3.02.07 by Buffalo Bill
“Why can’t they dress up as milk-men instead?” , asked a messenger outside the pub the other night, with a nod over his shoulder at a small crowd of them standing a few feet away.
You know what I mean: Bianchi Pista or a Specialized Langster; SIDIs that haven’t been scuffed or Converse that haven’t been repaired with parcel tape; a Chrome bag that’s still water-proof or a brightly coloured Crumpler; no radio or holster on the strap, only a mobile phone holder or an MP3 player; black Campy hat with a rainbow stripe that has an unbroken peak; a spoke-card from an Alleycat a friend gave them; clean Dickies; no sweat-stains on the t-shirt.
Some messengers call them posengers. Missengers, Tofu called them. I saw a lot of them at the Bicycle Film Festival, hanging around, and taking in the vibes.
But why all the bitching, guys? ‘Real’ messengers complaining about ‘fakengers’ is about as interesting and worthwhile as me telling anyone who will listen that when I first started riding fixies there was only 4 other messengers on fixed in the whole city, or that the correct term is ‘fixed-wheel’ not ‘fixed-gear’. See how annoying it is?
Why do some messengers get resentful when they see other cyclists engaging in the sincerest form of flattery? It’s a mystery. It’s not as if anyone could mistake a fakenger for a messenger, for one thing, the fakenger doesn’t smell nearly as bad, and for another he (or she) is probably paying for his own drinks.
I guess all you fakenger-haters will say that I am only standing up for fakengers now because I am one. And you would be right, I am a fakenger. London Bicycle Fakenger Association anyone?
~See also this article.~