This podcast is the perfect little "time-filler" for anyone who supports Saints and has, say... a long commute to and from work, like myself.
Many a weary drive home I am interspersed with the analytical musings of messrs Grant and Leitch, and their dolcet tones serenade me down the A3 as I wistfully, joyfully amble my way through Guildford at 15mph at six o'clock in the evening. Sometimes, people stare at me - but I don't care. I really don't.
I've got the disembodied voice of Steve Grant chuntering into my lugs, they haven't.
That said, sometimes, I've inadvertently shared Steve Grant with others. I didn't mean to, I wanted him to be all mine - but I just let it slip one day. One, fateful, day... not too long ago. I'll set the scene. The sun was beating down on the tarmac outside. It was fast approaching lunch time but with the weather so hot, we retreated inside. The temperature was cooler in the warehouse - little did I know it was about soar, quite dramatically.
Being unable to finish to podcast during my normal drive to work, I decided to stream it through the multimedia at work; roughly speaking, it meant Granty's smooth ruminations echoed between three warehouses, appproximately 7,500 sq/ft. And not only could I hear it in surround sound, but my neighbours could too. And my customers.
I was just listening to a brief diatribe on recent form, when I was abruptly interrupted by a customer. Thinking it was because of the podcast, I turned it down low.
"No, no" she said, grabbing my arm. "Turn it on again, like that guy turns me on" she purred.
Awkwardly fiddling with the remote, I slowly brought TSP back. The word "Hassenhuttl" rolled off the walls and back down into vacuous warehouse. It lapped over the customer like a sexually-charged germanic wave and I could see her quivering and becoming unsteady. I offered her a drink of water, not sure if I should be the one embarassed - or whether it should be her.
"Who was that talking just then?" she asked, her cheeks now a clear shade of carmine. She was flustered and unsteady, and now leaning on the counter-top edging closer and locking eyes with me. It was uncomfortable, as I wiedling a 6-pack of gorilla glue at the time.
"Adam Leitch?" I proffered.
"No, the other one. The other one!"
My mind raced. My heart thumped.
"Er, er.... Steven.... Grant?"
"Him!" she cooed menacingly.
"Wind that back! Now!"
She was demanding and, don't get me wrong - most of us like an assertive woman but she was insistent. This three grand take-away-today kitchen sale had turned into fifty shades of Steve Grant and before me, stood me a forty-something Anastasia Steele from Cobham. Over the waves however, was the Christian Grey of podcasting.
I was made to replay a segment when Grant slurps out a sentence on Obafemi. At first, I couldn't understand why. It was a sentence like no other, I thought. After the fifteenth time, it made sense. It was enigmatic, it was insightful, it was... sexually charged. The words bobbed over us, the sounds interlaced and entwined with meaning and significance and what we all crave in a human... sincerity.
The heat was rising. Our breathing became shallow and excitable. If she wasn't feeling a twinge, I most definitely was.
Kitchen? What kitchen? We both collapsed in a heap on the dusty, warehouse floor. She was leaning against the integrated handle display. Me, on the other hand, inside a trug bucket surround by mastic. The whole experience was confusing yet exhilerating. Exciting, yet completely inappropriate for the workplace... but we didn't care.
Because we had Granty in our lugs. And Granty gives eargasms.
PS: What I really want to know is... Adam, has Granty cracked onto Lucy yet?
