two things

Adorable. Sigh

Two things I never thought I’d say:

1) I’ve hired a solicitor.
2) I’m meeting Richard Hammond on Saturday night.

The first one is the reason for all my jizzbagging down-in-the-dumps crappy somnambulant Will-I-Ever-Be-Normal-Again depressed goings on.

I’ve, over the last two weeks, hired a UK immigration lawyer to assist me with some rather tedious, constricting appeals in lieu of the House of Commons. With regards to my ancestry. And read up on every Act, Bill, case study & litigation document there is to be read about immigration and the UK.

All I need to do is the bar exam and I should be set to partner in Webber Wentzel & Bowens.

Holy fuck, has 2010 been a kick in the old ovaries thus far.

I was going to donate my kidneys to science once I kicked the bucket, but it would seem that I may need to give them to the lawyer when I run out of funds.

So maybe I’ll get to live there one day, maybe I won’t.

But I will be a helluva lot less fundworthy afterwards, if there’s one thing for sure.

In the meantime, and with a lining so silver you could brush your teeth with it, I’m meeting fucking Hammond on Saturday night.

Well blow me like a flute. Seriously, Hammond in Cape Town, and me standing right next to him. If you could GPS this, we’d be two little red dots bleeping together at Grand West Casino on your Garmin.

Carmageddon alive. The Top Gear team will be setting cars alight, playing car footie, teasing the Stig – Christ I’m excited.

British car comedy at it’s very best.

So if you’ve already got a ticket, or are still planning on getting one – what the fuck are you waiting for? For the Kia Picanto to be cool?

(Which, evidentally, is what I was driving around Durban yesterday for work – and schvitzing like a schwein sans air-con, in the most humid city in South Africa), go to Computicket now!

Just a few questions, because I’m out of practice.

Could I say any one of the following to Hammond without looking like I’m completely unhinged?

1) I really love you, but I am in love with another British chap a little bit more, please don’t be neggie.
2) Here. Read my fan letters. Call me.
3) Tell me, does my car actually need an undercarriage or is it fine that it’s still stuffed in the boot?
4) One of my Irish mates met you. You guys drank vodka and Red Bull together. I also drink vodka and Red Bull.
5) You’re hot. This is my Dad.

(Dad, will, in fact, be coming with me. Wonder what the dickens he will say to Hammond. Could be a make-or-break situation. “D’you know anything about planes? Don’t care much for cars.”)

Back to my litigating hole until Saturday. When I get to dress up and look pretty.

top gear live

Well slap my ass and call me Gloria.

And they say dreams don’t come true in this bitch of a world. Wrong.
I got the most delightful email yesterday. Well, no that’s not true. I got two delightful emails yesterday.

The first: my expertise on where one can buy a dildo without actually going into Adult World; (the Internet should come up with a few possibilities)

The second: Subject line: Top Gear Live.

Immediately break out into a randy sweat as I realise it’s penned by someone who is directly integrated and responsible for bringing Top Gear World Tour out to South Africa in February 2010.
I quote: We have seen that you are a huge fan of Richard Hammond and we would love to get you involved with the show..

Basically, and I’m going to write this before I pass out from excitement of an intense horny nature: I am going to meet Richard Hammond. In Cape Town. On his Top Gear World Tour.

Holy everything that’s holy, do you realise what this means? This means,
1) I get to give Richard my fan letters by my own hand. Our fingers might even touch.
2) I get the chance for him to fall in love with me [sidenote: In a very professional, well-behaved non-stalky manner, for that I have given my word].
3) I get to prove that he IS my height and not 3 feet 7. I will prove this with a photograph.
4) Jesus, please may I not cry or bubble from the mouth or do anything retarded.


Alors, I am meeting ze love of my lyfe, ze beautiful Reeshar Ammonde. Swines are but propelling through the air, en masse, and are hanging levitated, above my head.

This has got to be the most exciting day for my ovaries since I last watched Richard on the Liza (Liza Minelli. Telly.) I have had to be extremely disciplined in not telling random strangers in the supermarket, ‘Hey sorry can I just stretch past to get that milk…I’m meeting Richard Hammond.’

Or mouthing off to strangers at red lights, ‘Me. ME. I. Am. Meeting. Richard. Hammond.’

Or to clients, ‘Is that right? Great, have the document to me by the end of the day. I’m meeting Richard Hammond. Kthksbye.’

Holy Crap people, I’M MEETING RICHARD HAMMOND.

Oh Em Gee, he’s my….. dreamboat.

Ooh, I’ll give him a copy of my book. And write him secret messages inside.

And guess what? I get to share a bit of the love too. Picture this:

You win a double ticket to watch Top Gear Live for their World Tour. When they come – in all their glory – to Cape Town and Johannesburg.

You can win! You need to email me though. (peasontoast@gmail.com). And it needs to be quick. The competition aint gonna last forever.
And you need to answer the following questions, (God this is fun:)

1) Name one slogan Hammond sprayed on his car when they were travelling through the Deep South on their American tour.

2) Which television station views Top Gear?

3) What car does Jeremy Clarkson modify to take to The British Academy Awards and who did he chauffeur?

4) What are Richard Hammond’s children called.

5) Who do YOU think the Stig is?

Email me with your answers and YOU just could be meeting James May, Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond at GrandWest Cape Town or the Coca Cola Dome, Joburg.

This is not a joke. This is my serious face.

Oh and I’m seeing The Killers tonight! Jenny was my mate!

Dear Richard Hammond

Hi there hot stuff. Oh, hi.

After five minutes of consternation, I actually have no idea what to say to you. Without you thinking that I’m not a crazy insane stalker.

So, I’ll leave it at that.

I want to have your babies I’ll go now.
Bye,
Peas.

………………………………

Dear Richard Hammond

Thought I’d start over and write you a poem. I’m not good at poetry, but you’re very good at having beautiful teeth.

You’re British,

I think that’s lovely, it makes my groin skittish

You stand next to an Audi with your hand slung in your jeans pocket

My eyeball nearly jumps out of its socket

My libido begins to rocket

My poetry sucks, please don’t knock it

You have dashing white teeth and your hair fluffs up on the side

It’s so cute, it makes me want to be spanked on the hide

And commit sexual genocide

Let’s run drive [in a cool car] away and drink pints together in Dorset

You are well fit

Oh Richard Hammond you make my heart sing

I don’t care if you shortish and if you think I’m a ming….ah.

You even make leather necklaces look hot

And that’s saying a lot

Your funny little sayings get me all giddy

And for you I’ll always try and look priddy

Sometimes I wonder what your underpants look like

Even if they were Y-Fronts I wouldn’t tell you to take a hike

In fact. I’d want you to ride me like a bike. Just do it. Like a Nike.
show me your spike sing to you on a mic.

The End.

Love,
Peas

PS: I won’t charge you the five hundred bucks I charge my other clients to do a personal poetry reading just for you, in private, while naked, if you want.

………………………………………..

Dear Richard Hammond

You rock and I am deeply in lust with you.

Love, Peas
………………………..

Dear Richard Hammond

I am writing on behalf of the AQWV (Association of Questionable Volkswagens), and because of your knowledgeable reputation, I’d like to ask for your comment on how undercarriages just fall off vehicles that are of Germanic disposition and are seemingly sound, if not flawless, in design.

The hydraulic blastic-converter seems to have malfunctioned to the undeniable point whereby the crankshaft is exposed to the compressed oscillation of the gudgeon pin.

The other members of our faculty are just about losing a piston ring, and I myself, the owner of the vehicle, is throwing her poppet valves out of the cot.

I believe you would be able to supply us with a plausible conclusion as to our tachometric problems.

Kind regards,
Peas O’Toast
President

PS: I only wrote this letter as a front and to get your attention. I think you might’ve married the wrong bird, and I think we should both readdress that. Together.

PPS: When you almost died, I almost died.

……………….............

Dear Richard Hammond

Hello. I love hamsters.

Just wrote you a sheaf of stalky letters referring to aspects of your body and your beautiful British disposition.

Won’t send them, so just know this: My number one fantasy of you includes a lot of sweaty banging in the bucket seat of a German sportscar, along the country roads of Shropshire.

Look, I also like someone else at the moment – but even so:

If only you could see what I could see.
Kthksbye,
Peas