chopper

On Friday morning another motorcycle ace bought the farm, Robert Dunlop, brother of Joey who held the TT record for most wins and killed in 2000, was riding a 250cc in practice for the North West 200 when the rear wheel locked throwing him off and killing him. His two sons, both bike racers, saw dad off at the hospital, got on their bikes and rode the very race their dad had won 15 times.

Speaking of bikes, because I was, in yesterdays GP Jorge Lorenzo who came second to a brilliant win by Valentino Rossi was unable to get off his machine at the end of the race. He trundled into the pits where his bike was caught by two mechanics and he was physically lifted off the bike. Two broken ankles can have that effect; he got those in practice following a spectacular highside in China but rode anyway –sort of puts a bit of perspective on screaming reclining football players after they’ve twisted a nostril I thought.

Speaking of football injury, because I was, Harry is on crutches due to a football related incident a few year back in which, as far as I can ascertain, he tried to kick a fellow player and fucked up his knee (one would never see such disgraceful behaviour on the motorcycle circuit). The injury, a bit like my slipped disc, is ongoing and can reoccur for the sake of itself; the bottom line is that we had to meet Harry in a pub near his flat in The City due to his restricted mobility. This was fortuitous; the boozer in question was in Farringdon and sold a range of cask-kept organic ales which were fucking delicious. We were joined by 4 other pals and spent the evening outside nattering about music, predominantly, before retiring home. My attempts to spurn wine and death metal on my return were fruitless and I put in a 3am finale completely off my face.

Saturday began after 1pm. Incredibly I got some work done before acknowledging that I did have a hangover of some note and resigned myself to playing Scarface which I’m really stuck into. I decided that I was going to spend the day and evening with myself, I’ve not had a night in for ages, relishing this thought I popped off to the shops to get some ingredients to make a chicken and mushroom pie after being unable to get the concept out of my head following its mention in Viz of all things.

I also decided to paint my dining table/desk white, not all of it; I’m not Laurence Llwelyn wotshiscock, just the top. Took 20 minutes from sanding to completion and looks rather fucking wonderful, actually. To celebrate I made the pie which took a while but, well, it would be rude to bang on at great length about how utterly sublime it was when completed, but it was… by early evening stuffed and still surprisingly tired Scarface and I spent the evening massacring gangs and executing warlords, pausing for The Apprentice which bored me actually, before continuing with a-killing.

After Sundays Moto GP I put on my finest leathers and took off on the black bitch to visit my sister. It was sunny and clear but there was a gusting wind which became problematic at anything over 120. I think I need to change my helmet as it no longer seems able to sit completely still on my head and the chin strap begins to bite into my windpipe which isn’t ideal. Not be able to sustain high speeds for a while may have accrued a certain degree of luck because it was as I was backing off from 130 and tugging at my throat I noticed a helicopter moving round to my right. Two minutes later, by now travelling at 80, it was still there and most certainly pointing at me, indeed, even when I left the A road to whistle through the lanes to my sister the cunt was still hovering over my barnet. It was only on arriving at my destination that I noticed it had gone. Not having learnt a single lesson from my brush with the authorities I raced a Maserati on the way back, my head nearly came off due to the wind speeds but I beat the cock, that was the main thing.

I was home by 4pm then straight out again to grab the tube to Whitechapel. Haemorrhaging bits of Observer along the way the journey passed in a news drenched flurry and I alighted at Aldgate East and made my way to The Golden Heart to meet with Harry. I had a couple there then got back on the tube to meet IC at Angel, we then took a bus to Hackney where I was introduced to a bunch of charming Europeans, one of which had been tattooed by the same fellow that inked me a few years back and took in some London Pride. IC and I went back home and ate sushi in the kitchen and the weekend drew to a soporific halt.

I had to take the tube into work this morning, subsequently I was forced to endure a revolting span on a commuter-packed train, so bad was it that I was physically unable to gain access to three previous trains. It was like being packed into the meat trucks that rolled with grim predictability into Belsen and this song popped into my head…

‘They can’t sing, they can’t play’ Really? This blows the piss out of my guts.