Watson and the GPS

Now this saga began about two weeks ago on Monday night at precisely 9.15pm and of that I am certain. Now I don't go a lot on television BUT there are two programmes that I refuse to miss; Time Team and Waking the Dead. Whilst any of those two programmes are on NATO sets up an exclusion zone around the house, in short I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. However, on this particular night I was totally immersed in Waking the Dead when the doorbell urgently chimed out, at first I pretended nobody was home and left the inconsiderate caller on the doorstep. But they were having none of it and continued impatiently ringing the bell as if to warn of imminent invasion. With murder in my heart I sprang to the door and violently flung it open only to be greeted by the sight of a very smug Watson.

"What the hell's on Watson', I screamed.

'What's on bouy, I'll tell ee what's on, Tommy Tommy's what's on', Watson proudly announced.

'What's you on about Watson', I growled, trying to see the reflection of the TV in the nearby window.

'My Tommy Tommy, jest 'bin trying 'un out', the old boy nodded.

'Explain yourself in ten words or less and then I'm slamming the door on your face', I spat.

You could see Watson mentally counting his words and after much deliberation he said, 'I got I a Tommy Tommy and 'er bring I 'ere without gittin' lawst', he drawled. You could see the anguish on his face as he realised he had overshot the word limit and just to be sure I never stuck to my words he firmly planted a 16 lace-hole, black paratrooper boot in the door.

'How could you get lost', I exploded, 'you know your way here like you know the back of your hand'!

The old moorman looked puzzled, 'Argh, but I may 'ave gotten lost without knawing it an' 'er bring I 'ere anyway', he triumphantly exclaimed.

It became clear by this point that there was no way I was going to get to watch Waking the Dead and so resignedly I invited Watson in to hear the story. As he traipsed through the dining room his eyes darted over to the dresser and remained there firmly fixed on the sherry bottle.

'Would you like a glass of sherry, Watson', I hissed through clenched teeth.

'Argh bouy, I 'ull 'ave a drap if you'm offerin', he graciously announced.

I reached down a half pint mug and filled it, anything smaller would have been an insult to the man also known as, 'Sherry Sam'. Just to avoid any other insult I left the bottle infront of him.

'What are you doing with a GPS navigation system', I slowly asked and then settled back into the carver chair to hear the answer.

I will not bore you with all the details but it transpires that his 90 year old uncle had recently passed away, God rest his soul, and bequeathed to Watson his treasured possession - the Tom Tom GPS system. It seems that the reason a 90 year old man had a Tom Tom was that his eyesight had deteriorated to such an extent he could hardly see the road when driving. Therefore the old uncle bought the satnav in order for it to tell him where to steer and when to turn off? How did the old gent die? Why in a car crash of course! Seemingly whilst on a journey he was advised by his satnav to turn left up some street which had recently been made into a one-way system and met a fire engine responding to an emergency call. Sadly he had not ever updated the system and so sallied forth in the wrong direction up a one-way street and because his eyesight was so bad he never saw the warning sign.

The upshot of all this was that Watson's inheritance had dragged him screaming into the 21st century, prior to this acquisition the most modern accessory he owned was microwave oven, and to this day he still can't work out how to use it. Therefore over the following few days everyone in the parish got a satnav guided visit from Watson in order to show off his 'Tommy Tommy'. One neighbour even asked him why he needed such a gadget and was then given a ten minute presentation of the features and benefits of the things and how life would never be the same again. One of his perceived benefits was that it warned him of impending speed limits and even better it would tell him if he ever exceeded them. This is all well and good until you realise that his battered old Series III Land Rover is incapable of any speed greater that 28 mph in which case he couldn't break a speed limit if he wanted to. Another villager was shown how he could even get the guiding voice to sound like that, 'John Cheese' vrom the telly series Alton Towers'? He did briefly become a bit despondent when he keyed in, 'sheep' and it failed to direct him to his flock grazing somewhere out in the wilds of Gidleigh Common.

Over the following week various members of the parish took Watson through the finer points of his satnav system and he soon became surprisingly efficient with its use. There was a slight problem with the use of keying in postcodes because he refused to use it for buying lottery tickets? There was a recent radio programme where they were discussing the National Health Service and somebody mentioned that it was a postcode lottery. Having only heard part of the discussion it left Watson with the idea that a postcode lottery was some new kind of betting scam invented by the government to get even more money out of the populace.

Before we get to the climax of this story there are three important points, firstly Watson's Tom Tom is about 5 years old and has never been updated, as his uncle found out. Secondly, until about three years ago there was a roundabout on the A30 at Whiddon Down. Recent road improvements have now removed this and made a continuous stretch of carriageway with access slip roads in both directions. Finally, the old moorman is capable of finding anywhere on Dartmoor but when it comes to main roads he may as well be in Borneo.

So, bearing that in mind, last week Watson had to go to Exeter for an appointment with the solicitors who were handling his uncle's will. Oh, yes, that is another story, he was so excited about getting the satnav that he forgot to mention the remainder of the £440,000 estate he had been left, hence the need for the Exeter excursion. Everybody had told him that his Tom Tom needed updating but he was having, 'No bugger messin' wi' me Tommy Tommy'. Once the obstinate old codger makes his mind up there is no dissuading him so the satnav was never updated.

Dear old Watson hates going away from Dartmoor and so with the Exeter trip pending he decided to go on safari, firstly he needed to call in at the farmers store in Ashburton, then into Exeter and finally go to St. Michael's church in Chagford to organise the funeral. So, last Wednesday, Watson was seen chugging off across the moor in a billow of thick black smoke belching out from the back of his old Land Rover and that was the last anyone saw of him for three days.

When he eventually appeared at the local inn Watson was unusually sombre, even the offer of a half of sherry didn't seem to cheer him up.

'What's on Watson'?

'What's on?, thik bliddy Tommy Tommy is NOT what's on, that's what's on bouy', Watson muttered.

Then the whole unfortunate tale came out, it transpires that, 'John Cheese', did an excellent job of taking Watson to the farmers store and on to Exeter. Now to appreciate the whole affair it is necessary to realise that the roads which took him across the moor and on to Exeter probably haven't changed an inch in the last two hundred years. In this light the task of guiding the old boy with his out of date, 'Tommy Tommy' was no great shakes. But when he came to leave the magic maze of busy Exeter Watson decided to key in his next destination, namely, St. Michael's. All was well with the world, his satnav expertly steered him out of the city and back onto the A30 heading towards his beloved Dartmoor. Eventually he reached the new road layout at Whiddon Down but, 'John Cheese' remained silent, there was no order to take, 'the next left'. But such was Watson's blind faith in his 'Tommy Tommy' that he was not unduly concerned and just thought to himself that it knew a better way of getting to Chagford. Now, having heard the build-up to this event I bet you're thinking that because his system had not been updated it never knew of the road changes. Which is partly right, except the old exit lane had been incorporated into the new layout and so up or in date it still should have guided him off. But no, silence was golden and Watson continued chugging down the A30. Apparently he began to get a little concerned when he noticed a sign on the Dunheved Bridge announcing that one was entering Cornwall. His concern turned to consternation when he crossed Bodmin Moor and sheer panic when he spotted a sign to Truro. By this time he had no idea where he was apart from the fact that was, 'abroad in vorrin lands'. Eventually, a sign appeared which stated, St. Michael's was 2 miles away and much to the old moorman's relief, John Cheese' demanded that he took the next left which coincided with the road sign. Seemingly Watson saw nothing wrong with this, he just though his, 'Tommy Tommy' had brought him the long way round. The only thing that caused Watson a certain amount of concern was the sight of a deep, azure-blue sea gently crashing onto a beach. In his very words, 'that b'aint right, der be no zeeside at Chagford unless one o' they twoarmys 'ave vlooded the place since I bin gawn'. More to the point he could see no St. Michael's church which was a sure sign he was not in Chagford. Luckily there was a council van in the car park with a couple of workmen taking their lunch break. Watson walked over to the van and tapped on the window which was slowly wound down.

'Oi', he yelled, working on the principal of when one's abroad you have to shout at the locals in order to be understood, ' oi be lookin' vur St. Michael's and I can't find un, do ee knaw where it be'.

The workman flung a hand which was full of Cornish Pasty out of the window and jabbed a finger at the huge lump of sea girt granite opposite. Watson, peered over to the small island in amazement.

'You'm mazed or waat', he quizzed, 'that lump of ole rock tent St. Michael's it be var tu wet for ee'.

With that two fingers appeared over the pasty and the window was hastily wound back up. Luckily in the next car were a couple down on holiday from Exmouth who were rather more amiable and this time Watson was more explicit.

'scuse I missus', Watson addressed the lady driver, 'oi be lookin' vur Chagford an' was wunnerin' if ee knew were twas'.

With a polite smile and her finger on the door lock the nice lady replied that she did know where Chagford is as they live only about 32.6 miles away.

Watson sighed with relief, 'Then were's un too', he asked, 'cause I be buggered if I can find un'.

The lady winced, 'Well it is approximately 97.5 miles in that direction', she smiled sweetly and pointed back up the road.

The old moorman looked totally exasperated, 'ave ee bin on the zider or what?' and with those words he poked his face through the car window, ' I be lookin' vur St. Michael's church in Chagford and thik sign zays St. Michaels church but I be a bit worried about all thik watter and them gert seagulls 'cause we 'ave none of them in Chagford'.

By now the woman was leaning across her startled husband to avoid Watson's face, 'My good man', she started, if you will remove your person from my car I will explain your mistake. That sign is pointing to St. Michael's Mount and that is in Cornwall, my husband and I are in Cornwall and unfortunately so are you. I don't know how you came to the conclusion that this is Devon and that lump of granite is St. Michael's church in Chagford but I can assure you neither my husband or I have partaken in any cider and we are completely sober.'

Watson fumbled in his pocket and brought out with great reverence his satnav, 'This 'ere 'Tommy Tommy' is worked by John Cheese and if ee zays Chagford be down 'ere then down 'ere it u'll be 'cause ee be in a satellite up in the 'eavens an' kin zee everything, zo, when I keyed in St. Michael's that be where e'll bring I, zo missus high an' mighty fur coat an' red knickers you'm be wrang'.

With that tirade the couple from Exmouth sped away at great speed onto the safety of the main road.

Then a thought dawned on Watson, he once again keyed in St. Michael's' as he had previously done only this time he put on his reading glasses. Right before his very eyes he saw the dreaded words, 'St. Michael's Mount, Penzance, Cornwall. With that he slumped back into the Land Rover, scratched his head and idly watched the seagulls fighting over some scrap of food. Suddenly, he had an idea, maybe if he just keyed in Chagford it might get him home and sure enough two hours later he was trundling back up the A30 towards Devon. Why it took three days to get back to the parish is a story for another day but the last word on the matter came from Watson when he was asked where he'd been - 'abroad, tha's were i bin!' was his so;itary answer.