Seasons Greetings

It was very dark as I rode home the other night for the start of my Christmas break. I was going a route that I don't usually travel along, along where the canal path joins the river path in Bath, due to it being the hang-out of flailing drunks and school children desperate to stab something.

There's a bit that goes very thin, called the Cataract, and only one Person Walking/Jogging/on a Bicycle can pass at a time and due to my innate politeness I always stop my Top-of-the-Range Bicycle-from-the-future for other people to come through first. 

One thing I do expect is a "thank you".

I know that your not meant to expect thanks for your acts of kindness, and you'll only be disappointed blah, blah, effin' blah, but if I don't hear those two words, or something amounting to it, I start to lose my world-reknowned cool.

Well on this occasion, I saw another Person on a Bicycle approaching the Cataract and I stopped to allow their passage. The rider had no lights on their bicycle, and they were in dark clothes, and they had no helmet, and their bushy mad hair stuck out in all directions.

"Merry Christmas!" I merrily chortled in my merry way.

"You Bastard," said the approaching bike-riding darkness.

A red mist suddenly descended from the sky and wrapped itself around me and I started to shiver with it's intensity. As the unfriendly dark rider drew near to go past me, I could smell his fetid, drunken breath, see his terrible flame filled eyes, and I could feel the demons within him. I knew what I had to do.

Flinging out an arm, I caught him across the neck. He made an odd gagging noise and then toppled to one side, over into the scrub on the waters edge.

"I said, 'Merry Christmas'" just incase he hadn't heard me.

He was struggling for breath and didn't seem that keen on answering me. I got off my amazing bike, put the composite alloy stand down, and walked over to where he was lying, entangled in his bike and the undergrowth, a shaking, open hand raised towards me.

"Here, let me help you up." I said.

I reached down and pulled his bike out from under him. It was an inferior, old make, that was probably stolen or something, it didn't even have a motor. I threw it as hard as I could across the river. It hit the other bank, bounced around for a bit then splashed down and sunk out of view into the black water.

"Looks like your walking, buddy," I quipped.

Then I turned my head downward to look at his pathetic, frightened body far below me. He slowly reached into his dirty, oily coat and pulled out something, something small, furry, and full of the furious furry fires of fetid hell; a squirrel.

I stumbled away backward, reeling in horror, fear and despair. He placed the squirrel on the ground and pulled another from his coat, an then another, and another. Before long, he had pulled some thirty or more hideous, rodent nut-botherers from a hidden cavity in his abdomen.

Wow, I look AMAZING. Pee-oww! Bang! Splat!

The squirrels formed themselves into one enormous super squirrel and shot towards me, arms flailing like a flail. I neatly side stepped them and then pushed off from the ground and shot into the air, only to crash down again directly as a gnarled giant clawed claw grabbed me. I lashed out with my other foot and sent the massive mutant howling into the river water, where it thrashed around screaming the many tiny squirrel screams that come out of a mutant ginormo super squirrel as it drowns.

Glad that that was over I got back on my bike and headed home for the Christmas break, safe in the knowledge that I had struck a deadly blow against those who think "manners" are just a cockney gangster's territory.

The End.

Person on a Bicycle would like to thank anyone who read this blog, but it is now maybe at an end.

Goodbye!

Possibly...

Young Poshies in New Minis

Around where I have my humble abode there is a lot of wealthy people who live in very large houses. Just about every Person in a Car that passes me is driving a Large Off-Road 4x4 Massivemobile. These are usually the parents of my worse road-using nightmare, Young Poshies in New Minis.


These over-privliaged spanner bags are given these cars by their parents as a first car present. FACT. These wang-handles have no idea how to behave outside of their own precious little world, a world that has revolved around them and their world like some sort of large globe like planet (the world) with a complete ego-centric (them) as it's pivot point. I think my point is clear.


I will now share with you an example of how they view some of the other people that come into their empire of one, their starring story with them as star and everyone else bit players in their wonderful story, where they are like the youthful twots I see in adverts for phones and perfume and shit, living incredibly fulfilling and adventurous lifestyles, and riding around like someone in the Italian Job.


It was a very very very foggy day, and droplets of water were hanging in the air like fog making everything hard to see and fogged up. As I made my unmerry way down Winsley Hill on my way to work I hit a huge traffic jam that stretched all the way from where I was, to the end of it about a mile away at some traffic lights on the A36ofdeath.
"Wow, this is one big queue," I thought.
"You should really try and go around it."
"Good idea, I will," I replied.
So as the traffic was stationary I hopped my way past it and went further down the hill.


Then the People in Cars started to move and so I tucked back in with the flow and rolled along with it. Then it came to a stop again. Traffic often does this I have observed. Then traffic did something that it doesn't usually do to me unless it is really peeved with me, it started talking.


"Do you f*cking want me to run you over?" it shouted in a hideously posh spiteful tone. I turned slowly around and behind me in a bright red New Mini (one of those really spazzy ones with the Union Flag on the top), an angry posh face was glaring at me from the place were it was positioned on an angry posh head on an angry posh body.


"I am going to hit you if you stay in front of me! Get out of MY F*CKING WAY!" it impotently screamed.


I looked about me. The gloomy fog made the gloomy scene look quite gloomy I thought, as I looked at the totally unmoving line of People in Cars stretched off down the hill into the gloom. 


The New Mini had its engine revved, menacingly.


The queue was going nowhere. Was this person really going to kill me for the sake of ten feet of road?


Yes, yes they probably would, because it was their road you see, and I, like the insane Bicycle riding menace that I am, had strayed inconveniently into the path of their birth-right of getting-the-better-of-everyone-and-not-letting-Plebs-get-in-your-way.


"GO ON! MOVE YOURSELF AND THAT STUPID F*CKING BIKE OUT OF MY WAY, YOU STUPID F*CKING MORON!"


I did what they asked and rode off, pass the unmoving snake of metal, down the hill and off to the canal path, leaving them to their misery and frustration.

Flies

The beautiful sunny mornings of spring have a awoken many things along my canal path route. Daffodils, Primroses and crocusses Croqueses cockasses other flowers are all lining my journey like a crowd of adoring fans (I wave regally at them as I pass). The sexy twinkle is in the eye of the sheep and cows as they pop baby things out of their front bottoms that scuttle and hop under rocks and into the caves where they grow into adulthood. Birds tweet like they are being strangled by invisible Pine Martins, desperate to attract the mate that will bring meaning to their flappy lives.


But there is one thing, or many things, or lots of the same thing, not sure which, that is/are not very nice thing/things that appear also at this season of the year.


And they are FLIES.


Flies, if you are unfamiliar, are little insects that can fly (hence the name, Einstein) and have no purpose on earth other than to hang about in the air around the canal path. This brings them into direct conflict with me. I, if you are unfamiliar with me, am a bicycle riding misanthrope.


Here are some Stat cards for you to cut out and keep:

So what's the worse thing about these airborne flappers? 

Well, it's not that they fly into your eyes and you have to spend hours when you get home picking their corpses out. It's not even when they fly up your nose or straight down the back of your throat causing you to puke your high-energy bike fuel bars up all over Timmy Toddler out for a fun scoot, scooting about on his new scooter with his scooterless family.

No, it's none of these.

It's the way that they dive, kamikaze style at my lips (I even think I heard one buzz "Banzai!" once). 

"That's not so bad, you effin' drama queen" I hear you scream. Well that's because you don't know the thing that I am about to tell you in the next line of this blog that I am writing now. 

I have to cover my lips in Vaseline so the don't dry out on my journeys and the flies become stuck to it and I end up with writhing fly-encrusted mouth parts! 

Dead flies, half dead flies, ones still crawling about amongst their rotting compatriots, all over my mouth!

I try to wipe them away, but that just pushes the fly/petroleum jelly death mix further into my open orifice. I can feel them crawling about as the struggle in their death-throes, desperate for the release of freedom or death.

People point and recoil in horror, fear and despair at the Fly Mouth Man who speaks in buzzing words of death and relentlessly hurtles passed them at speeds so speedy, only the truly damned would pedal at them.

When I arrive home I have to carefully scrape the crust of corpses carefully from my lips with care.

But I tell you, it has worked wonders for my lips, all that fly goo has left me with luscious, ever-so-kissable smackers. If only I could find some way of bottling it and selling it to posh chumps/chumpettes I would probably get rich. 

Or arrested. 

KISSY KISSY!

Theme Song

Hey! Got nothing better to do? Well check out this Link below. It's my very own theme tune. What? You think that is awfully egocentric of me to have my own theme song? Well, yes it is, but don't you, as you ride along the roads, have a three minute rant pounding on the inside of your skull to get out? Thought so, well here's mine:

LINK TO PERSON ON A BICYCLE THEME SONG, CLICK ME!

http://catnipp.bandcamp.com/track/person-on-a-bicycle

Or listen to it here on this video:

Or if you can't see that then try this link to the Facebook page to watch it there:

PERSON ON A BICYCLE THEME SONG ON FACEBOOK PAGE LINK


It has my complete and utter official endorsement as well as my distain and pity.
Anyway, for any of you chumps out there who are interested in these sort of things here are the 'lyrics':

Verse 1:
Hello, I'm Person on a Bicycle
My adventures they can be farcical
But I'm not typically typical
'Cause in a crash I lost a testicle
Attention I crave isn't medical
Although a creme I use is topical
Please don't be over-critical
Of when I ride reading my Kindle

Chorus:
My ravings are non-sensical
Horror, fear, despair make me cynical
I try and write it in an article
Called Person on a Bicycle!

Verse 2:
When I see a big vehicle
Squish a bunny I get hysterical
They tried to lock me in a hospital
Said my problems were purely psychological
Calling me a cyclist is not advisable
Machopaths and squirrels make me flammable
I don't want to get to technical
But fugg 'em, I'm Person on a Bicycle!

Chorus:

My ravings are non-sensical

Horror, fear, despair make me cynical

I try and write it in an article

Called Person on a Bicycle!

Horror
Fear
Despair
Horror
Fear
Despair!

Chorus:

My ravings are non-sensical

Horror, fear, despair make me cynical

I try and write it in an article

Called Person on a Bicycle!

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!

I'm Person on a bicycle

Not a tricyle

I'm Person on a motherlovin' Bicycle!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

I like the way everything rhymes with ickle. Sort of.
There you go, hope you have many hours fun screaming this at cars as they pass you by in the street. Go and shout it full in the face of some pensioners at a bus stop. Works wonders for the soul!
BYE!

Anal

I have had many a misfortune on my journey that takes me to hell and back. I have seen things that would make most sane people start writing a blog and go over-the-edge crazy in public. Not me though, I face these things with stoicism and patience, not for me is the route of vanity publishing and generally getting on all the people I know nerves with my insessant Internet vomiting. No, I suffer in silence, screaming horror-filled silence.


One of the worse things that I wish I could unsee and rip from my head like one of those brain control bugs that made Chekov go all crazy in The Wrath of KHHHAAAAAAANNN! would be the thing I saw when I was seeing the thing I saw going up Prior Park Rd one day.


It was a beautiful summers day, warm and sunny. Fluffy clouds of water vapour weighing hundreds of tons were somehow lazily wobbling about in the sky stuff. I was in my summer gear, baggy shorts and t-shirt pedalling furiously up the hill. Up ahead of me, a dot in the distance was a Lycra-clad Machopath, making his slow way up ahead of me. He was still ahead of me as I quickly gained on him, although he would not remain ahead of me for long, I thought, no, soon he wouldn't be ahead of me, he would be behind me, instead of being ahead of me. As I drew close to him, I could see he was wearing the customary Lycra short tights things those nutjobs wear, but with one, horrific difference.


This guy must have been a veteran of the roads, and these must have been his favourite skin-tight bottom coverings, but years of wear and washing had thinned these to a see-through state of transparency. I could clearly see his bum cheeks through the molecule thin material.


But worse was to come.


As is the norm with these dickswinging motherlovers, they cannot comprehend that someone else on a bicycle has caught them up. "How could this be?" they whisper to themselves, "I am fughugging AWESOME on a bike and no one alive can catch up with me, 'cause I am just so macho and I should be in the Tour de France if I wasn't busy being a go-getter business predator of the first order and I would probably win it easy, and leave all those Frenchy types behind me like the wangdangling croissants they are!"


But the truth is on my state-of-the-art-of-the-future pedelac bicycle I can whizz pass the Sucking Loaches easy-peasy japanesy. Not this time though. A large line of traffic was passing very, very, very close to us so I was unable to accelerate away pass him, I was trapped. And then the Macho one decided that the race was on and he did what they all try, standing up off their seat and really going for it, pedal-wise.


With a realisation of fear and despair, I now knew what I was faced with, the arse of horror. I could see all the wire-like pubes that covered his hairy spotty cheeks, all packed in and squashed against their Lycra containment field. I though that I would be spared the worse by the pencil thin seam that ran down the shorts covering his crack of terror, but the shorts, old and worn by too many pretend mountain climb stages had given up at the critical place, ripped, and a hole had appeared showing me another hole, the whole of a hole that leads into a person, the Anus!


Utterly hypnotised by this brown eye staring at me, wiggling at me, tensioning and untensioning with each pedal thrust, that for a few minutes I failed to notice the traffic had all gone and I was able to scoot on by him.


As I went passed I puffed "Excuse me, but I can see your asshole."
He must of misheard me, because he really let fly with some serious naughty words. 
Some people, they're offensive from the front and back.

Black bar added to protect the innocent.

Heron Hitman

With his black stick legs stuck in the slick black canal water The Heron is the most awesome of all the motherlovin' creatures that litter my path to work. This guy is the coolest Bustard around, never moving a muscle when I pass right next to him on my bicycle-from-the-future. When he is flapping gracefully around in the sky bit of earth he looks so graceful and stuff, but what is best is that he looks exactly like a pterosaur.

He is also a deadly bad-ass hunter that uses total stealth like a Predator from that movie where Arnold Sweatynecker had to fight stuff...er...Kinder Egg Garden Cop-out, or something, I dunno, films confuse me, OK?

Anyway, I was having a lovely ride to work the other day, the spring sunshine was warm on my back as I slid, almost effortlessly, through the air that was in and around the canal path, my legs moving in a furious blur as they pummelled my pedals like two leg-like engines. The breathing gas about me was fresh and clean and I started to feel that the world wasn't maybe completely filled with horror, fear, despair and death, when I suddenly took a turn around a bend into a very dark area of the path.

The ancient trees grow very dense here, bending over to meet each other like sumo wrestlers, across the canal. Twisted gnarled Oaks and Ashes create a tunnel of dire gloom and watching terror that I fear to ride through. This particular morning that place of quiet horror was made all the more terrifying by the presence of a grey figure scampering about in the middle of the path.

When it saw me it stopped its incessant scrabbling and went on it's hind legs to look at me, it's hideous bushy tail shaking with a hideous hideousness that filled me with a hideous feeling, hideously like hideousness. Hideous.

I stopped my, frankly, incredible bike using it's brilliant Magura brakes, the red ones, they are the best, great for dry weather and wet, so easy to change as well, although adjustment can be a bit tricky, but when you've got them set up just nice they are AWESOME TO THE MAX, and stood there looking at the thing of evil blocking my way.

It was then that I saw the others, I had ridden right into a bushy tailed ambush! To one side, next to the canal water was another squirrel, and I can only guess at how many had closed the path behind me, I bet it was loads. Just as I thought this was it for me, and the squirrel I hadn't seen at first was about to pounce on my throat and rip out my veins and arteries and bathe in the shower of blood that erupted from my tubes of life, suddenly a beak like a sword shot out of nowhere and skewered the rodent alive!

The Heron had come to save me! In one incredibly swift motion he flipped the floppy nut-cracker up in the air only for it to land in it's wide-open gobble-chops.

"YEAH! TAKE THAT YOU NUT-NIBBLING TREE HUGGER!" I screamed as loud as my lungs could manage. The relief of not being gutted by some noisome fluffy beasts was quite obvious to the family that had just come up behind me, walking their dogs.

The Heron gulped down his meal and then flew off for an after dinner snooze in a tree or something, I guess, safe in the knowledge that he would always have a friend in me.

Please watch this video I shot as I think it explains a lot:

CLICK THIS TO SEE THE VIDEO IF YOU HAVE A MOBILE DEVICE AND YOU WILL BE TAKEN TO SEE IT ON THE FACEBOOK PAGE

Bank Vole Funeral

This week a terrible tragedy befell upon a small thing in this world. I bared witness to this sad and hideously horrific event.
 As I rode my meandering and serene way along the canal path I was suddenly overtaken by a Lyca-clad Machopath on on of those highly inferior racing bikes. At his reckless speed he failed to notice a large (for them anyway) Bank Vole using the path too. The Machopath's bike passed over the furry scamp compressing it. The Machopath rode on oblivious, but I stopped and dismounted and ran to the vole's side. I remembered what Vinnie Jones had taught me and I pumped away with my little fingers on the Bank Vole's squashed chest with the Bee Gees pumping through my brain.

The poor little guy. Wow, my incredible bike looks good though.

  After 30 minutes of resuscitation attempts I finally had to call it. The crowd of people who had gathered around me edged away nervously as I looked up at them. One by one they either ran off or reached for their mobile phones to call the emergency services I guess. 


  After they had all gone and I was alone, I noticed something I had failed to notice before when I wasn't noticing it. By the side of the path was  a curious sight. One Bank vole stood there forlornly, by her side were two smaller juvenile voles. They were staring in shocked horror at the vole on the path.


I bent down and picked up the still warm vole, when I did, I noticed that some seeds and grains fell from the voles limp paws and scattered in the cold wind.
The juveniles had tears trickling down their furry rodent faces and the Mother Vole turned and sadly beckoned for me to follow them.


 I carried the limp vole corpse as I followed them to the canal edge and into a tunnel cut into the bank. The tunnel was dark and led steeply downwards, the sound of the weeping Vole children leading my way. There were many side openings to the tunnel that I passed and the lights of many shiny eyes looked out at me as I made my way slowly down. I could feel something behind me, and I chanced a glance over my shoulder. A huge host of solemn voles were following silently behind me in silence.

A regiment of the Second Company of the Bank Vole Army followed me.

  Suddenly the tunnel opened up into a large cavern, the ceiling of which was the glistening water of the canal! I stood there amazed at the way the water was just held there above my head, but that was nothing to what happened next.


  Two dark shadows appeared above, moving closer to the intersection of the water and cavern. First one beautiful black beaked head, followed by a long snake-like neck, peirced the membrane beween the two elements, and then another. The two swans then passed through completely and fell gracefully to the floor.



"Please lay the Vole King on the stone" the first swan said to me in a voice that seemed to enter my head not through my ears but through my something else.
It was then I really noticed the rest of the cavern. It had been beautifully carved out in intricate designs depicting all kinds of woodland creatures. There were joyous scenes of frolicking, but also of war. The hideous creatures being fought bravely by the critters were none other than the grey squirrels.

With all the solemnity I could muster, I placed the stinking rodent on the stone altar.

I moved nervously to a stone altar at the other end of the hall and placed the Vole King on it.
"Thank you, you have done us a great service," One of the freakily-necked ones said, "We have watched you for many years and have seen your great kindness and consideration to the other things in this world, so we will entrust in you a great secret that we have long laboured with."


The second feathered freak now took up the mental story, "Eons ago an invader came to these shores, the Grey Squirrel, we tried to fight them off but the were just too powerful. Now they have taken over. The ones you know as Lycra-clad Machopaths are really a mass of squirrels jammed into that stretchy day-glo crap and they ride recklessly about squishing us and our friends and being inconsiderate to people."

I knew it!

"Please help us in our war against them. You must seek Croll-Agar T'glloac'ia, the leader of the Red Squirrels, only he can aid you blah blah blah....sword of Righteous Redness...blah blah effin' blah...."
I really at that point had totally lost interest in these certifiably paranoid animals and just wanted out. I decided to feign sleep and just curled up in a corner in a foetal position.


When I awoke I was in a very comfy room. So comfy someone had even gone to the trouble of padding the walls. Hello? Hello? Is anyone still there?

Nice Cocks

I like to think of myself as a defender of the Weak and Put-Upon things in this world. No one, I feel, has done more to make the Weak and Put-Upon feel patronised than me. I will always, if I can, stick my huge face in where it is not needed, my overlarge bulbous eyes bulging at the injustices and wrongs I encounter on my journeys.

One such incident presented itself as I was travelling down Locksbrook Road in Bath early one morning towards work. Ahead of me, as I sped along on my £2500 super bicycle, I could see a large group of men, all standing around the back of an opened Removal Lorry. Their attention though was not on the possessions of their client that they were ramming into the truck with all the vigour of and finesse of a bunch of apes jamming bananas into their faces, but on an object walking on the other-side of the road.

A woman.

LOCATION OF MY SUPERHERO-STYLE WOMAN DEFENDING

Their heads all turned in robotic unison as she walked by. Their lustful eyes following her like stalkers ignoring their restraining order. I felt my rage rising in me like a red tide of horror and rage. I should do something, I should do something to protect the honour of this poor, helpless weak woman, the way only a Man can.

"Hey! Nice cocks!" I shouted at the Removal Monkeys as I rapidly approached.

They turned to me and one of them, with a mixed look of surprise, pride and bashful pleasure on his face said, "Er, thanks!" in a genuinely pleased way.
I rode on, safe in the knowledge that I had safely made the streets a safer place where feeble women can safely walk about showing their sexy bits in safety.


PHHHWOOOOOOAAAAAR!

I hadn't notice before how nice that Removal Ape's legs were. Mmmmm, calves.

Orgy

I have a story of such unremitting cosmic horror and eldritch terror to tell you, that I think it should come with a warning. So you have been warned, I am warning you that this is my final warning!

It all began on dark, dark, dark night as I was cycling my fear-struck way down the canal path. There is a place of silent trees in a ancient hollow which lies to the side of a very remote part of the canal. In the middle of this disquieting glade is a twisted undead thing that I call The  Tree of Ultimate Cweepiness. During the summer months the hollow was full of lovely singing and skipping little Crusty Juggler children. There was an old tyre tied to a rope, which in turn was tied to a thick, twisted branch of The Tree of Ultimate Cweepiness, that the joyous mini-scroungers swung about on. It was now depths of winter, and no children ran and called, the tyre had gone, and only the rope, frayed and menacing, swung in the frozen, thick air, like, a, forgotten, hangman's, noose.


Hold on, need a breather before I go on to the next bit, I'm getting scared.


Ok that's better.


On this fateful night I was approaching the hollow when a strange chattering and screeching came drifting towards me on the black mist. Suddenly I drew up to the place where you can look down on the foul clearing from the canal path and an indescribable scene met my eyes that I will now describe. I tried to peer through the inky dark, I could see small shapes moving, swaying but couldn't make out what they were. I quickly swivelled the front of my top-of-the-range Kalkhoff pedelec bike around to shine my £300 Hope Vision4 light down into that pit of hellish hellishness.


Countless Squirrels filled the hollow, they writhed and danced in an orgy of wanton abandon, their little clawed paws raised in unholy praise of some demented squirrel god, their bushy tails shaking to the rhythm their squeaky chanting.  At the centre of the hollow, just in front of the gnarled tree, now looking like the skeletal hand of some vast beast thrusting out of the earth, was another larger squirrel. it was waving it paws over something that was lying on a large flat stone that I had never noticed before.


The thing on the slab was flat and a dark road grey. Two hideously malformed arms stretched up from it, and a grotesque squirrel head, twisted in frozen agony gaped open-mouthed in my direction. As the chattering and screeching reached a deafening level I saw, to my utter horror, fear and despair, the corpse of Flatso start to quiver and move! (for it was he, see some earlier gibberish blog entry for his story) His venomous eyes locked to mine and his putrid, stringy yellow jaws let go a scream that came straight from the pits of damnedest hell!


My view of this monstrous scene only lasted a few short seconds, seconds burned into my mind forever that no amount of counselling or booze or crazy destructive sex would ever erase from my memories. Suddenly my light was extinguished somehow and the I heard strange calls in the utter darkness and the scurrying of many tiny evil feet.


In my panic I scrabbled pathetically to find the on switch for my light. When I did and the light shone forth again, the hollow had cleared, even the stone slab was empty and a silence like none I had ever heard (unless you count the gaps between songs at the gigs for all the bands I have ever been in) descended on me, like the hand of a giant silent thing. 


I will never venture that way again, unless in day light, and I will be sure never to find myself alone with a squirrel nearby.
For in Flatso's hideous scream I'm sure there had been words too, "Nuts so fast, human...Aiiee!...safety first...f-tang f-tang!..take it easy on them roads...whhaaa!...why can't I feel my nuts?...shai-yai!...Squirrelthulu will rise...Whhhaaaarrrg Aiiii-shubbnug f-tang!"

RECONSTRUCTION: A scene of debauched horror, with fluffy tails.

Pirate

I once saw a Pirate in the canal. I'll let that sink in.

He was doing the breast stroke, I think. He had a hat, waistcoat, eyepatch and stripy top. He splashed about in the grey brown water for a while, whilst his young non-pirate friends hollered and jeered from their canal boats. After a minute the friends laughs and calls tailed off and he was just a daft man in pirate costume that was about to get a terrible case of diarrhoea.


He swam to the bank and struggled to get up onto dry land. No one helped him as they had all lost interest and were back drinking and swearing at people. I stopped my bike next to his scrabbling hands to help him out, and for one short moment, as my eyes met his eye, we both knew that he would probably do something that stupid again in a pathetic attempt to impress his friends. 

That's just what us clowns are like.

It's hard to be ignored.

MACHISMO

I sometimes get a lot of hassle and animosity off of other persons on bicycles. I know, hard to believe that I could upset people in such a way, but it is as much a fact as anything else you might read on the internet.


The simple reason for this seems to be my incredible, cutting edge super bike, which is a pedelec. This means it has an electric motor that gives me a boost uphill when my ageing 43 year old body needs it, especially when I can be carrying over 20kg extra weight in my awesome Bikebin panniers. 


I have almost lost count of the times lycra clad psyhcolists have screamed "cheat!", "you know that's cheating, don't you?", "you're on a lazy bike, you lazy c**t!" at me as I have whizzed past them. They seem to be under the misapprehension that I give a shit about them, and that I am only there because they are, whilst in reality I am just trying to go home from work.


Once I had a very mental run in with someone who's machismo was way off the scale. I was happily minding my own business, pedalling away like the madman I am, going up Prior Park Road in Bath. This is a long, steep, picturesque climb of over a mile. About half way up I drew up behind a rather out of shape looking man on one of those fold-up bikes with teeny weeny wheels. The rush hour persons in cars were roaring past us, so I couldn't overtake him, but strangely he started to speed up, his wobbly legs moving in a crazy blur. Oh well, I though, he's just trying to get a move on and not hold me up, how considerate. I just stayed behind him, trying to look for somewhere else to look other than his jiggly arse.


When we were nearing the top he suddenly slowed, and as it was safe to overtake, I sped up to carry on my merry way. As I came along side of him he turned to me and said something that would have filled me with horror, fear and despair if it hadn't been so stupid.


"I'm...not...racing...you...any...more" he wheezed. His face was the brightest shade of purple I have ever seen on a humanoid. Veins stood out on his twisted face like shiny blue snakes in a ugly swamp. Puffy and sweaty, looking like a angry baby tomato, his fiery eyes focused on my bike.
"Oh...you've...got...a...motor, you...cheat!" he puffed with all the venom his swollen head could manage. I stayed silent, it's best just to let these macho psychos just blow it all out of their moronic faces.


Then he said something which I couldn't help bursting out laughing in his bulging, blubbery, slimy face
"I...am...my...own...motor" the swollen one spluttered. I am my own motor? What in Zeus' name does that effin' mean? If he was his own motor, he was one motor that definitely needed to have a large cooling fan, some seats, four wheels, an exhaust, a steering wheel and go-faster stripes attached. His head looked like a giant shiny purple bell end, and I wasn't about to hang around as he shot his anger stuff all over my face.


I'd had enough and zoomed off up the hill.


About five minutes later, when I was pootling along the flat plateau at the top of the hill, minding my own business, thinking thoughts that only I can think and going past Ralph Allen school, the same purple machopath shot past me at an incredible speed. He blurted something unintelligible (probably something unkind about how I was a rubbish person or something), cut across traffic coming in the opposite direction and turned off into the sports centre, presumably to further prove his manliness by getting sweaty with another man by whacking their balls about.


Still, he sure showed me who was the better man.


Oddly enough, I have NEVER had anything other than cheery "Hello!"s and "oooo, tough hill!" from female persons on bicycles. I wonder why that is?

These guys need to grow up.

DRUGS

Riding to work today was greatly improved by being drugged to the eyeholes.

My fear had vanished as I smiled serenely at my grumpy looking car driving friends whizzing past me. I think this may have had a rather negative effect on some of them as they were very aggressive with their language and hand gestures. Still, I am so pumped full of emotion numb-ers that I really couldn't give a fudge. 

I am now back on my bike full time again after an extended Christmas/injury based holiday. The postings will resume tomorrow....

Neck

I have done my neck in again, and will probably be on medication again. I couldn't look over my shoulder whilst riding to see my possible impending doom racing towards me on the streets today. Ignorance is bliss, but a neck injury is a pain in the...er...um...ne...no...er...arse! Yes, ARSE!

I AM ON HOLIDAY (special)

I do not like going on holiday. I like working and staying at home and stuff. Holidays are for chumps who love to waste their money on fleeting things and feeble memories of forced happy times. Saying all that, I still have to go on holiday sometimes, but I have found a holiday that even I can stand. Centre Parcs, and I have got to say that it is AWESOME TO THE MAX.

Number one: I get to take my bike with me. Everyone is forced to ride bikes, even big fat 4x4 driving important business types who look like walruses having sex with a metal  super skinny supermodel with wheels as they puff red-faced up the almost vertical hills. 

Number two: Cars are banned, and anyone found driving one there is nailed to the road and people on bicycles can ride over their groins over and over again.

Number three: All the animals there are alive and not flat with their insides outside and they run up to you and talk and stuff.

You just crossed the line Flatso!

Number four: it has the best swimming pool in the world. It is just a shame they get all shirty when you try and ride your bike down the rapids when you've had too much booze. Those life guard guys have no sense of humour.

They really should put a sign up to say you can't do it, the fiddlewonkers.

Number four: if you live in a tiny crap hole like my house, well the Centre Parcs chalets will seem like a fonking mansion. They have everything you need and are so lovely I have to be pulled kicking and screaming outside every morning I am there. I will admit that is a bit like when I am at home, but then I am being pushed outside to face the horrors on The Route (to work).

Number five: No Dogs.

Number six: No Crusty Jugglers (they can't afford it. Anyway their whole life is like one big holiday at tax payers expense, eh? Am I right? Yeah, a holiday with very little food, no hope of an end and constant misery, like that time I was forced to go to Minorca.)

Number seven: There's a big sports thing there to if you're into that kind of shit. I stay well clear because that is where the very few undesirables who have slipped the net somehow and got in, hang out, drinking and hitting balls with sticks.

Number eight: The Pancake House. If you try and tell me there is a better place to eat on this bollock ball of a planet you are a liar who should stop lying, because people are starting to notice.

House of heavenly delights, sex with eggs.