I have an angry undercurrent. I pretend to be a good boy most of the time. But sometimes....
1. We ran out of bread this morning. I went over the road to get bread and then I was off to work. I was in my bike gear. The Arsehat dairy owner immediately begins to lecture me about bikes being dangerous. I hold my hand up (patronising, eh?) and say politely, "If you have an opinion you would be well advised to keep it to your self." Arsehat looks a little taken aback and starts the lecture. I say, " I warned you. We will no longer be using your dairy. Your constant harrassment of my wife (he gives her shit about being so hugely pregnant) and your bigoted views on motorcycling have convinced me that I no longer wish to help feed you and your family."
He looks doubly stunned and says, "But bikes are..."
I cut him off with, " There is another dairy and a small supermarket 1km down the road. It is no hardship to use either instead of you. Excuse me while I put these loaves of bread back on your shelf."
I leave. I slam the sliding door so hard on the way out it wedges on an angle to the runners.
2. Madboy is right. I do ride like I am scared of death. But tonight...
I turned off at Korokoro to go the twisty way home. A neon-luminous, pearlescent, thundering boom-box with a dustbin exhaust attaches itself to a strap on my tailpack. "What would Madboy do", I think to myself.
Down one (oops wasn't planning on a first gear wheelie, but what the hey), and whistle through the sweepers up London road "naughtily" shall we say. Safer than being tailgated by what appears to be a pair of baseball caps.
Then there are a succession of hairpins, one of which doesn't dry in winter EVER. Wastegate bangs behind - blimey he's close again and wants a go. Front wheel slides, grips, slides - what would Madboy do - whack it open of course, front wheel grips and we leave the baseball caps behind through the next set of side to side flicks, tight enough that going quickly doesn't mean going to jail. Last big looooong right hand hairpin, nail it to make a point, BLOODY HELL loose grave... Snake, weave, sliiiiide, what would Madboy do - whack it open of course, weeeeee wee wee goes this little piggy all the way home.
Stop at driveway to collect junk mail from the letterbox, brrrrm, psshhhh, bang! Baseball caps pull up, "Farrrk, good one bro, chur!!", Westside gestures exhanged. Smile creeps up to join both corners of my mouth on top of my head, good thing the little buggers can't see my face.
All hypothetical of course officer. I did NOT threaten a dairy owner, vandalise his door, or race with evil boi racers. Not me. I'm scared of death me.
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