Jack Shit

For several months now, anyone accompanying Alf on a drive will inevitably end up at what has come to be known as “The Shit Skip”. All paths from destination to home end up in a visit to The Shit Skip. The skip full of shit is positioned at the edge of a field. On every trip, the skip is worthy of pulling up near it to ponder the destination of its contents. Alf is a keen gardener, spending much of his days propagating, planting and transplanting.

Questions from the drivers seat include: “Would the collectors of the shit miss a bit”? Would they welcome someone taking some away”? “Would they like it bagged up and taken to auction”? Alf isn’t one for waste. Well, clearly he is in one respect.

Comments from the rest of the car include: “Same shit, different day”. “Full of shit”. “What a load of shit”. “Deep shit”. Finally, on the day we arrived to find the skip had been emptied, “No shit, Sherlock”, followed by “Ah well, shit happens’ and then untruthfully “I don’t give a shit”.

The level of shit rises again and one day Alf meets the girl in charge, who he describes as a feisty red head who must be 80 pounds, soaking wet. She takes Alf to the place where the shit is bagged up and lets him help himself. He is as happy as a pig in shit.

Alf had a brief stint smoking cigars, the smell of which never fully left his car. He claims I will be delighted that his car no longer smells of cigars. I am less than delighted at the replacement smell.

He has taken his fill of shit for personal use. We suspect he has other plans, maybe to collect some shit for friends and neighbours, as he has yet to properly clean the back of his car. If you see a white Renault Megane that looks like it needs its bottom wiping, you have found Alf. Flag him down. He is sure to give you some shit.