Big Boys Toys

They looked at it and snorted.

‘You’re having a laugh,’ said Banjo. ‘They’re not authentic.’

‘They are,’ replied Duffy. ‘Genuine OEM parts, them. Got them off the manufacturer’s website.’

Banjo and Clem were unconvinced. In the twenty-four hours since they had last met. Duffy had modified his ride, fitting non-standard wheel arches that were significantly more flared. Embarrassingly so. They even dwarfed his ‘Extreme Street Racer’ wheels.

Their colour didn’t help. Instead of Magma Meltdown, the eye watering shade of metallic tangerine that Duffy had painted the rest of the bodywork, the tint of these new, bolt-on arches was a shiny, inconsistent brown.

As though they were sun damaged, redundant stock that had been left too long on a warehouse shelf.

Which, of course, they were.

‘They are not official,’ said Banjo, pointing harder at the offending accessories. ‘You’ve got them off eBay… or summat.’

Duffy held fast. `They’re OEM. End of.’

‘Who’d you get to fit ‘em?’ Clem asked, crouching to take a better look. A rasping wheeze fell out of him.

‘Uncle. The one that owns the-’

‘Garage behind the SPAR,’ interrupted Clem. ‘Yeah, we do know.’

Banjo unwrapped a steak slice. ‘Well, he’s done a shit job of the filling.’

‘Not finished yet,’ said Duffy, turning to examine Banjo’s whip. ‘Still looks better than your piece of shit though, y’ain’t even got low-pros.’

‘Like you need low profile tyres,’ said Banjo.

‘I did the other day,’ said Duffy, his bravado suddenly bolstered by his bullshit. ‘Me and Batesy had a race down the B476.’

‘Riiiiiight…’

‘Fucking did! Anyway, we were neck and neck until we got to the roundabout outside the post-office, then he almost rolled it trying to make the turn. Standard tyres, see. No traction. I burned him on the bend.’

‘That is such bullshit,’ said Banjo, spitting flakes of pastry. ‘Batesy’s got a 220GT.’

‘So?’

He pointed at Duffy’s ride. ‘That thing wouldn’t get near him.’

‘I didn’t say I overtook him, did I? Skinned him on the corner. The corner. Y’get me?’

They didn’t get him. But understanding wasn’t the point of these meetings. They were all about passing time and getting out of the house. A house that they still lived in with their parents.

The three friends had lofty asphalt aspirations, fuelled by countless hours spent watching muscular men drive even more muscular cars blindly over cliffs and out of the back of cargo planes.

This daily scene however, which consisted of them bullshitting about their ride while parked up in the COOP car park, was the closest any of them really came to four-wheeled action.

No, in a one petrol station town, these flimsy fictions of fast and furious were what they lived for.

That and a Greggs steak slice.

Passed the time though.

Clem opened a packet of cheese and onion.

‘Speaking of the 220GT,’ he said, not offering them around, ‘my Dad reckons I can have one for my birthday.’

‘Fuck o-’ Banjo started to say, but the words were drowned out by a loud horn.

The three of them looked across at a lime green Ford Focus ST that was charging along the nearby road. A red headed youth was in the driver’s seat, his heavily tattooed arm extended out of the open window.

‘Wankers!’ he shouted, flicking the appropriate hand gesture in their direction. ‘Stay off my fucking roads or I’ll flatten you.’

A moment later, he and his Dynamax Bullet exhaust were roaring up the A448.

The three youths shouted weak insults back, grateful that they couldn’t be heard over the rapidly quietening growl of the speeding car.

Bought back down to earth, they felt embarrassed for themselves. Duffy looked around to see if anyone had witnessed their humiliation. Thankfully not.

Banjo broke the silence first.

‘Shall we go and get a sausage roll?’

‘Good idea,’ said Clem, tipping the bag of crisps upside down into his mouth. ‘I’ve only had one today.’

‘Let’s saddle up then,’ said Banjo.

They each returned to their vehicles and prepared to leave, Clem wheezing more than usual.

Then, motors whirring at maximum revs, they pulled out of the COOP car park and headed into town – a three-strong convoy of clinically obese young men, their rolls of fat spilling over the grey armrests of their mobility scooters.

Each careful to stay on the pavement.