Urban myth number 1

Pickles was as skinny as a lat and white as a ghost. His welfare glasses and baggy trousers made him look worse in every way. He was always pale, even in that three months of heat-wave we had in '95. On those blue-sky mornings he was the white, fluffy cloud. Joint in hand, slowly circling Stephen's green to where his mates hung out. I'd watch him from my perch on a stool outside Bendini and Shaw at the top of Grafton Street. He cycled like treacle. On Moroccan black.
I didn't see Pickles very often as his company gave a lot of motorcycle jobs to the push-bikes. They could be anywhere...out in the docks, Chapelizod... mindlessly boring runs for a pittance. I felt very lucky jobbing between the canals by comparison.
And then all changed. In Bruxelles our gang heard the news over a pint. Pickles...was still alive!! 

Let me explain! Pickle's company had the blood run. Pelican House up on the canal was where the Blood Transfusion Service Board had a ready supply of blood. And the quickest way to get emergency bags to city hospitals was by bicycle. Think about it! No traffic lights, no jams, no waiting.
Pickles was halfway through his run, two bags of A-negative buried in the satchel over his shoulder when, even at his snail pace, the worst happened. A Daisy. Daisy , a derogatory term given to the old dears on high-heels tottering out of office blocks all over the city, ramped up on Prozac or valium or whatever it took them to get through their grey lives; Daisy happened. She stepped out off a kerb at Busarus (pronounced Bus R'Us by yank tourists) and Pickles was knocked onto the broad of his back in the middle of the road.
So far,so good. But there was a perfect storm brewing. A newbie cop from around the corner in Store street station kept the crowd and traffic away. Pickles was alert. Life was about to go on. Blood. A pensioner saw blood. Blood flowing from Pickle's head. A lot of crimson blood forming a fan shape around a very pale and disoriented accident victim. Some old dear screamed. An ambulance was called. Pickles tried to sit up but was forcibly held down lest he parted with a wee bit of his brain.
Pickles protested. His glasses were out of reach causing him to squirm and search like a desperate man. His radio, attached to the satchel underneath him crackled and barked orders looking for 16. "Sixteen where are you?","Come in sixteen!". The Guard wouldn't let Pickles budge. The newly arrived ambulance crew tried to comfort the obviously brain-damaged kid who was fighting,fighting with all his might and shouting that it wasn't his blood! Not his blood at all!
We all sat in Bruxelles that evening, heaving with laughter, celebrating Pickles finest moment.