...or why I hate Steve Davis It was a Sunday in 1982...pretty much like any other Sunday. Nothing on telly and even less on video. In fact nothing happening except for snooker. Snooker snooker snooker and more fucking snooker. God I hate sports.

After five minuts of Cliff Thorburn and Steve 'boring cunt' Davis I get the message and shake off my post sunday lunch torpitude. Time to piss about on a bike. The only thing that seemed to make sense was trying to pull a better wheelie. So it's off, up and down and up and down the farm track, and not quite up with the bike, or at least not quite up enough. Eventually I give up and get brutal... which was a mistake because up she comes, violently. For those of you of delicate years the RD200 was a lively little two stroke twin that weighed nothing and was almost as much fun as a proper learner bike (250).

But anyway, I digress, the bike climbs and I slide back on the seat and naturally I didn't cover the back brake and was panicking. I'm getting to the end of the track and a large gate looms, I think the bike onto its side... or did I fall off? The bike crashes into the gate with a sickening metallic clang and wedges itself betwixt the gate and the concrete. I come to a halt before then wearing through my jeans and also through the skin on my hip. Ho hum.

Snooker still makes me shudder to this day.