original pirate material

monday afternoon, i'm normally seeing out the first shift of the week, today, i've got a day off, the routine, boring jobs of everyday life behind me, better get the bike out then and get out for a ride, a hundred miles out, [well one hundred and five if you want to split hair's] time for some some fuel, i grab a coffee at the same time, make sure the lid is secure and stick it down the front of my jacket, a recipe for disaster i know, but, i really don't want to drink it on a garage forecourt with the smell of diesel and sour-faced lorry drivers, i head out instead and pull off into a gateway five or six miles down the road, as i sit looking at the ducati, listening to it cool and drink my java, i realise just how much i love this bike, when i ride it, i'm in a state of zen, i really don't know how i arrive at my destination, it's just so easy to ride, fast and a long way, munching the miles with consummate ease, home well after dark, i'm in for a bollocking, we are away tomorrow, the annual bailey holiday, don't know if i'll post or not yet, i'll see you on the other side......

charity shop find's

day off today, brilliant, none of that 'monday morning feeling' for me, couple of job's to do in town, i can't resist nipping into the air ambulance shop and oxfam for a browse through their books and cd's, double cd of rare 'pye' label northern soul for a quid, yes please, turin brakes, post clubbing nu-folk-acoustic chill-out?, another quid, the mighty john legend, 'once again' [lent it someone and never got it back, classic] and the pixies, 'surfer rosa' never owned this on disc amazingly, got a download, but whats that? it's just something in the ether, which brings us back to turin brakes 'ether song', it's not thrown together you know......... quality sounds for the price of a subway sandwich, support your local charity shop.

sandpaper kisses

so, i've sold the harley, still getting loads of call's about doing it, but, you know what? i actually feel really good about it, the world doesn't start and end with harley davidson, don't believe the hype, as a standard motorcycle they are sadly lacking, heavy, slow, shit brakes, don't handle, vibration inducing white finger, crude suspension, suspect finish, basic and slow, tweeked? a different kettle of fish all-together, the people fuck me off, i don't want to join you in a ride-out, show and shine or harley only rally, hog-roast, weener bobbing or 'trade in saturday', i'm a motorcyclist me, love all bikes, from the latest jappers to classic's, scooters, choppers and customs, cafe racers, streetfighters and race bikes, i spend all my hard-earned on them, every minute working, modifying, reading about them or racing them, what do we have in common? fuck all, motorcycles, a great blank canvas to stamp your individuality on, get over it, i'm glad i'm out of the rat-race me and for everyone who tell's me my bonnie isn't a 'proper' bonnie? it's made in england, what do you think owner's of harley side-valves were told when the knuckles came out?  panheads? the mark of the devil, shovelhead's? they'll never catch on, too modern, blockheads? [especially the fxr series so coveted by todays custom builders] get the fuck outta here! you know what? i was there, built and raced big ,70's / early 80's gs suzuki's and katana's, built a cb 750 sohc honda twin when you could still pick them up for peanuts, me and barse practically invented the bmw cut-down / cafe racer thing twenty years ago, yeah, i can back that up monkey boy, want to see my photo's? what were you doing? oh yeah, colouring pictures in primary school, don't ever tell me i've sold out, just to back it up, here's me on my old four-speed, santee framed rigid, fat tire's, 16 inch rims, no paint, cool-as-fuck sporty, yeah?  what you sayin' factory boyyyy?..........[i'm waiting, nah, still can't hear you....]

we all fucking hate leeds.....

francis lee of derby county vs norman hunter of leeds, check this out! proper........

football

after the fixtures are published, the next dates i'm looking for after the local derby with the red dogs are the games against 'dirty leeds', again, so much history between the two clubs, cloughies disastorous forty day tenure of the club following his departure, [famously depicted in the book and film 'the damned united'] the on pitch brawl between franny lee and norman hunter, [01/11/75].never to be forgotten by anyone who was there, the fight carried on down the tunnel, so much passion, so much hatred between the rival groups of supporters, it was always going to be a big game, especially after our defeat to the little team down the a52 last weekend and the sacking of 'non-league nigel' his replacement being one mr mclaren, ex- derby coach [and alongside jim smith giving derby county their most succesful run in the top division since 'ol big 'ead for forty years] after an amazing fight back midweek against ipswich, four-one down at half time, a half time pep talk from mclaren saw the rams fighting back to an amazing 4-4 draw when we looked dead and buried, the rams were brilliant today, smashing the visitors 3-1, we were stronger all over the park and secured our first home win of the season, the rams faithful were up on their feet to a man, woman and child, supporting the team and recognising the effort, mclaren had a poor spell down the road at the red dog's a couple of years ago, so to hear the derby fan's singing 'steve mclaren is a ram, he hates forest!' was music to the ears, oh yeah, that's TEN times we have beaten 'dirty leeds' in a row too, that's TEN times, fucking brilliant!............

hymn for the dudes....

'you've bought what?'  'you need a chat with yourself mate!' 'sold the harley?' 'twat!' 'why?' 'fucking idiot!' 'bailey, you're a cunt!' well, there you go, just a few snatches of conversation from the last couple of day's from my harley-davidson riding friend's on my revelation that i've moved the sporty on and bought a hinkley bonny, right, let's get a few things straight, this is a photo of the same model i've bought, it's green, british racing green, un-polished, un-chromed engine cases, bog-stock, [bar the tacho conversion] and i'm going to make 'subtle' changes to it, i can't live with that back mudguard, the indicators, silencers, front brake caliper, big shiny, headlight, footpegs, sprocket cover, chain guard, shock's, front mudguard and mirror's, apart from that, well, i reckon i can chop and change it to suit, it's a big, heavy bastard in standard form, but, isn't that what it's all about? [i'm thinking lower, wide bar's, re-positioned indicators, no rear mud-guard, shortened front mud-guard, brembo caliper's, big floating disc, bar-end rear mirror, earl's stainless hoses and fittings, a sprinkle of titanium, stainless and carbon-fibre, keihin carbs, a one-off exhaust and some decent suspender's] yeah, a mild work-over, a little massaging, a little fettling and tweeking, stay tuned race-fan's, it's never an easy road.........

i can only dissapoint u

yes, yes, yes, i know it's the 'new' triumph patent plate, not the 'original' one, after a week of going to see 'old' 'original' triumph's i'm getting 'pretty vexed' as my old grandma used to say, as per previous post, 'patina' is no excuse for a hastily assembled, mis-matched bunch of parts, care-worn, rusty and neglected and top dollar because the seller thinks it's a 'classic', listen, i'm old enough, uglier enough and been around the block enough times to recognise a pile of poo from a hundred yards, i get in the car and head home,the comments of the owners ringing in my ears, 'it's a classic', 'you won't find a better one at this price', 'it's an original bike, only going to go up in value' fuck off, i'm not a mug, i know a nigh on forty year old machine is going to show some signs of life, like a woman, most bikes get better with age, there's no way i'm going to pay four grand for a bike that's worth fifteen hundred quid at best as a total resto job, i'm not expecting concourse condition, just an honest, well used bike, complete with all those little niggles, i cannot believe that when you turn up at someones gaff and you can't start the bike because the battery is flat they wonder why you are slightly perplexed! and then you want me to part with a sixth of my annual income? bollock's to that! it takes too much earning, put it back in the shed you money grabbing bastard! so, steve, the bloke who's bought my sporty get's in touch, he wants me to drop the bike off at his gaff because he hasn't sorted out his insurance, my heart sinks, i didn't want to ride the sporty again, i'm resigned to it going, but, after my fruitless trips this past week looking at ka-ka, i'm wondering if i've done the right thing, out into the heavy commuter traffic, it's a dismal, cloudy, drizzly night, i'm carving the traffic and lane splitting, you forget how much fun it is commuting on a bike, leaving the car owners fuming in the endless nose-to-tails lines of human stagnation, the bark of the supertrapps  echoing off the boring sheet metal euro-boxes, my bar-end mirror disappears as i clip a lane-changing bmw, i see it arcing away as the bars snatch to the left, a little too close for comfort me'thinks, he hit's his horn, i'm not stopping, there's no way he can catch my un-lit, black and silver, small reg.plate, [please, remember to ride responsibly, alway's wear a helmet, preserve nature and be nice to other road user's] what a fucking blast! the last ride on the sporty, i ship up to steve's and we do the transaction, paperwork and cash- money exchanged and he gives me a tour of his absolutely epic bike collection, [more to come on this one], we head home in his old knacker of a car, like me he thinks cars are for getting groceries and fetching part's, i get a text later that evening, 'couldn't resist it, been out on the sporty, love it! cheer's, keep in touch' brilliant, makes it all worthwhile, steve's got plan's for the bike, he's on about ohlin's right-way-up forks and piggy back shocks and a black, orange and white traditional harley race paint-job, into work this a.m. and i get talking to a mate, who's mates got a mate who's selling a triumph bonneville, a little digging and i discover it's a 'hinckley' not a 'proper' bonneville, i dismiss it straight away, then i think about it as i'm walking the dog's, i do a little digging on the 'tinterweb and do some research, pre-ninety-five models are 790cc, air/oil cooled, dohc and produce around 61 bhp in standard form, uhhm, set of carb's, unrestricted exhaust, nothing too radical, more 'medium cool massaged' rather than full on engineering exercise, a little bit of whoo a little bit of whaa, i go and have a look, whats to lose?  it's a genuine, clean bike, not immaculate but with a full service history, full year's ticket, a t100 rev counter and dash fitted as an optional extra, i begin to 'photo-shop' it in my head, [alway's done this, even before computers were mainstream, cutting and shaping, blacking out this part and adding that part], bloody hell, i can do one of these, i drop him a oner as a deposit, bike on the road, ready to go and a grand in my arse pocket to kick it into shape? no-brainer, game on..........

it's great when you're straight.....yeah

it's a lovely autumn day in dear, old derbyshire, i have P.M.T, [post match tension, beaten yesterday by our local hated rivals. the red-dog forest bastards, in an ill-tempered local derby game that saw us down to ten men, our keeper save a penalty and the filth squeeze a goal against the run of play to secure the east midland bragging rights, our manager got sacked too, although i think he had taken us as far as he could have and i don't think he was the right man for the job, even though he was the son of old big 'ead, they shouldn't have done it on the day we got beat by the scum, my phone hasn't stopped ringing for the past day, the bastards giving it me, both barrel's, even the banjo playing extra from 'deliverance' or 'merv' the three fingered, sister- bothering, leicester bastard jumping on the bandwagon, chuckling like kim and aggie over a clean toilet bowl at our dismal run] only one thing to do, fire up the ducati and head off into outlaw country, over the border on a mission to disrupt the nott's bastards in their own back-yard, stealth like, [on a fucking bright red, carbon-piped, dry-clutched italian missile, note to self 'it's not very stealth-like daft lad'] on my way and i stop for fuel, a couple of rice rockets pull out at the same time and i can see matey boy giving it the 'wanker' sign to his mate as i glance in my mirror, it's a thirty limit and 'mr alpine stars' is revving the nuts off his japper and almost hiting me up the rear trying to goad me into biting, i resist, two cars in front, they pass me and the two cars, over a blind rise, double whites, road straightens and the old bill is standing in the middle of the road and pointing to the side of the road, i point at my chest and the copper just shakes his head and waves me through, who's the wanker now monkey boy?, 30 is 30, kids, old people, dangerous junctions, it's 30 for a reason, don't get me wrong, five minutes later, out past the 30 limit and i'm on it, not ridden these roads for a good few years, should have done, traffic is light, road surface good and a perfect day to ride, not too hot, fly's and airborne insects almost non-existent, out into sherwood forest, robin hood's own hunting ground, but, like mel brookes said, 'men in tight's?' down through the avenues of tree's, the autumn sunlight  is low and strong, shifting shadows, wind-blown leaves falling from the desidious tree's peppering my visor, the odd 'pop' as a horse chesnut or acorn says 'hello' as it falls from the gently swaying branches, out towards newark, cut back towards southall and back past the massive wind farm turbines on what 'cornerspeed's' nelly refers to as 'the test road' a flat out, rollercoaster of a road, no matter how fast you ride it, it leaves you thinking you should have gone faster, yeah, nottinghamshire, nice women, good roads, wank football team, guess you can't have it all, [unless you live in derbyshire.......]

days that used to be......

so, after being bombarded with 'mails about the sporty, mostly by total fucking idiots, offering to buy it off me for three-pence ha'penny, [tell you what brotherman, i'm that desperate to get rid of it, i'll pay you to take it off my hand's, in fact, give me your address and i'll deliver it for free, pay for a new paint job and stick twelve months tax on it too, emulsion your front room, do your garden, feed the dogs, re-tile your bathroom, tax your car, put a load of washing in, lag your roofspace pay for your next holiday and i'll throw in my car too seeing as you are doing me such a fucking favour, thank you, thank you, no, thank you from the bottom of my heart ], seriously, it was a result to receive a couple of messages from genuine people, [you know who you are, thank you] who actually appreciated the time, coin, effort, hardwork and love put into this bike, after all my ranting and raving, the sporty has a new owner, [and it's a bloke who i know and is a regular at our local bike-night too] so, i made a two hundred mile round-trip to look at my new bike, money burning a hole in my pocket, a mid seventies, meriden, triumph bonneville, and.... it's a crock of shit, they say the camera never lies, well it fucking does, i'm seething, what a fucking pile of dog do-do's, it's a fifteen hundred quid, total re-build project at best, i resist the urge to spark out the time waster and head off to maccee-dee's for a java, 'mate, mate, mate, i'm open to offer's'.... 'yeah, well i've got an offer for you, shut the fuck up if you want to kep those teeth you c....' refreshed and me and dangerous head down to sheffield to check out a ducati superlight that he's been lusting after, ducati, yamaha and suzuki main dealer, same again, great photo's, reality? total wank, be honest people, saves a lot of time and heartache, another pile of shite, 'patina' doesn't mean total neglect, rust or worn out, patina is genuine............

good times for a change, see, the luck i've had can make a good man turn bad.......

 so, cruising the delights of ebay and i spot a low mileage triumph bonneville, 1977, t140, very nice, i want it, i need to offload a bike to fund it but which one? the ducati?, nah, big, aircooled twin, carbs, mile-muncher, 80 honest italian horses, 135mph and great handling, this one's a keeper, the boxer race bike?, nah, i know it's a money pit and my man has let me down badly but, it's nearly there, just ordered a pair of thirty-eight mill dell 'orto pumpers to finish off the job in a proper style, just need's dynoing to set it up and i'm good to go next year, right, that's it, the sporty has to go, i put it up on e-bay, i get the usual chancer's, wankers and dreamers and spend the rest of the week sending e-mails, answering inane, boring, question's, trying to be polite to fucking toss-pots who don't realise the coin and effort that have been put into my bike, i set a ridiculously low reserve and get a hundred and one emails  asking me to contact whoever because they want to buy it for two and six, you know what? go and fuck yourself's, i'd rather set fire to it and ride it into the armco,it's not for sale now, i'll rack it up, re-cycle it and re-invent it, 'what was your reserve?' phhhwarh, read my lip's, fuck right off..........

northern soul

northern soul, where do i start, elaine constantine's new book and film are out very soon so it's back in the news, programme on bbc2 last night, radio coverage on my favourite station, radio six today, as usual with anything deemed slightly warmer than a greggs pasty, [ie, 'cool'] the programme was pretty good actually after all, the radio 'peoples playlist'? nah, i'm sorry didn't work for this old soul boy i'm afraid, they trotted out all the 'usual suspects', bar probably the best soul record ever, the heart-stopping 'she'll come running back to me....' by mell britt, i admit it, i was gone, crying like a baby, big, fat tears rolling down my big fat face, much to the delight of my workmates, i tried to say what it means to me but just sobbed instead, anyhoo, enough of that, here's a documentry from back in the day which sums up the rare soul scene in the seventies, watching it now makes me realise how grim it actually was back then, hard times, the best times of my life...........