Psychopath

Today is my first birthday. 

For one year I've been jotting down my experiences of over five years, riding my top-of-the-range-incredobike, exactly as things happened.

But this is one story that I have never told. A story so horrifying, so steeped in fear, so despair giving, that until now I have been unable to speak about it.

It was the day I met a psychopath and almost died.

CLICK THIS:

It was an average kind of evening when I was making my merry way over the top of Widcombe Hill, past the University, when a car overtook me as another car was going past on the other side. The road is quite thin, but the Black BMW Licence Plate W*****R squeezed past me, within a bank vole's cobblers, doing about 40 mph. 

As I wobbled about trying to stay on my cutting-edge-of-technology bicycle, I shook my head in disbelief of what had happened.

Big mistake.

The Beemer, instead of just roaring off down the road like the bloated germanic nazimoblie it is, pulled up like it was going to turn right, but there was no right turn! What was this Person Driving A Car up to? I cautiously approached and made to ride through the gap on the inside.

Bigger mistake.

The BankManagingWankmobile, started up and cruised along side me, hideously close, and then the window wound slowly down.

"Are you OK mate?" came the vile voice, full of mocking hatred.

I said nothing.

Mega mistake.

"Are you alright?" he uttered like an evil Darth Vader or maybe even the Emperor it was that evil.

I kept my silence and rode on, I thought it best not to provoke him any more. 

Global mistake.

Steam was rising from my whirring legs, but he somehow he managed keep along side me. He could see I was trying to outrun him. I risked a glance to check out my foe. Just as I thought, a smartly dress out-of-shape fellow in his early thirties with a face full of unleashed evil and twisted monstrousness. As our eyes met, mine good, his burning with the devil's Maglites, I knew what I must do.

Switching my Bicycle-from-the-future into full auto, I leapt up onto the seat, and from there I jumped onto his roof. Just as I was pulling my Berettas from the holsters on the small of my back, his roof started to go backwards. I had failed to notice it was a convertible. I made a grab for the black canvas.

"What the hell are you doing?" he screamed as the car screeched to a halt. I was lucky to hold on. I knew I had to act quickly, before he could bring his laser eyes or mind control, or whatever these super-villains have, to bear upon me. Someone had to stop this psychopath now, and fast, before he killed someone.

"I am going to end your reign of horror now!" I roared, as lightning flashed all around me.

"Wha...?" He uttered in a guttural gurgle.

I pounced into the cab and proceeded to wrestle with him to remove his car keys. I easily overpowered him, because even though he was drenched through with malice and evil power, I am 6 foot 3 inches and really rather massively muscular, whilst he was really rather weak and didn't put up much of a fight.

I got the keys of evil in my just hands of good and turned and threw them into a nearby field full of cows.
"Thanks cows," I quipped.
"What the hell did you do that for, you...you...lunatic?" He raged.

I said nothing. Well, what can you say to people to make them realise what they are doing is wrong?

In one swift, smooth movement I leapt back onto my bike and rode on, safe in the knowledge that I had no number plate and was untraceable, unlike him, who I could easily find out where he lived and follow his wife home and stare at his children from across the street and burn his dog and poo through his letter box and get on his roof and kill his plants and rummage through his rubbish and live in his shed and appear in his bedroom one night and turn up where he works and form a sexual relationship with his widowed mother and wipe my wabblers all over his car door handles.

I think I have made the roads a little bit safer for everyone.

Now check out my Happy Birthday song video below.

Do it

or you're next.

Cheat

As I rode my merry way down the canal path the other evening on my way back from work, I spied ahead of me a group of Crusty Jugglers shuffling around.

As I drew closer I could see that there were two grimy males on a bench to the left, on the path was a female and a small Jugglet, and on the other side, next to a canal boat was another female and her male tie-dyed partner.

As I drew closer I rang my jolly bell as a warning of my approach and I hoped they would clear the path for me to carefully pedal on past. This did not happen. As a unit they turned to face me. I slowed my incredible super bike even further as I noticed the scraggly haired male on the bench, clearly the tribal leader, open his vegan pie hole and speak.

"Hey watch out, here comes that crazy cyclist."

I ignored this slight insult (cyclist, indeed!), said nothing, and continued at a cautious crawl towards them.

"Oh look, he's a cheat, he's got batteries on his bike!" 

This stopped me dead.

The other Crusty Jugglers laughed like the acid-cripples they were. The Jugglet just stared, dead-eyed, at me.

"What did you say?" I knew exactly what he had said, I was just saying it to be threatening because you say stuff like that if you want to be threatening, and getting people to repeat themselves is really scary for them, just ask deaf people.

There was a tense few seconds when no one did anything, and I glanced from Juggler to Jugglet to Juggler again, gauging them, looking for weaknesses. Their choice of knitwear was awful, a definite flaw. Suddenly there was an almost imperceptible movement from the other, shaven-headed Crusty on the bench, as he reached a hand for something just out of my sight. 

It was an ambush.

In one swift flowing movement, I leapt from my bike reaching for the twin Barettas in the holsters on the small of my back, and unleashed a hail of covering fire as I fell into the cover of the hedgerow. I heard a loud boom as a shotgun blast shredded the leaves nearby.

Glancing out I saw that I had felled the male of the crusty couple by the boat and the female was trying to drag his body to the safety of the boat. Two out of the action already, a great start, but I was lacking cover and the Alternatve-lifestylers had good firing positions. The female who had been in the middle of the path with the Jugglet had disappeared, which caused me some concern, but right now I had to deal with the two male Crusties who were firing on me from their position behind the bench. Shavehead continued to blast at me with his Spas 12, and Big Chief Scraggly had twin MAC10 Ingrams that he was firing wildly all over the place.

He was as high as Christ, and twice as dangerous.

"Die, you low down cheating sonofabeeeeeeech!" he screamed.

"Yeah!" agreed Shavehead shaking his hands silently above his head in agreement, then letting off another shot in my direction.

Suddenly, behind me the bushes erupted as the female and the Jugglet came crashing out. The mother(tree)hugger had outflanked me! Worse than that, she was wielding a glittering samurai sword which she swung with deft precision at my neck. I thrust my right Baretta up and blocked the blow in a shower of sparks. I was suddenly aware of a searing pain in my left leg and looking down I saw the Jugglet had pushed a ceramic combat blade into my thigh. It was looking up at me with a curious expression of curiosity on its dirty urchin face. Curious, I thought. I could see the other side of my top-of-the-range Gortex Water/Windproof breathable riding trousers start to bulge as the blade pushed it's way out. Blood splashed down on my very expensive cycling shoes, which are awesome.

"Drum circle this, bitch!" I quipped as I swung my Barretta around, twisting the sword arm of the ninja hippy, and then put my other gun under her chin and pulled the trigger. A fountain of stuff that was seconds ago safely inside her head showered down on me and the Jugglet, who was still putting the knife in. I knew I had to distract it somehow.

"Look, a pretty birdie!" I voiced, pointing to the sky to where I was pretending a bird was flapping about.

But there was something coming.

As the Jugglet looked around we could both see something huge flying towards us at great speed, silhouetted by the sun. Only at the last second, just before it's arrow sharp beak speared through the Jugglet's knife arm, did I realise this was The Heron come to help me again. He swooped low over the scene, carrying the silent, yet struggling, Jugglet away.

"No! Skylark, Nooooooooo!" screamed Shavehead as he leapt from his cover to catch the Jugglet as it passed. He missed. I didn't though, one shot from my still working Baretta took him down, like Bambi's mother.

It was just me and Hippius Maximus left. I took the initiative and whilst he was distracted with his buddies demise I pounded across the space between us. He stood and up, rage on his unkept face, and raised his MAC10 as I slid towards him. We both ended up facing each other, guns against each others heads. We both pulled our triggers at the same time, but only the clicks of empty chambers were heard.

"The next bell you'll ring will be in hell, bike man." he menaced, raising his other MAC10 to my head. It clicked empty as well.

Horror, fear and despair shot across his eyes as I reached down, pulled the ceramic blade from my leg and pushed it through his chest.

"Get a job, asshole." I whispered.

As his twitching body slipped to the ground I realised I should ask my doctors to try me on a different anti-pychotic drug as these ones really aren't working that well.

I blinked a few times, looked about myself at the path, and the confused and frightened faces of the Crusty Jugglers standing around me, got back on my bike, rode home, and had dinner. 

I think it was Three Bean Bake. Mmmmm, yummy.

Racist Sheep.

Saw some weird shit down the canal this week. 

As I cycled through the misty rain I came level with a field full of sheep. This field had two distinctly different types of sheep in it, one lot black, another load white. The bizarre thing about them though was they way they had sorted themselves into segregated groups along the lines of colour. 

Holy crackers.

The white fuzzy tozzers were all in a big huddle in the middle of the field, whilst the black dudes were all in a line circling about them. It looked like some cack-covered arse racial stand off. 

I was getting my camera out to take a picture, due to thinking no one is going to believe this, when I was distracted by seeing The Kingfisher out of the corner of my eye, flying off down the canal. I forgot all about the racist sheep and rode after the elusive multi-coloured flapper. Unfortunately, His Royal Fish-breath was totally lost from sight within seconds and I just couldn't be arsed to go back to the sheep, who had probably started burning each others churches or something racist like that.

PHOTO  COURTESY  OF GOOGLE EARTH. Lucky the satellite was overhead at that exact moment, eh?

I pedalled on.

Later in my journey I came up behind a grey-haired Lycra-clad Machopath on a preposterous bright blue wafer-thin bike. It looked like at any second this feeble piece of over-engineered expensive bollocks was going to disappear up his massively over-muscled bumhole. 

As is usual, I tinkled my jolly bell and I went go around the heaving sweaty obstacle, but no! He swerved to stop me. I tried again, he sped up and swerved in front of me. I had had enough at this point, after all, I'm just trying to get to work. I blame that sideboard-ed drug-fuelled Paul Weller enthusiast Baldey Wighead, or what ever the feckles his stupid name is. Every twenker on two wheels now thinks they are riding for glory, for Britain, for gold! 

So I did what I always do at times like this; I burst into my own unique rendition of "Macho Man" by Village People, as loudly as is humanly possible.

After about a minute of this the poor arsehat gave up and let me pass, the time-wasting shattle scrangler.

Listen to me sing the song in all it's glory below:

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...

About Me: Episode 1, The Goatening.

I was born on a lonely farm in the foothills of the Broken Mountains. I was raised by my Mother and my "Uncle", Old Pokey. 

Photo taken on my twelfth birthday, Mom and Old Pokey giving me my first bike! Love those guys!

When I was old enough I asked  Uncle Pokey who was my Father. He told me that "Yo fool, yo Mom an' Pops were like ships in da night, see. By which I mean, it was dark, everyone was drunk, an' one ship repeatedly rammed inna da other, spilling seamen everywhere. Word."

"Oh," I said.

My Mother never told me who that ship was. I like to think he was a tall galleon, tall and proud, with tall stuff proudly standing tall. She just mumbled something about him being more of a canoe. Was he a King or Lord of high, noble birth? Was he someone I would later meet as my enemy, then I would find out in a shock reveal moment at the end of an episode that he was really my father, and I would have to scream "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" as I fell off something?

I don't know, I haven't decided yet.

My early life was a life of hard toiling toil, working the goats in the high pastures, herding them like some sort of lowly goatherd and juicing when they were ready. But I knew in my heart of hearts (I had had quite a collection, I loved the way they glistened and dripped) that I was meant for greater things, like a destiny awaited me that was unlike the normal style of destiny, but instead it was a destiny that was like a destiny someone might have that was destined for something destinified. As the twin suns set on the horizon and my theme tune came mournfully whistling from my lips, I vowed that I would make it my destiny to find that destiny I was destined for.

One day a strange thing happened, a travelling band of squeaky Dwarf farm equipment salesmen stopped and sold us a a large grain dispenser, the "Seed 'n' Throw" and a wheelbarrow that always knew where it was going, the "Hard to Detour".

A pair of tools, Seed 'n' Throw and Hard to Detour.

"Yo fool! Take these two to tha Goat's crib and get them cleaned up. Fool." Uncle Pokey ordered.
"But I was thinking of maybe doing something else like going into town and hanging out at the railway station with my chums, Frankenstein and Dracula," I whinged.
"Yo fool! Yo can waste time with your fiends when yo chores is cooked, homie. Yo crazy assed fool," came the reply.

I could never catch a break. Things got worse later when I realised that the little bastard wheelbarrow had malfunctioned and decided it had no idea where it was going and run off. It's strange one-wheeled and two dragged stands trail trailed off, to my utter horror, fear and despair, to the Canal Path in the Woods of Terror near to our little farm. I knew I must venture into that hollow of hideousness to get back the troublesome wheeled bucket before Uncle Pokey found out and popped a cap up mo ass.

For some unknown reason know only to myself and not known by anyone else I decided to take Seed 'n' Throw grain dispenser with me on the back of my trusty rusty wobbly old bike. I rode down the hillside to the point where it joined the canal path.

Entering that creepy area was hard for me to do, I had heard such hideous tales of the weird goings-on down here from my blog and I was rightfully cautious. It wasn't long before I found the stupid bloody GPS guided wheelbarrow. It was stuck up a tree, and took me an Seed 'n' Throw quite a while to knock it out by throwing Crusty Juggler children we found lying around at it.

Suddenly Hard to Detour started to excitedly shake and spin it's wheel around. "Sir, he says that there are creatures approaching from the south west." said someone, I'm not sure but I think it came from the seed dispenser. Weird. I got out my binoculars and looked down the canal path. Yes, there in the distance about 3 miles away were some squirrels hopping evilly about. I totally shat myself.

Even more suddenly, like in a really shocking end of episode shocker, a blurry, red-eyed, squirrel face whizzed past my binocular vision and gave me such a fright I gave a high pitched scream like a hydrophobic panicking kettle and passed out..................

CLICK THIS AND IT WILL WHISK YOU AWAY TO WATCH THE VIDEO ON YOUTUBE IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO WATCH IT HERE, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHY YOU WOULD BOTHER.

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!