Rubbing's racing

After a weekend of debauchery a quiet time was needed. Obviously needed but not to be had. He and BGB went go-karting.

A night of mano a mano, wheel to wheel action promptly followed and the testosterone flowed like wine. Finally with the chequered flag in sight he was black-flagged for (allegedly, he denies it) too much contact and flicking the ‘Vs’ at the other drivers who were getting in his way. When we say he denies it he genuinely does not remember it, the red mist had clearly descended.

Suffice to report that he was not a happy camper coming off the track, throwing his gloves at one of the marshals in disgust and proclaiming very loudly (to protect the innocent (and to keep the word count down by 50) the swearing has been omitted), “if they can’t drive they shouldn’t bloody well be out there, contact my arse, rubbing’s racing.”

He won’t be asked back.

After all this excitement he got back to the flat (via some power-sliding around the streets of Bristol) full of nervous energy (and testosterone) to discover the lovely Dennis and Becky chatting and eating chocolates. They took one look at his somewhat maniacal face and ran.