“Jack Miller, who has only ever seen Ducatis on the Internet and calls them “Jewkadeez”, was faster than you on a bike made out of gum-leaves, beer and kookaburra penises.”
Dear George,
We’ve run out of fucken Ducatis for you to ride.
You’ve ridden all of yours. You’ve ridden Jack’s. You’ve ridden Danilo’s. You’ve ridden Andrea’s. You’ve even ridden Xavier’s garbage bogcycle.
We then dug out Pierfrancesco Chili’s leaking old Cagiva, and let you ride that for a few laps. Giovanni Castiglioni would laugh like a mad drunk every time that sassy playboy bitch would get on it, but I don’t think he would be laughing now.
And your performance was still completely, totally and embarrassingly merde.
Do you still think Matthias is kidding about cutting your wage next season? At this rate you might be paying him. In harvested organs.
Session One you were tenth. Crutchlow, whose eyes don’t even look in the same direction anymore, was faster than you and everyone else. Little Lala Rins was faster than you. He’s 12 years old and on a Suzuki, George. They pay him in gift cards. Jack Miller, who has only ever seen Ducatis on the Internet and calls them “Jewkadeez”, was faster than you on a bike made out of gum-leaves, beer and kookaburra penises.
No, your eyes have not disappeared. You need to push the helmet further down so you can see out of it. I’ve told you that several times.
At one stage on Friday, you were a massive forty-six hundredths of a second faster than Karel Abrams. Karel is on a bike that’s two years older than yours. He has never ridden Buriram either. But his father used to beat him like a wall-eyed mule whenever he rode slowly, so now he tries very hard to ride as fast as he can. Unlike you.
Session Two you were tenth again. So that was an improvement, huh? This time you managed to beat Tito Rabat by a massive 10th of a second. Tito mostly rides with his eyes closed because he can’t stand seeing people passing him, so he didn’t even see you.
Session Three is even more special than we imagined possible. Twenty-first. I believe. I honestly didn’t know there were that many people racing. Hafizh Syahrin was faster than you. Yes. Him. Hafizh. The little brown man you always thought was a waiter, rode the Yellow Puta’s 10-year-old shit-box Yamaha faster than you rode the 2018 Ducati.
That was when we gave you all the other Ducatis to ride. It was the only way to stop you screaming. No, we didn’t bother timing any of those runs. I did count the seconds to myself, but Lin Jarvis was looking at me funny when he saw me mumbling, and when it got over 100 seconds there was no point in going on.
What the fucken fuckity fucken fuck-fuck am I supposed to fucken do the fuck now? How can I unfuck what you’ve so fucken magnificently managed to enfuck? The only place I can put more telemetry is deep inside your arse, George. Very deep inside. Up near where your lungs are.
Oh, and just so you know, the Yellow Puta had to be helped off his bike this afternoon after Session Three. He saw the timing screen and collapsed with hysterical laughter. His team could be heard singing “Happy Birthday” to him as they helped him back into his trailer.
I’m now going to get a massage from a man who looks like woman. I have nothing left to live for, so I might as well try some new stuff.
I cannot even watch the last hour of Session Three.
Do not speak to me for a while.
Gigi.
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.
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