Yesterday, about 1ish I think, I wished I had a bike.
“I wish I had a bike,” I wished, in my head. I did it with my brain, and words, inside my brain, not just blurry images like sometimes happens, or random acts of pornographic violence. Oh no not at all!
I wished for a bike.
And God said to me, “AK DONOVAN THE THIRD! THERE IS A FINE PURPLE BICYCLE WAITING FOR YOU ON THE INTERNETS!”
I said, “cheers God, you big beardy bastard,” and had a look on Gumtree. Lo! There was indeed, sat there, waiting JUST FOR ME a fine purple bike, with 10 speeds out of 15 still working, a mere ten minutes away from me on a train, and an ever merer 40 quid!
“Shit,” I said, then apologised to anyone that might be there to hear, of which there was no one – it was just me and my X-men pants. Then I rang the number that was written on the web page next to the writing about the bicycle.
“Hello Akira The Don,” said a nice lady, or something like that anyway. “Come round my house and buy my bicycle right now, its great and you will be very glad you did, by the way, great debut LP, you really are quite the renaissance man aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”
And I was. Three stops on the free-train (overground trains have no barriers OR conductors in North London, it just about makes up for the lack of Oyster (spit) access between Stoke Newington railway station and Liverpool Street tube.) and I was wandering around Edmonton Green looking for this lady’s house. Edmonton Green is pretty fucking gully, it has to be said (yes, that was a necessary swear, you leave me alone, I am CREATIVE), but nobody killed me before I knocked on number 14, to be greeted by a perfect family of beaming Thai folks – one man, handsome, barefooted, golden, one lady, sparkly eyes straight out of an advert for joyfulness, one small monkey girl creature climbing the door frame. They looked very glad to see me indeed, and showed me the bike, which I rode, and I liked it a lot so I gave them £40 in cold hard CA$H, and then they talked to me, because I am interesting, and they laughed very hard at every joke I made, and they called their son to the door because they figured I could help him. “Our son has long hair like you,” said the man. “Some of his friends like it it, but some tease him and say he should cut it short like theirs.”
A small monkeychild appeared at the door. He had very exciting teeth and nice floppy black hair. He looked like he should have been running across a beach somewhere hot playing football with his monkey toes. He was fiddling shyly with an action figure.
“Look, this man has long hair AND tattoos,” said his mother. “He is cool.”
“Yes I am,” I agreed. “What is that toy there?”
The boy did not answer, and hid behind his mother, smiling. His sister climbed further up the doorframe, and whispered to her mother, “I like that man’s hair.”
“You are right to,” I winked, and turned my wise attentions to the boy. “Worry not about the opinions of fools,” I said. “You will be glad of that fine mane come the winter. And girls love a man with locks. Trust me, I am an expert.”
The perfect family laughed, a trickle of perfect family laughter, and asked me to join them for dinner. But I had to be away. I had Things to Achieve. So I bid them a good morrow, hopped on my new bike, and tore down their driveway like The Bat Out Of Hell, and managed to go a whole three blocks and a roundabout before falling off the thing and tearing a wet red hole in my left palm with a bit of pavement. That is probably because I am the living incarnation of some kind of mythical, joy bringing genius of some kind. BOOYA!
Oh, I invented a new genre of music today, I need a name for it. It combines rap and thrash and whistlepossemakesome house. And arpeggios. And DOOM. Answers on a postcard, usual address. I am off for a cycle now. LOVE LOVE LOVE!