The perils of supermarket gin
If you do by accident purchase some terrible industrial alcohol concoction, vaguely flavoured with some chemicals that the manufacturers are convinced smell a bit like Juniper, don't consume it. If you do, you may find yourself lurking under a pedestrian overpass handy for a half-built estate on one of the grimmer edges of Bristol. As you consider both the empty bottle and your hopeless mortgage, you may feel like lobbing the bottle into the Bristol-Bath cyclepath out of incoherent frustration.
If you do perform those actions, you're a complete bastard and have more or less the life you deserve, because my rear tyre went Ftmpshh! Blop! Blop blop blop! and I had to walk the rest of the way home.
Before that, however, it was going jolly well. The splendid types at Bath Ales had a brew on which smelled lovely and all the tiresome roadies had been out yesterday.
[Edit: FFS! A cm-and-a-bit rip in both tube and tyre. The latter of which is a Conti Ultra Gator and theoretically proof against such malarkey. Bottle-hoofing gin drinkers == complete and utter bastards.]
If you do perform those actions, you're a complete bastard and have more or less the life you deserve, because my rear tyre went Ftmpshh! Blop! Blop blop blop! and I had to walk the rest of the way home.
Before that, however, it was going jolly well. The splendid types at Bath Ales had a brew on which smelled lovely and all the tiresome roadies had been out yesterday.
[Edit: FFS! A cm-and-a-bit rip in both tube and tyre. The latter of which is a Conti Ultra Gator and theoretically proof against such malarkey. Bottle-hoofing gin drinkers == complete and utter bastards.]