neonleon
Player Valuation: £35m
So I’m just coming out of the house when I realise my bike has slow punctures—both the front and back wheels seem to be going flat. At this point I roll my eyes at the heavens, which is my way of saying: yes God, I know it’s a metaphor. I have to go back into my gaff, pump up the tyres and see if I can cycle to the bike shop without them going totally flat. I do this because I’m so instinctively impractical that any attempt at repairing said punctures would result in broken fingers, an extended bout of Tourette’s and a bike that was less functional than when I started. So I cycle off and it all seems to be holding well. The front tyre seems hunky dory. The back is a little wonky but the ****** is holding. I think **** it. Leave it you know. I can spend £20 on the good things in life. Wine women song. Or Aldi Rioja, Pornhub and Deacon Blue’s Real Gone Kid (which has been inexplicably playing in the back of my mind for the last 3 weeks like a demented ****** soundtrack…whooo whoooo whooo). So I sack the bike shop off and go into Aldi.
I should probably point out here that there’s every chance that this slow puncture thing isn’t some force majeure random act of god but a wilful deed of sabotage on the part of one of two neighbours I’m currently in dispute with. The neighbour above is this gay black dude. He’s only dainty but he stomps around like a ****** yeti above me. Seriously, if the landlord confessed the flat was sub-letted to a balrog I could quite believe him. I can also hear him on his bed. The springs move. There are things he does I wish I didn’t know. Have to wear feckin ear plugs all the time. Madness. Madness. The second neighbours are a group of Irish girls. Their hobby seems to be smoking. I swear it’s all they do. By the time 2 or 3 am rolls by a concentrated stench of about 1000 ciggies comes through the shared chimney vent like the carcinogenic breath of the grim reaper himself. Course I tried talking to them. Was really really nice about it (as nice as you could be in the circumstances). They denied it. Said it was food smells. Someone cooking themselves a late night supper. The tone of the conversation rapidly degenerated. Anglo Saxon was preferred to the latinate. I compared her to a diseased she-canine. Wasn’t my best work but it seemed to hit the mark.
Anyway, the Aldi aisles were thronging with pensioners, care in the community types and hundreds of families. My local supermarket is used as an impromptu crèche by most of the nearby parents. Some of the kids looked to be playing British bulldog or some feral game of tic in the frozen food aisle (I can’t be totally sure the parents were even technically in attendance). A fat toothless Jamaican woman with her carer was hogging the meat counter. Every time the carer put something in her trolley she shouted, ‘NO. WANT MINCE. WANT MINCE.’ Jesus. The worst thing is I know that I really fit in here. What was Hunter S Thompson’s line, just another freak in the freakdom? Even the staff let onto me. An irregular regular. I grab my prescription of beer, wine, and a few meals worth of food and go out to find two flats on my bike. I turn the wheels with my hand to see if I can see any obvious punctures, getting oil and dirt all over my mitts in the process. So I’m pushing the thing back to my flat, each handlebar overloaded with an Aldi bag—looking like a prize turnip— muttering sentiments of self pity to a cloth eared god, when I see the gorgeous Namibian girl I know that studies English Lit at university. A real hottie. At this point, two flats, dirty hands, a maligned star, I figure I’m not in prime position to be sweeping off her feet. So I blank her. Fiddle with my phone like my stockbroker just sent me an important message about my portfolio or something. I realise belatedly this reflects on me quite badly. I resolve to be nicer to people everywhere. And push on, bike against the current, borne back ceaselessly etc.
I should probably point out here that there’s every chance that this slow puncture thing isn’t some force majeure random act of god but a wilful deed of sabotage on the part of one of two neighbours I’m currently in dispute with. The neighbour above is this gay black dude. He’s only dainty but he stomps around like a ****** yeti above me. Seriously, if the landlord confessed the flat was sub-letted to a balrog I could quite believe him. I can also hear him on his bed. The springs move. There are things he does I wish I didn’t know. Have to wear feckin ear plugs all the time. Madness. Madness. The second neighbours are a group of Irish girls. Their hobby seems to be smoking. I swear it’s all they do. By the time 2 or 3 am rolls by a concentrated stench of about 1000 ciggies comes through the shared chimney vent like the carcinogenic breath of the grim reaper himself. Course I tried talking to them. Was really really nice about it (as nice as you could be in the circumstances). They denied it. Said it was food smells. Someone cooking themselves a late night supper. The tone of the conversation rapidly degenerated. Anglo Saxon was preferred to the latinate. I compared her to a diseased she-canine. Wasn’t my best work but it seemed to hit the mark.
Anyway, the Aldi aisles were thronging with pensioners, care in the community types and hundreds of families. My local supermarket is used as an impromptu crèche by most of the nearby parents. Some of the kids looked to be playing British bulldog or some feral game of tic in the frozen food aisle (I can’t be totally sure the parents were even technically in attendance). A fat toothless Jamaican woman with her carer was hogging the meat counter. Every time the carer put something in her trolley she shouted, ‘NO. WANT MINCE. WANT MINCE.’ Jesus. The worst thing is I know that I really fit in here. What was Hunter S Thompson’s line, just another freak in the freakdom? Even the staff let onto me. An irregular regular. I grab my prescription of beer, wine, and a few meals worth of food and go out to find two flats on my bike. I turn the wheels with my hand to see if I can see any obvious punctures, getting oil and dirt all over my mitts in the process. So I’m pushing the thing back to my flat, each handlebar overloaded with an Aldi bag—looking like a prize turnip— muttering sentiments of self pity to a cloth eared god, when I see the gorgeous Namibian girl I know that studies English Lit at university. A real hottie. At this point, two flats, dirty hands, a maligned star, I figure I’m not in prime position to be sweeping off her feet. So I blank her. Fiddle with my phone like my stockbroker just sent me an important message about my portfolio or something. I realise belatedly this reflects on me quite badly. I resolve to be nicer to people everywhere. And push on, bike against the current, borne back ceaselessly etc.
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