On Ilkley Moor bah t'at!

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 got there the view was excellent!  Phwoarr!  Blue knickers!  No no...  I could see a grey York in the distance (well that or a low cloud formation) and looked down in awe (well almost) at the spectacle of aircraft still some 1000ft above Leeds Bradford Airport in the landing pattern. Gahhhh!!!

Tha's bahn te catch tha's deeth of cold. 

For fecking sure at any other time of the year but in this case Mary Jane had hit lucky weather wise today.  I'm sweating like a rampant hippo in a deep cabbage strewn hot water bath from the monstrous climb up.  I'm not cold at the top for sure but the route down on the 'stepping stones', a hard stone path put in place to prevent walkers from disappearing into the bog, was too much like wrestling with a jack hammer for my wrists and arse.  Imagine banging up and down kerbs every 6ft or so for 3 miles.  Ooh!  Ow! Ow! Not a fecking chance. 

I'm gonna bury thee when I get home..

'So whats the direct and easiest way back?' says I to Mary Jane who obviously fakes a 'its this way Wayne darling' orgasm of stupendous proportions which takes us down the side of the fecking mountain on a barely visible hairy footpath across cliff faces, boulder fields and bogs.  I scream at Mary as she giggles and flies down the crap moorland path on her full suspension ebike.  The fecker.  I will eventally catch up to her.  And then even with my now broken wrists and antibiotic resistant nettle rash I'll still find the strength and energy to dig her a watery grave...

Then we shall all 'ave eeten thee...

We finally get back home.  My ears are still ringing with Mary's shrill giggles every time I cussed, fecked or moaned.  I get no sympathy from her other half, Fiona.  'I thought you knew John?' .. You know everything he says is codswallop and cos he's a competitive man everything has to be taken in the sure knowledge that he's fibbing and so will have the most unwanted outcome.'  Damn, she's right.  I should have known. 

 

One day I'll get my own back.  It'll probably be the equivalent of me prepping for tea a bag full of dead mallards which have choked on fat worms full of Mary Jane's rotten blubber.  Then watch with great glee as Mary Jane sinks her rotten gnashers into one of the worlds largest turd burgers.  Like watching a fat 50 something bloke squeeze into lycra shorts and spray on tight lycra shirt, it'll be nasty for sure.  

 

John has been a mate for over 50 years now so tis all my fault for not forseeing the inevitable problem of going for a ride with him...

 

...With or without my hat on.