Posted by: docdenbow | March 3, 2012

Dewi Sant, Mickey Bricks & Kirby Cleaners


March 1st is a great day for the Welsh (and for my darling daughter as she shares her birthday with Dewi Sant) I feel that I must put finger to keyboard once more to regale you all with the tale of my day’s travails on that great day. The aforementioned travails were of a nature that an intellectual such as I would normally “get a chap in” to perform and were of a sufficient base nature to cause frequent reaches for a pail into which a fellow could retch. Of course although I am of an intellect that reaches for the moon and the stars, I am like many geniuses before me somewhat impoverished and thus without the means to “get a chap in.”

The tasks were all due the fact that my wife and I have a canine companion. Now, my friends, this canine is only young and has yet to complete a calendar year of existence on this mortal plane. As a result of this dog being little more than infant, it shares with its’ human counterpart the ability to make adjustments to the drawing room by expediting certain so called “natural functions.” Our once beautiful and most decorous Axminster is now, alas, spotted with irregular “water marks,” and our delicious Chinese rug, which incidentally dates back many centuries and was gifted by my late Great Great Aunt Jemima, is both foul smelling and has the remnants of both vomit and faeces adding most unfortuitiously to the Dragons and intricate designs stitched by the labours of Chinese artisans. The acquisition via hire purchase of a carpet shampoo machine from Mr. Hoover and Mr. Spangler’s Great Emporium was indeed far beyond the reach of my tiny purse, so the cleaning of the floor coverings would require no little aforethought.

Having decided conclusively that the Hire Purchase of specialist machinery was out of the question, I believed a cup of the finest Darjeeling and smoke of Shag may aid my thought processes as to how my chore may be brought to a satisfactory conclusion with the minimum physical input of my good self. Sipping my Darjeeling and puffing contentedly at my pipe I began the machinations as to how I could get the floor coverings restored to their previous grandeur, and how this could be achieved without the need for getting my own hands even lightly soiled. Realization dawned that this would take a great deal of cunning and deception, but no matter for what is the use of being an intellectual if the superiority over the oiks cannot be used to your own best advantage.

With a second cup of sweet tea and a refill of my pipe’s chamber with Latakia, I repaired to the conservatory to consider the course of action that would fit my requirements like a finely tailored suit. Puffing away with eyes closed in my favourite rocking chair taking in the sweet odour of the flora and fauna and enjoying my tobacco and tea to aid my machinations, I suddenly hit upon a plan. The plan was of a sufficient brilliance that even Mickey Bricks of that wonderful televisual feast that is called “Hustle,” would feel his chest swelling with pride such was the fiendish ingenuity. It would of course require character, resolution and an even, stoic temperament for this underhand ruse to succeed, but my friends I was quietly confident in my abilities to ensnare my “mark” for I had decided to become a “grifter” for the day.

I had to play all of the parts myself, as I had not the luxury of a team and there was no time or opportunity to assemble a motley crew of vagabonds. The beauty of my audacious plan was that no array of characters was strictly necessary, and my own somewhat modest theatrical talents would suffice in the execution of this deception. I looked down fondly at my little canine chum and shared with her the ruse as telling at least one sentient being about my undertaking would assist in the ironing out of any potential shortfalls.

Plans made I duly went to my vestibule and lifted the telephone receiver and requested the operator that I be connected to the (infamous) Kirby vacuum cleaner company. I spoke with a gentleman who represented himself to me as a National Sales Manager and he seemed most jollied to be hearing from me. He even went so far as to express his gratitude for my telephonic intercourse. I pressed on this fine gentleman the urgent need to see one of Kirby’s fine products in action and I pleaded for a most early appointment so that I may see this wonderful contraption before my very own eyes. After much persuasion the National Sales Manager made an appointment for one of his “team” to visit me that very afternoon. I thanked him for his due diligence and upon replacing the handset recharged both my pipe and my teapot and returned to the conservatory and a good book.

Not one hour had passed when I heard a spluttering followed closely by a crash and then with a certain finality a bang. Now whilst do I do exactly live in Kensington, to hear those sort of sounds in relatively quick succession would normally be observed as “lowering the tone” of the area and would generally be remarked upon during gentleman’s drinks or ladies’ coffee mornings. I hurried to my bay window and stood behind the voile to see a vehicle of an indistinct colour halt in a cloud of effluent smoke. My knowledge of motor cars is somewhat limited, but this car was of a vintage. My belief was that the model of this conveyance was called “Allegro” and was what is known as a “shooting brake.”

From the interior of this “shooting brake” emerged a callow youth with greasy yellow hair sporting a creased red blazer, and a cigarette dangling from his lip. I searched for words to describe him. Nothing sprang readily to mind so I began in my mind at the letter “A” and proceeded tothrough the alphabet. When I reached the letter “S” I hit upon the adjective required. Slovenly. That was most perfect.

The callow youth opened the rear door of his “shooting brake” and began a titanic struggle with the contents. After what seemed like several minutes the youth had extricated some kind of trolley, which he then proceeded to take further minutes attempting to erect. As this youth was taking such time, and struggling with the trolley I could only conclude that he had erection difficulties on a frequent basis.

Having finally got it up, the trolley that is, the youth then began his fight to the death with a carton that bore the legend “Kirby.” He pulled and twisted and grunted, and I fancy uttered a few oaths and blasphemes, as he tried land his prized catch. Indeed I was more than somewhat in mind of angler who was trying to catch a fish beyond the capacity of the rod and net. I resisted the temptation to go and assist the youth because, as you may be aware, I am quite an aficionado of spectator sports. Having at last managed to unload the carton, the youth carefully lifted it onto his trolley, fastened it in place with numerous straps, and looking all around him lit another cigarette, presumably to settle his nerves prior to beginning his in depth presentation.

Minutes passed, tobacco craving sated and the callow youth began to make his way from the roadside towards my property. It was then that the youth noticed for the very first time since his arrival the flight of 24 stone steps from the kerb to my property. He looked up shook his head wistfully, reached for another cigarette and sat on the carton that was still firmly attached to the trolley. Such was the obvious low IQ of the youth I could hear the cogs in his grey matter grinding away as he sought a solution to his conundrum. I really did, at this point, offering him advice or at least some WD40 to quiet the cogs, but now – I had resolved that this carpet was to be cleaned without my adventure.

It seemed eventually that the youth had worked out a course of action and set off up his very own Jacob’s Ladder to Afallon. As he was bumping the Kirby up one step at a time I resolved to return to the conservatory to continue with my pipe and book. I was contented enough to let the little blighter ring the doorbell. Besides I did not wish to appear to be too keen to this master road warrior before we entered into combat, for I was not prepared to show even the smallest chink in my armoury.

I had read 2 further chapters of “Great Expectations” when the doorbell eventually chimed. I moved to the front door to greet the callow youth. He smiled somewhat sweatily and said,
“Good afternoon, Mr. Denbow. My name is Gregory. I’m from Kirby sales.”
“It’s Doctor Denbow!” I barked at the youth who I swear flinched, “And you’re late”
With that established I then invited him across the threshold.
The trembling youth began then a sales talk about the history of Kirby droning on for 30 tedious seconds about what a brilliant cleaner it is.
“Look Pessary, or whatever your name is, just turn on the damn thing and show me just how bloody good the thing is!” I hollered at the youth.
“Err, do you have somewhere I can plug it in?” Gregory rather timidly asked
“Jesus Christ!” I bellowed. “If this thing is crap I will have wasted my good money on electricity to find out!”
Gregory looked genuinely scared as I snatched the plug from his trembling hand and inserted it into a convenient socket.
I must say that the Kirby was a pretty good cleaner, especially in the quivering paws of Gregory. Seemed to pick up the conveniently tipped (by me) contents of an ashtray with more than a little aplomb. Gregory then enquired without any conviction what I thought, was I impressed. I replied in the affirmative.
“But,” I asked, “Is this ancient cleaner capable of washing a carpet?”
Give the sucker some slack.
“Oh yes,” twittered Gregory Pessary.
I showed him the Chinese rug. I showed him the “watermarked” carpet. Young Gregory Pessary looked down at the stains, even touched them.
“I bet that thing,” I pointed to the Kirby “Could do bugger all about those marks. I’d need to get professionals in to sort those out.”
Well at that challenge, Gregory Pessary slicked back his greasy hair, pulled himself up to his full height (5’4”) reached inside the box and screwed some weird attachment onto the cleaner and off he went. Within minutes the watermarks were gone from the Axminster and Aunt Jemima’s rug was the cleanest I had ever seen it. Gregory Pessary looked very pleased with himself.
Then came the fun bit.
“Do you want to buy a Kirby Doctor Denbow?”
“It certainly is a fine machine.”
“So you are impressed?”
“I most certainly am.”
“Good”
“How much? You know cash? No VAT, you know nudge nudge wink wink?”
“Oh Doctor Denbow, we don’t operate like that.”
“Okay, how much?”
“We offer attractive finance terms.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
“How much?”
“£1 a day.”
I’d had enough.
“Look Gregory, if I say how much again and you say £1 a day again then I will not be responsible for my actions. Do you understand?”
“Err yes” replied Gregory Pessary
“Ok Gregory, how much is this Kirby?”
“£1200, plus the accessories and attachments.”
Gregory looked down at the floor gathering his thoughts.
“It is a wonderful product though.” he continued.
“Do you want some advice? Keep that one,” I pointed at the Kirby, and set yourself up as a home valeter, you’re not cut out to be a salesman.”
Gregory looked somewhat crestfallen.
“Now pack up your stuff and get out of my house, before I throw you and your Kirby down onto the road.”
“You don’t want to buy one then?”
“Get out!!!!!!!!!”
Mickey Bricks would have been proud of my thespian pursuits, the execution of my plan. The mark was ensnared by his greed, and my carpets were clean.

All in all a good Dewi Sant

Ciao For Now Cymru Am Byth

Denbow

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Responses

  1. Hehe, “Doctor Denbow!”, funny post XD


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