Scotland 2025 Day 13 - Sian the Sheep
It's a terrible affliction. Ones not born with it. Nature it is not. Something to do with his upbringing methinks.
Brad the Lad was born on boxing day 1998. How unlucky huh. To have a birthday that follows christmas day is almost as bad as being born on the big day itself. Would you like a party on your birthday Bradley his mum would say. Even as a three year old he had learnt all four words of no feck off mum which didn't always come out in the correct order but he was trying bless the lad.
As a young shaver he got a used bike every Christmas off his dad, a scrap metal dealer and wannabe Steptoe, he kept his son supplied fresh with ex Christmas bikes of other no feck off mum kids at the side of the house.
As his father Allan has a lot to answer for. It must have something to do with the fact that daddy always sported a number one or at times even a close shaven head. I think the lad was zapped by the light; the reflections from daddy’s head ever since he followed him into a well lit amusements in Scarborough. Well a place where the lads interest in anything to do with cycling was truly born by just how much he enjoyed the pedallos on the pond at the Reighton Gap summer prison camp.
Now I've got a lot to answer for too. Uncle Wayne. A man full of not so bright ideas who asked the young shaver if he would like to go for a bike ride? Where on the first ride out he tried to impress his uncle Wayne and blew up on the first hill climb. Then blew up again on the hard headwind routing back into York. That's it. That's torn it. I’m gonna get a no feck off uncle Wayne 5 worder flung back at me forever more.
Talking of the wind. Well yesterday's ride was a direct long hard into the harsh head wind pull up to a thousand feet where we met Southside Mark! A man in the throes of flu yet I recon he’d still beat any other cyclist out there. A proper racing snake he is.
The 3 of us rode together to a small cafe in the village of Broughton. A place bereft of Wildebeest as the South African veldt might be on a particularly cold windy afternoon. And there she is. A full mane of hair - an Afrikaans lass who has accidentally migrated into the Scottish borders and now can't find her way home.
Now I normally chat a lot with women folk when on a journey. But no. I saw the size of her fists. This gal is a fighter. I’m saying nowt. She sweetly says 'good morning vhat canaye git youw bedankt'. I’m saying nuthin. I know what's coming if I even let a peep out from betwixt tightened lips. I mouth quietly ‘spk t mark’ furtively pointing at him with my head down like a frightened child who has for the first time accidentally told his raging mum on Christmas day to feck off.
Now as a fit as fook racing snake Southside is bereft of fluff. For sure his head but also those damn fine legs. Like most cyclists Southside has a Lady Remington. You know one of them there dilapidation devices. A well shorn bloke with a set of calf muscles that would only look better if wrapped in fishnet tights. And being that theres nothing better than seeing a well made pair of calves in a bit of netting there's nothing worse than if there's hair poking out of the holes too. 🤢. Sorry I just made myself feel unwell. Bork!
Oh dear. Must stop. I’m sat in the breakfast room whilst writing this blog and have just accidentally let a small chirrup out. I do hope the smell of my toast masks its flavour before any of the guests arrive. All eyes will be on me!
Oh dear. The owner has just come in the room. All smiles with a cheery good morning! Then I see the corners of her mouth drop ever so slightly. Och I’ll just wedge open the door… and then hear her disappear down the passage saying, Och I’ll just wedge open this door too. Then in the distance … Och, I’ll just wedge open this door too as she fought her way into the back yard.
The guests arrive… followed by the owner wearing a HAZMAT suit with a stern look on her face and with eggs on toast in both hands..
Where was I. Oh yes…
Brad must've learnt this as a young shaver cos I’ve never seen him in tights. But not long after starting to ride with uncle Wayne I would find him at home with his hands down the front of his pants from which eminated a slight buzzing sound.
The Lad must be part Belgian. His harsh childhood and teen life watching poop videos on poo tube has led to something worrying. Whilst his legs are hairier than a monkeys arse I think he has discovered the joys of a pair of well shorn testicles. And perineum and in fact anything north of his trouser hemline except for his chin.
The buzzing stops and he pulls his monster out. Jeez! A 5 headed rechargeable thing. He says there's nothing quite as delightful as having a freshly shorn scrotum after an ice cold shower. Breathtaking really. Mark pulls his Lady Remington out. Brad looks at it and lets out a sharp Hah! 'Thats not a shaver. That’s a shaver!' says the Lad all Crocodile Dundee like having already reached deeply into his nether region and pulled out his beast of a thing. A five headed gorgon bought off Amazon that if pushed could be used to mow a field and could put a rather spectacular cricket pitch finish to any one’s heed.
Now the roads in Scotland are rough in places. Around Edinburgh they are abysmal. Every damn marked off cycle way has lumps that make my boys quiver. We're cycling on a harsh bit of the A701 and I call out 'watch out Brad!'. But it was too late. The Lad like me is a convert to leather saddles. He also has a Hairy Melon, a young one sans any bum fluff of course. But the crater he hit did the damage and shoved little Brooks into her wide open mouth.
Here's the rear view camera from his Garmin radar activated bum tickler - normally used when filtering in traffic to alert one that someone's up yer jacksi - which shows me encouraging him to eject Brooks from his Hairy Melon...
Brad the Lad was born on boxing day 1998. How unlucky huh. To have a birthday that follows christmas day is almost as bad as being born on the big day itself. Would you like a party on your birthday Bradley his mum would say. Even as a three year old he had learnt all four words of no feck off mum which didn't always come out in the correct order but he was trying bless the lad.
As a young shaver he got a used bike every Christmas off his dad, a scrap metal dealer and wannabe Steptoe, he kept his son supplied fresh with ex Christmas bikes of other no feck off mum kids at the side of the house.
As his father Allan has a lot to answer for. It must have something to do with the fact that daddy always sported a number one or at times even a close shaven head. I think the lad was zapped by the light; the reflections from daddy’s head ever since he followed him into a well lit amusements in Scarborough. Well a place where the lads interest in anything to do with cycling was truly born by just how much he enjoyed the pedallos on the pond at the Reighton Gap summer prison camp.
Now I've got a lot to answer for too. Uncle Wayne. A man full of not so bright ideas who asked the young shaver if he would like to go for a bike ride? Where on the first ride out he tried to impress his uncle Wayne and blew up on the first hill climb. Then blew up again on the hard headwind routing back into York. That's it. That's torn it. I’m gonna get a no feck off uncle Wayne 5 worder flung back at me forever more.
Talking of the wind. Well yesterday's ride was a direct long hard into the harsh head wind pull up to a thousand feet where we met Southside Mark! A man in the throes of flu yet I recon he’d still beat any other cyclist out there. A proper racing snake he is.
The 3 of us rode together to a small cafe in the village of Broughton. A place bereft of Wildebeest as the South African veldt might be on a particularly cold windy afternoon. And there she is. A full mane of hair - an Afrikaans lass who has accidentally migrated into the Scottish borders and now can't find her way home.
Now I normally chat a lot with women folk when on a journey. But no. I saw the size of her fists. This gal is a fighter. I’m saying nowt. She sweetly says 'good morning vhat canaye git youw bedankt'. I’m saying nuthin. I know what's coming if I even let a peep out from betwixt tightened lips. I mouth quietly ‘spk t mark’ furtively pointing at him with my head down like a frightened child who has for the first time accidentally told his raging mum on Christmas day to feck off.
Now as a fit as fook racing snake Southside is bereft of fluff. For sure his head but also those damn fine legs. Like most cyclists Southside has a Lady Remington. You know one of them there dilapidation devices. A well shorn bloke with a set of calf muscles that would only look better if wrapped in fishnet tights. And being that theres nothing better than seeing a well made pair of calves in a bit of netting there's nothing worse than if there's hair poking out of the holes too. 🤢. Sorry I just made myself feel unwell. Bork!
Oh dear. Must stop. I’m sat in the breakfast room whilst writing this blog and have just accidentally let a small chirrup out. I do hope the smell of my toast masks its flavour before any of the guests arrive. All eyes will be on me!
Oh dear. The owner has just come in the room. All smiles with a cheery good morning! Then I see the corners of her mouth drop ever so slightly. Och I’ll just wedge open the door… and then hear her disappear down the passage saying, Och I’ll just wedge open this door too. Then in the distance … Och, I’ll just wedge open this door too as she fought her way into the back yard.
The guests arrive… followed by the owner wearing a HAZMAT suit with a stern look on her face and with eggs on toast in both hands..
Where was I. Oh yes…
Brad must've learnt this as a young shaver cos I’ve never seen him in tights. But not long after starting to ride with uncle Wayne I would find him at home with his hands down the front of his pants from which eminated a slight buzzing sound.
The Lad must be part Belgian. His harsh childhood and teen life watching poop videos on poo tube has led to something worrying. Whilst his legs are hairier than a monkeys arse I think he has discovered the joys of a pair of well shorn testicles. And perineum and in fact anything north of his trouser hemline except for his chin.
The buzzing stops and he pulls his monster out. Jeez! A 5 headed rechargeable thing. He says there's nothing quite as delightful as having a freshly shorn scrotum after an ice cold shower. Breathtaking really. Mark pulls his Lady Remington out. Brad looks at it and lets out a sharp Hah! 'Thats not a shaver. That’s a shaver!' says the Lad all Crocodile Dundee like having already reached deeply into his nether region and pulled out his beast of a thing. A five headed gorgon bought off Amazon that if pushed could be used to mow a field and could put a rather spectacular cricket pitch finish to any one’s heed.
Now the roads in Scotland are rough in places. Around Edinburgh they are abysmal. Every damn marked off cycle way has lumps that make my boys quiver. We're cycling on a harsh bit of the A701 and I call out 'watch out Brad!'. But it was too late. The Lad like me is a convert to leather saddles. He also has a Hairy Melon, a young one sans any bum fluff of course. But the crater he hit did the damage and shoved little Brooks into her wide open mouth.
Here's the rear view camera from his Garmin radar activated bum tickler - normally used when filtering in traffic to alert one that someone's up yer jacksi - which shows me encouraging him to eject Brooks from his Hairy Melon...
So who is Sian anyway? Well the lad stops for a pee at the side of a field. This dewey eyed white ball of fluff wanders up to him with a BAAA! The sight of so much hairiness sets his leg a trembling. He reaches into the front of his shorts and pulls the monster out. To hear a sheep shriek is a scary thing. But I was too late. The sight of him running his cutter around her perineum made me feel ill 🤢. I had to ride on.
He caught up with me a little later wearing a wool cycling jacket. He tells me of his momentary fling, as is normal for him post patrolling GRINDR for hairy women.
Ah bless.
He’s just like his dad 😊
Ciao for now
He caught up with me a little later wearing a wool cycling jacket. He tells me of his momentary fling, as is normal for him post patrolling GRINDR for hairy women.
Ah bless.
He’s just like his dad 😊
Ciao for now
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