SWEARING

WARNING: This bit below contains offensive language of an offensive nature that could cause offence if you are offended easily because you are a fonkin spangwinkler.

Hello. I have a rather chilling tale to recount to you now. It's more chilling than a freezer on the moon and at least twice as pointless. 


If the rain comes down hard on the canal path overnight, the exciting bottomless pot-holes which keep me on my toes can become filled with cloud diarrhoea. This not only has the added benefit of hiding the cavernous earth-cracks from my eagle squinty eyes, but also satisfyingly splashes brownly all over the place as I career through them at dangerously cool speeds, looking like an awesome advert for something fast and cool and dangerous.

I like to pride myself on my total consideration to other path users (I got all 'A's in my own questionnaire (see an earlier blog entry)), so I will always slow or stop for a Person Walking, or tinkle my tinkly bell as a warning that I am carefully coming up behind them. On this particular day I was just riding along what is possible the most puddle-strew, but also the widest, part of the path, when I saw a young woman walking towards Bath, going in same direction as me. 

She seemed to be carrying everything that she owned, countless bags and rugs and shit, all topped off with a cheap crusty acoustic guitar. She was also dragging, in a careless way through the dirty smeg-ridden water, one of those crappy suitcases with those stupid tiny wheels. I duly rang my bell hard, like a teenager in the shower, to warn her of my approach. It had no effect.  Odd, I thought. I slowed down to a fast walking-pace style speed and went right onto the grass in an attempt to go around the wide-load. 

As I pulled alongside her majesty, she made a sudden start, like I had just gone for her and theatrically stumbled into a nearby skank-pool. 

"Ooooo, are you OK? Sorry didn't mean to startle you, I rang my tinkly bell in the direction of your earholes, but you must have not heard, sorry, sorry." I spluttered in what I attempted to be an apologetic tone.

"Piss off you fucking arsehole! I've got wet boots now 'cause of you, you wanker!" she spat with a crazed look on her crazy face, "I've got to spend all fucking day with fucking wet feet now cause of you, you fucking twat. Piss off, go on, just piss off you piece of fucking shit!"

She was only getting started.

"Sorry, but I really didn't do anything." On reflection, this was probably not the best thing I could have said at this point. 

What followed next was a stream of consciousness style swear-athon, which painted a picture of me that would probably win the Turner prize.

Then something happened that finally pushed her totally out of Sane Town and into Wack-job Woods. Three Lyra-clad Psycholists came tearing past her at full pelt, all, one after the other, splashing her with muddy stuff as their wheels passed. They raced on, without a word.

I have to say that my heart went out to the poor waif at this point, as the top of her head flew off and lava shot out of her skull.

"Kind of put things in perspective doesn't it?" I cheerfully announced.

I told the hospital staff that they were dog bites, I don't think they believed my lie, but they gave me the rabies jab anyway. 

"Bite me, lady muck!" Some people take things so literally.