I was starting to worry that my capacity for vitriolic rage and hatred was depleting of late. Then, on my way to work today I saw something that brought it all rushing back: bicycle couriers. These specimens are a filthy sub-breed. They congregate in central London with their stupid bikes with mini handlebars and they drink raucously on the streets dressed like gabba ravers from Bristol or Italian lycra-clad rapists. They get drunk then do wheelies while all their decrepit friends cheer like a pride of gibbons in the Savannah. But their greatest sin is the way in which they clearly consider themselves to be a sort of SAS of postal services, an elite force. While, in fact, they are a load of dossers who realised they could make money jumping lights, bunny-hopping over curbs, swearing at cars, not stopping at zebra crossings and generally being total cunts.
Words by Bruno Bayley