A monumental day for local man, Martin Shuttlecock, sadly ended in disaster this afternoon.
Rather than take the train home from work, Shuttlecock decided to cycle the seven or so miles home, uphill and down dale, despite being seriously out of cycling practice.
Shuttlecock quite enjoyed himself at work, if he is to be believed, which all seems a little strange, considering it was beer and home-made kebab night chez Shuttlecock, as the errant one watched Real Madrid v Barcelona on the sports channel.
But, according to long suffering wife, Anne, husband Martin Shuttlecock was in remarkably chipper mood when he rose at 5:00am this morning.
"The daft sod was singing Beatles songs to himself," Anne confided.
Shuttlecock's working day was described by him as being, uneventful, but quite pleasant nonetheless. However, he did reveal that there was some underlying tension regarding cycling home along the busy A27.
"I was a bit concerned about me fitness," he revealed. "I haven't been cycling for a while, and after that accident I had where I fell under a train, I wasn't altogether sure me knee'd be up to it."
Shuttlecock went on to say that the ride home was quite pleasant, but a little bit 'knackering,' partly because he was continually having to swerve to avoid mobility scooter riders.
"I've never seen so many of the buggers," he explained. "It's getting bloody dangerous nowadays riding me bike on the pavement."
Apparently, Shuttlecock eventually made it to a point close to home (The all night garage which shuts at 11pm now, so, technically speaking, it isn't an all night garage any more, but it used to be.) and was so pleased with his cycling proficiency, that he decided to reward himself with eight cans of Belgian beer for eight quid.
What he didn't mention, was that he could probably have walked home faster. Nor that he was overtaken by at least two dozen cyclists, most of whom were pensioners, and even a jogger. Who overtook a puffing and panting Shuttlecock, as he lit a cigarette, before the jogger disappeared into the distance.
The jogger wasn't even running very fast, but witnesses described Shuttlecock puffing and panting and moving along at a snail's pace, with his mountain bike wobbling precariously from side to side like a drunken sailor. Being overtaken by a slug.
A triumphant Shuttlecock, in great pain, and wheezing like an asthmatic bloodhound popped into the garage and bought eight beers.
He takes up the story:
"I bought the beers - I wasn't intending to drink all of them - and I wheeled the bike up the road towards the entrance to my street, which is all uphill. Anyway, I'd slung the beers on the handlebars in a plastic bag, and when I got to the top of our road, I got on the bike.
Then I lost control a bit, and the bag swung about and knocked me a bit off balance. I didn't fall off it, but something on the front fork, or the brake mechanism or something punched a hole in the can, and the precious amber Belgian nectar started spurting out. It was a disaster. At least fifty pence worth of precious lager leaked out. That's half a can. I had to ride the rest of the way home really carefully so I didn't spill any more. It was a bloody good job I didn't encounter any more mobility scooter Hell's Angels or I could have lost the whole can."
Losing valuable beer is a hazardous business.
"He really is a daft bastard," long suffering wife Anne remarked. "If he had a brain, he'd be dangerous."
More as we get it.