Cyclists

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is wrong with you people?

The light is CLEARLY red.  The little man is green. That means it’s my go. I look both ways, and see a sweat-drenched man in a silly hat and a pair of shorts so tight I can see the serial number on his scrotum barreling down the road.  Its fine.  He’s not a Police car. The little man is green.  Off I go…

Swoosh! The stupid arse misses me by millimeters.  And shouts at ME.

Today, I watched a mop-haired idiot jump a red-light and nearly get t-boned by a taxi. And he flicked the taxi the V’s.  Erm. Tit

Everywhere you go, it seems cycling has moved from the preserve of the suicidal, polar-bear hugging greens and small children with stabilisers and pictures of Barbie to aggressive types with frightening, veiny calves.  In fact, let’s be honest, neither the calves or the veins are remotely sexy. Chuck in a walk like a croquet hoop and I’m afraid people are just laughing at you

And I’m not Jeremy Clarkson (thank the Lord). Cycling is fun. I defy you to watch someone in a suit riding around central London on one of those bikes Boris Johnson appears to have stolen wholesale from Amsterdam and not smile.  But surely it’s not worth dying for?  And more importantly, it’s not worth ME dying for.  I have a bike. I like to ride it round the lanes with my kids.  But its reached a point now where I’m too terrified to ride it anywhere else because of these lunatics

You’ve got your cycle lanes and I’m pleased for you.  But try and obey the rules of the road.  Because next time you jump a light and end up as a soggy mess of the side of the cement mixer, I’m afraid I will probably just snort derisively.  And nobody wants that in their day