Miguel.

Tall, tanned with a duffel bag he sits in front with me.   “I am Miguel” instantly my language centre of my brain deduces quickly that Miguel is a student, in fact, a foreign student. I say hello back, in English. Slowly.  I notice his knees are very tanned, already I’m annoyed he can get away with wearing shorts as I look stupid even standing next to a rack of shorts in a shop.  Me with my white british knees. “I love England, it is pretty” I sense he is reciting a Spanish Janet and John ‘how to speak the English’ book for the under-fives. Probably not though, last time I spoke Spanish I said “graphiarse” instead of gracias, somehow my lips got involved and both colluded to embarrass me. We are making good progress and about halfway to his destination he starts to move about in his seat to face me, he starts to stroke the side of the seat and that instantly puts me into my I-appreciate-your-gay-but-I’m-not-mode, as I am quite a catch for the younger gay men of this world. I am thinking he wants to stay in the UK with the perfect sugar daddy, which is me obviously.  It is funny what conclusions you can come to in a few seconds. “Have you want to seen my banana?” Miguel insists whilst tapping my arm and has a pout on, like they do in them ‘selfies’ you see on twitter and that Facebook. I have to stop, he’s crossed a boundary touching me and offering me his ‘banana.’ I pull over, get out and stomp around to the passenger door, open it and drag him and his tanned knees out. He is crying and wailing, not sure what he is saying but I get in and drive away. Feeling bloody miffed I can tell you, I’m always being picked on by the gays, just because I have perfect nails, lovely teeth, wear lovely clothes, wash almost every day and listen to Melody Gardot. I’m miffed me, miffed.   Much later while searching for a penny that fell out of my quite perfectly manicured hand down the side of the passenger seat, I find a bandana.  The penny dropping was perhaps a metaphor for the penny dropping in my perfectly moisturised and quaffered head. ‘Have I seen his bandana?’ is what Miguel was trying to say to me. I feel a bit daft and embarrassed; he was not trying to pull me to be his sugar daddy, he was looking for his bandana! I still have it. I wore it when I dressed as a pirate for pirate day, tied it to my sword. Very fetching.

Broke Back Mountain Bike

A Bike. Not broke obviously

It is another warm summers evening, humidity is high and I have parked my cab by the beach, my eyes are half closed and a waft of charcoal smoke from a nearby barbecue combined with the dappling of shadow and light from the gently swaying trees are having a sleepy hypnotic effect on me.

Whilst in the cab with my windows down, relaxing and enjoying this sensory massage, there appearing in my sleepy gaze is the torso of a man, silhouetted against the low sun walking toward me as if in slow motion. He is carrying upon his large shoulders a mountain bike.

‘Can you get this in?’ he breathlessly asked. I snap into action quickly and I am out of the cab surveying all that was before me. I agreed to carry him and his large swinging package that he has now placed in my hands. ‘You sit in the cab and leave this to me’ he did not hear me as he was already reclining in the front seat; his long tousled dripping hair was draped over the back of my seat. Extreme exertion had beaten him.

Put the back seats down quickly, so I can lay this large load down was my objective now. He lazily half-asked me if I needed assistance getting it in the rear. I declined; I wanted the challenge of getting it in myself. I spend too long fiddling with small knobs that seemed to do nothing, and in one almighty push, the back seats went down. I stumbled and slipped behind him; he turned, looked down and gazed at me. He turned back and shut his eyes with a slight satisfied smile, perhaps knowing I was in control.

With the back open wide, my next objective was to get this huge thing in the rear. It will be tight, so tight.

I slid it in and it just flopped about. His seat was too high and proud, so I slapped his leathered saddle hard a few times and it eventually complied. Next was the front half, which was at an awkward angle, it meant I had to put my arm around and give it a good yank a few times, it succumbed to my powerful grip and in no time the front half was pointing toward me.

I slammed and rammed it in hard at least a dozen times before it went fully in. He stirred in the front as my suspension jumped up and jiggled. I gently told him not to worry as I finally squeezed it in behind him.

I climbed in the front and sat next to him, he looked exhausted and I too was breathless, my heart pounding more than usual. We finally set off towards a sun set low in the sky and thirty minutes later, we arrived.

We both got out and I pulled his bike from out of the rear, it came out easier than it went in and I handed it to him. I climbed in to pull the back seats up. ‘It’s bent!’ he said as he was gesturing behind me whilst I was still on all fours. ‘And broke’ he continued; ‘My saddle, it’s torn too!’ As I climbed out, I reversed into him. He stumbled back. ‘This cost me two grand!’ he exclaimed again and again whimpering almost, he now even had that dribbly slack jawed look about him. The bike DID look a bit bent, broke in fact.

He got increasingly angry and redder; I told him it did not help that he just sat in the front and left me to get on with it.  I REALLY do think short tubby fair weather bicyclists with limp greasy long sweaty hair should buy a cheap bike to learn and get fit on instead of being a big Mr Flash Bollox, and go out and buy an expensive carbon and aluminium lightweight fragile one.

I couldn't find a pic of a big bloke on a bike

I gave him my insurance details and I left him and his broke mountain bike.  In my mirror, I could see his yellow sweat stained Lycra top had now slipped over his rotund beer belly. His face was redder than the setting sun. I was fifteen quid better off and my insurance company was £2,500 worst off (new for old) the wanker didn’t tip me though AND he got a new bike out of it. Bastard.

NB: By the by, only the white carbon composite (apparently, yawn…) bicycle was bent in this article if you catch me drift and no other males sexuality was harmed during the process of writing this bollox except mine. Yes, in fact you can say I, er…took one for the lads.