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@pajamas
pedestrians who, having blithely crossed a narrow turning in the road when the little man's on red, and freezing momentarily when they realise you're coming at them, then start dancing about in front of you, following your every swerve like a bloody tracking device, while you're desperately trying to go round them to avoid hitting them, going over the handlebars, landing in a heap and fucking your left elbow, left knee, left hand and neck.
Pedestrians can be extremely crap at dealing with their mistakes. We have it every sodding day. The high-heeled media tart, appearing with winning smile from the front of a parked bus, tottering uncertainly then backtracking too late; the bloated pinstriped suit, braying into cellphone as he blindly steps out, languidly trotting to safety in his bench-crafted Oxford brogues, oblivious to the carnage he has left behind; the tourist, giggling in delighted oopsi-daisies cos it's all part of the crazy London Experience, camera in hand but brain sadly never in gear: sooner or later you're going down cos of one of these mugs.
So thanks Dozy McFuckwit, TCR, 8.45am this morning. Tomorrow when you're happily looking out of your window at the morning sun I'll be gazing unintentionally down at my right foot due to my neck muscles being locked, replaying the same two seconds of my best, front-brake-assisted manoeuvres back in my head and seeing your stupid countenance bobbing about in front of me like some zombified weeble-man.
I mean jeeez.