Yesterday lunchtime I decided to at least see if I could find the fault on the fucking Triumph.
Armed with a small toolkit that I carry about in my rucksack for occasions such as this, I approached the bitch prepared to open bits of her in order to fiddle within. I had an inking the problem stemmed from the area around the headstock so I tapped round the offending area with ignition on to see if there was any fluctuation in the warning lights. It was then I noticed a click coming from the rear of the machine that corresponded to the warning lights flashing on and off.
I removed the seat to reveal the battery and the source of the noise. One of the electronic boxes was clicking as it was activated then clicking off when the power died. This had fuck-all to do with the headstock area. At a loss I began poking at various components until finally, in an act of frustration grabbed the battery and wobbled it. It was then I noticed the positive battery cable was sitting on the terminal; it wasn’t bolted into its captive nut. I merely screwed it back in place, something I should’ve done properly last week and the problem was solved. Fucking ace.
My ride back home was a joyous occasion, the bike started without so much as a pause and despite the congestion we floated smoothly towards cessation at the end of the journey. I covered my bitch up and approached my front door. My glow of satisfaction was shattered in a trillionth of a second when I heard my name being groaned from after, once at some distance away and a second time at a much closer proximity. Oh Christ, Cunt.
The fuckwit was on his bicycle (he has lost his driving licence twice for drink driving, the second time in under a week of getting it back) wearing a baseball hat (fume), dark glasses with a guitar case strapped to his fucking back. I was informed, without any form of solicitation at plane-taking-off decibels, that he wanted to go to Art College, and he mentioned Central St. Martins. Having some experience with art colleges the very fact I didn’t evaporate my sinuses through a single snort of vehemence is a mere testament to the self, instead and in context, I mentioned my friend (with tits)…
Cunt, took the time to dismount his bicycle, lean it against a wall, remove the guitar case off his back, take two steps back so he was just stood in the road, and with his knees bending gently, fists clenched, both arms parallel, mimicked the action of ‘sex’ by thrusting his hips forward in the basest most exaggerated ITV-comedy excuse for characterisation I’ve ever witnessed, each thrust was accompanied by 4 or 5 ‘grunts’ of such incredible volume that I was actually ashamed to be a human being. Wordlessly I turned to my door opened it and let myself in, the door shut on the last ‘grunt’.
I had to leave or this blog would’ve simply stopped due to my arrest for shoving a baseball hat so far down his throat the NYC logo on the peak would’ve been visible over his fucking belt.
A few minutes after this incident I left the flat for the second time that day in order to get the tube to Leicester Square. I’d arranged to meet my bro and an old friend in favourite haunt off Longacre. My bro arrived first and we drank steadily discussing among other things how good Spaced was. My friend arrived an hour or so later and we spent the rest of the evening chatting merrily away. My bro left slightly early, leaving us to decide whether to eat or not. Due to time and circumstance we vetoed the food but arranged to specifically meet up and eat out in the next few weeks.
I got back on the tube at 10-ish, I’d not gone mad on the pints but was aware that the hourglass of piss was inverted so I was keen for a quick journey back to Tooting. I arrived at my destination, even having enough space in the hourglass to be able to nip into bloody Tesco and grab some food.
This morning I left the flat later than usual for work. As I was in the process of uncovering my bike, barely concealing my joy in the knowledge that it would start without drama, when the mulleted criminal from across the road appeared and stood uncomfortably close to me. He asked me if he could hire me (and my white van) to help him get some stuff from a house in Wandsworth. Apparently his oversees girlfriend said her parents own it and he’s been given permission to go there and ‘take whatever he wants’.
Despite having my helmet on, my eyes must have expressed some degree of surprise/doubt. He looked at me and without a hint of irony repeated the offer but this time finished off the sentence with ‘honest, Gov’.
Today’s you tube experience is dead funky.