This old motorcycle (licence #S24-297) may have provided you with a little joyride after you stole it from the West End the other night, but nothing will prepare you for what the Devil has in store for your spleen, which is now destined to suddenly balloon to the size of a basketball in the midst of a delicate social situation and then explode from your throat all over the person you are in the middle of deeply offending. After that you will be drawn and quartered, laughed at and pissed on, smacked and ridiculed before your messy bits are cast into the end-of-night bar well at some random Surrey shit hole.

If you, dear reader, chance upon the douche who lifted this prized possession of my pal, please let us know. Don’t attempt to confront him yourself, because spent spleen reeks and we prefer you free of odour.

UPDATE: Blessed be the internet! I’ve been told that a tweeter has found the bike, post-joyride, in a parking lot far from the theft, and that the police are now re-uniting it with its owner, which reminds me of a joke: Knock knock. Who’s there? The devil. The devil who? The devil balloons your spleen.