Anne Widdicombe. Multiply this by the number thou didst first think of and add a zero at the end. It is best that thou offer up thy credit card as a sacrificial offering."
And I dist fall to the garage floor and tear mine beard out in woe.
"Plus," sayeth the High Priest, in his greasy, oily overalls with 'Bill' written upon the chest, "the off-side running board is loose, but I shalt let thou away with a warning this time."
And great was my lamentation.
Sodding MOT. Why can't the UK be more like Iowa, where they have Famous Dave's BBQ and you don't have to MOT trucks? I knew I'd gotten off lightly last year*, but I more than made up for it this time round. I'm beginning to seriously hate cars. Grrrrrr!
And just to add insult to injury, the passenger seat's come back with a nasty brown stain on it. Like a skid mark, only inside the car. I'm not proud, but I feel compelled to try cleaning it off, or everyone's going to think I give lifts to people with serious rectal problems.
And what the hell's this business with 'off-side running board'? I thought he was going on about the passenger side, so I didst waggle mine finger and tell him that the thing's been shored up by a nice man with a MIG welding kit. I know this, because I was there at the time. But it turns out that 'off-side' is the driver's side. EH? Surely that's the 'on-side'.
According to She Who Must Be The Font For All Horsey Knowledge And Shout At The Telly When Period Dramas Are On And People Are Riding The Wrong Kind Of Horse, Or Using The Wrong Piece Of Leather To Steer The Damn Thing, this is all because when you get on a horse, you do it from the left side. Hence the right (the proper side for the driver to sit on, you foreign devils with your heathen wrong-side-of-the-road-ishness) is the 'off' side. Well that makes sense, doesn't it? I mean the similarities between a mammalian quadruped that subsists on a diet of grass, grain and polo mints, and a one ton mechanical hunk of steel and rust are overwhelming!
You try pulling up to a petrol station and filling your horse up on Diesel, see how far it gets you. Leaving aside the fact that there's no place to stick the petrol pump's nozzle (unless you're a seriously disturbed and deviant individual) it's likely to prove fatal. Horses kick you know. Plus anything that falls out the back end of a car isn't likely to help your roses grow.
* And before you say anything: I know I used the self same bible set-up thing last time, but I've been traumatised by a huge garage bill, so leave me alone. You're getting this crap for free after all (yes: I know it shows).