Project 800

Scumbags. That’s what we’re dealing with here.

Thieves. What an utter bunch of absolute bastards.

Vincent Vega hit the nail on the head. “What’s more chickenshit than fu**ing with a man’s automobile? I mean, don’t fu** with another man’s vehicle.” Yes. Nail. Head. Hit. And right now, I know how he feels, I really do.

“You need to call me now” read the Whatsapp message from the Mrs. No kisses, just clear instruction. I thought I’d done something wrong. I had not. Her text was curt because it was urgent. She’d come home from only to be greeted by this sight. Yes, that’s Project 800. And yes, its window was in a million little pieces.

I was at work at the time, swamped with content issues based around a new car I can’t tell you about for embargo and NDA reasons. I was very busy indeed, basically. But then I couldn’t be busy because I was incandescent with rage. And it’s the worst rage possible. The kind of rage that has an event to which you can aim it, but no person. No face. No flesh and blood that you can blame. It’s a horrid, empty, crushing feeling and it distracts you from everything else. It’s just anger in its purest form.

So, what had happened? Well, Project 800 was sat idly in the resident’s car park, minding its own business as it does. It sat there in the sunlight, surrounded by big fancy houses and flanked on its near-side by a busy road. And it was fine. I know it was fine because I walked past it this morning. The Mrs too. But in the half hour before we left the house, and John who runs the chippy arrived, someone robbed from it.

Taking a huge (and I employ no hyperbole here) boulder from a nearby garden, they broke it through the window and stole the four brand-new Falken tyres from the back seats. They also stole the four alloys I had borrowed so I could rest Project 800 on them while I tidied up the factory alloys. They grabbed all that gear and then they were gone.

I know people have had bigger things stolen, and I’m not trying to take anything away from you with a set of tyres. It’s the principle that crushes me. The mindset. Who does that? Who f**ks with another man’s automobile? Whoever you are, you’re an unspeakable and frankly pathetic waste of an egg and sperm. You’re an oxygen thief. You’re an embarrassment to the most embarrassed. You’re a c**t.

I called Avon and Somerset Police, who were about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. Yes, you’re busy, I get that. And while we’re not talking about the Crown Jewels, we are talking about a fresh crime. Of eight rather large, rather cumbersome wheels. At least feign interest. Maybe ask your pandas to keep an eye out for a Micra loaded with rubber that doesn’t fit. Just… you know, something.

I’m pissed off. Thoroughly so. The borrowed wheels I’ll pay for. Not ideal, but hey. The tyres though. Falken Tyres gave me that rubber on good faith. I was going to put them on my car, and I was going to, in return, ensure lots of coverage on the site. I was thankful that Falken saw some worth in my silly little project car. Flattered in fact. But now I just look like a mug. And that’s what really hurts.

The car is hoovered out now. A new window is on order and should be here by the weekend. And tomorrow I’ll make an apologetic, grovelling phone call with my debit card in hand and why, because some spunkgoose broke into my car. Great.

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