After work on Friday most of the office went to the local pub, a most unpleasant venue that’s best avoided like one might avoid vagina dentate, which happened to be hosting an office party, a wake and enteraining a crew of pissed scaffolders. Nonetheless, after free drinks courtesy of the boss, I left feeling perfectly refreshed. I stopped off at a mates on the way home for a wine or two and was home safe and well by 10-ish with some food and a desire to sleep. My Friday was in abstract contrast to the preferred IC/Hackney option that was curtailed but the rather irksome fact that IC isn’t in the country at present. Balls.
Anyway, Saturday began with a long bath, bacon and eggs and Radio 4, I was already preparing myself for a shitty journey to Croydon on the Black Bitch, she’s not been feeling well of late, in addition to snapping her speedo cable, Bitch has been having radiator issues and she’ll require a new sprocket and chain set sometime soon. I’d pre-ordered and, I thought, pre-paid for the speedo cable and figured I’d enquire about the other matters on arrival.
It was cold but lovely and sunny and despite my having to travel through the arsehole of London the ride was perfectly acceptable even though I’d no clue how fast I was going. I’d even decided to visit James on my return as he lives fairly near my destination, the poor sod. I arrived at the bike shop and went in to collect my cable. As I assumed I’d already paid for it I was a bit annoyed to be informed I hadn’t and my protestations of the validity of this supposed transaction could well have been misconstrue as yours truly trying to pull a fast one, put it this way, they didn’t seem best pleased when I questioned their integrity. Anyway, I paid for the cable (again?) and fitted it before setting off for James’s. Ah, how lovely to witness the ferocious speeds I cover the earth…then I heard a clear ‘snap’ and my speedo died. I’d travelled barely a mile.
I went back to the shop, detached the new and I assumed broken cable and confronted the member of staff whose honesty I’d question previously. I was a bit cross and the cable was being waved about a bit. After informing the chap the cable was fucked, and him quietly informing me that it can’t be, I somehow managed to slice open the top of my finger at the end of said fucking cable just as I began to lose my temper. Dear reader, don’t try and have an argument with a person whilst bleeding heavily, when the recipient of your vitriol has quietly given you tissues after mopping up a pool of your blood as you vent spleen, you have to accept defeat. I did. I knew he was right, I just didn’t want the financial consequences.
After paying them 30 quid to be informed my radiator, chain/sprockets and, of course, my speedo clock were fucked (totaling £600 in parts/labour) I left with my tail twixt my leather clad legs vowing to return next year to get it all fixed. Despite all this I had a killer ride back home, it’s a funny old game this motorcycling.
That evening I met up with Frank for a few ales; we sat outside in a heated tent of sorts and quaffed Bombardier over conversation that inevitably arrived at childcare what with last weeks news and all. At home I ate and watched guff on TV before rocking the fuck out until a bed appeared under my face.
Sunday, sister’s birthday. There had been a frost overnight and my road looked like Greenland. I had crumpets for breakfast and held out as long as possible before leaving for the folks but the road maintained its coat of ice. I’m not a fan of riding on ice but it can be done if one is careful, the basic rule is back brake only (applied gingerly) and to use the clutch to feed the power off so the rear wheel doesn’t snap during de-acceleration, but despite this knowledge and experience I had two heart stopping moments on my road and indeed on my parents road, which was in much the same condition.
The family sat down to lunch amid the usual volley of bad language, wind and hysterics. For once my niece had decided I was okay and didn’t scream the fucking place down when I so much as looked at her. It was a splendid afternoon, highlight of the weekend. I know how lucky I am in this respect. Being a Sunday I’d already accepted that when I left my weekend wasn’t going to improve, I wobbled up the road on the ice at 5-ish and headed back home, the roads were lethal, the traffic rich and I was freezing cold, frozen when I finally got back home.
Oh, this caught my ear this morning. The original album artwork for Virgin Killer by The Scorpions has been banned 32 years after it’s release by The Internet Watchdog foundation. I have to say, the artwork itself is at best tasteless and at worse dubious but why now has this image suddenly become so contentious that it’s been categorized as ch1ld p0rn? It’s not the sort of thing I’d have hanging on my wall I hasten to add, it’s a little iffy to say the least, but this image isn’t the problem, this new wave of neo-conservatism is.
It seems to me that these people project their horror onto the benignly sensational, I’ll go one step further, if you see the image as ch1ld p0rn you need to go see a doctor because it’s your head that’s responsible from converting ‘mmm’ to ‘Aaaaarrgggggghh!’
News just in, under their clothes all children are completely naked! Someone call The Daily Mail.