There’s a story in the news which, I think, is a ray of fun and sunshine in an otherwise dark world. I mean, it’s not supposed to be fun and sunshine. And for the people involved it’s not all rainbows and unicorns as I’m sure there have been many questions asked and answers given and things have been quite heated.
But it’s not something to do with Trump being a moody, bigoted tosspot. So it’s a fun and sunshine story.
There’s a police force somewhere who got out the bomb squad to carry out a controlled explosion on a car that was parked outside their station. The car had been there for some time and no-one knew anything about it, nor had anyone been seen near it. And in these days of heightened fear, if in doubt blow the living shit out of it.
In a controlled way.
Which is what they did.
And then it later transpired that the car had been parked their by officers after the driver became unwell. I mean, if you’re going to park a car somewhere safe, then outside a police station is probably high up on your list. Especially if you work in that police station, and would therefore know why a car is parked outside it.
Except the people who knew about it must have been out of the office when the questions about the car were being asked. And so it was blown up.
This is my second favourite story about things being blown up.
The first is – and will always be – the man who received a huge gas bill which, it turns out, included the charges for all the gas used when his house exploded. Because it conjures up such a magnificent image of the aftermath of the explosion – a house lying in ruins, rubble everywhere, smoke rising from the debris – and a meter reader strolling up to the house, stepping over the bricks, casually opening the meter cupboard (the door, obviously, falling off in the process) and taking the reading.
And no-one thinking that the large volume of gas used is somewhat unusual for what used to be a semi-detached house.