Piat D’or is the modern equivalent of Bulls Blood, Blue Nun or Black Tower, you remember the ad ‘Le French adore Le Piat D’or?’ A screaming great fat lie of such magnanimous proportions it’s miracle that Tyburn wasn’t reinstated just to behead the marketing director.
It would seem Cunt has a new ‘girl’friend, obviously, like he’s clearly done, I’m forced to ignore the fact he’s a father to a small child -or I’ll be forced to rip out the tendons in my neck and defecate upon them- and this is what he’s serving these days. No more Carling for Cunt, oh no, he now requires ‘sumfing clarssy’ to have with his Fray Bentos and Super Noodles. I saw the empty bottles in the recycle bin this morning; I did one of those ‘HA!’ noises at enormous volume and restrained myself from kicking his door in and making him eat broken Piat D’or glass from my cheerfully bloody fingers.
Lovely night last night, Myfwt came back home and unlike the previous evening I succeeded in making supper, which we ate with a friend, who was on Masterchef. I can’t really go on about this too much without breaking cover but I will say the person in question handled themselves in the face of the two presenters in a manner that can only be described as exemplary, said friend maintained their nonchalance and wit and refused to subscribe to the hysteria of television. Jolly good show I say.
Following that a conversation began that was intense enough for us both to imbibe without impunity, indeed, it was helping the flow of conversation. Feeling relatively guilt free from recent bouts of abstinence I rather enjoyed myself. Off the pop tonight, back on tomorrow.
Yesterday day was fairly dreadful, I was feeling all cross about the previous evening and if that wasn’t enough I was forced to ride to the bike hospital in Sunbury. It was a stunning afternoon, this almost worked against me as for some of the journey I was taking the exact same route as I did on Sunday which I found a tad depressing, and there were fucking police everywhere. Still I managed to pull a few stops out… I began to re-evaluate my recent decision to flog the Black Bitch and get a new one, there’s nothing wrong with her, at least nothing that can’t be cured by a new service and she’s unique in so far I’ve spent money on a few bolt on goodies to make her look right pretty.
I arrived at the hospice for the mechanically weak and was informed that in addition to the service I’d need new brake pads, which I was expecting, and new tyres, which I fucking wasn’t. I knew the back was on its last legs but had completely failed to notice a bald centimetre line in the front… Blast. Bike tyres aren’t like the ‘firty pand a cornar’ shit you get on cars. They’re mixed compound, sticky on the outside and slightly harder in the middle, and made to a much higher standard; they’re also fucking expensive. A set of tyres and I won’t get much change from £250. To add insult to injury they leant me a bike. Last time they let me loose on a brand new Speed Triple, no such luck this time. I plodded back to work on a brand new Triumph Bonneville, for those of you that know anything at all about bikes ‘brand new’ and ‘Triumph Bonneville’ is an oxymoron.
I have an original Bonnie (as us bikers call them, it’s the later T140v, US spec, lovely stuff if not particularly reliable) it rests these days at my folks where it’s adored by my dad. The new Bonnie was million miles away from that. For a start it’s much slower, it’s quieter than a Tinker’s whisper and handles like a Parkinson’s patient going down a cobbled road in a shopping trolley. I. Fucking. hate. It.
I’m so embarrassed to be seen on it I took the bus into work today. Christ I miss my Black Bitch, when I see her tomorrow, on Valentines day appropriately, she’ll be all gorgeous and new-like… I can’t sell her. I love her way too much.
Perhaps I’ll buy her a fucking bottle of Piat D’or.
More from Stiff, this is fucking acersz