Following the signs for Bowels of Humanity, we descend the corkscrew of apocalypse into the cradle of filth.
We are beckoned forward by a studded glove of a uniformed customer care employee who holds in the other hand, the clipboard of contestants.
Fearful of stuttering or forgetting what items we've just played tetris with whilst packing, only 28 minutes before, I try to lick my lips and avoid the ignominy of being sent to the back of the queue or the sometimes unfair deterrent of beheading, and placed upon the spikes to join those already there with absent eyes, courtesy of carrion.
Stage two commences. Under scrutiny of CCTV and broadcasted to those outside the gates for entertainment, we reverse into the one vacant bay without touching a kerb through unusual cooperation between man and wife.
Poor communicators and bad drivers are told to abandon their vehicles. A massive magnet controlled by the watchtower lifts the luckless vehicles into the heavily fortified scrapyard next door where the sound of shattering glass terrifies the timid.
The time of 3 minutes per car begins. 2 minutes 47 seconds as the boot and rear doors are flung open.
We've rehearsed what goes where, who carries what, several times on the back lawn to applause from the neighbours and improved our ability to avoid
collisions with each other against the clock.
I wish I hadn't missed training for the Highland Games as I failed my first throw of a badly chosen heavy door over the unexpectedly high, starting height of a 5 feet hurdle at container no.3. My, errr, our second throw is successful though we narrowly miss a guard's ear by inches who gives chase with vocals. Just as a Formula 1 driver, we sprint to our vehicle. There's not enough time to reach for the tailgate, Go, Go, Go! The engine starts first time, responds artfully and we rise up the spiral, leaving the vocalising guard, chasing the sky to our freedom and the top prize of a garage fit for a car.
NE
