Folded over.

That’s like being rolled over only with slightly more authority. My frequent tirades at the knit-your-own-hair folding bicycle* owners are well known to those grazing on the lower intellectual slopes of the hedgehog. So your surprise may even surpass mine, when it becomes clear I’ve almost befriended my sworn enemy.

It was with mounting horror that I found myself nodding sagely in the manner of “Well yes Hitler wasn’t such a bad lad really and you’ve got to admire the engineering might of the Panzer“, as el folderado waffled on some rambling cycle related discourse.

My normal response to anything as unhinged as an unhinged owner is to nod sagely as I push them in front of a speeding train. And this particular chap was so stereotypical of everything small wheeled, he was surely the original mould from which the entire unholy tribe were spawned.

He was resplendent in that fashion faux pas of a suit with bicycle clips. Devices I honestly believed were to prevent those of an incontinent nature soiling their shoes. He had a beard, but not just a beard – the kind of hairy growth you’d expect David Bellamy to be climbing OUT of. There were long forgotten foodstuffs in the spiky mass which attracted admiring – if horrified – glances as they were entering a carbonised state***.

Of course, he also had the hated hinged bolt attached to a child’s bike, 1990s mesh helmet and the official handbag these lunatics insist on placing directly over the front tyre. H’mm take 20inch wheels, separate handlebar and axle by a nautical mile, stir in a super steep head angle and garnish with 10lbs of lumpy manbag.

That’s Darwinism at play right there ladies and gentlemen. Turn sharply into to a corner and apex at the afterlife. Bonkers. And he was, bonkers that is but in a very hard to dislike sort of way. He struck up a conversation when he noticed my proper bike and a careful cold war sort of discussion followed. This is the tightrope of diplomacy, one false move or imagined slight from either side and BOOM, immediate escalation to DEFCON 1 and some pretty bloody hard stares to follow.

And possibly some aggressive prodding. But no, we parted warily with him not knowing how close to death he had come, and me worrying that my intolerance gland may be blocked. I mean talking to folders, next thing I’ll be inviting Tory candidates into my kitchen and sympathising that their sons have had to sell one of their Ferrari’s.

It’s a worry as I’m sure you can tell. So if he approaches me on Monday, I’m going to get a restraining order.

This is merely filler anyway as I’ve received FatLad’s (his definition not mine!) charity commission and the next post shall be an erudite and carefully researched thesis on “A theoretical discourse on the Norks of Weather Women”.

* It is with great grudgement** that the friendly accolade of a bicycle can be bestowed on Lucifer’s chariot. I prefer “pointless transport of the terminally stupid” to be more appropriate, but I’m trying to be inclusive here.

** Adjectival deritive of the verb “to grudge“, You heard it here first.

*** Not a cabonised country state such as Chernobyl. If I wanted a lame gag to lament what happens when you mix corrupt socialism with fatal radioactivity, I would have gone with “Don’t spend any time there, Chernobyl fall off

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