Fascist pig-baiting......or is it?
Back in the late 80's, when George Michael was 'straight', Thatcher had told us there was no such thing as society and mobile phones weren't actually very mobile at all, I was married, living in London and worked as a motorcycle dispatch rider.

In those days I wasn't quite the chilled-out, easy-going person I am today, so any opportunity to wind up a figure of authority was to be grabbed with both hands. Of course, my job helped fan the flames of my anti-establishment ways of thinking, as a day would rarely go by without some gob-shite traffic warden or copper trying to give me a ticket for being on a yellow line for 37 seconds.

Me and the slag bitch cum-bucket then wife would go out on sunny Sundays for a ride to meet up with other bikers at a caff on the A10. Once there, we would gorge on the finest Sunday roast and apple pie with custard, and afterwards some of us would go for a thrash into the countryside.

On one particular occasion, for some reason nobody else fancied the after-dinner entertainment of pissing off as many sports car drivers as possible, so it was just me and the trollop who ventured out.

Before too long we had left Hertfordshire and entered Essex. There's a joke somewhere there about females from that area, but as time is short, I'll not bother. The moo-sus was pillion, we'd both been fed and watered, I was enjoying the ride and all was well in the world.
We were riding a Yamaha XT600 Tenere, which was a big old machine with a massive petrol tank, like you see on the Paris-Dakar. Great bike for dispatching on, in fact I'm getting a bit teary-eyed just thinking about it, but I digress. All you need to know is this bike was not designed for going round a racetrack.

Any-hoo, we end up riding past Stansted airport, and pulled over onto the grass verge to take a look at the planes taking off and landing. Where I was born, we still point at them when they go overhead, so being quite close to an actual airfield was living la vida loca! As we're only going to be there a minute or two, we don't bother getting off the bike. Within about fifteen seconds of us stopping, an airport police Landrover pulls up just behind us. Out jumps a copper, face like thunder, and shouts, ''Can't you fucking read?'' He points at a sign, about three or four metres away. On it is printed the warning, ''NO STOPPING. EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. KEEP GATES CLEAR'' I must have been in a particularly good mood, or more likely I sensed that this guy could be trouble, so I tell him that I'm not by the sign so I didn't see it. Anyway, I'm not blocking the gate and if I was and there was an emergency, then seeing as I'm still on the bike with the engine running, I could get out of the way pretty sharpish.

He didn't take kindly to my answer. Maybe he expected me to retort with some type or sarcastic reply, or even better, lose my rag and he could call for help and hit me with a ticket. It was tough keeping cool, but I was enjoying watching his face get redder and redder. He was obviously still cut up about not being clever enough to pass the entrance test to get into the real police force.

''Just fuck off'', he shouts. At this point I think to myself it's probably wise to leave, as soon he won't need an excuse to book me, he'll be quite happy to make something up. So I put my bike in gear, let out the clutch and wished him a good day....Well, I actually mouthed the word 'wanker' as i pulled away, but if I hadn't there wouldn't be a story to tell here.

He must recently have finished a lip-reading course, or he'd been called this many times before, as now his face was contorted in anger. As I ride away, I take a look in my mirror to see him jumping into his Landy and giving chase. Now, bearing in mind my bike wasn't the fastest and I had a shed-load of extra ballast as pillion, I had to think quickly. Am I quicker? How far is he allowed to chase me? Why didn't I buy a faster bike? Who'd be the best shag? Debbie Gibson or Belinda Carlisle? Is there traffic ahead he'll get stuck in?

A few seconds later and he's right up behind. There's nothing in front of me, so I decide to give it the berries. Spending your working day on a bike and keeping yourself alive means you're going to be a pretty good rider, so I didn't find it that difficult to get away. He probably had a crappy diesel and not a V8....luckily. After half a minute or so of thrashing and concentrating on what's happening ahead, I look in my mirrors and what do I see? Joy of joys, a police Landrover pulling over to the side of the road, closely tailed by a huge plume of blue-grey smoke. Blown engine for him! I just wish he'd been a little closer to me when it blew so I could have seen his face in my mirrors!

So, after a gentle ride home I spend the next month waiting for a court appearance letter to land on my doormat. It never happened, which makes my victory even sweeter. Maybe he was just too embarrassed to tell his plastic-policemen buddies what had happened to blow his motor. Maybe, with hindsight, he realised what a twat he'd been. If he'd pulled up and said, 'Sorry fella, you can't stop there'', I would have moved on, and he could have gone about his day with his engine in one piece, happily persecuting some other minority.

Needless to say..........
(Mao's stepson is doing his bit for East/West relation's, Wed 9 Feb 2011, 16:38, 7 replies)

Oooh..now I've posted it on here, it's EVER so long, isn't it? Sorry!
(Mao's stepson is doing his bit for East/West relation's, Wed 9 Feb 2011, 16:39, closed)

Hooray!

( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Wed 9 Feb 2011, 16:49, closed)

Belinda Carlisle
Definitely
( Ghoti Fingers, Wed 9 Feb 2011, 18:45, closed)

Belinda Carlisle.
Seconded.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Wed 9 Feb 2011, 19:22, closed)

I didn't know
there was a Honda Accord motorbike.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 6:55, closed)

I was also a despatch rider in the 80's
I found generally the cops (at least the Met ones) were pretty friendly.

Only remember one incident, had to drop something in fleet street and left the keys in my shitty old CX500. When I came out, the keys were missing. Looking around, some 12 year old looking cunt-stubble was waving them at me. He rather pompously lectured me on crime statistics and yadda yadda yadda.

I just said 'OK. Can I have my keys back, I'm busy'. I think the bike had about 95,000 miles on it at that time, barely any brakes and a sticky throttle. Anybody nicking that wouldn't have made it to ludgate circus without losing several limbs.
( Not Pineapple anymore, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 11:38, closed)

for a minute i thought you'd typed cr500 LOL
now that would be a whacky dispatch bike!!
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Thu 10 Feb 2011, 11:41, closed)