Whilst wending my way to and fro my work place sporting my spiffy yet unpleasantly bright 2 years old Chelsea away kit that’s been discussed previously I often receive what can best be described as blindingly idiotic comments.
Swooshing past Loftus road stadium on match day will probably result in at least one “Wooyyyeeeee!! QPR!!!”. Meandering along the Uxbridge road you might hear a brief rendition of “Come on the Hammers”. Once in a whole you will get an “Come on the Chels!!”. On Tuesday I even got a “I like your t-shirt” from someone who I can only assume was joking or colour blind. Why people feel the need to do this I don’t know, but they do and it’s all quite harmless and best ignored.
However some weeks ago something slightly stranger was screeched in my direction as I peddled sedately up a hill. Some blistering moran going in the other direction probably thought it would be fun to ask me politely at the top of his voice to “Take that fucking shirt off”. Tragically I was going one way, he the other so our meeting was too brief for a witty riposte, or indeed to get a look at him for identification purposes so I just assumed he was a crazy old man and decided to forget about it rather than turn around and chase him down to discover the meaning of this comment.
I thought nothing more of it until yesterday when our paths were fated to cross again, luckily in a much more congenial setting for confrontation, for he was stuck at a set of traffic lights. He spies me again and once more is compelled to yell in my direction:
“I told you to take that fucking shirt off”
Already in a bad mood thanks to Bob ‘Strike Strike Strike’ Crow filling the roads up with idiots I think this is a bit much, I’m not having this, I will not take demands for public indecency from this oik. I come to a halt and enquire.
“I told you before to take that fucking shirt off”
“Sorry, do you have some kind of problem?”
It seems as well as being rude and stupid he’s also deaf, I whirl around and come closer to his hideous visage so he’s more able to hear.
“I said, Do you have some kind of fucking problem”
At this point his tiny mind seems a bit confused, he ceases to be quite as brash and looks a little nervous, I’m guessing he didn’t think I would actually stop.
“Err It’s Chelsea ain’t it”
“Yes, but I asked if you have a fucking problem of some kind?”
“ha, err no, It’s just a joke…”
A joke? A joke is “two men walk into a bar, they both say oww” that’s a joke, albeit it a terrible one. Calling for a random stranger drenched in sweat to expose themselves in public is not a joke, that’s just a weird fetish. I briefly contemplate beating him to within an inch of his life with my bike lock but in the end I decide that the moral high ground has been seized and if I continue I’m in danger of looking like the freak to the now somewhat bemused onlookers. I politely inform him to keep his fucking opinion to himself in future, spin around and cycle off quietly enraged within.