“I will not miss seeing those stinking drunks leaning on the fence, covered in mud, holding fishing poles with rubber sex-organs attached to them, and screaming out stupid Stacey Coner’s name each time I ride past…”

Dear Gigi,

This is a very unsatisfactory hospital you have sent me to. Last night, I saw two prostitutes fighting savagely in the street. At first I thought it was the Criminal Redding and the golden whore, Bautista, but then I noticed the purple hair was a different colour and they had less tattoos.

I’m sure Honda did not send Crutchlow and his cock-eyes to a hospital like this. There is a lot of screaming here. Priests come and go, muttering prayers, and the nuns do not speak to me at all.

Is this what it has come to in the end? After all the things I did for you and the stupid Germans and their stupid Ducati? How quickly you forget how I coached and mentored that crying idiot, only to have him trip over his own telemetry and allow the Lesser Repsol to secure my championship.

It is true, of course, that I am not sad not to be racing on that filthy island that took my finger. Let someone else kill the swans and the geese and seagulls. Let someone else get blown into the ocean where all the tents go when the wind comes.

I will not miss seeing those stinking drunks leaning on the fence, covered in mud, holding fishing poles with rubber sex-organs attached to them, and screaming out stupid Stacey Coner’s name each time I ride past them like a gleaming Spanish shark with my Mamba waxed and proud.

I am glad he is gone. All he would do was tell me how fast he rode the stupid Ducati, and how it was always faster than me, and how I should spend more time on the throttle and less time on the brakes. I used to spit in his milk and ask him when he was going to have his ears pinned back so he did not look like a chicken with two dinner plates sewed to his skull.

But you will be happy to know that I feel better. My broken arm is healing very fast and I will return to win at the next Chinese race. We race a lot in China, don’t you think? Is it because Carmelo has all those Chinese children?

Please send a car to pick me up on Tuesday. I am ready to go home now.

George.

About the Author

Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.