Fat Bloke on a Bike

There's a harsh rasping sound growing behind me.  Scary in that I fear it's some horrible critter quickly scurrying up to me as though I'm it's lunch.  No, it's more like the sound of hard tyres ripping over coarse gravel or perhaps of cold air being sucked into a pair of supercharged lungs.  And it is getting louder. Yeah, another one of those slimy feckers has just raced up to me, overtaken me not more than a hairs breadth away and fecked off at high speed in the same general direction.   Fecking racing snakes.  I've had a summer full of them.  Creeping out from between roadsigns and junctions, generally in packs skittering along at high speed as though their lives depended on it.  Nasty harsh black shiny critters with long slim bodies, vestigial arms and crack out aloud bones should you accidentally step on one.  They're horrid.   So what are racing snakes really like?  Well I'm told so for sure it is fact that the little feckers are ...

Herman the German has surrendered.   I attacked the Wahl (1) trimmer with a sharp pointy thing and a meter multi-range so I could check for blood pressure and a pulse.  With a bit of determination I split it open.  I only busted one mounting lug which going by the number of lugs and the effort needed to split such a small device surely was design overkill by Herman anyway.  'Ve haf vays of prewenting jou frem fetterling our bitz!', says Herman.   I'm in a darkened room with sleeves rolled up, wide eyed staring down at the now disemboweled body admiring the simplicity of its design.  With thunder and lightning flashing and crashing all around and with the crackle of high voltage electricity in the air I press on with my machinations and watch insanely as it finally coughs a little buzz and comes back to life!  'It's ALIVE! Ya ha ha ha harrrrr!'.  HERMAN!  It's ALIVE!!!  I wheel around the office in a wild phantom dance with my meter multi...

There's cardboard boxes everywhere...  All empty save for the bubble wrap which has so far survived my urges.  Pop... pop-pop!  Ooohhh!  Nice!  For sure if Pat was here, that is Kathryn's Octogenarian ++++++ mum, there's be no stopping her.  She'd be rolling in it like a pig in transparent plastic shit!  No, er, not that she's a pig... er... or likes rolling in shit.. er, she's a very nice lady for sure just with a strong urge to pop things.  It's probably why she married the 'Spotty Botty Pimple Poppy' oik Howard some 60 years ago..  Ugh!  I feel ill... Well I kinda like fixing things.  I'm sat here right now with a Wahl beard trimmer in pieces.  TESCO would not refund me because I could not find the original receipt only 3 months or so after buying it [bummer].  After flashing some soulful eyes and crying and whimpering a lot at the Nazi on the customer services desk I eventually gave in and bought another one.  I s...

Dear Wayne, Thank you so much for your letter, it was here waiting for Miss Waite after the summer holiday. We were very sad to hear that Uncle Conrad has passed away, please accept our condolences to you and your family.  It was very kind of you to write to us and thank us in such a lovely way, your letter made me both happy and sad. We are all very proud of St Paul's CE Primary School and our aims, Christian vision and core values, I am really pleased you, Uncle Con and Auntie Margaret all got to come and see us before lockdown. I think Con will be the last person I gave a hug to, outside of my home! It was a pleasure to meet with you all and share our school, I am so pleased you were able to take so much from the visit. Wishing you all the best for the future. Kind regards, Felicity  

Wheear 'as tha bin sin a saw thee?   On Ilkley Moor without my fecking hat for sure.  Fecking Mary (John) Jane, the 'trust me' fakir of old Bingley town says after a nice run along the Leeds Liverpool canal, "I know a smashing ride back home Wayne, just a little climb then a lovely ride along the hillside.."  I fell for it.  Smitten by the thought (for sure not by her fecking gargoylian looks) of a nice ride out along green country lanes admiring the west Yorkshire scenery on a shiny clear warm day.  Thou's bin a courtin Mary Jane...? She's a tease, always threatening to take me to good places, know what I mean, but the smooth bridalways and glossy green lanes never fecking appear.  Nah, it's 1400ft straight up today on steep and rough as fook dead sheep strewn with lungs hanging out paths to the top of Ilkley Moor.  Some credit though; she lifted her skirt and flashed her knickers all the way to the top.  Higher! Higher! I squealed.  When I ...