Cyclists. Not the Joe average out in the woods with the kids for a Sunday afternoon peddling into heart attack country and a plethora of snapped ligaments, but the type called the “club riders” who congregate in packs in the local B&Q car parks like wasps around a discarded ice cream cone, or more aptly, flies around a steaming turd.

Clad in budgie smugglers, gaudy dayglo lycra tops, avacado helmets and rainbow glasses, they look for all the world like a pack of neon-nazis (which they are).

When enough of the pack have assembled, usually around the busiest time on the road, they fly off into the traffic and create a defence formation that Pardew could only dream of. Often five abreast to prevent anyone overtaking them, they will then proceed at a sedate pace creating a build up of pissed off motorists behind them. God help anyone who encounters them on a B road, expect scratches to your paintwork as they undertake you. Cream one of them, whilst trying to avoid driving into a ditch and they will always ensure there are plenty of witnesses to say it was your fault.

Don’t even think of getting out into the countryside to avoid them, guaranteed that a whole hive of them will apppear out of nowhere and force you off the road.

All in all, a bunch of selfish cunts.

Nominated by: Toadspanker