middleofnowhere
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A broken muesli bar in a jersey pocket?
A snapped twig in the undergrowth?
Had someone farted?
Is that traffic approaching?
What's that noise?
The group were puzzled.... it sounded like an internal gear whirring, one that hadn't been oiled properly, but there's some kind of misfire going on.
The learned souls looked around, ahhhhhh it was their leader. Overhanging tree cover was interfering with the transmissions from the mother-ship to their faithful scout, his arms paralysed by lack of signal, rendered useless for the imminent pint picking up duties and all but the lowest of lo-pros.
Before panic set in, the group ushered their venerated leader out into the remaining light, and with a grunt and a twitch, full signal flowed into him, he crackled into life 'onward comrades, our date with Liverpool of Street must be met, let us regale over ale'. And they were whole again.
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