At the end of a hard Saturday chasing around the lanes, we would retire to a mate's place and watch videos (usually "The Blues Brothers", which explains why I can recite almost the entire length of that film at will). After hours, we would travel down to McDonalds for some "food", if said gloop could be designated thus.

It was commonplace for the various members of the local Soul Boy Casuals movement to be in full effect outside. They outnumbered us about 10 to one, but we were *far* nastier than they, and had proved it several times, and thus an uneasy truce prevailed, at least until one of our number pulled the girlfriend of the leader of their number.

And so things began to Get Tense again and, as a result, we would take to sending one of us in for the food while the rest stayed outside to make sure none of the little Pringle sweater wearing twats tried anything with our bikes; to entertain ourselves, and any schoolgirls who might turn up late, we tended to do burnouts, doughnuts and other tyre smoking hilarity ... tyres were *much* harder in those days.

And so it came to pass that one of our number was in mid burnout when something (and to this day we don't know precisely what) went dramatically wrong; the rear tyre hooked up, the front lofted, and he confidently and rapidly wheelied straight through McDonald's front window; thank Christ it was near closing time and the drunks and sluts had been moved, or things could have been much worse; as it was, he broke his wrist & arm, four of their table & chair arrangements, and lay on the floor winded.

The manager of said burger bar approached him in a hizzy fit, and proceeded to berate him in no uncertain terms; finally he said "WELL? WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!" ... and there followed the finest line I have ever seen delivered by a biker on the floor:

"Can I have 2 Big Macs, large fries, and a strawberry shake please. Ta."

Respect is due.