Magazine article The Spectator

Road Rage

Magazine article The Spectator

Road Rage

Article excerpt

In Competition No. 2622 you were invited to submit a rhymed curse penned by a motorist on a cyclist, a cyclist on a pedestrian or a pedestrian on either.

Reading the entry brought to mind a question once posed by Matthew Parris:

'Does cycling turn you into an insolent jerk?'

'You bet it does!' came the semi-unanimous chorus. A bracing stream of vitriol was directed mostly at cyclists, especially those who wear Lycra, though I no doubt let motorists off lightly by not giving the cycling brigade the opportunity to respond in kind to their fellow road-users.

While Brian Murdoch, Basil RansomeDavies, Paul Griffin and Martin Elster were unlucky losers, this week's king of the road is D.A. Prince, who nabs the bonus fiver.

The other winners, printed below, earn £25 apiece.

May he who rides unlit at night

On pavements in the dark

Ignite into a blazing streak

Of scorching fire and spark;

May all his joints be turning,

From head down to his heel,

In cycles of eternal pain --

Perpetual Catherine Wheel;

May he who never troubles

To sound his warning bell

Be maddened, tortured, deafened,

With tinnitus of Hell.

And may his barbed wire saddle

Be welded to his soul,

While walkers stoke the fires

With everlasting coal.

D.A. Prince

A curse upon your father, and a curse upon

your mother,

O you who cannot put a simple foot before

another,

Who wears a smile as if your mouth contained

unmelted butter,

And vacuously pads between the pavement and

the gutter.

May each white plug inside your ear turn into

wax or foam.

May all your tunes be wiped by magnets on

your way back home.

When you are old, may you stand rigid, like a

rusted tripod,

To punish you for wandering while listening to

your iPod.

And since you stray into my wheels because

your thumbs are texting,

I offer you a heartfelt uish to add to one great

exting-.

I hope that you expire in a pool, a pond or

midden,

And hear the squeal of tyres, very elegantly

ridden --

The rubber round the wheels into which you

push with shins and knees.

Please die, you foul pedestrian, of some CROSSWORD

unknown disease,

And when you come before your God with

angels in his train,

Let Him present you with a broken pedal and a

chain. …

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