Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

I got a call from Steve on Monday.

"Hello, it's me," he said as he always does, which is helpful because 'me' narrows it down quite a bit.

Luckily I recognised his voice. "Oh hiya Ug," I replied, "what do you want?"

"My washing machine has died," he said, "and my laundry basket is overflowing. Can I come round to your house and do some washing?"

"Bloody hell Steve, you are always buggering up kitchen appliances," I exclaimed before admitting begrudgingly, "go on then, but as long as I have don't have to play any part in the domesticity."

"I don't always bugger up kitchen appliances," he stated indignantly, and then added, "I'll be around in an hour."

He turned up with a bag of washing the size of a developing country and huffed and puffed as he loaded it into the machine. And then I heard him swearing.

"Bastard machine!," he yelled to me, "how do I turn the bloody thing on?"

"Who do you think I am? Mother Theresa?" I yelled back. "I told you I don't do domestic stuff."

Yet more swearing and cussing ensued. Until I couldn't stand it any longer, and stomped around the corner to find Steve shaking his fist at my machine.

I huffed and puffed at him; "you told me I wouldn't have to do anthing! See that dial there," I said pointing to it, "you turn it to 'wash' and then press the bloody 'on' button."

"I did that," he replied.

"Obviously not," I stated, "otherwise your clothes would be washing."

"Show me what I have done wrong then," he retorted.

So I checked that all the settings were correct, pressed the 'wash' button, and then the 'on' button. The machine buzzed for a couple of minutes and then went quiet. Nothing happened.

What the blazes was going on? And then it dawned on me. I turned to Steve and hissed, "you complete and bloody git, you have only gone and buggered up my washing machine as well."


Steve gulped and quickly realised that although the situation appeared circumstantial, it didn't look good for him. With a wild-eyed expression, he held up his palms to me in a 'surrender' gesture before edging backwards out of the room. The whole time he was muttering, "I didn't do anything wrong, I promise."

But let's look at the circumstances: I had used that machine successfully (twice a week) for two and a half years. Yet the very first time Steve uses it, it breaks. There were no two ways about it; he was the Colonel Gadaffi of washing machine land.

Whether Steve did something wrong, or whether it was the most amazing coincidence ever, I shall probably never know (unless there are some washing engineers out there who can tell me what causes a washing machine to buzz and then cut-out).  

So my dear reader, I had to fork out £249.00 for a new one. And if that wasn't bad enough, it won't be delivered until 13th April (even though the shop I bought it from is 5 miles away), so I am faced with either handwashing everything, or buying an avalanche transceiver in case I get trapped under a mound of shitty clothes. 

To commemorate the death of my washing machine, I thought that I would share one of my all-time favourite tracks with you. It is a collaboration between one of my favourite bands, Death In Vegas, and Liam Gallagher from Oasis. [Note: for best results you need to put your headphones on and play the bastard LOUD! Otherwise just press play and listen to it via your computer speakers].

And although my washing machine didn't actually die in Vegas, I am leaving that open for your imagination.