Buckster

Just imagine, you can take stranger danger to a whole new level.

He is the gingerest.

I’m in Rochester today, breezy and dry right now.

It’s like a chav van extravaganza.

I saw a ginger once.

I’m in Kent now, smells like gammon and broken promises.

What rain?

In a pub in Suffolk now. There is a silver van in the car park, I should check it for gammon.

320 miles south of Edinburgh.

Knicker elastic is at risk.

Nothing is that simple, except maybe Pete.

Gay.

8 stone of that is arse.

All women have fat arses, we just lie about it.

Some on the seat and some on her fat arse, sorted.

Oh fuck off, it’s not my fault this place picks up all the strays like this geriatric wank stain with a shit bike in his shed.

Velcro is the answer.

It’s bigger than Six’s peado van.

Knob.

There are only a handful of people here who actually ride bikes, only three of us ride any distance. We have a gammon who carts his bike about in a van, a ginger on a Chinese copy of a bmw, some geriatric Sunday drivers wondering if they are going to join Bobs gimp brigade due to diabetes, a fucking anorexic nutball and a guy who shits his pants for fun. It sounds like a BBC2 soap opera.

This place is shit.