Those canny Welsh have pipped us at the post. Again. Not only did they win the ‘most alcoholics as a percentage of population (not including sheep)’category in the olympics, then topped it with ‘most Welsh-speakers anywhere in the world’,  but now they’ve declared first in the ‘Cities fit to Cycle’ campaign initiative. Its about pledging cycle and walking paths to encourage people to, er, well, er, walk and cycle more for small, city journeys rather than fire up the Ferrari to pop to Tescos for a pint’a milk or catch a flight to the bookie shop on the corner to put a fiver each way on Craig Bellamy’s next goal.
Its to get people fitter, to make them conserve energy and emissions and to be more… more… more something or other. A great plan.
But they can do it Wales because they don’t have many cars and their cities are small. So a path here, a walkway there, no problem.
What they need to do here to make cycling safe is to reduce the number of little women driving big cars. I’m a cyclist. I know where the trouble lies. Its not about lorry-drivers and buses. Its about little ladies in Range Rovers; the peddler’s nightmare. And I’ve worked out the problem mathematically, made a formula which I’ll send to the government as soon as they get back from their self-congratulatory hype-fest in Manchester.
Everyone knows that a woman’s IQ is directly proportional to her bust size. That’s old news. That’s why men pay more attention to women with bigger tits.
But if you measure a woman’s inside leg measurement (probably better to ask permission before you do that really) and multiply it by four; add on the square of the hypotenuse of the cosine of her waist size, divide by 9 and add in the number of children she cares for, then the result is the size of the largest car she should be allowed to drive. And its always a Mini. Even for a 7 foot woman with 14 kids. A mini. That way, even when they’re on the bloody phone, they might fucking see me in my yellow visibility vest shouting and waving flags as they cut me up on Brim Hill.
But speaking of small nations, where the hell did Belgium come from, all of a sudden? Has it always been there? I used to go there as a kid for summer holidays. Once we’d abandoned Bournemouth and Brighton as places to sit freezing to death on stony beaches every August and moved to Knocke-le-Zoute, to sit freezing to death on their stony beaches, we’d become true Europeans. But even most Belgians didn’t know where, or what, Belgium was. Its an enigma.
Now, suddenly, every frikkin footballer of any note is a Belgian. Last night we were formally introduced to Romelu Lukaku, who’s at Everton on loan from Chelsea. Another Belgian, another class act in the way of Vertongen, Vermaelen, Kompany, Fellaini, Dembele, Hazard…
Should we be concerned? Does this nation pose a threat? Other than on the football field? Are they nuclear??
The foreign office should investigate.
I’m off to take my life in my hands cycling to the station. The first sign of a flat-chested, 4 foot, 11 inch waif in an Audi Q7 and I’m on the pavement.
Happy tuesday
A xxxx