Last week, anti-war activists in the Great Satan ...err... United States held a virtual march on Washington. Now Britain, it's our turn with the virtual march on Westminster, with the benefit of not having to pay the London Congestion Charge. The lovely Anita Roddick (and I'm not just saying that because she gave me a shedload of cash last year) has the lowdown on what to do. You don't even have to move away from your keyboard. I have e-mailed my new MP so many times in the last year on various issues, he's probably had enough of me, but what the hell, this is important. Do it. Do it. Do it. Now. NOW! NOW!!
"Tittybiscuits!"
I am angry. No, I am livid. I'm in a stamping-around-the-room fit of apoplexy. I am so cross, I can hardly go to the toilet. And the reason for my ire? By bike. My bloody bleedin' feckin' arsebiscuit of a bicycle.
Cast yourself back two weeks (if you can be bothered to scroll down that far), when I was forced to leave my heap of junk at Reading Railway Station, otherwise known as the bike theft capital of the universe. I had to - my train had been cancelled and the taxi that had been so kindly laid on for me wouldn't allow a twenty-four inch frame racing bike onto his back seat. It would have completely buggered up the upholstery. I could see his point, to tell you the truth. So, I shackled the thing up, and hoped for the best.
Back to the present, quarter past twelve today, when I got back to Reading to find the bastard thing was still there. No-one had even tried to steal the saddle or one of the wheels. Not a single one of the tens of thousands of drunks that swarm round the station at night had even bothered to let the tyres down. Normal people lock up their bikes there and they're away within ten seconds, feeding some twat's drug habit and jacking up insurance premiums, but not me. It laughed at me as I mounted up and completed my journey to work.
"You don't get rid of me that easily, you dope."
GAAAAAAAAAAH! Not that I was hoping to get a five hundred quid bike off the insurance or anything, you understand. If you can't trust criminals these days, then who can you trust?
New Weebl and Bob, thankyouverymuch. And the Viking Kittens are back!
And yes, I stole the entire first paragraph from the collected works of Stephen Fry. Have I no shame?
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