Dear George

Published on April 8th, 2018 | by Boris


“We pay Jack in beer, George. He is Australian, so he doesn’t understand money. We offered him Euros but he said he doesn’t need ‘that fucken poofter money to race bikes’.”

Dear George,

My sister Antonia is married to a Serb. His name is Dragan. The family is terrified of him because when he drinks rakija he likes to sing 500-year-old death ballads about killing Italians in a beautiful baritone voice as tears fall from his eyes.

He also likes to share the wisdom of his people with me. Much of that wisdom consists of axioms, maxims and pithy old village proverbs which are unique to the Serbs.

He called me straight after you successfully failed to make it into QP2 and pushed one of those ancient wisdoms straight down my throat.

“Gigi,” he said. “This Shpanski kuratz of yours, he has fucked a porcupine. And because he has fucked a porcupine, you have also fucked a porcupine. A separate porcupine to the one he has fucked, but it is still a porcupine which has your stupid Italjanski kuratz stuck deep inside its pichka. The bastard Schwabe from Wolfsburg will not be happy. When the bastard Schwabe are unhappy they get in their tanks and come to Serbia and we kill them with machine guns, hammers and pitchforks, so this is not a bad outcome, ha hah ha!”

And then he laughed some more and went off to do abominable things to my sister. And she is not a porcupine.

You know how I told you my life has been a rat-plagued sewer since you joined Ducati? It seems I was wrong. I now dream of my life being a rat-plagued sewer. I dream this because then my life would be better than the shit-bedecked cannibal toilet-hole of a porcupine fuck-fest it currently is.

Let me just run Ducati’s Argentinian holiday thus far past you…

Free Practice One – Ninth. Lots of sighing in the pits, but nothing new. I think one of the techs is using heroin. I asked him to save me a hit.

Free Practice Two – Seventeenth. The Malaysian satay stick was ahead of you in sixteenth. Tits Fucking Rabbit on a 1978 Ducati Darmah was third and so far ahead of you he was in Brazil. I’m hoping the syringe is dirty.

Free Practice Three – We rejoiced at your improvement from seventeenth to sixteenth. You should have seen us rejoicing. Such rejoicing.

Free Practice Four – Suddenly, you decide to be fourth. Of course, you decide to be fourth in FP4, which is when everyone rides around scratching their testicoli and not giving a merda because it’s FP4.

Qualifying Practice One – Still fourth, huh? Except now it counts. Fourth in QP1 means fourteenth on the grid. Behind Karel. Behind Rabbit. Your four-tenths of a porcupine-fucking second ahead of Morbifuckendelli, George!

Qualifying Practice Two – Oh look, you’re not here.

You’re also not on pole. You know who is on pole? Jack Miller. And Jack is on pole because he rode around a partially wet racetrack on slicks, while sitting on fizzing testicoli the size of planets and the colour of courage.

We pay Jack in beer, George. He is Australian, so he doesn’t understand money. We offered him Euros but he said he doesn’t need “that fucken poofter money to race bikes”.

We give him old shitty bike parts, we make him shower in cold water, and we use electric shock therapy and sleep deprivation to motivate him. He comes from a country founded by criminals and run by fascists so he thinks he’s getting a good deal.

So he tries very hard, George. All the time.

Just like I do. Even when I am balls-deep in a grunting Serbian porcupine.

Is the race over yet?



About the Author

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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