T'WAS THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS ON THE NORTHERN END OF THE COAST, THE SOCIAL ELITE WERE WATCHING 'ROOS ON THEIR GOLF COURSE AND EATING FRENCH TOAST . . . . IN THEIR GATED COMMUNITIES AS THEY DRINK AND THEY FEAST, THEY TAKE NATURE FOR GRANTED, WHILE THEY DESERVE IT THE LEAST . . . . MONEY'S NOT THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL, SHITLOADS OF FUCKERS WITH STACKS OF IT ARE THOUGH.

From the get go it started badly, my last call for Christmas eve was meeting a long term client at his palatial home at a high end 'gated community' at the northern end of the Coast to sort out a wine and food match for their Chrissy dinner wing ding, he's actually a cool old dude, self made squillionare, what you see is what you get, no airs and graces, no faux snob/wanker attitude, just some good old school class . . . . I'd gone on the Purple Penis to avoid getting fucked over by any one of several crawl zones in the local traffic grid, when I was getting buzzed through at the gatehouse/bunker the SS type guard dick was sceptical as to my veracity as I sat their talking into the intercom while he stared at the picture of the bloke with camo shorts, Death Machine '666' tee and grimy muleskinner boots on his monitor . . . . eventually letting me in after I answered all one hundred and fifty of his geniusly considered questions designed to show me up as the phony wine dude, violent, gun toting hardcore biker type I so clearly am, fucking dickheads with Security badges . . . . what's that shit about ???

So . . . . I've infiltrated the compound, putting along at the designated forty kph this fucking idiot woman comes running out in front of me, I mean 'in front of me', waving her fat, flabby arms like there's been some kind of scene, I come to a standstill and she's yelling some fucking gibberish at me which I can't decipher a single word of . . . . kill the motor and ask if she could go again, expecting to be asked inside for either a quick bit of the old 'rich widow in/out action' or, to pull the axe out of hubby's skull where he's lying in a pool of blood in the kitchen, no such luck with either sadly, turns out her beef was along the lines of 'do you have to make so much noise ????' . . . . I attempt to explain that in order for the motorcycle to make forward progress of its own volition the motor part of its structure must actually be operating and unfortunately I can't fix the noise level as the volume knob has fallen off, the look of complete bewilderment and horror on her trout-like face was enough to tell me she wasn't buying it in the least, I bad her a fond farewell as she kept nattering, wished her all due festive cheer to which she sneered lovingly into my eyes as I pointed the Noiseglide toward Graham's palace. The wine and food matching was sorted in a couple of minutes, he offered me a hundred bugs for my time and talent, which I graciously accepted, [fuck yeah], and I was back on the Penis Mosheen and headed for the gate.

On the ride back to Hitler Boy Security Trooper, there was a mob of roos grazing under some trees on the golf course that many of the residents play appallingly bad golf on, just down the street from the recent Flailer Bitch encounter, I pull over, cut the engine, grab the Galaxy XXII and pop some shots of the creatures, it's a tad incongruous really, roos in such an upmarket, sterile, urban setting, they were very accommodating actually, letting me get fairly close before they hopped off up the hill . . . . I turn around to walk back to the bike and there she is, Mrs Flabby Flailer, standing beside the scoot and staring daggers right at me, what the fuck, this could get ugly I suggest to only myself. Arriving within helmeted earshot, Mrs Flabby Flailer proceeds to inform me she has just spoken to Officer Genius at the Central Command Position and he is on his way to escort myself and the Purple Penis from the premises. 

I thank the delightful Mrs Hitler for her manifold kindness, mount the Penis, start the donk, give it three of four decent handfuls of air and guzzaline, which I never do, pull rapidly away from the curb, flipping her the bird at the same time and proceed to the gate . . . . about one hundred or so metres from the exit point I spot Officer Super Sloth in the Hi-Po Security Golf Cart hurtling toward me, for a moment I think about giving him the same middle fingered show of love and warm wishes I had just shared with Nazi Woman but all I could do was laugh, uncontrollably, as he watched me go past him in the opposite direction with clearly no intention of stopping as he gestured in my direction . . . . Merry Christmas Graham, enjoy your neighbours, lovely people for sure.