The Carwash

As a runner you have to listen to peoples crap excuses all day and why they can’t do anything themselves. For instance I’ll get a call on my CB: “Alan – Edit 11 wants a GBK and is to busy to take a lunch break, can we go out and get him one?" (Note they always say we when there’s certainly no fucking we involved its just yours truly). In truth, the words that should have came out of that room were probably something along the lines of: "I'm too fucking lazy to leave this room, send a runner out to get me my lunch so I can feel all high and mighty while I burn what’s left of my already shoddy retinas (hence the black rimmed spectacles) by fixating them on this monitor for the next 48 hours”.

But this sort of things expected. This is what runners are employed to do and you come into the industry expecting to do things like this. You have to do the shit jobs.

But sometimes people really take the piss. People will ask you to do those things that just really cross the line. Travel to Highgate to walk their dog, clean some cunts fish tank out, polish their shoes - go and let their fucking decorators in! This isn’t in the job description! It's aimed at purely degrading the poor runner. Which brings me on to today's events.

Recently my boss purchased a Porshe Carrera for 70 odd grand, an amazing penis substitute of a car. The sort of machine that would make Jeremy Clarkson soil his pants in joy. You would think for that price it would come with its own 24 hour a day pit team like Formula One cars have. No. Wanting to keep his new cock extension constantly clean (but not wanting to spend five pounds on taking it through a car wash), he approached me.

“Hey Alan. You know my new Carrera. Could we perhaps give it a bit of a wash over?”

I thought he was joking because he was definitely taking the piss.

“I've got a big meeting this afternoon and am taking her along. Its really for the good of the company she looks her best”.

What do you say to that? “Fuck off. I didn’t do a media studies degree for three years and get into thousands of pounds in debt to clean your fucking car you complete prick”.

No. You smile, keep your head down and fill a bucket of water. Go downstairs and throw it over the car, conquer the huge desire to key it all the way down the side or pull a Ferris Bueller, and slowly scrub, shammy and apply wax for hours. By the end the cars sparkling, free of the dirt of the city and looking its best. Then you stuff a couple of left over prawns underneath the leather lining of the seat, and fuck off to Oxford street with a big, big smile on your face.