Since you asked for it...
The Junkwoman and the Junkdaughters were on hols in that Canada, I was home alone and predictably permanently pissed.
I had recently sold my first P6, GAA 12K, which was a good one and Mr Conelrad is still biting his arse because someone snatched it away from him years later when it was up for sale again. I was broke, because having paid for said holidays, I was depressed because no P6, which is an untenable condition, I was sad and lonely, so what does any normal bloke do in that situation?
Correct. Look for a car to buy. And there was an ad in one of those classic car rags I don't remember which, for a Mexico Brown P6 V8 in some godforsaken backwater in Lincs.
Mind you, this was not through the weird world web, P6 club, or such shenanigans. Classified ad in print media it was. So I called and a rondevoo for inspectage was made.
I saddled the back then on duty 405 Lincolnshirewards, completely unaware what to expect because bleedin forrinna. However, I should have heeded the advice given at the pub
the night before: "How often do we have to tell you this? You DON'T talk to people from Lincolnshire! Let alone going there!"
Anyway, me driving along just fine on HM's motorways, just to be spat into the botany like a damson stone when all civilisation ended just after Sutton in Ashfield.
So I drove along an A road, then a B road, then a C road, then a D road, then an E road, then ten odd miles along a single lane that made Khyber Pass look like a superhighway, to end up in a village that was stuck in the year 1347 or thereabouts. They still had a gallow at the village pond and there was no sign of life, despite it was early afternoon. There were no ducks on the pond, not a soul in the streets, no washing hanging out anywhere, no children playing, no cats, no dogs, not even birds.
It was eerily quiet, too. There was one almost mansion like house overlooking that village and it turned out this was the address. So I drove up there on unpaved coachpaths.
A considerable time after I knocked the hewn from railway sleepers door's cast iron door knock in form of a lion with a ring through its nose, a shrivelled doter answered and
it was that very moment when I realised, that he had eaten everything alive in that village over the past seven odd centuries.
A deal was agreed on just because I didn't have the guts to not buy the car.
He offered to have it delivered to my place by "a friend" of his for a very moderate sum, which I gladly accepted.
The first attempt failed, because said friend had a nasty accident. So different arrangments were made, which culminated in the recovery lorry breaking down near Leeds.
Only on the third attempt, the car actually reached me, but on the way back the recovery lorry had a puncture.
Can you now imagine what I expect tomorrow?