-
Balki, an alliteration is using a sentence with the words all or primarily starting with the same letter. So, you killed a Tandem in Tooting, and you would have done it with a Tank.
-
Will, that is genuinely fantastic.
-
The bike was dead. As dead as a newbie asking for advice on what tyres are best for skidding. It had died the way my dreams of a wife, two kids and a white picket fence had died the day Balki walked in.
I watched the cops draw a chalk outline round the hybrid and glanced at Balki. He was smiling that mysterious smile and as the street lights caught his chiseled cheekbones, I thought "Nice build".
I knew Balki had killed that bike and Balki knew I knew. Like two nodders on a busy roundabout we were locked in a square dance of damnation. "Fancy a pint?" he asked. "Yeh" I said, looking once more at the cops. I could tell them, turn him in and let them break him like a hoodie breaks a cheap d-lock. I could put all this behind me, forget about it just like you forget about your first OTP from Evans. But I couldn't. Balki had me in a grip tighter than Park Tools workstand.
We found a dive just off the hipster highway and Balki ordered two pink gins and a packet of pork scratchings. Just when you thought you had him figured out he'd surprise you. He made the service in BLB look predictable, he made the Bloomsbury bike lane look like the yellow brick road, he made every Bob Jackson look the same. Which they are.
"Why d'you do it Balki?" I asked.
"I fucken hate hybrids mate. They're weird"
"You killed that unicycle in Clapton too didn't you?"
"Unicycle's are shit".
He had a point.
"How many more Balki?"
"I topped a tandem in Tooting"
"Why?"
"Alliteration FTW"
He was mad, mad as using toe clips and straps in a world full of Time ATACS, mad as trusting a Halford's mechanic, mad as a baby blue fixie.
"It's time to go". As we unlocked what was left of our bikes and made notes of where we'd gone wrong so we could let GA2G know in the morning that question came back to me: Is Balki real? It didn't matter: I'd seen grown men checking each other's saddles and eating Wasabi Peas; I'd seen Xmas tree lights that were brighter than Knogs; I'd lived too long in this fixed up city to care any more. If Balki wasn't real, like a Unicorn or a cheap Rapha hat isn't real, then that's just the way the it was. He was my Current Project.Must spread myself before I can rep WW again!
Genius!! -
Will. A novel is required:
"The Reality of Being Balki"
As opposed to my autobiography:
"The reality of being bulky."
Can rep. Very good that man, very good!
-
Will’s body ached as he rolled out of his single bed into the damp cold of the November morning. His lean frame shivered as he walked towards the wash basin in the corner, his eyes still bleary from an interrupted sleep. He splashed cold water on his face and armpits and then picked up the mouldy flannel and rubbed it around his groin in an approximation of ablutions. From beside the sink he picked up his one luxury, Assos chamois crème, and dipped his finger tips lightly in the tub before easing a gentle layer over his bony arse. He pulled on bibs shorts under his jeans, threw on an old t-shirt and hoodie, found yesterday’s socks still drying and slid them on and into his battered cycling shoes. No time, no money for breakfast. He was off.
As he rode his immaculately maintained bicycle through the quiet dark streets of a pre-rush hour London morning, he reflected that it had not always been like this. There was once a time of hope; hope that was now fading faster than his dim front light. His mind wandered to the day, some twenty years earlier in the English Faculty on Gower Street, when the head of department had spoken to him. At the time the idea of being an undercover literary adventurer has sounded glamorous. Ginsburg and Kerouac; Hemingway and Orwell. The Road to Wigan Pier had been written from the street and now the boy from Wigan was on the street conjuring up experiences for his masterwork.
In the first few years, contact from the English Department had been frequent but as each academic year passed, it had all but dried up. He was still waiting for the call, the call to write and publish but it never seemed to come.
-
Will’s body ached as he rolled out of his single bed into the damp cold of the November morning. His lean frame shivered as he walked towards the wash basin in the corner, his eyes still bleary from an interrupted sleep. He splashed cold water on his face and armpits and then picked up the mouldy flannel and rubbed it around his groin in an approximation of ablutions. From beside the sink he picked up his one luxury, Assos chamois crème, and dipped his finger tips lightly in the tub before easing a gentle layer over his bony arse. He pulled on bibs shorts under his jeans, threw on an old t-shirt and hoodie, found yesterday’s socks still drying and slid them on and into his battered cycling shoes. No time, no money for breakfast. He was off.
As he rode his immaculately maintained bicycle through the quiet dark streets of a pre-rush hour London morning, he reflected that it had not always been like this. There was once a time of hope; hope that was now fading faster than his dim front light. His mind wandered to the day, some twenty years earlier in the English Faculty on Gower Street, when the head of department had spoken to him. At the time the idea of being an undercover literary adventurer has sounded glamorous. Ginsburg and Kerouac; Hemingway and Orwell. The Road to Wigan Pier had been written from the street and now the boy from Wigan was on the street conjuring up experiences for his masterwork.
In the first few years, contact from the English Department had been frequent but as each academic year passed, it had all but dried up. He was still waiting for the call, the call to write and publish but it never seemed to come.
Ha!
-
Clive's first paragraph invoked quite an emotional response in me. Probably not the one he was aiming for...
-
Will showing his norther roots again. You're in London now, if you can't afford the Assos then you need to use Patum Peperium, The Gentlemans Relish.
-
Balki got me pregnant.
now he won't return my calls. -
Will picked up the pace as he rode onto Clerkenwell Road, the "Hipster Highway". His mind ran over the journeys that he had made on this tarmac, the packages he had delivered and his adventures with lorries and taxicabs. He rode fixed and he rode without using his brakes. He skidded to a halt at a redlight and sat in a statuesque trackstand.
His mission had been to absorb the existence of the bicycle courier and to translate the ways of the messenger into a literary form. In the early years he had passed short typescripts back to the faculty for their review. Repeatedly he was told to observe and absorb more before committing himself to paper. He became frustrated.
After years of riding he had stormed back to Gower Street only to be confronted by a new head of department. He was sat down in a tattered leather armchair and given sweet sherry by a man in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Will reacted violenly to the academic cliche and had to be restrained by a beadle. When calm and only after a few refills of his schooner, Will was told what was expected of him.
"Will, we need you ou there. Kerouac had his road and we're giving you yours. Look observe and take it in. When the time comes we will supply the stimulents and the opportunity to type solidly for two weeks but first you must experience. Will, we need characters and observation. Do you have a camera? No. Here have this one. Use the camera and not your pen. Meet other cyclists and not just couriers. Live a little. Broaden your horizons."
Will was uncomfortable hearing the additional cliches but, being unable to stomach any further sherry, kept his annoyance hidden. He clutched the camera and left.
Back in his room he turned on his computer and stared into the abyss of the internet. Google. "Cyclists, London, Fixed" he typed.
The web site was enormous and filled with strange sounding hipsters muttering in jokes and scathing comments against new comers. Nervously he typed his first post. He asked if anyone would agree to being photographed. He doubted he would receive any interest but thought it worth a try. He underestimated the vainity of the hipsters. Within minutes dozens of strangers were contacting him, pleading with him to take their pictures.
It was early on a Wednesday morning that he rode into a smart street in Islington. A Mercedes sat in the driveway of the imposing house and a four by four on the street outside. Will tried to imagine the type of hipster that would live in a place like that. He rang the bell.
A middle aged man with greying hair came to the door. "Ah Will" he exclaimed in a posh voice that sounded generations of command. "Where do you want me".
Will looked in amazement. This was no hipster but a rotund, red faced man dressed from head to foot in figure clinging black lycra. A dark version of the Michelin Man. A deformed reptile bursting from its skin. The black helmet and dark glasses completed the ghastly look.
Will said little, other than to give directions as to where his subject should stand and took the pictures. He cycled off quickly and in shock.
It took Will a few days to recover from the experience and to gain sufficient courage to photograph the next of his subjects.
!Nhattattack!
plurabelle
Archi_Pelago
Aroogah
jaw
Bobby_Dids
dicki
deleted
The_Seldom_Killer
andy.w
bq
spagettihoops
kattiep
Dammit
dogsballs
Balki
lpg-
Post a reply
About
Does Balki really exist?
Posted by
@cliveo
If Cliveo and Balki were ever to meet there would be a whine, a pop and a little cloud of twinkly dust where they once stood, which would slowly fade to nothing, The dour sensibility of Cliveo would cancel out the fizzing zaniness of Balki like the meeting of an electron and positron.
It would be a tragedy to lose them.