Do Cyclists dream of Electric Scooters?

….or the Ramblings of a Roadie for a bunch of Pedal Maniacs!

Should I explain or just get on with it? Aye, you’re right…

People Watching again…


Do you get a better class of people on a plane? I guess generally wealthier or at least with more disposable income. Just a short jag on the global scale. Watching them all file in…


Not that I’m any better or worse. Just bigger thn most, uglier than some, funnier than others, stupider than lots. Smiles and grins abound, not just on the faces of the Childa either! A cautious look from one happy not to be sitting ‘neath the overstuffed, overhead locker. She’d definitely bring a smile to my mouth with a momentary flash of a stripey bra through her slack blouse. A brief joy.

I’ll take it where I can, thank you very much.

A redhead beside me, Yank perhaps or an ‘upset’ Canadian, dabbling on her brand new phone till the doors close and then a brief return to stone age tech with this very pen! Looks like I’m not the only scribbler, brunette, one row forward, cross the aisle on 200 tons of metal headed for the Isle. Notebook closed and out comes the gizmo for shutting down. A further glimpse of cleavage to my right and bumpy tarmac disrupts my own scratchings and train of thought.

One welcome (not unusual), one not.

Stripes again, T-shirt this time, accentuating curves. Why does the trip to the runway always seem so long (are we driving there? A much over-used thought), though not as long as the walk to the Gate with so many checks all repeating the same as before. Peeking over a shoulder (figuratively) to read the naked armed redheads magazine. Did i say I took pleasure when she pulled off her old brown leather jacket? I feel a rant needed against the journo’s with their soundbite culture.

But no, not today.

There’s a pint and some of his friends waiting across the water. The dark body and creamy head beckons, my mind wanders again of things to come…

By the by, the redhead was a Yank…!




Sitting, leaning forward, watching.

The man’s eyes glance to mine, I ignore his gaze.

He is the tool. No insult, a compliment.

Glass tilted, held just below the tap. Never touching.

The arm pulled forward and the darkness pours forth.

The stream, spreading against the glass, a rich brown.

Collecting below in a turbulent pool, two shades darker

Rising slowly upwards, the downpour flows into the body with barely a ripple.

The flow seamless, the body rising as if by some conjurers trick.

The glass is tilted towards the vertical as it grows heavier

The liquid a maelstrom of infinite patterns as if each single molecule is vying for the air above.

They don’t realise that as a whole they work so well, so perfectly together.

As the ‘Tool’ lets the arm fall up the black line appears at the base.

Underscoring, what is to come.

The arm is released and the flow ceases, the final inch a void, waiting

He places it reverently upon the bar, my chin upon my entwined fingers,

The swirls and the bedlam dragging me down

The Black pushes higher and the cream appears at the top in a startling contrast.

Victorious drops of ambrosia looking down upon those that failed. But one is nothing without the other

Licking my lips as the Brown surrenders to the two stronger foes allowing the black and the white to meet…

The Black and the White…

I wonder before the ‘Tool’ returns how something so… pleasurable, so sublime can be such a depiction of the worst there is in this world.

The Glass is lifted and tilted gently once again and battle begins once again

The war rises to fill the glass and the prize set before me

The bounty happily given

My eyes stay level with the diminishing border between as the Brown is eventually consumed

The Black and the White come to an uneasy truce

A few solitary bubbles flee the Black occupation to rise up to join the White

The head swells with defectors and rises above the rim…

I find I love the word miniscus once again….

This moment of contemplation,

This time of peace, of tranquility

I sit up on my stool, back straight

Reaching out with a steady hand…

The Holy Grail of alcohol held before me

I lick my lips once more, teasing myself

Making myself wait…

Those few moments more

Slowly lifting…

…bringing it closer…

…closer to my lips…

The strong aroma wafts gently up..

Opening my mouth…

…just dying for a taste…



Still Watching…


Pint in hand, finally took

The sweet smell of pipe tobacco wafting across

Sitting in the sun outside

Busy crossroads, a microcosm of the world about

Thousands walking past

A plethora of peoples

Orange & Purples

Stripes & Hi-vis

Badges & tattoos

Hats & headphones

Some daudling, some dashing

The stout disappearing rapidly, willingly

Listening to the mix

Snatches of conversation

Discussions by others

Belief in the lies

Not caring to correct

Happy, just happy to soak it all in….






There are angels on the doors of Dublin.





Cycling- Good Cardio-Thoracic Exercise


I could watch them for hours, Okay that’s not true, but being a roadie for a bunch of them is good craic. A serious feed of drink last night and no penance to pay. Once again sitting in the sun, another powerful day, watching the world rotate about its tilted axis… did you ever wonder how different the world would be without that tilt and that big satellite…! A small town beside the Wicklow mountains (not 100% sure of the local definition of a mountain but it is a country of small men, so I suppose it’ll do) with a surfeit of hairdressers/barbers (?) Makes you wonder or at least it does me, probably a genetic thing! So coffee and a browse in a bookshop while we wait for the pedal maniacs failing to avoid what we came so far to ignore. Sheeit! A republic, I thought, tell it to the national radio!!!

You have to hate paranoia! Especially the sort used to sell newspapers or sensationalise TV News. Sitting on a small wall, basking in the sun, still waiting (don’t know what these cycle guys have against the infernal combustion engine) when I hear a door open behind me and the light thumps of small feet. I look behind me and it’s a pre-school and the little ones are coming out to play and enjoy the morning sun.

Now I enjoy watching kids at play. An unequivocal pure and innocent pleasure. The running, the jumping, the laughing, the tantrums and even the spills and the crying when there’s someone to pick them up and dust them off and assure that it isn’t the end of the world. How they recover in seconds and quickly speed off to begin again and repeat. A reminder of my own age of innocence (yes, I was once) when literally every single day was brand new.

Have you ever re-visited your old school, when you counted your age in single figures and felt so big when you added a second digit. Did you look at the size of chair you used to sit upon? Did your eyes moisten at the memories invoked? Well, for this cynical soul they did!

I’ll point at that the teachers/carers didn’t ask me to move on, didn’t eye me with distrustful or suspicious or accusing stares. I felt it. Me. I was aware and after a few short seconds I moved away.

So come the revolution I have this dilemma… whose going in front of that pock-marked wall first? Maybe I just get the Politico’s and the Journo’s and the accountants to all hold hands… no masks for them. I want them to see it coming!




Seems to follow aptly on from the last but it’s not here. It’s over there —–>

Deserved it’s own page I reckoned. If you want in all you need is a lttle hope and _ _ _ _ _ or you can just look to the end of the post! For the solicitor from Dub. x


Back in the Air


Why does the return trip so long? Daft question, I know the answer. Though I should be thanking my lucky stars that the two twin twat celebrities didn’t get on this bird.

Looking across the aisle once more as the Isle recedes behind me. Are those the feet of a dancer? Very long toes though, I think that’s a genetic thing, definite nurture over nature unless her ancestors did some weird shit. Hmmm.. does she have to keep leaning back and twisting to talk to her friend two rows back… twisting, playing with her hair. Very distracting.

Back to those, also distracting, feet… not pretty but fascinating, lots of hard skin on the big toe knuckles, just a bad choice of shoes, perhaps?

Oh oh..! trouble storing bags, mind you I saw quite a few with large bags and more than one, sheeit, and I always wonder will I get grief for my carry-on’s. What with being carged to put luggage in the hold will Air Travel ever be the same again…

hmmm… those feet…..




As for Hope you need faith!

~ by ftfagos on May 4, 2011.

2 Responses to “Do Cyclists dream of Electric Scooters?”

  1. well… You goof knocker… Now I want a pint. Like real bad!!! And I can actually see your words as I sit here in the airport with that wretched layover thinking of this mornings flight to Beijing. Only everyone was Chinese!

    I loved the pictures!!!!

  2. […] rambling from a tour of sorts in Do Cyclists Dream of Electric Scooters and if you look hard enough you might find some […]

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