Unlike motorcars, bicycles take you through village centres and allow you to park outside at any interesting-looking drinking hole you encounter. Friday afternoon on my way up-country for a weekend engagement I stopped at a village café in the mountains between Montseny and Montserrat, where a nice but weary barmaid was serving brandy to some yokels and Janet Jackson juice to a Nigerian Muslim construction worker as the three of them discussed the heterogeneous composition of the local community:
Yokel 1: Yeah, we’ve got everything here in this village.
Barmaid: Indeed.
Yokel 1: Everything except faggots.
Yokel 2: Nope, no one like that here.
Barmaid, gazing at Yokel 1: I know at least one.
Nigerian: In my country we castrate faggots and make them eat their bollocks. And then we kill them.
Barmaid: Oh my God.
Yokel 1: Did you hear what the negro said? What a guy!
Moi: So if they can’t eat their own bollocks, do you help them?
[Silence]
Yokel 1: So are you a faggot or what?
Moi: You’d be so lucky. Give me another beer.
The bells struck 5, the yokels and the Nigerian paid up and got back to work, and the barmaid pulled down the shutters.
A while later I was cresting a ridge further north when a quad driven by a twat in a bandanna gave a shit-you-up roar as it overtook and then cruised a bit too lazily downhill. My Batavus Comanche is reasonably quick, so I pulled in in front of him 50m short of some traffic lights on red and felt his eyes boring into my neckpiece. The lights turned, but the Harley fart he’d been preparing was completely drowned out by a Ford Escort travelling the other way and apparently equipped with Space Shuttle launching gear. I think we both almost crapped ourselves.
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