BikeStormer

Anyone who rides a bike will have cause to insult a motorist, usually one in a BMW. Back in the day it was the Volvo that epitomised all that was shit about car drivers, 400 foot of bonnet would suddenly pop out of a junction whilst the driver, still a good mile behind, would have no more knowledge of your Being There than Chancey Gardener.

But this crown of crap has been handed over. The BMW exists solely to isolate the motorist from anything outside of the machine that's real. It's like they're driving about in a fucking cot cuddled up to mummy's titty slurping away without a care in the world. At least when you did unleash a stream of garbled invective at the beardy weirdy Volvo guy he looked suitably alarmed, the little lad in the BMW has barely an idea of what he's driving for.

But it's not fair to single out just Volvo's and BMW's all car drivers have the capacity to thoroughly irritate the innocent biker going about his considerably superior environmentally friendly jam busting business. Frustrating, then, that after virtually laying your bike down following a 25 yard slide with your life flashing before your eyes (ironically including being in a cot cuddling up to mummy's titty slurping away without a care in the world) and feeling more vulnerable than a peeled testicle in a garlic press the resulting tirade of abuse comes out as something resembling a mentally challenged infant screaming through a cushion. The motorist who is virtually oblivious to your barely audible rantings merely looks at you like doggie dirt, shrugs and drives off leaving one to take out ones' frustration out on the missus 14 Stellas later.

Of course rude gestures can be employed, they regularly are of course, but the whole raison d'etre of insulting has been reduced to a single unsatisfactory component, unless the recipient of ones' sign language is an elderly lady of course. They don't like it up 'em.

So, for all of you out there that have been unable to get satisfaction, to grasp that singular stress busting explosion of succinct and audible potty-mouthed anger that hits its target with William Tell accuracy, this, my friends is for you.

One summer I was riding back from friends on my Triumph Bonneville, a T140v with straight through pipes, it was louder than Satan taking a shit after a night on the Vindaloo. Even more irksome, then, when a fellow pulled out in front of me resulting in my locking up my front end, which then vanished from my sight, causing me to lunge headlong forth over my tank, past where my bars once were and kick my feet up over my rests. To this day I've no idea how I saved it, but I did and following 5 seconds of my life which took a year to pass I was upright and back in the saddle.

Miffed.

As luck would have it the motorist in the car got snared up in some traffic, so there he was, a sitting duck. In this instance I contemplated violence but it's not really my sort of thing and, besides, if he'd not noticed that he'd nearly wiped me over the road like a J-Cloth plenty of other people had, possibly because I'd already began warming up for my showdown.

I loudly pulled along side his car and began. Being on a classic Triumph and, as is the want of such machinery, dressed head to toe in black leather replete with dark sunglasses and an open-faced helmet, I was looking dead bloody great. Unlike the closed face variety its open-faced brother makes the system of insult delivery far more conducive and muffle free but, despite this, my gorgeously crafted insults and leather-based wardrobe were having no effect on the protagonist. The bastard just sat in his car impassively facing forwards clutching his steering wheel. This was ridiculous, he was a big bloke, not the sort of chap I'd generally want to upset if I'm honest but he had to learn that what he'd done was unacceptable. Dear reader, it's almost as if he'd known he'd been naughty but was just too stubborn to say 'sorry'. I mean that's all we want to hear right? A simple 'sorry I nearly killed you'?

Not prepared to give in just yet, though I was tiring of this sport, not to mention running out of swears, I noticed that he wasn't alone. Sat next to the shit was a behemoth of a woman in exactly the same gormless pose as her (following a quick ring check) husband.

Time to change tactic, I'd an idea. After carefully checking my position on the road I put my mouth close to his ear and said, almost in a whisper, 'mate, oi, mate...'

The man's ears twitched, I could see his pupils straining at the side of his eyeballs to fix me in his gaze, he knew something was very, very wrong...

'Mate', I hissed again, then, clear as a bell... 'Your wife's a fat c**t...'

Bingo! In a split second his bullet head had swivelled round to face me, he was actually roaring, the epitome of primeval rage evident right the way down the back of his throat to which I was privy. I do declare, as I wound back the throttle in a sonic cacophony of British metal, that I've broken him. I looked behind, a car door was flung open and in the distance getting smaller and smaller a very cross man pounded fruitlessly through my exhaust fumes.

Of course, I gave him the finger as well, rude not to...

Cheerio.

Jamie