Of faggots and Fords

One of the great things about cycling places is getting to drive through the centres of villages and stop at any bar that looks interesting. Friday afternoon I cycled up-country to do some stuff over the weekend and had a strange encounter in a village bar in the pre-litoral range somewhere between Montseny and Montserrat. A rather nice but distinctly weary-looking barmaid is serving a couple of yokels (brandy) and a Nigerian Muslim construction worker (Pepsi), who are analysing the heterogeneous composition of the local population.

Yokel 1: Yeah, we’ve got everything here.
Barmaid: Indeed.
Yokel 1: Everything except faggots.
Yokel 2: Nope, no one like that here.
Barmaid, looking hard at Yokel 1: Well, I know at least one.
Nigerian: In my country we kill faggots and cut their balls off.
Suppressing a powerful urge to generate the tabloid headline, “Drunken neo-Nazi skinhead in unprovoked stomping attack on helpless African immigrant”, I join the discussion twixt the yokels and the Nigerian re learning opportunities for Europe on the dark continent (Catalan yokels use foscor, darkness, as a synonym for Africans), and suggest gently, with tactical support from the barmaid, that the world might be a better place if real men sucked a bit more dick. Eventually Yokel 1 catches on.
Yokel 1: So are you a faggot or what?
Moi: Yes, and give me another beer.
The bells strike 5, the yokels and the Nigerian pay up and go back to work, and the barmaid pulls down the shutters and makes me an omelette, or whatever.

Tour cycling provides a combination of proximity (dropping into a fantasy role in the manner described above is easy) and security (one can get away quickly when things turn nasty) not offered by travel by foot or car. This combination of speed and vulnerability also creates potential for mayhem in interactions with motorists.

A while later I’m cresting a ridge further north when a quad driven by a twat in a bandanna gives a big roar as it overtakes and then goes into a brain-dead cruise on the downhill. My Batavus Comanche is reasonably quick, so I overtake him 50m short of some traffic lights on red and feel him giving me the eye as he pulls in alongside. The lights turn, but the huge blast he’s been preparing is completely drowned out by a guy coming in the opposite direction, who appears to have equipped his Escort with Space Shuttle launching gear. I think we both almost crapped ourselves.

Related posts

• Nigerian standards
• Zapatero already more notorious than Chamberlain–in the US
• Faggot throws the don
• Jumping immigrants
• Justifiable absence

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