Early this evening (about 6:30), an apparently drunken Irishman staggered up to my bike at a zebra crossing, waved his arms about, rocked back and forth and seemed to say, "fockin' fock aaarrgghhh fockin' bastard fock", which was fair enough, but then he grabbed my ignition key. I attempted to give him a gentle backhander, mindful of the fact that the armoured gloves might be considered an offensive weapon if used too enthusiastically. I missed, but as I put the stand down to pursue my keys properly, a school of giant plod appeared from nowhere and battered paddy in the general direction of the pavement, where they seemed to be immobilising him by forcing all his limbs up his arse. I picked up my keys from the road, admired plod's dreadful handiwork for a moment, then got on and started up, thinking that it was time to make myself scarce. Having made sure that paddy was safely on the pavement, and unlikely to wander off it, plod walked over and told me, "Give us your name and address in case we want a statement, then you can get on your way, he's always doing stuff like that". I did as I was told, as I'd watched both of paddy's shoulders dislocating. I feel like I've had a brief interlude in a parallel universe created by Tom Sharpe.
