Chapter 3 - TravisMature

Well, bee-bop-a-loo-la, she’s not my baby. No one is, because I keep going all out every night and keep crashing the Triumph. It’s the most beautiful machine that I have ever owned and will ever own, a lot better than everyone else’s. But the fact that all I ever do is push it beyond the limit in the inner city means it’s either in the back of someone or in the front of someone. I’m surprised I’m not dead to be perfectly honest. I once got 110 out of it, resulting in a large bill to replace the engine and 3rd degree burns on my legs.
       Speed is like a drug to me. I have to be moving fast no matter what the cost. Waiting is the thing that completely fucks me off. Waiting for busses, trains, the bike to be fixed, I can’t fucking stand it. A few years back I needed to jump off of this bus, so I asked this old fogy to shift whilst I got off. He said he couldn’t, so I got impatient and jumped by him. The next day I read that he was dead, I must’ve shoved him accidentally. This kid was trying to save him, he can’t’ve been more than a nipper, was probably his granddad or something. Apparently he almost got run down by a Mini. I felt bad for a while after, but what support can a granddad give to his family?
       Jack shit if he was anything like mine. My old man’s old man does little more than exist, and he doesn’t even do that well. He just salivates in his armchair, day and night, closing his eyes accordingly. The guy I killed actually got out of the house. I’d rather have killed my own granddad than someone who has no idea about the world around him. My grandma could do so much better than him. She should leave him to die in the gutter and be a free woman. He’s working her almost to the grave and never thanks her. Some role model for my father.
       What a prick, my dad. Every day same old shit “You look like a cow wearing all that leather”, “Is that sweat or grease in your hair?” or my personal favourite, “You may need to get one of them Vespas to cut your speed down” Fuck will I ever get a poncy hairdryer! They’re for poufs or people who can’t afford a real engine. Fuck them to Hell! Piles of Italian shit. The foreigners come over here and take housing and they’re now trying to fuck up our transport! They’re doing pretty well with the fucking Mod scene. Underground music? Don’t make me laugh. Go for the things that everyone likes, you’ll be more popular and successful!
       Oh no, that’s not “hip” for the fucking Mods, is it? Leave school at 15 with no GCEs and get a dead end job? Wow, what a fucking pathetic life. If this is where the human race is heading, kill me now in any way. Pushing everything to the limit and beyond is how you get somewhere, not wasting money on poncy night clubs and eel pies for tea every night before getting drugged up and smash a few windows. Fucking hard men aren’t they? In a fight they’d be more worried about their Cuban heels wearing down than actually fighting. They know nothing at all, completely out of touch with everything.
       There’s a reason why rocker and mardy old focker rhyme. All I ever do is complain. It’s my favourite pastime apart from not waiting around for shit to unfold. Complaining should be an Olympic sport, London alone would win gold with flying colours. I’d enter for team captain, and get all the girls and the glory, and enough Triumphs to crash daily. I’m 24 and I still have teenage dreams.
       That says something about my personality, doesn’t it? I don’t wanna live ‘til I’m old and grey, where’s the fun in that? I already moan more than any OAP you see on the pavement complaining about an increase of a shilling on a pound of bananas. It’s called inflation, you old fart, get with it. If I ever get that old, I want someone to shoot me.
       Live fast and die young, that’s my motto, and I'm fucking sticking to it no matter what anyone says. It's my life, my fucking rules. If you don't like it, fuck off to your hole.

The End

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