GET INTO THE SEA, HE-KARENS
I HAVE REACHED THE POINT of no return with those disgraceful old dodders who tutt-tutt their way around my beloved motorcycling like slew-arsed jackals too scared to hunt their own food.
Piles of wrinkled, ageing rubbish they are. They have been riding, badly, since Christ wandered the desert, and now, in their dotage, they still are – sadly.
My point of no return with these onerous twats was reached one sunny Sunday morning at the Colo Heights end of the
