that's it. i'm done. fuck motorcycles.fuck motorcyclists. i'm stressed to fuck me. i'm going to take up golf, or fishing, or embroidery, or gardening. anything but fucking motorcycles. i've dropped a right royal bollock, measured up my super-trick, realm engineering, ram rear shocks for the false triumph, smug as fuck, check me out, giving it the big 'un, the shocks turn up and i've given them the mounting hole diameter incorrect, what a twat, not an insurmountable problem, but dangerous is milking it big time, 'bailey, get a ruler!' then, the new 'dangerous' yellow ducati turns up mid-week, the shed is getting a touch 'tight' to say the least, oh well, at least the false triumph is off up to nrp to get an exhaust courtesy of nige, chalky and sweary mick turn up thursday afternoon to do the honours, at last, a bit of room freed up, the dangerous duc is on the bench, he can't wait to start changing bolts, starting with the front calipers, oh dear, in his haste he's rounded off the allen screws and i have to sort him out, carefully drilling out the corroded original items, revenge is mine, 'you know what you get with rushing croftsy?' 'yeah, i know bailey, bruised fingers and kid's.........'