I’ll ride with you



On the 86 tram. Or any tram. Or the bus. Or a taxi. Probably not on Uber – they sound a bit dodgy.

Or the train. The Metro train. Squished up against you. Not minding that sometimes, when the train lurches, you drag on the back of my shirt like a beaten defender conceding a professional free kick, while I push my palm flat against the roof, hoping my shoulder doesn’t subluxate.

I’ll ride with you. Why wouldn’t I? I’ll ride with most people. Not Rupert Murdoch. He’s a cunt. But most people.

I’ll ride with you. And you should know that if you say or do anything ridiculous I may be forced to transcribe it on my Facebook page or on my blog. That’s just a little caveat. I don’t mind if you do the same to me. It’s only fair.

I’ll ride with you. I couldn’t give a stuff what you’re wearing or why. There’s a guy on the 86 who wears only a loin cloth emblazoned with dozens of pictures of Karl Stefanovic in various poses. He says it’s there to give him the power of xray vision. I ride with him; of course I’ll ride with you. And if someone has a go at you because of what you’re wearing, I’ll give you a sec to deal with the bell-end yourself, but if you tell me you’re a bit rusty on the old reverse dragon kick, I can intercede.

I’ll ride with you.


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