Re:
Having tried all the techniques suggested on all those wacky cycling websites, including monkey juice and poison frog ink, I had nearly given up on getting my diamond encrusted graphene seatpin free from my custom Halfords Apollo frame. “What am I to do?”, I muttered to myself as I flicked through the back of last summer’s Innovations Magazine. There, in the smallest of classified adverts, was my solution! “Stuck Posts Sorted Fast!”, was all it read, with a link to a website. No sooner had I opened the website on my internet machine there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a man-like figure dressed bizarrely in an oily boilersuit, incongruously sporting a generic superhero mask and cape. The sort you get from Aldi. He had a flatbed truck with what looked like a hundred knackered bike frames on it, most of which had at least a seatpost in. “I am only half a mile up the road”, he cheerfully informed me as he threw my beloved bicycle onto the pile, and his pimply young sidekick tied it down. I was rather concerned, by my fear was allayed as I thought back to all those impressive testimonials I had yet to read on his website. “Should ‘ave ‘er sorted in a couple of hours. Pop by at three to collect mate!”, he shouted back as he gunned the Iveco up the hill, leaving a mass of toxic exhaust fumes hanging in the air. After my usual carrot and coriander soup with oatcakes I set off to find his yard, the sun was shining and I wanted to get out on my bike! I arrived a tad early at the imposing yard, its huge steel gates adorned with a number of painted over company names. Imagine my surprise when I pushed open one of the gates, as I was confronted with the sight of my precious bike slung by rusty chains between a fork lift and a tree! A spotty young lad was giving the forklift beans whilst the man I entrusted my greatest possession to, (a man I now know to be the shark behind “Bottom Brackets Beaten”, “Klein Seat Tube Amendment”, “Manitou Resilience Enhancment”, and a number of other schemes featured on Crimewatch), wailed on my graphene seatpost with a jackhammer whilst emitting the worse series of curse words I have heard since leaving the marine corps! Still, he only charged me fifty quid, and in this day and age that has to be a bargain!