Just in from the ride home. What the Biggins has happened to mopeds in London? In the 70s and 80s, a moped was something you stole from your best mate to try to get Jennifer Bakerâs knickers frothy. But I have to report that this is very much no longer the case! Now that Iâve given up the old Â£100 a week train ticket from deepest Sussex to London Bridge, I find myself daily on the A23. Pulling up to the lights in some charming hamlet such as Brixton, all is right with the world as I dissolve into reverie, thinking such happy thoughts as âWow. I must be someone really special to have such a shiny motorcycleâ or wondering how my penis has grown 2.47 inches since the purchase. Or even, âBoll0cks. This didnât used to be a one-way streetâ But, Oh Sons of Khaki, my reverie is swiftly awoken by mopeds. All around me. 97 of the little twunts like mosquitoes surrounding me and overfeckingtaking your gallant hero to go to the very front of the front. Then once the lights change they âspringâ forwards at all of 10 mph (and they feckinâ wobble as they do it!) meaning I now need to navigate through the little sods to be at the forefront of the march to London Bridge. I have a BMW 1200GS. They have mopeds. Ergo I am in charge. Jesus suffering wanksock, one of them even started beeping for me to get out of his way when I couldnât get through between two vans. I politely turned around and once Iâd told him to fuck the fuck off and that if he beeped me again heâd need to brace himself for a five-knuckle boarding party, he lifted his lid to show the visage of a 50 year old librarian. A 50 year old female librarian! Now, I am a mild-mannered sort of chap as you know but if thereâs one thing I hate, itâs cnuting librarians. Having aquainted her with a whole new world of professional swearing, I attempted to ride off only to be surrounded once more by 42 of the sods on Vespas. Do these thicksickles have some sort of union on the go? I mean, where the hell have they come from? It never used to be like this. They undertake, forcing cars out into my bit of the road. They cut up cyclists in bus lanes (fair enough) and generally hoon about like they own the place. Which they do not. I do. Bastards. I understand why they have mopeds. Hell, I even sort of think of them as fellow bikers (although what the fuck the utter, utter cock-end on London Bridge was doing this morning on a Piaggio with a sort of lap rug made out of tartan is beyond me. I mean, why would you want a feckinâ RUG on a moped? Is he some sort of compulsive onanist? Is he knocking one out at the lights? I think we should be told. And if you do need a rug then why have one in tartan? If he's got The Gay then why can't he just buy a pink moped and be done with it? GS12s are super-het so I'm safe like but FFS. Lap. Rug. Tartan. Not words one wants to see again in a sentence). Having said that, Darwinism comes into it in the long run perhaps. Over the last month I've only seen 1 bike accident (GSXR 750) but off the top of my head I've seen 3 scooters mangled - including one flattened by a Maserati Quattro Porte last night, one dickhead going flying through the air in Battersea after an abrupt T-bone stop (that's what you get for flying down a bus lane) and one flattened by mummy dropping off the kids (Big sign saying School Slow The F.uck Down) However, on the good side, I did see what has got to be the sexiest thing ever in Brixton this morning â the lesser spotted traffic officer â lumpy jumper model Mark 1. This must be the feckin' perfect missus. I mean, when Iâm riding like a twat sheâll sort me out. If Iâm in a spot of bother I can leave it to her to deal with and best of all, when Iâm pissed up and decide to take the bike home, she can arrest me. Kinky or what! Then she can let me go! Probly. So, I shall leave you with a poem. Hereâs to you my BMW Lady (usual apologia to Betjeman). You came into my life on the A twenty-threeeee, I had visions of us together on the way to the seeeea, But you didnât notice me on my shiny new steeeeed You just rode past me and my heart it did bleeeeed. But I donât care too much âcos I'm not sure I'm right See, you're probly quite racist and not all that bright And you were really quite fat and your Beemer was shoite And lasses are rubbish when it comes to bikes So I think Iâll just leave it if that would be alright? Yeah, just leave me alone you fascistic bitch I never even noticed you proply, so swivel on this! But I quite like the arrest idea - I could start a fight Or to make it easier, you can smash my brake light! Yes, arrest me you harridan, Kick in my back light! Iâll be your prisoner I wonât put up a fight. But now Iâm worried again about you being so fat, And the suspension on my Beemer might not cope with that. So itâs off to the loo for a five minute thrap while I think of stuffing your tail-pipe back at your flat.