Six Ways Or One Of Looking At A Car


So I says to this bird, I says:
So íowís about you aní me goiní for a drive up the M Sixty-Nine?
Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more,
Nodís as good as a wink to a blind íorse,
Know what I mean!?

Well, of course, she íad tí laugh, didnít she, Dave?
I mean, itís not every day a bird of íer age - what, seventeen?
Itís not every day she gets tí ride in yer actual Rolls Royce, is it?
Certainly not in this area.

Ooh! Itís smashiní, she says.
Yeah, darliní, I says, letís you aní me try out the back seat.

Iím not kiddiní you, Dave,
Itís the best investment I ever made, that Rolls;
Pulls the birds somethiní shockiní, it does.
Wouldnít say it was a phallic symbol exactly,
Not like yer Gibsons aní yer Stratocasters,
But, you know what I mean...

You wanna get one yerself when yer get back off tour,
Assuminí yer album goes platinum, that is.


Itís only a Mini,
But itís good enough for me.
In fact, I donít know what Iíd do without it.
You need a car out here, especially when youíve got young children,
Otherwise itís like living in an open prison.

Before I got it, I used to get so depressed;
It can drive you mad just sitting at home all day,
Surrounded by four walls and with only the dog and the baby to talk to.
You really canít go out walking here with a young íun because itís so hilly.

I used to get out when we first moved here,
But by the time Iíd walked a quarter of a mile, Iíd be exhausted.
So Iíd just sit in all day long and mope
Until I was all but suicidal.

Then Stephen bought me the car,
And suddenly I felt...oh...release.


How long have you been waiting?

Let me put it this way,
I just missed the last one,
And the destination blind was in Latin.

They get worse.
I wish I had a car.

Do you drive?
Yes. You?

Canít Iím afraid. Epileptic.

Must give you fits waiting around for hours like this. Tee hee.

Iíd like to laugh, but Iím too cold.

Know what you mean.
If I had a motor...oh...release.


Whereís your ticket?


Youíre on the wrong train.

Iím changing at Ipswich.

You canít!
Youíre on the wrong train.

I was told I could go this way.

You canít. This says via Peterborough. Look!

I got it with a warrant.

Youíre on the wrong train.

Well, when I was given the warrant...

Youíre on the wrong train;
Youíll íave to get off and go back to Bury.


Youíre on the wrong train.

Does it matter?

Of course it does.
Itís more this way.


Itís only ninety-one pounds via Peterborough;
Itís over ninety-seven this way.

Does that matter?

Of course it does.

Excuse me, what does it matter which way my friend goes?

Itís more this way.

Yes, but...

Itís more this way.
íEíll íave to get off at the next station and go back via Peterborough.

But Iíll miss my connection if I do.

I canít help that.

But I have to be back before Monday night.

I canít help that.
Itís more this way.
Youíll have to get off and go back.

But why must he?

Itís more this way.

But why...?

Itís more this way.

But why...?

Itís more this way.


Itís more this way.
Itís more this way.

íAve it away.

Itís more this way.

íAve it away, you mug.

Itís more this way.

(Wallop) Fuck off, you stupid cretin.


You shouldnít have done that.

I can stand the IRA, but not morons like that.

Shouldíve gone by motor.
If we had...oh...release.

Come on, letís get off here, quick.


I know exactly what you mean.
In fact, I didnít lose my virginity until I was twenty-three
for precisely the same reason.

Itís not only indispensable convenience-wise, but, well,
I mean, if you ask a girl out,
And a bloke with a motor asks her out too,
Which of you is she going to choose?

I mean, if youíre out late,
(And you canít have a good time unless you are),
Youíll need a taxi home.
If she wants to come back for a drink
But doesnít want to stay the night,
Youíll need another one.
Same if she invites you back to her place.

And when you take her out in the evening,
I mean, itís not fair to expect her to wait around for buses or trains, is it?

When I was going out with that barmaid, it was always:
"I had three fellas asked me out this week,
And they all had cars.
When are you going to get one?"

She used to go on and on about it.
In the end I packed her in;
You canít blame a chick, of course,
But itís not much fun for a bloke without a motor.
Oh if, if, if, if...release.


Horrible little reptile he was, that ticket collector.
He used to boast about the number of people, especially foreign students
heíd had prosecuted for fare dodging.

Of course, Iíve íad so many up for fraud.
Thereís one, she comes through the barrier at Earls Court,
Says she got on at South Kensington, and tries to pay the excess fare.
So I says: Where did you get on?
South Kensington, I told you, she says, getting nervous.
Why didnít you get a ticket?
The booking office was closed.
No, it wasnít.
Yes, it was.
No, it wasnít.
Are you calling me a liar? she says.
Huh, huh, huh: I caught íer out all right.
In the end she got a two íundred quid fine.
Expensive ride that was: Huh, huh, huh.

One night though he overdid it.
Two spades, probably came up from Brixton, went through the barrier,
transistors blaring.
Tried to pay the minimum fare.
He pulled them and said he was going to call the police.
So one of them took a razor out of his coat pocket,
And cut his face like tram lines.
Squealed like a pig, he did.
They never caught them either.

Serves him right: little shit.
Whatís it to him anyway?
Travel is,
Or should be...
A right.

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