It's not very often that I can claim to have been hit by a red hot tyre from the car of a raving pervert.
I suppose the conception of this oddity begins with my budding alcoholism. Is it normal for me to crave alcohol nearly every second of the day? I'm pretty sure it isn't. I hate to live up to the stereotype of the sixteen year old Essex binge drinking male, with my cheap lager and endless pit of swear words, but I'm afraid to admit that I love nothing more than to drink alcohol and listen to music, no matter how poor the music or how little the alcohol. This ritual normally ends with me craving fatty and shockingly unhealthy treats, mainly some sort of meat or sugar. And so, tonight I bought some.
Tesco's Spicy Chicken Pasta and eight cocktail sausages...with tomato ketchup. Who could help themselves? Even PETA fanboys salivate at the sight of cocktail sausages. Nobody can deny the wee heart attack treats. All in all, I think this miniature feast came to around £2.17, a fair price for such a worthy meal. And so I began to eat.
It's worth noting at this point, that I had only drunk four bottles of Nisa's shittest lager (Carlsberg), and so my memory is not warped in any way. After fulfilling my craving for pasta, it was time for some meat (insert cock-in-arse joke here). Oh fuck, cocktail sausages. Seriously, there is fuck all better than these, especialy when your mouth tastes of Mayfair and Carlsberg. The first sausage went down a treat, as did the second. On the third, I had a fantasy about being in Pink
Floyd. On the fourth, my memory wandered to that time I shared a pill with a Canadian fellow in Camden. The fifth, sixth, and seventh triggered fantasies about feeding them to Miss Williams (one day...).
And then it cam to the eighth. Oh my, the eighth. This great moment of passion would be over quickly, but not before satisgying my needs. As I raised the little fellow to my mouth, the tyre struck.
What most people don't seem to realise, is how much a car tyre weighs. It's not as light as a bike tyre, nor is it as a heavy as car wheel, but takes the flexibility of said bike tyre and mates it with the leg crushing br00tality of a car wheel. So when one hits you at around 40mph in the back, it;s bound to smart a bit.
As I was saying, I lifted my final meaty treat to my mouth, only to hear a scraping noise behind me, a ping of metal, and a thud as a car tyre from a Peugeot 206 came careering across the pavement and hit me square in the back, rolled down my leg, and started a steady course down the road, only to be stopped by a garden wall. The force of the impact caused the final sausage to fly into a holly bush, and tomato ketchup to be sprayed across my entire body. Messy.
After recovering, and sharing a joint "....what the fuck?" with White Nick and Irish Connor, said car rattled past us, and stopped at the entrance to Kavanagh's.
It was then, that a short bald chap appeared from nowhere, screaming something about his girlfriends house, a parked 206, and a man furiously masturbating in the front seat.
"Don't go near him mate, he's a dirty cunt"
"Why, what's he been doing?"
"Playing with his willy outside my girlfriends house"
We stop, and take stock of the situation, whilst Nick kindly returns the tyre to the phantom masturbateur. The bald fellow continues:
"Why the fuck were you playing with your cock outside my girlfriends house you dirty cunt?"
"I wasn't"
"What were you doing then?"
I think the masturbateur was wearing a Boba Fett shirt.
"...having a rest"
Really, is there a worse excuse? But could he have been resting?
Or was he overcome with lustings deep within his loins, and was forced to playing with his own cocktail sausage, and just happened to be outside a womans house? Is this what caused his tyre to evacuate his vehicle so quickly? Why does my mouth still taste of Carlsberg, despite drinking red wine and Tesco's own lager since? Should I cut my hair short?
...or was he beating said meat as he drove past us?