Hello! Here is my happy story about bicycles, dwarves, and Richard Archer from Hard-Fi. It’s in three chapters!
I have bought a bicycle. Having a bicycle is brilliant, even if you can’t just put your legs in the air and go forward by yelping enthusiastically. It’s exercise, it’s saving me money, it’s all the best things in the world and I can’t shriek at a high enough pitch to express my love for my new bicycle. I’ve only got one problem with my new bicycle – it’s too small, and I hate it.
I knew it was going to be too small, from the moment the 5’6″ sales assistant looked me up and down, and said “I’ll put you down for the twenty inch frame. That’s what I ride, and we’re the same height.”
I’m six feet tall, give or take OK TAKE half an inch. I’m a full penis taller than this guy. But you can’t say to a tiny fella “excuse me, knee-high superguy, wake up and smell the congenital defect – you’re a tiddler”. I dated someone who was 5’8″ once, and he’d have a spaz attack if you prefaced any insult with the word “little”. I can only imagine how someone two inches more miniscule – and substantially deluded about his own height – would react if I rested my chin on his head and told him he was like a dinky toy version of a real man. He’d probably hop from foot to foot and shake his pea-sized fist at me.
Partly to prevent this humiliating situation, and partly because I’m convinced he’s a biter, I console myself with the idea that I can just put the seat up myself. Turns out, right, I’m so fat it goes down again while I cycle. Lol! Fat people. In retrospect, though, I think I made the right decision. Cycling with my knees bumping against my chest is a small price to pay for the dignity of a man who isn’t as tall as he thinks he is.
The theme I will be taking from Chapter One to Chapter Two is “a simmering strangeness around short people”.
A genuine dwarf came into the office, yesterday. He was promoting a Lord of the Rings game, under the pretence that he was a Hobbit.
As a professional dwarf, he’s completely aware of his position. And when I say his position, I mean his position as a man who’s as sexless to women as a disabled gay. Far from discouraging him, he realises that this means he can abuse his position as honorary child by groping the bums of ladies. No well-groomed lady will shriek in horror at the leering advances of a dwarf. Instead, they will laugh, and say “oh, you! You’ve seen what we do and you’re copying us!”
So, this sex pest mini-man is perfectly aware of, and profiting from, his shortness. It should, in theory, be perfectly acceptable for me to go up to him and say “can I have a photo of you riding me like a horse, please?” He must get cunts like me coming up to him with this kind of shit all the time.
TOP FIVE REQUESTS MADE OF PROFESSIONAL DWARF
- Can you ride me like a horse please, like I am a big proud horse
- Can I knock on your overhanging forehead please, I want to see whether it’s like a block of wood or an aquarium
- Please can I stand you on the handle-end of a fork, then slam my hand on the stabbling end, and you go flying through the air
- Can I see your teeth please, I want to see if you’re adapted for an omnivorous lifestyle
- Get your cocktail sausage hands off my tits please, this stopped being charming some minutes ago and I can see your erection
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I got up a few times and moved backwards and forwards, but I got nowhere near actually saying “ride me” to a dwarf. Annoyingly, this is because I respect people in real life, getting my kicks instead from being a dick on the internet.
The problem is, this leaves me without a photo of me being ridden like a horse by a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit. Which I really, really, wanted. God, I can’t explain how much I want that photo.
The theme I will be taking from Chapter Two to Chapter Three is “lost opportunities, and a lingering preoccupation with being ridden like a horse”.
RICHARD ARCHER FROM HARD-FI
I’ve met Richard Archer from Hard-Fi before, when he was in less popular bands like Contempo, Parachute, Transitional XHTML, Richard Archer And The Randy Binmen, and the extremely unpopular Jewstabber. He’s a friend of a friend, but I’ve always been a bit too dazzled by him to ever say anything other than “OH WOW A SONG ARE YOU GAY”. This was certainly the first time I’d met him since he became an international superstar, and toast-chomping spokesperson for the underclasses, or whatever it is the NME thinks he is.
Because I’m concentrating on not saying anything too obvious, my brain turns into an ale-fuelled tumble dryer. He’s not being a prick at all, like I’d expected. Like, pretty much, I demand of my reputedly-cunt celebrities.Â He’s responding to questions without holding court, and being unassuming, modest and aware of the madness – but all I’m really thinking for two hours is “I wonder if he’ll let me take a photo of him riding me like a horse”.
He’s got more to lose than a dwarf dressed as a Hobbit, who – it could easily be argued – has nothing to lose but a life of punishing introspection and sex offences. Richard Archer’s enough of a celebrity, and any photo of him riding me like a horse is going to look so much like doggy-style sauciness that it might compromise his position as an available lady’s man.
Driven by the lost opportunity of the morning, where I swore to myself I’d never not ask someone to ride me like a horse ever again, I asked him if he would do this one favour for me. Did he comply? HOW, SIR, DO YOU LIKE THESE APPLES?
Richard Archer from Hard-Fi, thank you for riding me like a horse. And may I take this opportunity to reassure any of his fans that it isn’t going in. It’s just sort of sliding around the small of my back. OH SHUT UP LOG