The mythical city of Aragon is churning like a plague-barrel full of diseased rats as it prepares to host this weekend’s MotoGP. Scabby hookers, skulking cut-purses, and gypsies with golden teeth and big knives wait for the MotoGP circus to arrive so the pre-race fucking, stealing, and stabbing can begin as tradition dictates.
So…um, Lin? Lin? Not this weekend? No? Oh. But…I thought…oh, OK. That is a hard no, then? Can I try the leathers on? Cool! Can I sit on the bike? Oh. Will Cal really tie me to an abattoir sewer-grate and ram severed pig-legs in my culo? Yes, that is a silly question. Um…so, what can I do? Stay the fuck off out of the way? OK. Got it.
Why is my Crew Chief called ‘Fat Tony’ and why do I have to kiss his ring? This never happened at Yamaha. Lin was happy with a hug. Fat Tony is Sicilian? Oh. Yes, I know what that means. Tell him not to worry. Soon, there will be many victories. Some of them will be mine. Why do you have so many fire extinguishers here? Does Aleix’s face catch fire often?
Everybody else came here in helicopters, but one of you cunts thought it would be le good idea for me to ride le stupid vintage Ducati 900km. It was le nightmare. Vicious peasants throw le manure and spit at me in every village. I had to steal le petrol in Spain because no-one wanted to serve a Frenchman once I crossed le border. They set le dogs on me. One villager tried to spear me with le pitchfork.
Why is Vinales kissing that fat Italiano’s hand? Oh, I see. And since when is Crutchlow not drunk? I do not care, as long as he doesn’t come here and make Alex put on dresses and dance on the toolboxes. So once again I am stronger, yes? Once again my arm is better, yes? Once again the thumb-brake is on the bike because my right hand will never work properly again, yes?
What d’you mean Ah can’t be ’avin’ anuvver fooken beer? Get the fook out of here, you massive shit-ponce! What d’you care ’ow many beers Ah have? Ah’m only ’ere for not much longer. Oi! Dovi! Come and ’ave a pint, ya sad-eyed fuck! Jack will be over in a few minutes. We’ll get the beers in, then go out dancin’ wiv some mad Spango sluts…Ah’m kiddin, Lucy! Honest!
I am very excited! Who is my team-mate this weekend? Jagdisson? Do I know him? He was here last race? Ah, OK. He is the one who does not speak Spanish, or French, or Italian and swears in English all the time. No? Oh, that is Crushloh? I thought he retired? Ah, only sometimes he is retired. Has Peco’s erection gone away?
Yeah, fucken Arse-gorgon is goin’ fucken off, aye? Four pricks tried to rob me in the carpark. Some mad cunt on an old Ducati has been lost out there for ages. Is that Zarco? Dead-set? Why didn’t he come here in a helicopter like everyone else? Because his PR chick hates him? HAHAHAAH! Fucken sucks to be him, aye? Has the Pope come to hang out with Mav? So why is Mav kissin’ that fat cunt’s hand? Fair dinkum? That’s some heavy dago shit, aye?
FROM THE SIDELINES
For this weekend I have sent every racer a magnetic picture of me with the words: “Strong in the mind means strong in the mountain when your wings are spread in confidence for the commitment of your willpower to the soaring freedom of your inner shark when it flies above the doubt of your mind!” Yes, it is a big picture which will cover most of the tank. But they need all the help they can get because they are all mierde. Why is the Sad-Eyed Puta there? Tell the cameras not to show him to me!
Subscribe and get to see the real spicy stuff and much more
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.