It was only then that I had time to take in the true bizarreness of where I was. Everything took on a faint red glow from the garishly painted walls. There were painted murals on the walls depicting painted scenes of kebab shops in the most unlikely of places. ‘Lunarbabs’ showed a kebab shop on the moon, whilst ‘aquababs’ was under the sea. Del Boy Mavis was offering chips around, which looked one part potato to three parts oil. I looked at my finger after having one, half expecting it to turn transparent. What kind of public health message were we giving off here? The most well respected ambulance service in the country lives off fast food. Judging by the waist bands of a depressing number in the service, it really is.
On the motorway back home we worked on positioning on the road. I raced Kazoo back, the speed hovering at a terrifying 75mph throughout. It felt like racing on he back of an obese geriatric. ‘Comon Jerome, we need to win this’ came the encouragement from the back. They were winding me up the bastards. ‘My foot’s been glued to the floor for the last half an hour, it’s all you’re going to get’ was my desperate response, which didn’t stop them from heckling me. The main thing is that we won, and my marks had improved despite a pretty mediocre performance. I think Klippity couldn’t be bothered to argue so he filled the boxes with fours.
I was the last to leave the building, jumping onto the bike and buzzing through the empty streets with nout but a screaming engine for company. I was tired but, bottle in bag, willing to extend the abuse my circadian rhythm had already sustained for just a little longer.