» "Needless to say, I had the last laugh"

Fascist pig-baiting......or is it?
Back in the late 80's, when George Michael was 'straight', Thatcher had told us there was no such thing as society and mobile phones weren't actually very mobile at all, I was married, living in London and worked as a motorcycle dispatch rider.

In those days I wasn't quite the chilled-out, easy-going person I am today, so any opportunity to wind up a figure of authority was to be grabbed with both hands. Of course, my job helped fan the flames of my anti-establishment ways of thinking, as a day would rarely go by without some gob-shite traffic warden or copper trying to give me a ticket for being on a yellow line for 37 seconds.

Me and the slag bitch cum-bucket then wife would go out on sunny Sundays for a ride to meet up with other bikers at a caff on the A10. Once there, we would gorge on the finest Sunday roast and apple pie with custard, and afterwards some of us would go for a thrash into the countryside.

On one particular occasion, for some reason nobody else fancied the after-dinner entertainment of pissing off as many sports car drivers as possible, so it was just me and the trollop who ventured out.

Before too long we had left Hertfordshire and entered Essex. There's a joke somewhere there about females from that area, but as time is short, I'll not bother. The moo-sus was pillion, we'd both been fed and watered, I was enjoying the ride and all was well in the world.
We were riding a Yamaha XT600 Tenere, which was a big old machine with a massive petrol tank, like you see on the Paris-Dakar. Great bike for dispatching on, in fact I'm getting a bit teary-eyed just thinking about it, but I digress. All you need to know is this bike was not designed for going round a racetrack.

Any-hoo, we end up riding past Stansted airport, and pulled over onto the grass verge to take a look at the planes taking off and landing. Where I was born, we still point at them when they go overhead, so being quite close to an actual airfield was living la vida loca! As we're only going to be there a minute or two, we don't bother getting off the bike. Within about fifteen seconds of us stopping, an airport police Landrover pulls up just behind us. Out jumps a copper, face like thunder, and shouts, ''Can't you fucking read?'' He points at a sign, about three or four metres away. On it is printed the warning, ''NO STOPPING. EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. KEEP GATES CLEAR'' I must have been in a particularly good mood, or more likely I sensed that this guy could be trouble, so I tell him that I'm not by the sign so I didn't see it. Anyway, I'm not blocking the gate and if I was and there was an emergency, then seeing as I'm still on the bike with the engine running, I could get out of the way pretty sharpish.

He didn't take kindly to my answer. Maybe he expected me to retort with some type or sarcastic reply, or even better, lose my rag and he could call for help and hit me with a ticket. It was tough keeping cool, but I was enjoying watching his face get redder and redder. He was obviously still cut up about not being clever enough to pass the entrance test to get into the real police force.

''Just fuck off'', he shouts. At this point I think to myself it's probably wise to leave, as soon he won't need an excuse to book me, he'll be quite happy to make something up. So I put my bike in gear, let out the clutch and wished him a good day....Well, I actually mouthed the word 'wanker' as i pulled away, but if I hadn't there wouldn't be a story to tell here.

He must recently have finished a lip-reading course, or he'd been called this many times before, as now his face was contorted in anger. As I ride away, I take a look in my mirror to see him jumping into his Landy and giving chase. Now, bearing in mind my bike wasn't the fastest and I had a shed-load of extra ballast as pillion, I had to think quickly. Am I quicker? How far is he allowed to chase me? Why didn't I buy a faster bike? Who'd be the best shag? Debbie Gibson or Belinda Carlisle? Is there traffic ahead he'll get stuck in?

A few seconds later and he's right up behind. There's nothing in front of me, so I decide to give it the berries. Spending your working day on a bike and keeping yourself alive means you're going to be a pretty good rider, so I didn't find it that difficult to get away. He probably had a crappy diesel and not a V8....luckily. After half a minute or so of thrashing and concentrating on what's happening ahead, I look in my mirrors and what do I see? Joy of joys, a police Landrover pulling over to the side of the road, closely tailed by a huge plume of blue-grey smoke. Blown engine for him! I just wish he'd been a little closer to me when it blew so I could have seen his face in my mirrors!

So, after a gentle ride home I spend the next month waiting for a court appearance letter to land on my doormat. It never happened, which makes my victory even sweeter. Maybe he was just too embarrassed to tell his plastic-policemen buddies what had happened to blow his motor. Maybe, with hindsight, he realised what a twat he'd been. If he'd pulled up and said, 'Sorry fella, you can't stop there'', I would have moved on, and he could have gone about his day with his engine in one piece, happily persecuting some other minority.

Needless to say..........
(Wed 9th Feb 2011, 16:38, More)

» Unusual talents

The hymen is broken.......
Okay, deep breath.....After three years of (mostly) chuckling at all the goings-on here, I've finally bitten the bullet and joined in. Like all great athletes, I shall be starting off with a warm-up exercise, nothing too strenuous, before 'going for gold'.....probably in another three years time. I always was a slow worker, so please bear with me.

In the mid-nineties, I had the 'pleasure' of being a driving instructor based in North London. One crisp, winter's morning, I was driving up Colney Hatch Lane on my way to Muswell Hill for my next lesson. All was well with the world. The rush-hour traffic had finally cleared, I had a shiny, new motor, money in my pocket, and my next pupil was a blonde in her early twenties, who on her first lesson wore a tracksuit which would have put Vicky Pollard to shame, but was now, following a few weeks of outrageous Clinton/Lewinsky-type flirting (but minus the cigar), wearing progressively shorter and shorter skirts and cleavage-enhancing tops. Lovely stuff!
I'm listening to Russ and Jono on Virgin (in those halcyon days before that (other) fat twat Moyles came along and fucked radio up the shit-pipe). They make a little joke, play a few risque sound-effects, a crap jingle or two, they may have even, heaven forbid, played a 'record'. Then they ask people to call in if they can do an impression. Obviously they were running out of material of their own. That type of comedy gold doesn't grow on trees, you know? Glory be, my chance for fifteen minutes of fame (again...but that's a story for another day. Don't you remember me saying this was merely a 'stretching' exercise? Do keep up).
I'm a little ahead of schedule, so I immediately check my mirrors, give the appropriate signal and park the car at the side of the road in a safe and legal place. Straight onto the phone, call the number, and whaddyaknow? I get through to a nice lady in the studio. I'm going to be famous....ish! Only problem is, in my rush I haven't actually thought of what it is that's going to make me as big as Yarwood. The nice lady asks me my name, where I'm from, etc, then the dreaded, what/who can you 'do'? ''I can 'do' Flipper the dolphin'', says I quick as a flash, and then give her a three second sample of said sound-alike. (Forefinger and thumb together, kiss the crack like it's your nan's cheek, if you want to try it yourself and impress members of the opposite sex.) She laughs and says to hold on, as I'll be on live as soon as the other two contestants are found.
So there I am, parked at the side of the road, practising my Flipper impression , nervously waiting. Finally, the moment comes. I'm up against a woman who ''makes the sound F1 cars make when they go past you'', and if I remember correctly, ''a sheep with a hiccup''. ''It's in the bag'', thinks I...and it turns out that Russ and Jono think so, too.
Okay, I admit the competition weren't exactly the Linford Christie's of the impressions world (i.e they didn't cheat and took massive drugs), but I like to think my unusual talent brought a little bit of laughter into somebody's dark and dreary life.
My prize? A Virgin Radio goody-bag, which I waited..and waited...aaaaand waited for, but never arrived. I'm pretty sure that baseball cap would have made a fine addition to my wardrobe. For weeks, I wondered what happened to that bag of goodies. I found out about a month later when, just as I was about to send Russ and Jono a stern letter from my lawyer threatening legal action, I saw my postman a few streets from my home, proudly wearing his bright red, Virgin FM baseball cap.
Okay, that bit I made up, but the rest is true. I did get to nail the blonde, though. After she'd passed her test of course. I am/was a professional, after all. Apologies for the length (fnnaarrr!), but these stories don't seem anywhere near as involved when they're in the old noggin!
(Tue 23rd Nov 2010, 16:33, More)

» My First Experience of the Internet

My first experience of the internet?
I used it to buy a bread-maker.
(Thu 22nd Mar 2012, 18:01, More)

» Annoying Partners

My ex-missus and I
had only one argument in the seventeen years we were together.



From November 1989 until April 2001.


Ithangyou.
(Tue 9th Aug 2011, 6:44, More)

» The Police II

Every word....true.
Last night, following a 15 hour, Tequila binge-drinking session, I met Kylie Minogue in Spearmint Rhino where she was with a lesbian girlfriend.

After flirting with them for a few minutes, I took them both back to a hotel, 5***** naturally, and we had a threesome in the steam room until they begged me to stop. I then took massive drugs and nailed Kylie again in the Presidential Suite for another seven hours.

I got bored after she'd fainted for the third time, so I went out, off my face, and stole a Bugatti Veyron from the hotel car park. Whilst trying to confirm its top speed, I lost control (It doesn't handle as well as my Accord), and crashed it through the window of a Rolex jewellers.

Before legging it, I grabbed a selection of items from the wrecked display cases. I thought I should make a quick getaway seeing as I was probably in the wrong so I hijacked a taxi, holding the driver at gun-point (I always carry a firearm on a night out, on the off-chance I may bump into Michael Winner), and instructed him to take me to the airport.

Once there, I climbed over the fence and ran across the runway. Luckily, the airforce had been performing a display earlier in the day, and somebody had left a helicopter gun-ship unattended with the keys in the ignition so I made my getaway.

I landed on my private island around 4pm this afternoon. An hour or so later, the police smashed down my door and arrested me. Luckily, as a police inspector I have certain 'privileges' so they let me go.

Tonight I'll probably stay in and watch the complete first series of 'Two Point Four Children' on dvd.

I may have a cheese omelette for my supper.

With a milky tea.
(Fri 6th May 2011, 10:13, More)