OMG!

By Trevor Gallop

It's not every day your car breaks down, you're helped out by The Sacred Church Of The Reborn Lord’s Ambassadors On Earth, visited by mysteriously beautiful women and become an unwitting participant in a Reality TV show. But it happens to Colin in this witty story featuring sex, mystery, excitment, scullduggery, intrigue and a complete failure to understand what's going on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trevor Gallop
• Release date: Dec 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458152282

Trevor Gallop

Who Is This Guy Trevor Gallop? Everyone has a novel in them and maybe Trevor should have left his there! He hasn't however, so do have a look! He has also been involved in a number of other writing projects, such as shopping lists, e-mails at work and other strictly utilitarian initiatives which are, fortunately, not available on Smashwords. Trevor also, during his tortured and misunderstood youth, disgorged a number of forgettable lyrics for the unknown, unloved and unmissed punk band, Phil Sick and The Vomits. Trevor is fifty four. He has one partner, two children who are both under the age of eight and a big mortgage. He lives in quiet misery in England. PS - follow Colin Hollings on Twitter - @ColinHollings

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OMG...

By

Trevor Gallop

Published by Trevor Gallop at Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 Trevor Gallop

Prologue – Midsummer’s Eve...

Part 1

I definitely should not be driving….

He swung the ageing Ford round another tight corner on the narrow, unlit, country lane. It was a beautiful mid-summer’s night. The sky was clear and, with the roof down, a warm breeze caressed his face. The air was infused with the sweet scent of freshly cut grass. He dropped down a gear.

Putting his foot down, the engine screamed as he felt himself pushed back in the seat. Well not pushed exactly. A clapped out old Ford Escort was never going have your face sagging, flesh dragged from your skull by the g-forces of its mighty acceleration. But the agonised shrieking coming from under the bonnet certainly gave an illusion of straining, adrenalin fuelled effort.

It had been a good evening. A first gig for the newly reformed Phil ‘Er up’ And The Four Strokes, since they disbanded in 1980. Then a couple of beers afterwards.

OK, it was hardly a prestige, gala event. Chuckupperton Parish Hall was not the Royal Opera House. And Colin wasn’t even an active participant in the artistic endeavour – just an enthusiastic supporter, observer, fan and ‘hanger on’.

Fifteen years ago he had hung out with Phil ’er Up and the Four Strokes. Had seen their hopes of fame, fortune and frequent fornication fade, as they became admin assistants, clerks and junior management trainees. Now, with their body clocks’ alarms going off , telling them it was ‘mid life crisis’ time, they had re-formed and Colin had gone along to see them reliving his, and their, very ordinary teenage years.

And, of course, the Young Farmers’ mid-summer disco wasn’t ever going to be heaving with glamourous, wealthy and beautiful people. Colin may well have harboured a secret hope he would be exposed, that night, to a portfolio of sexually transmitted diseases, donated by a thonged throng of strong thighed, voluptuous young groupies. He may have dreamed that they, bewitched by the power, glamour and riches of all that the elite of rock and roll had to offer, would fling themselves mercilessly at him. It was, however, a hope was never going to be realised.

But overall the evening had gone quite well. The atmosphere had been relatively convivial.

A herd of young farmers had jumped up and down a bit, in a roughly choreographed stampede, during the songs.

Some had even clapped encouragingly at the conclusion of each one.

He’d enjoyed a post gig beer with the band and talked about the old days. Drab, dull old days. Days which, with the passing of time and the power of selective memory, seemed to be miraculously transformed from base metal into the gold of ‘the good old days’.

Now though he needed to get back. Ahead lay a day of tiresome, back to back, wall to wall, project management updates, stage gate reviews, steering groups and all that other dreary corporate clap trap that he’d have spat in the face of nearly 20 years ago when he drank cider and shuffled awkwardly to the erratic beat of Phil ‘Er Up and his Four Stroke friends.

Hauling himself back to the ‘here and now,’ and the car back onto the right side of the road, he gently admonished himself. He was driving whilst well over the limit for alchohol in the bloodstream. To attract the attention of any dozing rural copper, by gently meandering from one side of the carrriageway to the other, probably wouldn’t improve his prospects of getting home quickly – although it would undoubtedly mean he was offered accommodation as their guest for the night!

Fortunately, at this point, the risk to his life, limbs and licence was significantly reduced as the car’s engine finally acknowledged that:

The ‘E’ on the dial of the fuel tank didn’t stand for ‘Endless Energy’

When the fuel tank needle has been stuck on the aforesaid ‘E’ for more than 30 minutes the engine really ought to obey the laws of physics and stop working

The car juddered to a halt.

Bugger!

He turned the key and attempted to restart the motor.

It shuddered, wheezed, groaned, coughed asthmatically, briefly roared into life… Then, completely losing the will to live, fell silent.

This was just typical.

Of course he’d known that trusting the rusting baked bean can on wheels that he called a car was a mistake. But, heck, he couldn’t get a lift and public transport didn’t seem to have been invented in this neck of the woods.

Besides, it was a beautiful, clear, warm, summer’s night. A deep, rich, dark silence was punctuated by occasional squeaks, squeals and rustlings from the hedgerow. In the absence of any light pollution, the night sky was a deep, dark, velvet black, tastefully blinged by diamond clear stars. The Milky Way a splashed sash, tastefully draped across the dark dome of the sky, bisected the night.

Bollocks.

He had no idea where he was, but he knew where he needed to be.

At home.

He had a meeting with that old bastard Pringle in the morning. In fact, a quick glance at his watch confirmed that, in about eight hours time, he would be sitting down, confronting, the old tosser. Pringle would be smirking odiously as Colin vainly attempted to explain exactly why Project Alpha was glowing red on every available progress indicator known to project management, and was actually moving toward the infra red in a couple of areas where the heat was really on!

This meeting was an essential and regular component of the perennial running up a down escalator which was Colin’s career. And the only thing worse than attending the monthly grilling would be to miss it!

The adrenalin buzz following the gig had now dissipated. Draining away like a young farmer’s pint of cider, puddled around his spilled glass.

He’d have to call the AA.

In fact he’d have to join the AA....

He picked up his mobile….

That was strange. He was sure he’d left it switched on.

A couple of, increasingly vigorous, proddings of the on / off switch confirmed that the reason the phone wasn’t switched on was because the battery was flat.

He had a simple choice - stay or go.

He could wait in the car.

In the dark.

In the middle of the middle of nowhere.

Just sit, nurturing a vain hope that someone, who wasn’t a mugger or a serial murdering nutter, might be driving by and willing to stop on this isolated, dark patch of road to assist a complete stranger, who, for all they knew, might be a mugger or a serial murdering nutter…..

The alternative?

He could start walking.

Even, he reasoned, in the middle of the middle of ‘nowhere’, if you walked far enough and long enough you would surely find yourself approaching the periphery of ‘somewhere’. A ‘somewhere’ that you might be able to get some help.

He pushed a button on the dashboard and the roof of the car emerged from behind, covering him, like a hand which was slowly coming down over a butterfly.

With a final curse, he got out and stood at the roadside, looking from left to right.

He had, of course, no idea where he was. The joy of sat nav was that you didn’t need to. You were liberated from any requirement to know anything at all about the detail of the route from A to B. In fact you didn’t even need to know where A or B was. You just did what you were told. Walking without that kind of assistance was a different proposition entirely.

He looked up. He looked round. He looked down. On balance, the direction that the car was pointing in seemed to be the most promising to set off in.

With a sigh, a shrug of the shoulders and a grunt, he started walking.

Part 2

…. And may you bring him to us, Oh Lord, that we may show adoration and praise him.

The congregation stood, heads lowered, hands held together in prayer, murmuring their response. On the walls of ShitelyVillage Hall, old, faded pictures of football, rugby and cricket teams, frozen in their moments of triumph, fifty years ago, stared vacantly through dusty glass.

We will praise him.

Now the Priest turned, purple cassock swirling, and continued to slowly swing the ornate metal ball and chain containing gently smoking incense.

His back to his congregation, he spoke imploringly.

"Bring