My guide to Great Marlborough was a cheerful courier named Pete, who'd been fired the day I met him, and was hanging out with a lager in hand when I arrived at around 10 a.m. The scene here was mostly short-haul couriers. "Great Marlborough? They're a bunch of nutters up there," one of the Smithfield guys warned me,"whatever you do, don't let them take you for a ride!" Let's just say, by the looks of them, that if they were in a large group leaving a soccer game, I would have walked quickly in another direction. But maybe looks are deceiving. I heard one tale of a courier who, after being cut up by a cab, rode alongside him punching his window and yelling at him. He was so distracted, that he didn't notice a red light until too late, losing the front end and trapping his leg beneath his bike. Cab pulls up, driver gets out. "Great," the courier thinks, "I've had it now. The cabbie will stomp me while I'm trapped here." Instead the cab driver, rolling his eyes with a sort of "how do we find ourselves in these situations?" look, lifted the bike off him. Both apologized and went on their way.