FROG BLOG

Went to my first motorcycle trial aged three. Burst into tears when a lump of mud landed on my ice cream cornet - an unfortunate introduction to a sport that has enthralled me for nigh on sixty years. My first trials bike was a 250 Greeves, back in '64. My last one, a 325 Beamish Suzuki (see recent 'Nothing much' posting), sold last Tuesday. Suppose I must have owned about thirty trials 'irons' in between. Can't remember ever being without one (or two), apart from five of my eight student years, and that doesn't really count. But at mid-day Tuesday, when the Beamish went, I was trials bikeless for the first time in decades.

Immediately set about rectifying this ghastly state of affairs. Hit the internet in search of a good pre-'65 British banger for up to three grand; ideally a Greeves. Couldn't find one anywhere, so checked out some other makes. Found a few going for silly money: a 350 AJS for 10k (imagine spending ten grand on a museum piece and then slinging it at mud and rocks!), a 500 Ariel for 6.5 (ditto), a couple of 350 BSAs for around 5k and a Millerised 200 Triumph Cub for 4k. All very nice but a bit too pricey. Only a few bangers there for less than 3k, and most of them rubbish.

Checked out the Trials Central site. Nothing much there either. But spotted an interesting thread in their chatroom. Seems many of the pre-'65 brigade have recently switched to twinshocks in order to preserve their historic machines. Which, of course, means the twinshock class is growing in popularity at the expense of pre-'65s. So I gave myself a new brief: find a good twinshock, preferably one owner, low mileage, registered with V5, in original condition, untarted up and unrenovated, for under 2k. Checked the internet again. Nothing there on brief. Seems those pre-'65 lads (and lassies) have beaten me to it.

By 4pm Tuesday I was ready to give up and continue my search at a later date. Patience is a virtue I told myself, especially when bike hunting. But then, surprise, surprise, I spotted a reet belter at a tiny classic bike shop in St. Leonards-on-Sea: a '76 325 Bultaco that met my exact requirements (see Cosmo Classic Motorcycles, 'bikes for sale' listing). Rang up, had a quick chat and snapped it up immediately. Should be arriving in about a fortnight.

Wednesday morning I had my breakfast cuppas and fags while drooling over some snaps of the Bully on the computer.

No regrets about my somewhat rushed purchase. Then, out of idle curiosity, as I often do, I checked 'Greeves' on eBay. Been nothing there for weeks. But, would you belieeeeve it - Sod's Law, having just bought the Bully, up pops a brilliant 250 Greeves TES. Exactly what I'd been searching for. And not just an ordinary one but an 'ex-works' bike, the steed of 1960s Greeves factory rider Mary Driver (yes, a lady, but one hell of a biker). Well, buggerre moi. Ain't that just always the way. Mind you, bidding's set to start at 3k and I expect it'll go well over 5 - maybe even 6 or 7. As yet no takers. But there will be, no question.

I've had a couple of TESs over the years. Sold my last one (much regretted sale) just before moving to France. Have a small pic of it somewhere. Interesting to compare it with Mary's 'works' bike. Well, it's interesting to moi and that's all that counts!

Being a trials fanatic, I then scurried around the internet and dug out this fascinating clip (well, it's fascinating to moi etc.) of Mary in action - she appears for ten seconds (from 2.05 to 2.15 on the timer) riding the very bike that's up for grabs on eBay. Amazing. Wonderful stuff the internet.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OSbUHLlCUg

Unsurprisingly (well, I don't find it in the least bit surprising), I'm now seriously considering releasing a few of the pathetically small number of nuts that we've stashed away in the rotting tree that is the UK financial system and investing them instead in this unique investment opportunity (providing the bidding doesn't go through the roof). Tried to sell the idea to Georgie last night. Didn't seem too keen. Apparently she has plans to sling some nuts into an 'I say' or 'Teaser' account (whatever they are - it's all foreign lingo to moi).

Given the choice, I would much prefer to sit and stare at one of my all-time favourite motorcycles as it slowly increases in value (an incidental and irrelevant minor detail) rather than staring in disbelief each month at an ever-dwindling set of stupid 'I say' or 'Teaser' interest figures cobbled together by some crooked financier who'd kill his own grandmother to get at her purse. Like many other Brits I have absolutely no faith whatsobleedin'ever in anything associated with the selfish and incompetent imbeciles who continue unabated to make a complete balls-up of the British finance industry while lining their own stinking pockets with gold. Bolleaux to the lot of 'em. Pah!

Needless to say I fully intend to keep tabs on the bidding for that marvellous works Greeves. I think it'd really look good in the lounge (what lounge?).

I'm a useless photographer. No question. So, rather than waste time in trying to take perfect snaps, I've decided to concentrate my efforts in taking 'bad' ones. Rather pleased with my latest masterpieces. Ain't easy being this bad y'know. Requires years of experience. And an expert eye. Cartier-Bresson, eat your heart out. I'm especially proud of my 'hedge, pole and two triangles' picture - very Antony Gormley wot?

Travelled back from the Cesspit yesterday. Left flat 6am, arrived here 3.30pm. Lots of hanging around waiting for tube (Putney), trains (Clapham Junction and Basingstoke) and plane (Southampton). Really gets boring. Waiting. And waiting. Especially when (as is usual) I've just missed a tube or train and have to wait for another. But at least it wasn't raining. Took a few snaps that brilliantly capture the sheer tedium of my jet set lifestyle...

Had a bit of snow last night. Nowt serious. Should be gone by this afternoon if the sun keeps up. Doubt if it settled further down the valley. And they probably didn't get any way down in the bordering county of Haute Vienne. I keep forgetting how high we are in Poussanges - 680 metres (about 2200 feet).

Out of curiosity I just checked for some equivalent heights in the Cesspit. Apparently we're higher than Kinder Scout (636 metres), the highest peak in the Derbyshire Peak District, putting us on a par with the fifth highest peak of the Pennines and about halfway up Ben Nevis (1344 metres). Do people live up in those places? Somehow I doubt it. No wonder we get through so much firewood. Good for fresh air though. Ooh, time for a fag.

Today I'm humming a jolly little tune by one of Scotland's finest troubadours...

Friday was 'work' day. Started 10am, finished 7pm - a nine hour 'headbanging' session with five or six of us going through a varied agenda of topics relating to plans for 'Q's future promotional items, all of which stem from a single core website idea. Would take too long to explain here but stage 1 is already up and running (chocolates), stage 2 is on the starting blocks (paint swatches) and stage 3 is, as yet, unconfirmed (looks like it could be jukebox). Then retired to a local hostelry for refreshment, followed by a somewhat wobbly walk to London Bridge station, a train to Waterloo and another to Putney. On this latter train I was joined by a pretty young thing, reassuringly similarly wobbly, who seemed convinced I was a farmer; more specifically, a Devon farmer. Maybe it was my battered Barbour, weather-beaten moosh and woolly sweater that fooled her. Or maybe I still had some woodchips in my hair, or, quite simply, maybe I looked like someone she knew. All very strange. But nice to be mistaken for a farmer and not an adman.

Saturday was 'play' day. Meandered round some Putney shops with Georgie, had a coffee, found a place that engraved a new nametag for Sprocket (been trying to find one for ages) then Georgie headed back to the flat and I hopped on a bus to Mr. 'Q's home off the Fulham Road. Arrived there five minutes late at 1.35. Needn't have worried. He was still attempting to assemble some 'keep fit' torture chamber item with his personal trainer about an hour later, having started 'spannering' about five hours earlier. Anyway, we then legged it round the corner and arrived at Chelsea footy club about fifteen minutes before kick-off. Told Mr. 'Q' that I'd bought a superb salmon sarnie that we could share at half time, whereupon he apologised for not informing me that he'd arranged lunch in Chelsea FC's VIP members' restaurant (Mr. 'Q' has a couple of seats in the royal box).

As an Aldershot supporter, I'm used to meat pies and scalding hot tea served in plastic cups before and during footy matches, so it came as a bit of a culture shock to suddenly find myself seated in a flashy restaurant alongside the likes of Terry Venables and Frank Lampard snr. (plus a few dark suited, shady-looking types with shaven heads and diamond ear-studs), choosing from a menu of three courses prepared by Marco-Pierre White whilst sipping a cheeky little chilled Macon blanc from an elegant, long stemmed wine glass. Due to our slight tardiness, we only had time to gobble a superb starter, polish off the bottle of Macon and gulp a hasty Heineken before descending the few steps to our seats, just in time for kick-off.

Forty-five minutes later we were back at our table hurriedly gobbling the main course and quaffing more Macon blanc. Then it was back to the match. Chelsea 1, Wigan 0 at half time. Then Wigan equalised and Chelsea grabbed a last minute winner. Splendid. Then back to our table for the pudding course, another Heineken and another marvellous Macon. Then back to Mr. 'Q's for a quick run through one of his work charts before he disappeared off into the night on his bicycle to rendez-vous with wife and son (they'd left earlier - Mr. 'Q' is a last-minute rush man) at some local cinema to see Slumdog, while I hopped on a bus back to Putney.

Dying for a wee I nipped into the 'Arab Boy' to lose a bit of weight. The place was packed. Ireland v England wugger on telly. With Ireland winning, I stifled a chortle or two, enjoyed a leisurely scotch, wallowed in the delight of watching England being beaten, then waddled off back to the flat, the warmth of my beloveds, the eager anticipation of more grub and Match of the Day, plus the prospect of a 'Dark Knight' dvd screening (which, unfortunately, I slept through).

It's now a perfect Sunday. Head a bit fuzzy, just had boiled eggs and toast, girlies have been listening to the Archers and Desert Island Discs whilst I've been scribing this nonsense, and we're all lounging around in dressing gowns. Will get dressed soon and nip out for the Sunday papers. Sunday lunch could be that salmon sarnie that's still festering in my Barbour pocket.

Today I'm singing the greatest fitba' song ever - Scottish of course...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDRBDX3nt_o