Got that World Cup race at Strathpeffer on video. The skinny monk moaned after getting off two yards and hoisting bike on his shoulder. It had been the worst period of weather at that tome of year ever so everthing was sodden.
I marshaled that race as a ruse to get into the nights pasta party. It was fun. Got my pasta and cream cakes. Got moaned at for going for seconds and partook in the foodfight with baked tatties and cream stuff. Next day I didn’t marshall. I got what I wanted and the irish bitch in charge of the event company was hideously awful so felt no guilt.
My mates got all their bike bits nicked. I’m shit sleeping in tents. Too many axe murderers. Anyway I heard some whispering and said. Guys someones at your bikes (2yards away chained to fence) they said “na bollocks” only to get up next day with no saddles or seatposts etc. others faired much worse with front ends gone and bikes gone. Anyway my mates would have had a long ride back to the east coast without saddles so they took the train.
The sight of Tomac on the mud chute was the bollox.