King Of The Road.

I went down the local boozer today, and, while freezing my monkey nuts off having a fag in the yard, spotted this.....

Some of the natives have taken to cycling to the Battle Cruiser. On Doleday and Pensionday, the back yard of the pub could double for a Beijing bicycle park, so a familiar fetish on the back of ones bike has become "de rigeur", (especially after ten pints of Smithwicks and a few "small wans ta warm ya for da road") leave the eyes a bit swimmy.

But not a Guard in the world would halt an Oul Boy, weaving drunkenly home on a battered old bike, a bag of messages hanging from the handlebars, a naggin of Jameson peeking from the breast pocket of his battered tweed jacket, one half of his slacks tattered and chain-chawed , three sheets to the wind but with no engine underneath him, and say those dreaded words....

"Excuse me, Sir, but could you blow into this bag, please...."

Those boys are the new Kings Of The Road.