Heff in Epping

No one much likes Heff but
fuck me can he fix a car! We
left him with that
shunted Lexus? Christ,
good as new next day!
Hot as fuck in the workshop,
had to open all the windows and
doors through which
Madam appeared in full fig—
shit, how did that stunner
marry my fucking mechanic?
I bet he could get disability benefit, the
shape he’s in, and she’s
six foot tall, built to fuck,
tits like melons just
begging to be held while you
rut her from behind—OK,
guilty, I’ve had her, not
proud but—what a fuck!

Heff’s buried in a bonnet but
her eyes are elsewhere—“Trevor?”
--black guy, big, say no more—
“there’s a rattle in my Beamer,
could you take a look?” And he’s gone
like a rat up a drainpipe as I
watch her arse swing away,
dreaming of what I would do to it,
turning into Heff’s blank stare—
shit, do I go red or what?—but the
funny bugger just mutters
“Hot hammer, cold anvil” and
limps off to get tea.

What the fuck does that mean?