Sunday, 22 December 2013


Lindsay Swift writes good stuff.

I added the pix and dedicate this entertainment to Grant Delahoy.

But, if you think about it, it's a bit scary.


I was intercepted recently by police as I rode safely through some twisties. As there were also some other motorcyclists (unknown to me) using the same stretch of road. I was automatically in the shit for either drag racing (although I was in men's clothes) or riding in a gang.

The cop gets out of his car, swaggering all bandy-legged like he had haemhorroids with one hand on his crappy Glock and the other pawing at his radio as he called for back-up. I don't know why they don't call it support - he didn't have my support, but he had my back up.

English lessons aside here was the state's finest, your taxes (and motorcycle tax and multiple, multiple CTP and stamp duties) at work.

"Orright, motherfucker, down on the fucken ground, NOW!" he greeted me.

"Where are your mates that didn't stop?" he demanded.

A pretty open and ambiguous question given that I have mates around Australia, England and Europe, none of whom stopped in this instance. What was I supposed to say that wouldn't be used against me - "I can't believe it's not butter?"

I chose the safest option; "No comment".

I was tasered and capsicum sprayed and kicked. I don't suppose they had water boarding equipment handy and subjecting me to Rap might mean that the cop would hear some too which would contravene OH&S.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" he snarled as the other police cars, bikes, helicopters, segways and horses arrived.

"One of whom?"

"You're a gang member. You're one of them."

They'd already found my wallet and were probably disappointed that my pockets and orrifices didn't yield any cutlery or fishing equipment they could charge me with and use as the cornerstone for banning fishing and cutlery.

"You were riding in a group, Swift," he said as another mum in a 4WD went past with a mobile phone stuck to her ear.

"We haven't linked you to one of our, err, outlawed outlaw groups so we deduce that you are part of the mysterious MRA...err A, eh? We don't know how many members they have. They probably don't even know, but we know you're one of them!". He punched me to emphasise his cleverness.

At this I hissed something slang about a vagina. He looked startled.

"So, an MRA...A member who actually cares what we do to a motorcyclist. You must be new."

He produced a photo of a tax office-looking character beside some grossly insipid, leather clad tool who was waving and grinning like a grinning, waving spastic. He pointed at the more idiotic of the two. "Recognise this prick in the leather?"

"Sure. Isn't it Marty Monster auditioning for the part of the gimp in Pulp Fiction?"

"You smartarsed fucking... oh, wait... Is it?" he found it hard to argue. "I'll be fucked," he laughed.

"Isn't this the leader of your criminal organisation?" chimed in a police woman.

Surely this was a trick question. Criminal? Well this moron didn't look  too honest, but Organisation? Leader? Must be a trick.

I sat silent.

"Hey, we're gonna polish up our bullbar and ram a few motorcyclists off cliffs!" said the woman.
"Yeah, arff arrf, then we're gonna get one of your representatives to spout off how it was all the motorcyclists' fault!" added the man. They like this team work kind of shit.

I spat at them, incredulous at their anti-motorcycling ploy. "Mob of fucking filthy cu...". I was cut short.
"Ease up, fella. We were just testing ya." the woman interrupted. "If you were really an MRA member you'd thank us for doing that and busy yourself telling all the other motorcyclists not to make any noise about it." 

I was puzzled.

"It's the MRA's MO." smiled the woman, benevolently helping me to my feet.

"A, " said the man, "It's the MRA -A!"

"Oh," she said.

"Aye?" I asked.

"Look, never mind. We usually leave it to the vict, err, suspect to prove their own innocence, but we thought we'd give you the bullbar test, cos we've got some cocai, err, um, homeless people to bash." said the man.

I was off the hook. I was now free to rinse the capsicum spray further into my eyes and leave. Just then a rotund, bald officer arrived.

He had just stepped out of a large 4WD, one of those ones people usually use to atone for a small penis. A passenger of sorts sat in the back seat. He had a studded leather collar on his neck and appeared otherwise naked. A large chrome chain tethered the collar to the head rest. The officer,  a sergeant, threw a small piece of food to the passenger who caught it in his mouth.

"Wait there, Leonardo." he ordered. He then began waddling towards me. 

"Oi. Where's your fucking fluoro vest?!" He snapped.

I awoke in sweat, for a moment still panicked about what I had just endured. A tabasco-soaked chunk of pizza sat amongst the beer bottles on the coffee table, which explained the capsicum spray.

It's amazing just how bloody real nightmares can seem.
Maintain the Rage!


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