Bloody cyclists. They’re like pedestrians, but with a death wish. Or motorists with a death wish. Basically, they have a death wish. They’re so territorial, as well – it’s very nearly impossible to walk through central London without being screamed at by an incredibly angry shiny-skinned mentalist going about a billion miles an hour on the pavement. Cyclists do not belong on the pavement. They belong in a padded room.
So anyway, they wear utterly ridiculous clothing, and it’s getting more and more ridiculous. Nobody has worn Lycra since the 80s – except cyclists. For me, there’s always been this big unanswered question about Lycra. I nearly went into a cycling shop to ask once, but it felt a bit like going into a porno den. I mean, do Lycra fetishists take to cycling as a way to make their public semi-nudity more acceptable, or does cycling turn people into perverts? And why do they get so angry, like society is forcing them to feign stinginess? Oh yes, they’re saving all that money they’d otherwise be spending on public transport, true: and spending it on replacing their bike every two months after it’s stolen by chavs instead. Delusional, completely delusional.
Back to the silly outfit. It’s almost as though they think the Lycra will make them go faster (like it bloody matters when your top speed barely matches that of a small child on a push-along), but frankly if I drove a car I’d be more likely to aim at a pillock in skin-tight shorts than say, Boris Johnson. But then Boris Johnson is seriously hot.