moto mungday

Yesterday lunchtime my doorbell went, this usually spells some sort of aggravation either by a misguided religious twit who wants me to join their troubled organisation, a rubbish salesperson who clearly hasn’t taken food in a week or one of Cunt’s acquaintances, the latter being a very rare occurrence on account of his character and its similarity to that of underachieving plankton.

I was confronted by a short middle aged cockney gentleman bearing a flat cap and staring at me with piercing blue eyes, each with more than a hint of mischief/violence and I instantly amused myself with thought of him tucking his thumbs into his waistcoats and whistling My Old Man prior to collapsing on the pavement gasping to death with Consumption… He cheerily enquired of the (my) bike concealed under the tarp and would I like to sell it…

Alarm bells tinkled, how did this fellow know that was my bike? I don’t park it outside my flat, and how did he know to ring on my bell? Having never seen this bloke before, or anything like him since I saw Mary Poppins when I was 9, my mind went through a gamete of options, questions and responses. Something wasn’t at all right. I was then told it ‘nevah turned a wheel’ before him asking me if it was a Harley, at which point I slammed the door in his chirpy fucking face. It was such a puzzling encounter I’m half convinced I made it up; even so, I spent the remainder of the afternoon checking on my bike every 30 minutes.

The weekend begun after a loathsome day at work at the pub with Frank, we had a very congenial chat and a couple of guest ales before I returned to my gaff to get it ship shape for Saturday. The flat is on the market and I’d already been informed that humans were coming to look at it at 2pm on Saturday… So on Saturday morning I got up earlier than the norm to get some keys cut for the agent, I met her, gave her my house keys and took a lift with another agent with whom I’d some viewings. I was taken to four different properties in south London, two in Streatham despite my categorically saying ‘I don’t want to live in Streatham’ and being told that, ‘actually, I did really. I just hadn’t seen the right place’.

The first property was hideous, as was the pebbledashed street. The agent nearly had her car rammed by a Gilray-esque female, who was wearing so much rolled gold it’s a wonder her head hadn’t rolled off, who embarked on a string of expletives after the agent parped her horn to warn this inbred monster she was about to reverse into her. Frankly, following this incident the house, a few doors down from where this gold-strewn pig lurked, could’ve been free and I still would’ve shunned it like screaming Ebola.

The second place was expensive and clearly inhabited by vermin, I then directed the agent that, in no uncertain terms, did I wish to live in fucking Streatham and to take me somewhere else, at once. The third was ex ‘local authority’ sort of in the Wandsworth area (what ever happened to ‘council house’, the cunts) and not too bad except the décor within would have taken me 7 lifetimes to undo let alone decorate to some sort of standard of decency and the fourth property, despite being alright, was a burglars wet dream. That was my Saturday afternoon, a complete waste of time.

I plodded off to Sainsbury and returned home feeling disheartened. My flat no longer felt like mine as I clumped upstairs with armfuls of shopping, even if I didn’t know for sure that they had, it felt like strangers had been inside my space peering at my stuff and making assumptions as to the state of my being. It was 5pm, plans for the evening hadn’t really materialised -partially by my own design- and I planned on gorging myself with roast beef and all the necessary accoutrements. By 9 pm feeling much better after downing half a bottle of Minervois I had a fucking enormous plate of food under my nose. I ate this watching Gosford Park which seemed awfully apt, it was enormously gorgeous and I roundly patted myself on the back and celebrated by getting thoroughly pissed and rocking out until the small hours. Marvellous.

Sunday was always going to be geared around the Moto GP. I got up after lunchtime and nursed my hangover with a kipper the size of a pike and lots of toast and tea, after watching the Moto GP preview in the afternoon I did some writing, including some of this, and undertook household chores (I’ve another viewing this very afternoon) and took a bath.

The GP wasn’t due to begin until 8pm, it’s the first round and … (watches people leave) okay, I’ll keep it dead brief, The English rider (double World Superbike champ, but because he doesn’t cluster fuck, punch celebrity weathergirls or cheat on vacuous popstarlets, no one has heard of him –yet he’s a world champion, twice crowned…) did incredibly well, 2nd on pole, 6th to finish –for a debut that amazing. Also, it was the first time Moto GP has takenplace at night, dead exciting it was…

Myfwt came back just before it finished and I made supper, we watched Oscar winning Crash, won lots of Oscars apparently, utter fucking tosh.

Metal Monday…