Despite my warnings Brian and Carl were now walking around the Sussex Countryside that warm Wednesday afternoon, particularly two small villages Gwyn had apparently mentioned 'Ed's Uncle' living near and they walked about looking for 'a teacher' - Thank God they never found one.
The neighbouring farmer had described 'dumb and dumber' so well, recognising but no overly worried by the slightly threatening demeanour of the pair of them, saying that to his certain knowledge there were no schoolteachers that lived locally and suggested that perhaps the pair might want to contact the police if they were struggling to find a friend.
He went on to say that rural and agricultural thefts are a huge problem and stock, equipment and vehicles were often stolen to order overnight and the pair might find themselves on the wrong end of a shotgun or several guard dogs if they just strolled around peoples' farms like they owned them.
Brian saw the sense but Carl considered it a challenge and wasn't having that from 'no fuckin' Farmer Giles' and if he wanted to look round he fuckin' would, looking contemptuously at the farmer and walking straight past him.
As he manfully swung open a large barn door he was to learn that this was actually 'a byre', when he was confronted by its occupant, a rather large and slightly irate Dexter bull that wasn't happy to have the thick-necked and thick skulled London wannabe villain around the place and disturbing his peace, walking behind him with increasing speed until there was a fence Carl could jump to put between it and him.
"See what I mean?" said the Farmer, "Now you get back in your car and bugger off before someone gets really hurt."
Still seeing the sense of the farmer's advice, Brian pulled Carl by his jacket collar, hearing his semi-brave son still grumbling an almost silent "I ain't havin' that from no fuckin' Farmer Giles..."
"Ain't the fuckin' farmer," said Brian, "it's that fuckin' steak an' kidney on legs boy..."
It turns out that they did drive up to Dave's farm but the gate was locked and they didn't find anyone to talk to and ask. so their tiny little minds decided that there was nothing else for them to check - probably.
They went to the first of two pubs in the village and bought their beer and sandwiches, Carl getting rather annoyed that this 'afternoon country pub', only staying open for him and his Dad didn't have the kind of menu he was accustomed to in the big city and was keen to point out this shortcoming to the landlord.
The barman said that it was a weekday afternoon, they had no chef and if they wanted to come back later that evening, he was sure they could help.
Carl took this as 'cheek' and was leaning across the bar, pointing his finger into the face of a man twice his age, telling him not to give him 'lip'.
This barman apologised somewhat nervously and stepped around the back, staring through a spy hole at Carl's increasing anger at the fruit machine having three of his pound coins and not paying out a similar amount. The Barman picked up his phone and dialled 999 as the thug angrily slapped the machine for a fourth time and called it some very nasty names before kicking it with his heavy boot.
The barman stepped back into line of sight, rang the bell and called;
"time at the bar gentlemen!" ready to run out of the back door if the huge skinhead in the Timberland boots started to kick off.
As it turned out this was precisely the thing to do and the two oafs stood, finished their beer and both stepped out into the car park.
If he'd asked them to leave Carl would have reacted very badly and carnage may have ensued, but the Brains Trust acted on pure acoustic reflex and left without a grumble or word to the landlord.
By the time the police officer arrived she saw their car pulling away from the pub car park and managed to write down the registration number. A check of the computer would show that it had the registration plates of another Ford Focus the same colour that had been stolen from a railway station car park in London three days before.
The officer calmed down the barman and took a full report, noting that these two were looking for a teacher farmer, same as the ones up the road that had been stomping over half a dozen different farm yards that morning.
Dumb and Dumber were really throwing themselves into this search to discover Dave's name and where he lived. The stupid thing was that the Idiot Ex knew it was Ed's Uncle and had signed the church register a few weeks before next to his daughter and under her new father-in-law.
Ed had the same surname as his 'Uncle Dave' of course but the Idiot was too fucking thick to realise it and never would all the time his arse pointed downwards. More than that when his henchmen ACTUALLY MET the so-far nameless 'fuckin'-schoolteacher-fuckin'-farmer' face to face at the hotel entrance while the Idiot was across the hotel and pretty much shitfaced would have barely known his own name let alone someone that was arguing with his specially selected bouncers.
While Dave was unconcerned, I was straight on the phone to the Idiot Ex demanding to know why his best mate and son were in the Sussex countryside and looking for someone I'd had a drink and a dance with.
"Dunno wot yah tawkin' 'abaht Sammy!" said The Idiot Ex with an edge to his voice that told me that he was laughing and very pleased with himself.
"Brian and Carl have been driving around the countryside stirring up the locals," I said, "you will make them stop Les or so help me..."
"I promised I won't gonna come anywhere near yah, din' I Sammy, I promised you that 'din I? Right or Wrong?"
"Not even a good try dickhead," I snapped back at him.
"Nah nah nah Samam'fa," I could all but hear him wiping his nose with the back of his hand in self-righteous glory, "You doan' get it all fuckin' ways sweet'eart, I ain't bin nowhere near YOU, 'ave I? 'Ave I? Right or wrong Sammy? Right or wrong!" he guffawed ending with a braying laugh of triumph.
"You know what I mean Les," I said not wanting to play him at this stupid game of his.
"Like I said to Brian, I ain't 'avin no wife o'MINE..."
"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING WIFE!"
"LISTEN SAMMY! Jus' fuckin' LISTEN!" he took a deep breath to calm his perfectly reasonable anger, "word is 'aht on the street that you's fuckin' 'arahnd with some country school teaching cunt wot you met at Bella's weddin'."
"And what if I am?"
"I ain't bein' made to look like no twat in front of my own mates, I ain't 'avin no one tawkin' abaht me behind me back 'cos you're putting it abaht." He said with some feeling of threatening self-righteousness.
"Now that's a bit strange Les, when we WERE actually married and you were fucking one woman in eleven at the club," he actually did, I did the sums to prove it when I took my first accountancy course two years after, "you weren't too worried for people to talk behind your back, or was that different?"
"Well..." he struggled for a reply settling on... well, nothing, "Well... I ain't talking about that, that's 'istory, this is now... innit." Again I could almost hear the pride in his conclusion.
"Excellent Les, we're finally talking sense; you were screwing all of those women... what? Seventeen, eighteen years ago?"
