A Tizer Do Little

It's a gorgeous day here in London - a proper summer's day, with powerful sunshine, genuine heat, humidity, you name it.  It's also a Friday, and two of my long-standing and esteemed colleagues are leaving the firm today.  They've booked some space in a bar to mark the occasion, and I cannot not join the throng to wish them both bon voyage.  But I cycle to and from work.  So you see my problem, I think.  No?  Well, I have to go for a drink with an army of people I know well and like, on a beautiful summer's day, and drink no more than one pint.  That's the thrust of the dilemma.  As soon as a drop of cold beer hits the tonsils, I'll be raging a battle royal of wills in my head. 

There's nothing for it.  I cannot leave my bike at work over the weekend.  It might be pinched.  And on the other hand, I have to watch out for crapulent cycling bravura.  After a couple, most cyclists believe they can negotiate rush hour traffic without a problem.  They can't.  I cycle home along some extremely busy roads too, so it's doubly important for yours truly that the reflexes be at their sharpish when commuting - particularly on a Friday, when the world and his wife are leaving London.  Also the heat makes people drive like twats.  So one drink it is.

Usually, it's young men who react the worst to heat and motoring; they charge around the carriageway without the requisite skills to control their vehicles.  This might only present a problem to their no-claims bonus should they slip up, but for me it could mean a fortnight in traction.  That's why cyclists get so annoyed when motorists fcuk-up.  Your retuning the radio to Chris Evans whilst thundering along Stratford High Street at 45 miles per hour plays fast and loose with my well-being, not yours.  Man-up, you coward.  If you want to piss your physical health up the wall by engaging in dangerous pursuits, then be my guest, but don't drag me into it.  I'm not interested; I just want to get home to the missus and watch Have I Got News For You.

Thanks.