The Sound of Laughter Read Online Free Page B
Author: Peter Kay
like brick shithouses, but I'd never even touched one. What possessed me to say it I'll never know but within twenty minutes of being left alone with this thing I'd created a hole the size of a small crater in a plasterboard wall.
I glanced around. Nobody had noticed so, feeling
strangely confident, I decided to try and drag a two-ton steel bin, piled high with rubbish, out to the crushing machine. I was quite proud of myself. I slid the forks underneath the bin. I jacked it up no bother at all, I even managed to drag it outside to the car park and then I lowered it. . . straight on to my foot. The following ten minutes were a complete blur and the next thing I remember I was sat in a pickup truck being driven by Morris Minor himself on my way to A&E.
'J-J-J-J-J-J-Just what d-d-d-do you think you w-w-w-w-w-were doing, you d-d-d-d-dopey prick?' he snarled at me at the lights. 'I thought y-y-y-you said you c-c-c-could use one?'
I just shrugged and mumbled, 'Dunno.' All I could do was stare at my big toe, which was starting to resemble something out of a Tom & Jerry cartoon. I could actually see it throbbing and it was beginning to turn a violent shade of maroon. I hadn't been in the job an hour and already I was going to get sacked. Good going, Peter.
Morris screeched into a disabled bay outside the A&E unit.
'Right, g-g-get out,' he growled. I hopped out of the truck with my sock in my mouth. Before I could shut the door, he had reversed and was starting to drive off with the passenger door still swinging.
'Hey,' I shouted to him, 'where are you going?'
'Back t-t-t-to work,' he b-b-b-barked (he's got me at it now).
'How am I gonna get home?' I said with tears in my eyes.
'Sweet J-J-J-Jesus,' he shouted and, reaching into his pocket, threw a ten-pence piece at me. 'Here, ring for a f-f-f-f-f-f-fucking t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-taxi,' he said, and sped off.
As I picked up the ten-pence piece and put it in my pocket I glanced down at my big toe. It looked like Trevor McDonald's nose.
The accident-and-emergency unit was packed. Well, it was July, so it was full of kids with broken limbs. I was given a ticket and told to wait until my number came up. You know, like you do in Argos, where you have to wait and listen to that annoying recorded female voice repeating, 'Customer number five, to your collection point please.' (You obviously won't be getting the benefit of the impression I just did, but take my word for it, it's a very annoying voice.)
Hold on, my phone's ringing now... it was my nana. I bought her a boxed DVD set of 24, Season One, off t'Internet, because she's a big fan of CSI: Miami and I thought she'd lap it up. I mean, it does keep you on the edge of your seat, I'm sure you'll agree. Anyway, she was calling to tell me that it doesn't make any sense and she's
having trouble following the story. Now there's six discs in the box set and four episodes on each disc, hence twenty-four. My nana had put disc one in, watched an episode, then taken it out, then put disc two in and watched an episode, taken that out and ... I could go on but I think you get the gist. 'I put the second one in and Kiefer Sutherland's wife's been kidnapped ... it doesn't make any sense, Peter,' she said. I've just had to try to explain that there's four episodes on each disc. 'It's twenty-four, just follow the clock.'
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was in A&E and had just got to the front of the queue for the payphone.
'Hello, Mum,' I said as normally as I could muster.
'Well, how's it going, are you on your break?' said my mum.
'Er . . . well, kind of, I'm at the hospital.'
'You're where? The hospital? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what's happened?'
'I dropped a bin on my foot,' I said matter-of-factly.
'What kind of bin?'
'A two-ton steel one.'
'Oh my God.'
By this time my dad had overheard my mum's side of the conversation and was starting to shout questions over her shoulder.
'What's happened? Where is he?'
'It's R Peter. He's dropped a
I glanced around. Nobody had noticed so, feeling
strangely confident, I decided to try and drag a two-ton steel bin, piled high with rubbish, out to the crushing machine. I was quite proud of myself. I slid the forks underneath the bin. I jacked it up no bother at all, I even managed to drag it outside to the car park and then I lowered it. . . straight on to my foot. The following ten minutes were a complete blur and the next thing I remember I was sat in a pickup truck being driven by Morris Minor himself on my way to A&E.
'J-J-J-J-J-J-Just what d-d-d-do you think you w-w-w-w-w-were doing, you d-d-d-d-dopey prick?' he snarled at me at the lights. 'I thought y-y-y-you said you c-c-c-could use one?'
I just shrugged and mumbled, 'Dunno.' All I could do was stare at my big toe, which was starting to resemble something out of a Tom & Jerry cartoon. I could actually see it throbbing and it was beginning to turn a violent shade of maroon. I hadn't been in the job an hour and already I was going to get sacked. Good going, Peter.
Morris screeched into a disabled bay outside the A&E unit.
'Right, g-g-get out,' he growled. I hopped out of the truck with my sock in my mouth. Before I could shut the door, he had reversed and was starting to drive off with the passenger door still swinging.
'Hey,' I shouted to him, 'where are you going?'
'Back t-t-t-to work,' he b-b-b-barked (he's got me at it now).
'How am I gonna get home?' I said with tears in my eyes.
'Sweet J-J-J-Jesus,' he shouted and, reaching into his pocket, threw a ten-pence piece at me. 'Here, ring for a f-f-f-f-f-f-fucking t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-taxi,' he said, and sped off.
As I picked up the ten-pence piece and put it in my pocket I glanced down at my big toe. It looked like Trevor McDonald's nose.
The accident-and-emergency unit was packed. Well, it was July, so it was full of kids with broken limbs. I was given a ticket and told to wait until my number came up. You know, like you do in Argos, where you have to wait and listen to that annoying recorded female voice repeating, 'Customer number five, to your collection point please.' (You obviously won't be getting the benefit of the impression I just did, but take my word for it, it's a very annoying voice.)
Hold on, my phone's ringing now... it was my nana. I bought her a boxed DVD set of 24, Season One, off t'Internet, because she's a big fan of CSI: Miami and I thought she'd lap it up. I mean, it does keep you on the edge of your seat, I'm sure you'll agree. Anyway, she was calling to tell me that it doesn't make any sense and she's
having trouble following the story. Now there's six discs in the box set and four episodes on each disc, hence twenty-four. My nana had put disc one in, watched an episode, then taken it out, then put disc two in and watched an episode, taken that out and ... I could go on but I think you get the gist. 'I put the second one in and Kiefer Sutherland's wife's been kidnapped ... it doesn't make any sense, Peter,' she said. I've just had to try to explain that there's four episodes on each disc. 'It's twenty-four, just follow the clock.'
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was in A&E and had just got to the front of the queue for the payphone.
'Hello, Mum,' I said as normally as I could muster.
'Well, how's it going, are you on your break?' said my mum.
'Er . . . well, kind of, I'm at the hospital.'
'You're where? The hospital? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what's happened?'
'I dropped a bin on my foot,' I said matter-of-factly.
'What kind of bin?'
'A two-ton steel one.'
'Oh my God.'
By this time my dad had overheard my mum's side of the conversation and was starting to shout questions over her shoulder.
'What's happened? Where is he?'
'It's R Peter. He's dropped a
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