3am

Bignell was not one of nature’s great drivers. For some reason he kept speeding up and then braking sharply. I would’ve said something but I was too busy hitting my head on the dashboard each time.

"Sorry, Dennis Brent" he would say after each accident. After it had happened sixteen times on what was a commendably flat and well maintained road I decided to say something.

"Bignell" I began. Thump. My head hit the dashboard again.

"Sorry, Dennis Brent" replied Bignell.

"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Bignell, but are you driving properly or is this another of your pleasantries?"

"Well, Dennis Brent" he began before hitting the brakes again and letting me collide with the plastic-effect, mock-wooden, faux-rubber, and now rather dented dashboard.

"Hmm" I said and let the remark hang in the air until Bignell felt suitably stung.

"Are you feeling uncomfortable?" he asked. When I replied with a nod he reached over and fiddled with some controls under my seat. "Is that any better?"

I felt no obvious change at first by when he slammed his foot down on the accelerator my seat shot backwards and I was lying horizontally like a dental patient but fully clothed.

"Would you like a mint?" asked Bignell. I said I would and he held out a bag. I tried to reach it but the seatbelt kept my pinned to my horizontal seat. "Please yourself" said Bignell and he put the mints back in the glove compartment. "Are you all right down there?"

"Not exactly" I replied.

"We’ll soon fix that" and his hand shot under my seat once again. "Try that".

Again, nothing happened until he pressed a pedal. This time it was the brake and this time I was folded in half like a birthday card which won’t fit in the envelope you were given and you’re hanged if you’ll get another card or envelope and it doesn’t really matter anyway if the thing reaches the other person in a state of distress as it’s the thought that counts. Besides, Bargainsave birthday cards are so thin you can fold them four times and it barely shows. My head was between my knees, my lungs had been squeezed dry and I thought I could feel my liver banging against my 24-hour ointment dispenser plug. Now was not a good time for Bignell to offer me another mint. Even if my arms had been movable my mouth wouldn’t open.

"Please yourself" he said again and he took several mints for himself.

I tried to say "Look here, Bignell, a joke’s a joke but I’m slowly dying and would appreciate it if you’d offer some assistance to me. Needless to say, all past events of a jocular nature would be forgiven and we can carry on our journey in manly silence. How about it, old friend?" Unfortunately I couldn’t draw breath so had to make do with "Bgnlll hulppppp"

"What was that, Dennis Brent?" he asked, cupping his ear in the universally recognised gesture meaning 'I can hear you perfectly but my sense of humour is so pathetically deformed that I think it amusing to push you to the brink of death'.

"Hhullp meeee bgnlll" I said again.

"There are three men trapped down a well?" he laughed. Normally a classic television reference would’ve piqued my interest but I had other things on my mind. Chiefly that my mind was about three inches from my gusset and I was only a source of intense heat away from becoming a toasted sandwich.

"Bgnlll" I gasped.

"You’d like a mint after all?" he asked, smirking with every syllable.

"Am dyng" I croaked. It pained me to be in that state just as much as it pains me to write this account in what may appear to the skim-reader to be young-person-language. I call it the 3 N’s – 'no vowels', 'no sense', 'no National Service to teach them how to communicate properly and to wash and to not be so beastly'.

Bignell paused for a moment, perhaps sensible at last to my plight. But no – he was simply constructing yet another of his jokes.

"What’s that, Skippy? You’d like a mint?"

Of all the people to be crushed to death with I didn’t think it would be Bignell. Sharing a house with Ian Devine I had naturally considered death by crushing – he might mistake an occupied bath for an empty one, he may burst through a door and leave me pancaked behind it, he could even become lost and confused in the darkness and end up in someone else’s bed during the night and be found lying on top of them completely unaware that they were there. Those were, I felt, acceptable risks to take considering he contributed handsomely to household expenses. To die in Bignell’s car because he thought it would be jocular was an insult too far.

"Frreemee" I gasped.

"Are you all right, Dennis Brent?" asked Bignell. "You appear to be turning red."

I knew this to be a lie as I could see my face reflected in the metallic disc of my watch and could tell I was in fact closer to blue than red. I would’ve accepted purple as it was a dark night but not red. I dismissed his remark as yet another attempt at humour.

"Are you sure you’re comfortable?" he asked.

"Gmnmngh" I roared in a compacted and guttural voice. Since I couldn't speak I couldn't invalidate the wager - that was my reasoning and I would take it to court if necessary.

"Let me…" he said, fiddling with the chair controls, "…see if…" and I shot bolt upright. A surge of oxygen and blood reached my brain and everything went white and bright and I could hear strange but deafening sounds.

"Woahh" cried Bignell as he straightened his car and avoided the oncoming lorry. "Well, you’ve got to see the funny side, aye?"

"I will have a mint" I said once my senses had returned to normal. "Then we will not talk until we arrive at Brent Towers. Your behaviour has disappointed me and I will be asking that your club tie be either returned to us or that you provide photographic evidence of its destruction." I took my mint and Bignell sat in chastened silence.

Well, at least he did for as long as it took him to put the radio on. Popular music (though where that term came from I don’t know – nothing could be less popular with me <g>) blared out and in my dazed state I became thoroughly disorientated.

It took me a moment to realise that Bignell’s car had stopped.

"Are we at my house?" I asked.

"Well, Dennis Brent, it’s like this. No"

"Is this another practical joke?" I asked warily.

"Not as such. We’re at the 24-hour Shopco Megaplex on the road between Bendaton and Shagford. I’m a bit bored of you so I was wondering if I could drop you here. Is it ok for me to leave you here at the Megaplex?"

I looked out at the enormous structure before me. It was exactly how an ancient pyramid would’ve looked had the Egyptians built supermarkets instead of tombs. You know by now I had no choice but to say,

"Yes" and I got out of the car.