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the lauriston is full of dicks. i'd rather eat my own shit than sample the offerings from that pretentious, yuppie infested gastropub. all those liberal art/media whores infesting hackney like a plague of boils, suppurating all over the tables whilst eating their smoked pizzas, hugely expensive fixed wheel bikes posed outside.
all of which makes it ten times better than broadway market. "i'll have the black olives please"... "really? that'll be seven hundred and sixty three pounds per egg cup".
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i have a condor acciaio and the paint looks lovely, but bits flake off faster than a leper's fingers.
when putting a bottle cage on i slipped with a teeny allen key, resulting in a big chip.
the seat stays have a number of gouges out where i think a stray rizla blew across my path. i wouldn't mind, but for well over a grand i expected a paint job, not a light dusting of icing sugar.
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*"Yeah, I'll take one, the one with the single wheel.
I used to have a New Deal t-shirt in nearly that colour, which I loved, and lost when I was about 13. It then returned to me in the best way: a few years later I hooked up with this girl and ended up losing my virginity with her (happy days). After the deed was done and I was feeling smug she said: "By the way, you remember that t-shirt you leant me when I was cold on new Year's Eve, do you want it back?"
Best. Night. Ever. (well at that point in my life anyway)"*
sounds like an elaborate anecdote invented to convince u sall that you aren't a virgin. ah ah ah. ten dorrar, new deal t shirt, you wan sucky sucky? i got frame for you, plenny much.