Happy Christmas

Well said - and a fantastic New Year!

Lee

Okay chaps I need help

I need a new winder winder meachism for the drivers side of a 110 Defender

1991, 2.5 TDI. Trouble is in ten days I go off to Africa for four months. So I need it immediately.

If you have a complete drivers door for sale - all channels etc, then I will buy that off you at the going rate

Im in Hartlepool and will travel to pick it up.

Im desperate.

Andy

In article , Tony writes

And from me too.

Hope this makes you smile, sorry if you've seen it before (and with apologies to the original author - I've tweaked it a bit)...

. . .

Count Dracula has been gleefully on the pre-solstice pull, in Glasgow, of all places. He's spent the night hip-hopping, downing Bloody Mary's in various clubs, and occasionally nibbling at any unsuspecting female necks he's bee offered. Characteristically, he's been fit as a dead flea recently, so he's thus felt no need at all to use the chill-out rooms provided, although naturally he appreciates the sentiment more than most.

Eventually, he reluctantly decides to head for home. He starts to wobble back along Argyle Street shortly before sunrise, humming 'Days in Black Satin' rather off key, more to himself than to the rather surprised bin-men making an early start*. Although snowy outside, it's been rather too warm in the clubs. The thought of an icy coffin waiting back at the crypt seems very inviting to him, in a drink-befuddled sort of way.

Suddenly he is hit on the back of the head. Spinning round he sees nothing, but his vampire senses detect a faint, strange cooking smell. He looks down. A small sausage roll is lying on its own in the middle of the pavement, about three feet away.

"That's a bit odd," he thinks, "The carry-outs closed hours ago, and surely my fellow Denizens of the Night would have had that wee morsel away by now." He means the local rats, of course, but he's come over a bit lyrical because of the vodka. There's no time to consider this odd incident further though, as there's now a faint glimmer on the Eastern horizon. He turns back to his path, quickening his pace crypt-wards.

A few yards further on and... SPLOT! He whirls round as quick as he can, but again sees nobody. This time, however, there is a small triangular egg and cress sandwich lying on the ground. Bloody Marys notwithstanding, his evil-eyesight is every bit as efficient as ever, and he can't help noting with distaste the curled corners and drying egg mayonnaise (although strangely the cress appears largely intact).

Yuk! The merest hint of vegetarianism is quite enough to make him feel thoroughly queasy. He wants to sit down and wait for the nausea to pass, but realises he must fight down the rebellion in his stomach. There is now a distinct glow on the skyline. Time is short and he must hurry.

Leaning into the rising pre-dawn breeze, his cape streams out behind him as he attempts to stride out, now in a purposeful but none-too-straight line. Another two hundred yards will see him safely at the lych-gate of the churchyard, but the gloom around him is decreasing with every step. He should never have drunk those last two brunettes, he mutters to himself angrily.

Thuck! Just as he reaches the relative safety of the gate's overhang it happens again. Expecting nobody and angered by the interruptions, he whirls round again. This time, however, things are horribly different.

He grabs at his chest, but to no avail. The long, wooden cocktail stick, bizarrely adorned with pineapple chunk and cheese cube, has slid sharply in through his silk shirt, finding its evil target under the third rib. There is a pain that defies description. His legs fail under him and he collapses onto the un-sanctified paving stones outside the churchyard.

Standing over him, rim-lit by the rising sunlight the blonde's half-smile is ghastly, yet strangely familiar. "Who are you?" He gasps, as the black mist rises around him.

She laughs, "You mean you don't know? Well, thanks to Mr. Pointy here it won't bother you much longer now. But for the record, I'm... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Buffet, the vampire slayer."

Regards,

Simonm.

OMG - that means all my emails to distant relatives won't get there until New Year!

Only kidding - I printed them off and sent them in envelopes, to be sure.

Merry Xmas all

DaveP

Yes, and a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to one and all. Just remember.....