I’m in a mood so foul you could scoop it off the pavement.
Last night was pleasant enough with Frank in the pub. I got home at a reasonable hour and subjected myself to an evening of TV, books and the odd drop of Chianti after eating pizza. I went to bed after the snooker, which I like to enjoy as universal physics on baize (via the power of skunk).
This morning I awoke at 9 as I had a dentist appointment at 10. I checked my emails, drained a cup of tea and prepared myself for the short ride to the inevitable bollocking I’d receive from the hygienist. Suited and booted I removed the bike cover, switched on the ignition, checked the system… checked the sys… nothing. The battery was as flat as a witch’s tit. I can only assume I’d left the parking lights on, an easy mistake to make but after riding for 20 years on her majesty’s fucking roads I really should know better.
The Triumph has a wonderful alarm system. It’s really great. Only one snag, when the battery is fucked it’s impossible to remove the battery in order to charge it without a high pitched squealing alarm that is so fucking irritating they should use it in Guantanamo bay to torture innocent terror suspects where they’d gladly confess to the sinking of The Titanic…
What to do? I ran back into the flat and called the toothsome one, made another appointment for an hour later as I’d just had a brainwave.
I rushed down the road to a local autofactors and purchased a set of jump leads (£15). I pushed the bike into position and connected the m/c battery to the one under the bonnet of my hooligan white van. Ignition on, systems set, the bike fired into life. I left the bike running for a few minutes whilst I tidied up and returned into my knicker-wetting bike gear. Great, I was going to make it in comfortable time for my appointment. I clicked the bike into first, released the clutch and was just about to give the bike a right handful when it fucking stalled. I attempted to re-ignite the engine but there wasn’t enough juice in the battery.
Almost in tears I ran upstairs, hit redial on my phone and yelled at the dentist receptionist. ‘Piqued here, my bike won’t fucking start, I’m not going to make it…’ There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. ‘Twenty-five pounds Mr. Piqued, I waived the last cancellation fee as we had a slot within one hour of your failure to arrive at the designated time, I cannot make the same concession twice…’ Wordlessly I hurled my phone at the carpet, which duly came apart both to my satisfaction and to my utter disbelief. An own goal if there ever was one.
After a minute of psychotic anger I collected the bits of my phone, which have come together as Frakenphone. It works, just, but looks as if it’s been through the digestive system of a Hippo.
I’m now officially ‘working from home’, the blinds are drawn in order to prevent any of the cheeriness of the bright sunny weather getting anywhere near my furious face.
Apologies for the late post, you know why.