In the Thatcher years a load of lunatics were let out onto the streets of Britain in the name of statistics. After a brief spell of Tenants Super addiction the majority settled down and got jobs as pedal bike couriers. Disguised by heavy use of Lycra and fashionable eye wear they still reveal themselves by the familiar utterances of the insane.
Common phrases include:
‘Get out the fckin way Wankaah!’
‘Keyunt! You fckin blind or summin?’
‘Keyunting Cab Driver. Look what you’ve done to my bike.’
All these expressions are impossible to decipher due to the extreme Doppler shift. Particularly the last one as the final word is muffled by the impact of the rider and his subsequent death. All cycle couriers live in cardboard boxes under railway bridges and sleep with their bikes. Their diet is rich in Lucozade sport and tuna melt. Non are wealthy as they die before they can cash their pay cheques. Courier companies however are.
An area of high courier concentration is easily identified by the calling card left on the backs of unsuspecting pedestrians. In the same way that pigeons decorate statues with fecal matter, couriers decorate pedestrians with phlegm.
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