Right, settle yerself down ‘cos it’s me Bertha off the cut. Aye, Alan’s so-called “better ‘alf”. Now, listen ere. That daft sod Alan, swannin’ about with his fancy alias like some canal-side James Bond, Pfft. More like Canal-Numpty. Who’s he kiddin’? Hah! Only thing he’s ever infiltrated is a tin o’ beans. And aye, beans fer breakfast, beans fer tea… no wonder there’s nowt goin’ on in the bedroom. Pressure’s flatter than the water at lock twelve.
He reckons ‘e’s dead mysterious, sneakin’ along the towpath, shufflin’ under bridges an’ pokin’ about in holes he’ll never satisfy. That’s my Alan, losin’ another box. Still, I let him crack on. Gives me time to chat up proper blokes in the pub lads who can actually work a windlass without pullin’ their groin.
And the beans. Oh Christ, the beans. Morning, beans. Lunch, beans. Tea, triple beans. Lad thinks he’s runnin’ on diesel, but trust me, it’s methane. Cabin rattles like a tin drum most nights, and I ain’t talkin’ about romance. Every night when he lets one rip under the blankets that ain’t duvet day, love that’s biological warfare. No wonder the geese hiss at him, they think he’s markin’ territory.
Still. Can’t grumble too much ‘e keeps me entertained, like havin’ a pet ferret that eats beans an’ disappoints yer.
I’m takin’ a swing at this geocachin’ lark meself, cos someone’s gotta show that daft lump Alan how it’s done, his “caches”? Pfft. Easier to find than skid marks in his undies. Half the towpath dogs’ve sniffed ‘em out before the cachers do.
This were Alan sayz yer can turn yer boat around, trubble is if ya got a longun’ yer might get it stuck in the ‘ole!
Iz stuff here iz some nice hard wood, he sayz ‘e knows how yer loves a dangler!