Does Balki really exist?

Don't worry Balki. You appear in later episodes.

Can you make it a dirty limerick? That would be fucking ace!

An Australian cyclist named Balki
Used aliases for internet talki
One day he was French
The next a young wench
And on Fridays he came from Milwaukee

i met a cut-out cardboard of someone called 'balki' up at north drinks, nice guy but didnt speak much, could it have been mail-order balki?

This thread rather stinks
Seen Balki few times at drinks
He's lover not fighter
And without a lighter
He needs to buy one, me thinks

work on that.

;)

My head hurts when I think

Stop drinking meths?

If Balki doesn't exist perhaps it was P**tan*r who sent me a get well message.

On reflection I feel that Balki does exist, and we're all the better off for that...

Amongst cliveo's friends, a tribe threatening to overpower his acquaintances, there was yet to be a consensus on the pronunciation of his final vowel. For some it was an expression of surprise; for others a swoon of satisfaction; but for his wife, it was always the same.

"Oh, you're going out on your bike again."

"A pink-faced fat man like me needs to ride as much as he can, dear."

"Oh… right."

"And my bikes demand to be ridden."

"Oh, is that what I need to –"

But cliveo was already out the door, his leg over the latest model, grinding his way to the meat market.

"Ah Will" he exclaimed in a posh voice that sounded generations of command.

[snippety snip]

It took Will a few days to recover from the experience and to gain sufficient courage to photograph the next of his subjects.

So what you're saying is that on this day, you became Will's subject?

you'll be gratified to know Oliver that even Object has been a subject

Ah, so the 'o' in cliveo must stand for 'object'. Got it.

Oliver Schick awoke to the sound of bird song and the scent of grilled bacon. His manservant gently opened the curtains and puffed up his pillows before bringing him his breakfast tray and neatly ironed copy of the Financial Times.

"What news, Smithers?"

"Well sir, we've been busy all night perfecting the image. We've posted long and detailed homilies on cycle training. A few nifty multi quotes. Oh, and I'm afraid that the underfootman, has been punning again."

"Tell him to stop." said Oliver with gentle authority and with that he munched his last rasher and went back to sleep.

"They call him The Fat Man".
The club was dark, Balki's thick, lustrous hair was highlighted by the red neon that flashed to one side. "RPM" the sign read. Where had I heard those initials before? The week since Balki had shown up was a blur, a beautiful blur like womens' day at Herne Hill. RPM, BRM, HTFU, my mind had become as stuffed with letters as a fed courier's Pak Bag is stuffed with double rushes. What did it all mean? What did anything mean now? Maybe I should start a thread and ask. But that way lay madness. Madness and flaming.
"His name is Clive but they call him The Fat Man. He's the money".
"Is that him?" I asked, looking across as a bloated wreck of a troll who, in the gloom, seemed to be surrounded by children.
"No, that's Hippy. Those are his midgets".
Balki led the way down the stairs to the bar. He'd said he had to meet The Fat Man. Wherever Balki led I followed. Like a graphic designer in Hoxton I no longer had a mind of my own. If he told me to put my hand in the fire I'd take the heat. If he told me to put risers on a low pro I'd reach for the allen keys.
There were two dames at the bar, the kind of dames you'd want dibs on. The kind of dames you'd mention in Spotted if you didn't know better. I was getting an itch like I'd done Dunwich on a brand new Brooks. Balki passed me a drink. "Out of your league mate" he said, looking over at the women. "They only rock up for Rollapalooza. If you can't spin 250 forget it".
"Why do you need to see The Fat Man? I asked.
"UTFS" he said. That had become his answer for everything. The bar was starting to fill with people. Ugly people, misfits, drop-outs, dirty and talking in grunts. The sort of living gargoyles that make even the West beers crowd look appealing. Then I realised; they were the West beers crowd. And the Souths. Both of the East beers regulars were there too. In the corner the Norths crowd were fighting over a pizza, clawing and yelling like roadies at a Rapha sale. Goya would have had his own eyes out. Dante would have fled like a ped on the Xcrossing.
"Where's the South Easties?" Balki asked someone. "Nobody knows. Maybe the Roebuck, maybe the Kings Arms, could be anywhere" came the reply .
"The Fat Man is waiting". I turned to see a figure at Balki's shoulder; young, handsome, floppy brown hair. Could it be? Velocio? Was he real too?
"I had tried to take us from Ubuntu Jaunty to Ubuntu Karmic, and this worked... except the hosting company host machines don't support the Karmic kernel so none of the servers came to life after the upgrade" he said with a wistful smile.
"Sure you did doll face" Balki said to him "Sure you did. Have a present" Balki took a Creme Egg from his pocket and tossed it to Velocio.
As he ripped at the wrapping, like a chainring tearing at loon pants, he led us to a door.
"The Fat Man is waiting" he repeated. "CTRL+F5 is your friend." he added.
Balki turned the handle and went in. The room was small and brightly lit. It was stale and airless, deadening to the senses, the kind of room that makes you feel as if you've just watched a MASHSF video.
"Where's The Fat Man? I asked.
"There"" Balki replied, pointing to the far corner.
From behind a cabinet two stout legs stuck out. Stout legs that ended in Sidis. Balki walked over and pulled the cabinet to one side to reveal a terrible sight. It was bad. Worse than an Arrospok, worse than a Shimano crankset, almost worse than a grown man on a BMX.
"He's dead" Balki said. "Is that The Fat Man?" I asked. "He was, he was" Balki replied. His tone was bitter, like a traffic cop saying "scrape you up off the road". Balki reached down and I saw him pull a piece of paper from the dead man's hand. He looked at it puzzled, puzzled the way you look puzzled when you first hear someone tell you they ride better without a front brake.
"What does it say?"
"It doesn't say anything" Balki replied and handed me the sheet.
All there was on the paper was one small gold star.
"Let's get out of here" Balki said and made for the door.
"What does it all mean Balki? " I asked him when we made the exit.
"It's the end mate, it's all over, it's fucked"
"What is?"
"UTFS mate, UTFS".

That was the last I saw of Balki. From time to time I'd hear he was back, that he'd been seen. I even heard he'd opened a vegan restaurant called Paul-Michel's but when I went there it was just a hot dog stand called OOL's. Was he ever real? I'll never know. But I know this; when he was around he made me feel real. He made me feel mighty real.

THE END.

You killed me in the first episode.....thus shortening the agony ;o))

Lovely stuff. We need more.

Are you posting from beyond the grave, Clive?

I think Will had me dead but not buried.

Dibs on your cross bike.

BMMF already has dibs on that. He extracted them when I was in distress on a Kent hill a while ago.

"thick, lustrous hair"

right there i know its not true.....

(must spread rep yadda yadda)

It'd be far too big for BMMF.

Wha? Kent? Hill?

I'll happily sell it to you, andyp.

Anyway, it might not be too big, once you take away cliveo's ridiculous cockpit arrangement.

Not only does my character die in the first episode, but I am dead from my first appearance. You'll never get Brad Pitt or Clive Owen to play me. Totally disappointed. Clive Owen would have been ideal - Clive Owen - geddit?