It always makes me super-happy when the Prawn hates someone that I hate, because he's "the nice Heg" and if he can't stand them, it must mean that they're a supremely annoying tool, rather than an inoffensive victim of my crankiness and impatience.
I think I've mentioned it here before that Johnny races semi-professionally for a team here on the island. What I haven't mentioned is that I cannot fucking stand the guy who runs the team.
He struts around like he's the Big I Am for having his own motorbike team, but actually he does fuck all - Johnny has to pay for his leathers (with this fucking asshole's name on them, fuck you very much!), his helmets, his tyres, his insurance, petrol for the bike, a third of the petrol for the motorhome thingie that transports the bikes to the races and that he and the other two riders in this guy's stable all sleep in on the overnight trips to races in England/Europe, and his own boat or plane tickets to the overseas races.
All the sponsor does is provide the motorhome, pay the other half of Johnny's entrance fees, and provide his racers with piece-of-shit bikes and the crappiest fucking mechanic on the island. And yet he goes around being the Big Cheese, basically mooching off Johnny's talent and hard work and leering at his girlfriend. It fucking disgusts me.
So today Johnny is racing and the whole Family von Froodle goes down to support him. Dad and Buzz Lighthair of Ron Smith's Command are helping out with getting the bikes loaded on and off the paddock stands (I don't know if that's the right word for them, but they're the little metal slot things that the bikes' wheels rest on at the start of the race and when they come back in). Mum and Hayley are making cups of tea and bacon sandwiches for everyone in the motorhome, and the Prawn and I are bringing them out to people. Frankly I don't even see why we should have to do that, since I give precisely not-a-fuck about anyone else but Johnny, but he likes having us there and it gets cold just standing around, so we might as well do something useful.
Anyways, Buzz has just gotten two A*s on his maths and physics A Levels, which he was always totally capable of doing but is still majorly awesome and worthy of bragging about, and he's riding high because he's going to uni to do architecture in September and generally he's feeling good about life.
The douchebag sponsor, who is a scrawny, haggard old rat in his fifties who gels his hair like Jon Shepard and dresses like a teenager, struts over to where Prawn and I are handing out cups of tea to people who aren't my brother and therefore mean less than nothing to me.
"I hear Ben did rather well in his exams," says the scrawny haggard rat dismissively.
I grunt, because if I try to make words come out in this idiot's presence, they will automatically mutate into "FUCK YOU YOU CONDESCENDING FUCKING FUCKSTICK I'D LIKE TO RIP OFF YOUR HEAD AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK" before they leave my mouth.
"Yeah," says the Prawn, politely ignoring his obnoxious tone. "We're all dead made-up for him."
"Hmph," says the scrawny haggard rat, as if this news is far too trivial for him to care about. "He thinks a lot of himself, doesn't he?"
You know when people talk about 'seeing red' when they get angry? I swear to God, my entire vision flooded crimson when he said that.
But before I can get one solitary "cunt", "fuck" or "die in a fire" out of my mouth, Prawn says, very calmly:
"I don't know, Martin, he's not the sixty year old still trying to cut it in Converse and a leather jacket, is he?"
Cue this douchebag flushing about seven different shades of red and and purple, spluttering like someone just forced a mouthful of seawater down his throat, and beating a hasty retreat, sans tea or bacon sandwich.
"Dickhead," says the Prawn under his breath, then nonchalently goes back to handing out packets of sugar and little plastic UHT milk tubs.
Even with Buzz's grades and Johnny's racing accolades, I think today I am most in awe of William.
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