Duckin’ hell, that was wet.

You may be astonished to hear that I occupy a very important position in the firm. But please restrain your flabber from gasting once you understand that this lofty perch is merely geographical. While some lesser lights toil in open plan darkness, bribery and sustained sprout induced germ warfare secured me the rights to a window seat. So a bank of mucky windows separate me from London city smog and the occasional desperate urge to leave the building from the seventh floor.

In summer, this expanse of glass focuses significantly more dangerous radiation than an industrial microwave, except during rainstorms where each watery drop mocks my soon to be moist personage. Personal grim reapers the lot of them and – if you listen very carefully – you can hear them malevolently whisper “he’s mine, mine, MINE”.

The drumming nemesis of my homeward commute was perfectly accompanied by the head to desk counterpoint beat of a man who is coming to terms with a recent courageous decision to remove the mudguards from his bikes. The compelling rationale behind this “I tell you what, why not do a rain dance instead” choice was – and I’m sure you’ll be laughing almost as much as I am here – because they were aesthetically disagreeable.

So having splashed through forty five minutes of elephant trunk playtime, my entire being graded a level of immersion not seen since the Man From Atlantis hit our screens back in 79. Mark Harris and I began to share some disturbing similarities as desperate Darwinism was adding oxygenating gills and a food processing system based on osmosis. The key difference was tho was while old water-boy seemed to be enjoying his lot, I was having a properly miserable time.

If this is wet, I was ———————————————-> and still heading in that direction of travel. The only difference between riding and drowning was a bloody minded refusal to die of water damage. My shoes were a watersport park for a party of lemmings, my arse was pebble dashed by a one inch tyre bringing the waterwheel bang up to date, and my bum crack could easily double as a deep water harbour, and I’m bloody sure hundreds of Cuban refugees were queuing up to dock.

After about an eternity, it was finally over and I waded indoors to the delight of the children who were broadly convinced that Daddy looked far better as a duck. I think that’s what they said, it was pretty close to how I felt anyway.

Worryingly, there are some who live amongst us – similar and yet not the same because they are missing a vital organ; to whit, one brain. Spot them as they enjoy nay embrace this type of wet and miserable riding. This is the same therapy group who espouse the joy of winter mud enemas and apparently take perverse pleasure in racing around a field with five hundred other recently escaped nutters.

These are dangerous people and should not be approached.

The forecast for the remainder of the week reads like this; Rain, More rain, Misery, Trench foot, Mudslides, Creation of inland seas. So I’m off to the zoo for some surreptitious animal gathering and then onward to the Boatyard.

So that was summer was it? Thanks.

2 thoughts on “Duckin’ hell, that was wet.”

  1. Reminded me of wet commutes by suzuki up and down the A404 past Marlow. A stretch of road long and boring enough to allow a sizable lake to form in the unlikely resevoir between tank, thighs and crotch. Invariably this went unnoticed until a) an errant 3 series manouvre caused a crotch slam water explosion or b) leather reaches critical saturation and entire lake transferred into pants.

  2. Ah motorcyclist’s crotch. A well known medical ailment along with Jeep Willy’s arse and Accidental Sex with the Vacuum Cleaner.

    This morning, the weather was still shitily damp so I selected a vehicle from the fleet that had an engine, a heater but, most importantly, a roof.

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