I hate bicycle couriers

I was starting to worry that my capacity for vitriolic rage and hatred was depleting of late. Then, on my way to work today I saw something that brought it all rushing back. Bicycle couriers. These specimens are a filthy sub breed, dare I say unter menschen. They congregate in central London with their stupid bikes with mini handlebars and they drink raucously on the streets dressed like gabba ravers from Bristol or Italian lycra-clad rapists. They get drunk then do wheelies while all their decrepit friends cheer like a pride of gibbons in the Savannah. But their greatest sin is the way in which they clearly consider themselves to be a sort of SAS of postal services, an elite force. While, in fact, they are a load of dossers who realised they could make money jumping lights, bunny hopping over curbs, swearing at cars, not stopping at zebra crossings and generally being total cunts. I can’t wait for the day I get to witness one of them being slowly crushed under the wheels of a large white van after going the wrong way up a one-way street.