Once every eight weeks I team up with my mate Jeff to do a block of flats wfp.
He is a raggedy ar
sed eccentric professor type who everyone loves and who I have a sneaking respect for his lifestyle. He is often doing hare-brained stuff such as brewing his own diesel mix or DiY hydrogen boost to his engine or what have you.
He puts bearings in washing machines, services his own gas boiler and makes things last.
He drives a 220,000 mile, tired Pug 406 hdi estate ex taxi and is mainly trad but has a few wfp jobs for which he puts a 175L tank in the back.
We do a bit of cycling and he turns up with an abandoned and rescued bike, a pacamac and crocodile trainers (as in they flap when he walks) and I mended them with gaffer tape. My wife says to him to get some new ones as they're only about a tenner at ASDA and he just grins and says that he'll get an extra couple of months now.
Anyway - we meet for a fry up before we go to this job and he sees me with my trailer and
he has the cheek to tell
me I look like a cross between the Beverly Hill Billies and a Gyppo...
