02 June 2006

The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

Ah here I am again, urinating my thoughts against the cyber wall. What a glorious afternoon it is - perfect for two for one Chardonnay from the Co op.

I really ought to do this blogging thing more often - for continuity's sake. I only began it in the first place as an attempt to draw you in, so I might sell you a record. Well those days are long gone. I am continuing for 'I don't know why', like a headless chicken running around a farmyard...although I have never actually seen this happen...Does it? If anybody can enlighten me, I'd me most grateful.

Anyway, asides aside, I think I should tell you something. Gentlemen look away now - I am addressing my female readership now. I am divorced. Nicely decreed absolutely. I know some of you must be heartbroken that the chance to commit adultery with the Birdman of Burghfield is at an end, but chin up girls. The hunt for the third Mrs Moore is now officially ON. IT COULD BE YOU.
With this in mind, last Saturday, I purchased a bicycle. Not only will the greatest invention of all time - with the possible exception of the book, facilitate my travelling from establishment to establishment, in the hope of encounterning a winsome beauty, amazingly unattached, and posessing a fortune, it will make me healthy, lithe and muscular.
Obviously a mountain bike was out of the question - although the task in hand might in itself be mountainous. I've taken posession of a Raleigh something or other - a town and country hybrid, as the man in the shop described it. " It's not built for rough terrain" he said, to which I replied " Neither am I".
Anyway, I bought it and brought it home in the motor - which I am intending to make redundant for local journeys.
You really ought to see this machine - silver and blue, sit up and beg - which in my situation is more than appropriate, and a rack on the back for wine and comestibles, and possibly a picnic chair.
I declined the recommendation for a helmet on the grounds that I would rather die instantly and have my head crushed like a melon, than live looking like a human fly. No lycra, no trainers...nothing to suggest the competitive spirit of IT workers on a weekend jaunt. I will go back and get bicycle clips, because suit trousers do tend to get caught in the cogs.
So, having purchased my Raleigh Wife Catcher, I took her out for a spin. The first spin lasted about a minute and a half because it was fucking freezing. Having returned home for a jumper, I set out on a proper ride. With the evening sun still blazing, I got out amongst the country lanes. Testing her performance - Eighteen gears, although I shall only be requiring a fraction of that amount. In gear one, one, you go no faster that walking, but can go up hill. Once over the hill I shall coast. Anyway, I got about a bit - the same route that I go for drives, although this time, with my stomach reducing with each pedal push, my body toning into something quite beatiful and my adrenalin pumping like a young un. By the time I reached Bottom Lane, I had stopped several times and waited for the fatal heart attack which I felt welling up. It's almost disappointing when it doesn't come.
Cigarettes at the idylilic beauty spot of Bottom lane, and a good sheen of honest sweat to wipe from my brow...three days of heavy drinking actually.

As any of you who are familiar with the velocipede might know, cyclimg is a thirsty business. Feeling as though I had earned a pint, I struggled on to the neared pub.
By now, I had switched my lights on, to alert approaching traffic of my presence. As a further safety measure - helmets and reflective sashes being out of the question, I'd worn my newly laundered white linen jacket.
This story runs and runs...of course, the third Mrs Moore was not in the pub. However, an old school friend was, and we drank heavily until closing time.
Carrying more guinness and whisky than a thousand mile cycle ride could ever burn off, I unchainjed my - thankfully unstolen machine, and attempted to ride home. This was impossible. Now I know why the police make drunks try to walk in a straight line.
I could see the direction of the road - I understood that it went forward, but I couldn't for the life of me follow it. Had I been in a built up area, I might even feel guilty for endangering other road users. Of course, there is little I could do to harm a car, but the fragile psyche of a driver might require medical intervention, had they killed the Birdman of Burghfield...problably have been lynched as well by all my fans.
Fortunately no cars came. I managed to fall off all by myself...into a muddy ditch...in my easy to spot white linen jacket.
Imagine if you will, the mother of a failed forty something alcohlic, recieving your once perfect child back on a Saturday evening, intoxicated, filthy yet insisting that the council do something about the roads.
On a positive note, I have learnt that my white suit is machine washable. Thankyou.

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