How did it all start?

I became a bike courier because I quit my old job, because the new manager was unbearable. I didn’t have another job lined up, so I ended up jobless for months and months. Well actually it was month and month – about two months – but it felt like two years. I simply couldn’t get a job. I got turned down for every one I applied for. I felt rejected, I felt worthless, I felt like I shouldn’t have let my manager get to me. I should have stood my ground. Then I should have taken her into the kitchen, murdered her and hid her body underneath all the steaks in the freezer.

I really should have gone on the dole while I was looking for work. That would have made things so much easier, but I got into this mindset where every day I’d think “shall I go down the job centre and sign on? Nah, there’s no need, something will come up soon, and besides, I’ve got £500 overdraft left to keep me alive until I start a new job.”

So I was scraping by on my overdraft, drinking 20 cups of tea a day and nuff dragon stout to kill the boredom, then after that, I was scraping by on coins that I found lying around or down the side sofa. Then that ran out, so I thought “I wonder if there’s any money IN the sofa?”. So I actually cut all the way across the fabric at the bottom of the sofa to see if any money was in there, and lo and behold, when I tipped the sofa forward, four quid fell out. Which I spent on BEER instead of food. IDIOT!

It got so bad that I ended up living on about 50p a day for food – which would be a loaf of cheap white bread from Aldi (24p) and a tin of beans or two (11p each if I remember rightly). I’m surprised I didn’t die of rickets or scurvy. White bread is about as nutritious as plastic.

How the hell did this happen? I had sunk to the depths of, erm, desperation, and, erm, depravity or something.

During a rather heavy Dragon Stout session I remembered the first time I started coming to Birmin’am, and seeing this cool-looking geezer with dreadlocks, a Cannondale with a lefty fork, sunglasses and a mean look on his face. He looked like a proper badman, who would murder any driver who got in his way. He rode up to Natwest bank and delivered something. That was before I even had a mountain bike. I remember thinking that job looks great – couldn’t do it on my BMX though. I struggled to remember the name of the company whose logo was on his bag and searched for it on the internet.

When I found the advert for the courier job, I couldn’t have dialled the number any faster. The guy on the phone sounded a bit dodgy, but when he told me what he told me, I couldn’t stop a MASSIVE grin from appearing on my face. Their only bicycle courier had just left the company and they were looking for a replacement. What a fucking amazing stroke of luck in this time of need! I was going to have money! I was going to be able to afford proper food! I wasn’t going to have to rob that old lady! AND I WOULD BE ABLE TO BUY BEER!!! And, less importantly, I was going to get to ride my bike a lot.

So, here I am, in a dead-end job – unskilled, manual labour, wearing out my knees and shoulders, risking getting killed by crap drivers (or my own inability not to ride like a suicidal maniac), getting bored when there’s no work to do, not being paid much. GREAT!!!

See, not all stories have a happy ending.