How not to spend a Sunday afternoon.

I’ve got a bike, I’ve also got a Caddy and no spare time, so I don’t really ride the bike. It sits there getting in the way, filling the hall, handlebars catching my coat pockets every time I squeeze past. The problem is, its not an ordinary kind of pop to the shops bike that your mum could borrow, It’s a proper, trails bike, made in the USA by S&M, and its beautiful….

The day arrived when it had to go though, so I knocked up an advert, popped down to the skatepark, and stuck it to the wall. Everyone who’s into this kind of thing has said ‘nice bike’ when they’ve see it, the problem is, nobody wants to buy it.

I eventually get a call a couple of weeks later from some kid who sounds like he hasn’t got a clue, I’m in luck. On Saturday afternoon a portly young gentleman turned up, he had the expression of a fish on space cakes, and was clad entirely in pristine ‘skatewear’, the bank was definitely open. He invited himself in, lumbering through the porch door without saying a word. At that point I spoted a potential fly in the ointment, he’s called an expert witness. ‘Aye up, wiv cum about ya bike’ the kid’s mate chirped up as he came into view. I didn’t like the look of him at all, he was wearing XXL cheesy skatewear that looked like hand me downs from the fish boy, had dirty finger nails and was smoking a fag. ‘Zis it’ he said, motioning at nothing in particular. Seeing as the only other thing in the hall was a radiator, (and he wouldn’t get very far on that) I just noded and said yes. The inanimate one stood there gorping at the bike while his paid-for mate checked it out. After an age of watching the back wheel spin freely, he announced that the headset was loose. So I got my tool box out to tighten it up, but the spanner had disappeared, and I’d rounded off all the allenkeys on my mk1 Golf. “don’t like it, ead toob could bi ovalized - need ta chek it owt - av got all da rite toolz at ome” the hired professor of dirt bike slured. As it turned out he didn’t live that far away, so in order to flog the dam thing I rode round there. They cruised back in mums new Volvo listening to Linkin Park, and by the time I got there dirt lad had his pro tool box open and waiting. The tool box was actually a liebfraumilch crate containing an adjustable spanner a tub of wilko bike grease, a roll of electrical tape and some allen keys that fell out of a cracker. He had a go with his spanner first, rounding the nut off nicely, then got his quality allen keys in on the action. This was getting ridiculous, never had a loose headset caused so much concern. “Av ya bin cutin dees forks down wi a angul grinda”. What was this guy going on about, “give it here, I’ll have a go” I insist. As I gently applyed pressure to the allen key, the thing sheared off in my hand, great. That was IT, I’d had enough of this pair. So I turned my velocoped around and as I peddled away, shouted over my shoulder, “terribly sorry, I just remembered that I’ve left a chip pan on fire, must dash” and was gone.

As I leaned my steed back up against the radiator I noticed that half the allen key was still stuck in the bolt, and It’s still there now.

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