Valentino Rossi, a personal friend and fellow Moto GP rider (these last two points are in fact fibs) is world champion for the 9th fucking time. Ninth! This is almost unprecedented, only Giacomo Agostini, a fellow Italian racing some 3 decades ago (Ago! Geddit? No you probably don’t…) has won more world champions. Rossi rides for Yamaha but Agostini won on an Italian MV Augusta which, ironically, is the company that owns the motorcycle wing of Husqvarna, the bike what I have a gotted.
Which brings me nicely on to Brutta. We’re having a few teething problems that I need to get off my chest. It’s a gem in the city, on twisty a, b roads, but stick it on a motorway in a straight line and it’s an arse-meat tenderiser struggling to cruise happily at 70. Seventy! The Black Bitch would happily sit at 120 with berries to spare, moreover it was comfortable. I was aware of this when I bought Brutta, I don’t need something to streak down the motorway these days, it’s just on the odd occasion I do, it’s a bit of a pisser, relegated to the inside lane like a bloody fairy.
Yesterday was one of these occasions; I donned my leathers and farted out of the city with a big grin on my stupid gorgeous fass. It was a sunny day and I’d happily pissed the extra hour up the wall the previous evening. The bike felt perfect and was doing a good job at attracting the attention she deserves. In Clapham I caught up with a chap on a KTM 690 whose exhaust note was more like an explosion, I was jealous if I’m honest, and a bit annoyed. It doesn’t look as nice but it has a bit more guts and the seat looks like a fucking bed in comparison to mine that is as wide as a lap-dancing pole and harder than a marble cock.
We got chatting at the lights, he complimented me on my bike and I returned the favour with regarding to his highly illegal pipe generating ripples in the air. We ride together for a few miles making a beautiful din, cars fled in our path at the sound of a veritable hurricane and re-assembled shakily in our wake. We split direction with waves and then I was left to face the agony of the motorway.
I suppose the advantage of being on a tall bike and exposed to the wind like carrier bag is that one does feel the freedom a bike offers, trouble is it’s almost like to much freedom, I didn’t realise than you can have to much if I’m honest. It was all worth it though; I arrived at my sisters feeling a bit sore round my nipsy and was greeted suspiciously by my niece. A delightful afternoon followed, we frolicked in the garden with my bro, his missus and the aforementioned toddler and ate Sunday lunch (roast chicken prepared by my bro-in-law who has the whole thing sussed) with apple strudel for pud. I also spent a good deal of time with my new niece and discovered I was able to stop her crying by pointing her little face towards fluffy white clouds and moving her up and down like a fucked lift. I had to leave at 4-ish as I was keen to avoid the darkness and was desperate to see the Moto GP on the I-player.
On Friday, after getting home, I waiting for Jamie to turn up. He managed to get hopelessly lost after Elephant and Castle and I had to give him onboard directions which he mismanaged at the eleventh hour, he eventually arrived at 11pm, ironically so we went out immediately, but not before I snapped the fucking key off in the garden gate lock effectively trapping us in the garden. Fortunately Matt who lives in the same block as IC upstairs had a spare (IC was away) so we were rescued allowing us access to the nearest pub, we had a couple there then went over the road at midnight for a late dinner of Turkish fare that had right posh kebabs on the menu.
We were home by 1 and spent the remainder of the evening getting skywards. It’s all a bit hazy but I recall laughing hysterically about something and Jamie snapping a string on my guitar and laughing hysterically about that as well. At some point we must have gone to bed because I woke on Saturday morningish feeling remarkably dreadful.
After Jamie went I set about doing shit. I needed to purchase a mirror among other things so I went to my favourite ‘I can’t believe they sell everything shop’ and stared at lots of things with my mind stumbling over what it was I was there for, so I bought a white jug, No More Nails and video cassette. I paid, left and then went back to get the mirror. It had a shitty frame, remove shitty frame I decided. I went home, broke the mirror into a thousand fucking pieces trying to remove shitty frame and went back to the ‘I can’t believe they sell everything shop’ and bought another one, though this time I decided not to remove shitty frame at about the same time I realised that this mirror was a foot shorter than the ideal-sized one I’d shattered.
I did manage to successfully mount the mirror with the shitty frame; it looked okay I suppose but only when close-up. I noticed that from a distance, when walking towards it, it has a fairground ripple giving the impression I was drowning underwater.
Oh, I tried to tape the Moto GP with my new videocassette; I managed to get most of the broken tape out of the machine from the cassette loader but will have to take off the top to get the rest out this evening.
Saturday evening was spent alone, ideal. Regular readers will know that I exchanged last week, which has given my flat a new dimension of ‘home.’ Without question it’s the best place I’ve ever lived, I fucking love it. It’s completely quiet yet I can make as much noise as I like (and yes, I have checked with my neighbours, I’m not Cunt) it’s clean, cosy and I like all the stuff I have in there and how it’s laid out. I recall how I used to envy people when they simply said ‘spent the reading night at home’ as that simple act of domestic comfort was, until recently, denied me. Having a neighbour who probably thinks it’s illogical to bother eating when you can just shove it up your arse makes ones entire life miserable. It’s not just the pain of being at home, it’s the prospect of going home not knowing if you’re going to have a quiet one or not and compensating for said peace by living soundlessly in a bubble of distress. I used to watch Peep Show jealous that Mark and Jez could shout at each other and thump about with being rebuked by a wall of retarded amplification presided over by preformed bollock-gland. Even in protracted bouts of silence the slightest indication of movement from below would cause ones senses to prickle to waking life with horrific anticipation. It’s fucking awful, awful and shortly, next Monday to be exact, the place that caused me so much misery will have nothing whatsoever to do with me. Indeed, money from it will flop into my account and I can carry on with my life.
Anyway, well done Valentino, looking forward to seeing you in the villa over Christmas (another fib.) Oh, I shaved my balls last night.