One of the things I have to consider in running a business in the middle of nowhere is to give clients good directions to reach me. This invariably takes the form of faxing or sending a detailed map to them. Occasionally though, the telephone conversation follows this particular path:

Hoss: Okay, now I just need to tell you how to get here. Can I fax or send you a map?

Client: No need mate! I'VE GOT SAT-NAV! Just give me your post code and I'll see you at 10 o'clock sharp.

Needless to say, rather than an arrival at "ten o'clock sharp" I get a phone call at 11.30 with a voice saying "yeah, something's not quite right. I'm currently trundling along a bobbly track which obviously hasn't been resurfaced since Oliver Cromwell was riding a pony and... hello...ah, here we are...no...I've come across a poultry farm called Dahl's Chickens. Er, that's not you, is it?"

Hoss: No. It's not. You're about eight miles away.

Quelle surprise! Sat-nav? More like Shat-nav.Hoss.

p.s.-I was watching an episode of Kojak the other day and I reckon the guy is losing it. There he was in the midst of a multiple murder scene when he suddenly shouts out "Davros!" And it comes as no surprise that the leader of the Daleks wobbling around in a wheelchair was of absolutely no use whatsoever. Hey Theo, stick to the guy with the curly hair.

p.p.s.-my latest idea for an extra source of income is to form a saxophone group and call it Anal Sax. We'd specialise in doing weddings at large country houses with landscaped gardens. We'd ignore the ceremony completely and concentrate on chasing the female catering staff around the grounds at double speed whilst blurting out the theme tune from The Benny Hill Show. And we'd be thrown off the premises after about twenty minutes for "behaviour not befitting the average jazz band" and replaced with another sax group called Banal Sax who would bore everybody to death with a succession of really tedious jazz standards. And one or two guests would become disillusioned and shout out "HEY! BRING BACK THOSE ANAL GUYS. THEY WE'RE GREAT. THIS LOT ARE JUST PLAIN DULL". And a couple of heavy looking geezers wearing hoodies with "Banal Sax Posse" emblazoned on the back would start getting twitchy and a scuffle would break out. And this would escalate into a full blown melee with guns and tanks and stuff. And the bride and bridegroom would take opposite sides on the matter and end up getting divorced before they even got married. And Anal Sax would be blacklisted and sued for a vast sum of money. And I'd go bankrupt and end up slumped against a fruit machine on Brighton Pier in a pool of vomit clutching a bottle of cheap whisky.

Hmmm. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all...