A thrown tantrum away from some very nice Adriatic-coast beaches, where buttered Italian sex-muffins bronze their hubby-catching baps and thighs, while keeping a wary eye out for evil-eyed refugees who may splash ashore at any second demanding asylum and Campari-sodas, lies the racetrack dedicated to Saint Marinus – the patron saint of bolting husbands.
The MotoGP Circus has arrived here, bruised and battered from fending off the endlessly erect man-axle of Peco Bagnaia, whose fat has not abated since he won in Aragon.
How has George even got my number? He has left ten messages since Qualifying finished. They are all the same. “Stop crying, you chubby flower-sniffer! You are diluting the petrol and if one of the Petronas orangutan killers slips over in your stupid weep-snot, you’ll be beaten with a paddock-stand! And stop being last!”
Fat Tony was very happy after Free Practice One. He pinched my cheek and said “Molto bene, pollo Spagnolo!” But he is not happy after Qualifying. He gave me a fish wrapped in newspaper and asked me if I own a horse.
Why does Jagdisson look different this week? Oh. Is not Jagdisson? Is France Mortadella? He is French, yes? No? Has he seen Peco’s erection? Ducati is making a special tank for Peco so the erection has a place to rest when Peco is riding. I think he wants Gigi to put the instruments on it so he can see them. It is a good idea, I think. Peco is very smart like that.
Yeah, ol’ Peco’s a fucken mad dog, aye? Cunt hasn’t put his dacks on for a week. He’s got a fat you can bust rocks with. Had Gigi up all night banging a furrow in his tank so his chubby isn’t smashing into the back of it. I told him to go and have a root and it will go away. He said he’s had five roots, and his girl’s told him to fuck off and leave her alone. He’s even tried wanking with his race-gloves on for max friction. Might have to get some leeches on it to drain the blood out, aye?
Make a hole in the tank for l’erezione viola! How many times I have to say this? Or make a gully on the top of the petrol tank so I can place it in the gully. And raise the instruments up so I can see them over the swollen head. Hey, maybe we can put the instrument on l’erezione viola? Use two hose clamps. One will not be enough.
Everything is mierda! The track is mierda! The rain is mierda! Rins is mierda! This team is mierda! And Marquez is the biggest mierda of them all! Why does he need to follow people? He is like the sad village girl who follows the happy village girls when they go to a dance, and then because she can’t dance, she sits in the corner and cuts her fat thighs with a knife.
Where is my “Follow This Idiota” list? Mir? Check. Miller? Check. Martin? Check. Bagnaia? Check, and no, I do not want to see his erection again. OK, where have I not crashed yet? Turn 3, 7 and 9, yes? Has Alex crashed there? No? OK, so go and tell him to warm up the gravel. I am coming very soon to move it around.
FROM THE SIDELINES
Carmelo! Have you told all the racers to come to my special Motivation Speaking an hour before the race? I have brought an eagle for them to look at. It is dead, yes. You cannot transport a live eagle in Europe. But it is still an eagle and when I hang it from a pole it will look like it is swooping on a rabbit, just like the racers must swoop on rabbits in the race! It is very inspirational. And I will read a haiku I have made for them all. Here:
The eagle is not dead
It lives in your butter
Like a mountain.
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Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.