FROG BLOG

When I look out front in the mornings, it's the same ol' view. But every time it's different. Sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy. Sometimes bright, sometimes dreary. You'd think that after nearly five years I'd have grown tired of it. Haven't though. It's still as captivating as when I first came here. On a motorbike. In the pouring rain. Took this shot yesterday morning. Turned out to be a lovely sunny day. Warm wind from the south. Teeshirt weather. Strange for mid-November.

The 45.5 million quid lottery win fantasy spend continues. This is because t'other half didn't get a proper look at the UK houses I deleted in an earlier posting. Reckons my existing choices are the result of being "too sensible". Has requested a re-think, but this time with more of a "go for broke" attitude. So, my little piranha fish, here are my latest faves to be enjoyed with your lunchtime sarnies.

To re-cap: French house sorted (Lot valley), holiday shack sorted (Formentera), London pad sorted (leave that to Georgie), which just leaves somewhere in the UK..., but where? Well, as I mentioned in the deleted posting, my two fave cities are Edinburgh and Bath. Makes sense to have a look there even though I'm not overly keen on cities. Maybe a country pile as well. Or maybe not. Ah well, here goes, in no particular order...

1) Edinburgh, 1.3 million.
I like this because it's one of the few unmodernised (and therefore unruined) properties I could find. Full of olde worlde charm. Would be tempted to keep it just the way it is. Nice and scruffy. Added bonus of being near Murrayfield.

2) Edinburgh, Lansdowne Crescent, 1.4 million.
Been done up but doesn't seem too ruined. Original features retained. Good position and lovely view. Not too big and not too small. Quite like it.

3) Edinburgh, 950k.
I like the price. Five beds and a double garage. Seems silly not to include it.

4) Edinburgh, 6 miles south of, 1 million.
Near enough to the city to be convenient and far enough away to be 'countryfied'. Best of both worlds. Well worth a look.

5) Bath, Lansdown Crescent, 2.8 million.
Fabulous. Love it.

6) Bath, Cavendish Crescent, 1.8 million.
Poor man's version of Lansdown Crescent but still fabulous.

7) Bath, semi-detached, 1.5 million.
As far as semis go, this has to be one of the best. But maybe security's an issue when not in residence. Have to think of these things.

8) Bath, Russell Street, 600k.
A gem. Same family has lived there for the last forty years. Perhaps needs updating but, once again, I'd be tempted to keep it just the way it is. And at just 600k it's incredible value for money - especially compared with London prices (more of that later!).

9) Devon, Cullompton, 3 million.
Fantastic! In fact, so fantastic it's already under offer. Rats. Unmodernised and nicely frayed around the edges. And Georgie would love that walled garden. Highly reassuring to know that such places still exist. But they're disappearing fast due to an explosion of unsympathetic developers.

10) Devon, somewhere in the hills outside Torquay, 1.2 million.
Wonderful. I love it. Simply splendid. Surprised someone hasn't snapped it up already.

11) London, Southfields, 500k.
Have included this 'cos I was gobsmacked when I saw it. Er, I mean the price. It's practically next door to the first house I/we owned and in roughly the same condition - but ours cost 21k not 500k! Spotted this one for sale last Friday. Come Monday it was under offer. Amazing. Just compare value for money with listing no.8 (above). No comparison. Georgie, of course, is really depressed. "If only we'd hung onto it..."

So, having listed that lot, which one would I go for?

Er..., umm...

Yes, I know it's sad (or pathetic, or whatever the correct word is), but I think I've finally cracked this 'what I'd do if I won 45.5 million quid in the lottery' nonsense.

Brief summary: having already covered spending on family, bikes, cars, French houses and Formentera holiday home in a previous posting, I then began fantasizing about buying UK properties. However, I've ditched all that (deleted previous posting) and had a re-think...

New thinking: split our responsibilities - put Georgie in charge of finding London gaff while I run around searching for a country pile.

Being a Libran (and a female one at that!), Georgie would undoubtedly have enormous problems in trying to decide what to go for. So, being the helpful gent that I am, I'd make a few suggestions despite knowing full well that her response would always be "completely unsuitable, you must be joking" etc. For example, while I quite fancy the following house (East Sheen - 4 million), she'd no doubt opine that it was far too big, and, if left there on her own, she wouldn't really feel safe (lot of weirdos out there - even in the leafy suburbs of posh East Sheen - us blokes have to remember to see things from a girly perspective)...

Being far more realistic and practical than moi, she'd probably choose instead something like this 2.45 million quid (how much?!!) Putney gaff in St. John's Avenue because it's easily managed, fairly cosy, surrounded by friendly neighbours, on her existing UK home patch, near her friends etc.,...

So..., my country pile. Given this a lot of thought. Shown a few choices earlier (now deleted - completely impractical) but have finally reached the conclusion that it's just plain bonkers to go for anything bigger than one really needs despite all that money burning a hole in one's pocket or handbag.

Yes, it's tempting to look into splendid Jacobean mansions such as this one near Yeovil (4 million)... http://search.knightfrank.com/she080182 ...but, if you really stop and think about it, you'd probably end up living in just one room with a telly up one end and a bed up the other. Daft. You'd be rattling around like a couple of marbles in a tin (or just one if Georgie was 'up in town'). And think of all the problems of running a place like that. The novelty would, I'm sure, soon wear off.

As I mentioned earlier (in the deleted post!), I've noticed that the further up the price range one looks, the harder it becomes to find houses that haven't been 'done up'. Trouble is, this usually means that original features etc. have been replaced by ghastly modern stuff. I suppose most people go for all that garbage but, personally, I find it depressing.

However (and contrary to what I just mentioned about size), I quite like this magnificent old house near Ivybridge (1.8 million) in South Devon, mainly because it hasn't yet been modernised (i.e. ruined) and therefore still retains its original features:
http://search.knightfrank.com/exe090075
Although it possesses the somewhat 'frayed round the edges' character for which I've been searching, it is, unfortunately, far too big. Also, it's too far away from London to be properly convenient. So I decided to look for something closer.

After a couple of days searching, nothing fitted the bill. Absolutely nothing. A few gaffs came close but they lacked that certain something which is impossible to define - it's that certain feeling you get (well, I do anyway) when you first set eyes on a house.

I was on the point of giving up the hunt when, as is often the case, I suddenly spotted a place that set bells ringing. It may not be everyone's idea of a lottery winner's dream home but, as far as I'm concerned, it's perfect.

Funnily enough, we first noticed this place a few years back when we used to take the dogs walking along the river. I remember mentioning to Georgie that I thought it'd be a cracking place to live despite its condition and the fact that it's sort of overlooked. Needs a bit of work (an understatement if ever there was one!) and a lot of imagination but the end result could be stunning. And, being in Frensham, it's very convenient for London. Price? - a mere 750k, plus a million or two to renovate. No problem.

So, there you have it. Mission completed. It's taken a long time but I got there in the end. Total new purchases: four bikes, three cars, four houses. Total spent? Who cares!

Georgie asked me last week-end if I was one of the two lucky lottery winners who won 45.5 million each. 45.5 million squid! Hah! If only! Told her I hadn't been doing the lottery recently as part of my belt-tightening programme. Maybe I'll start again. Mugs' game, but if you don't enter, you don't win.

Like many others, I've been daydreaming about what I'd do with all that dosh. Been a source of unbridled joy during the miserable weather of the last few days (brightened up today though). According to Hunter Davies (author of a book about lottery winners) who appeared on telly last night, most lottery winners' lives aren't changed that much by a lottery win. They merely pay off their debts, have a bit of a holiday, maybe bung a few quid to close family members, perhaps buy a better car and then move up the property ladder a couple of rungs. Apparently they rarely leave their home town, preferring instead to remain with familiar friends and surroundings.

Well, being a proper Toady, I'd do things differently. I've given it a lot of thought, as I said, over the last few days. For a start, unlike the winners who appeared on last night's news spraying champagne in front of the nation, I'd keep my win secret (apart from Georgie, Don and, possibly, sis). Top secret. No publicity whatsoever. Then I'd tell any official lottery financial advisers who came my way (I presume they're on you like a plague of locusts), to get lost. Then, as soon as I possibly could, I'd whisk most (about 25m?) of the filthy lucre out of the UK, well away from British bankers, convert it into euros and plonk it straight into some Swiss bank account. At this point I wouldn't be surprised if some faceless governmental representative intervened in an attempt to stop the money going out of the country - he'd probably threaten to leak the story to the press and I'd probably have to take legal advice. The whole thing could suddenly become a nightmare.

If, and it's a big 'IF', I managed to keep things quiet, like other winners, I'd dish out dosh to members of my tribe according to a combination of their needs and how much I liked them (I'd try to be as fair as possible) on the strict understanding that they were sworn to absolute secrecy. Stopping people blabbering would of course be tricky, but it's entirely necessary to avoid any jealousy or feuding - I imagine this is one of many instances where money can cause problems instead of solving them.

See how complicated a big lottery win can become if you really think about it?

Now to the fun part. Here Toady would have to okay a few things first with his other half (what's mine is hers) before letting rip with a spending spree to end all spending sprees. If permitted by Captain Sensible, here's exactly what I'd do...

Cars and bikes first (surprise, surprise)...

Get new dogwagon. This would be a Mercedes 300 TE. Production stopped about twenty years ago but it remains the greatest estate car of all time. Bit thirsty though, but no problem for us millionaires. Spotted a good 'un (see photo below) - left hand drive (lhd), 80,000 miles, recently imported to the UK from Germany and up for grabs at about three grand. I'd snap it up, get a Merc specialist to make it better than new, have it delivered and get someone to arrange its registration in France. And while I'm at it, I'd look out for a good Citroen 'traction' light fifteen. Always fancied one.

Next, do up my VW mk.2 Golf GTi 16v (best car ever) and VW camper which I'd keep for sentimental reasons. And I'd probably keep the existing Citroen ZX dogwagon too 'cos I'd hate to get the Merc muddy, which rather defeats the purpose of buying it in the first place. Then I'd buy a proper car. Nothing fancy like a new Ferrari or Rolls Royce; just a simple, second-hand Porsche 911 SC (again, best car ever - had one a few years back). Spotted a good 'un on eBay (see below): white, lhd, recently imported from California (rust-free and without that vulgar, aerodynamic 'tray' on the back), low mileage and just 14k smackers. Bargain. Perfect as an everyday runaround in France. If I had the money now, I'd buy it anyway, but I ain't, so I can't; rats. Then, for use in the UK (more about that later), I'd buy another second-hand 911 Porker. Yes, second-hand (old habits die hard and new Porkers are oh so terribly 'bling'). This rather fine specimen (the green one) is a bit more modern than the SC and it's only(!) about 26 grand.

Right, now bikes. Given this a whole heap of thought. For a start, I'd keep my old banger of a BMW at battle stations in France 'cos I like it and it's comfy for Georgie. Rather surprisingly, I wouldn't fill my garages (the garages I haven't yet mentioned) with an array of Japanese and Italian exotica, mainly because, in next to no time, I'd either lose my driving licence or life. Or both. Anyway, Fireblades and Ducatis: been there, done that. In line with my somewhat tight-fisted approach to cars, I'd buy just three bikes - the latest KTM 990 Adventure (for fun), the latest Harley Davidson Fatboy (for cruising) and a classic 1977 500cc Velocette 'Thruxton' (for drooling over and polishing). And I might buy a Vincent (to discover what all the fuss is about) and an MZ (to remind me of the good old days when I was permanently skint). I know I'd be tempted to spend millions on bikes but I'd just have to learn that it's better to appreciate what one has rather than lust after every new superbike that gets launched. That's gonna be difficult.

Now, houses...

I'd finish off doing up my/our current French abode. Nothing too fancy - original character to be retained. And I'd also get 'the barn' and dilapidated cottage renovated. But I wouldn't sell 'em. Nor would I live in them, although I can imagine using 'the barn' as my main arty-farty painting studio, so maybe I would live there at certain times - I still have that dream of idyllic bliss, splendid isolation, far from the madding crowd. So what to do with the current abode? Well, after careful consideration, I think it would be a great idea to retain ownership but pass the everyday running of the house over to a 'committee' of younger tribe members for use as a holiday home. That way, they could all learn the joys of living in the French backwoods, have cheap holidays, learn more about each other (many of them have never even met) and thereby create more of a family feel, even though they may not be related. If this plan failed miserably, then maybe it might be better to give the house to the local community for use in cases of homelessness or other social disasters (I'm sure the mayor would sort that out).

Right, that done, I'd find a 'main' French home (yes, I'm well happy living in France). But where? Well, I've always fancied the Dordogne region but it's now a bit too British and touristy for my liking. However, I'm still a big fan of the adjacent Lot region so I started searching there. Discovered this fab pile right on the river's edge. Would suit me perfectly; retains original charm and features, loads of space for cars and bikes, acres of land for dogs, etc., and, at just 2.3 million euros (about 2m quid), not too pricey. Would, of course, have to get 'er indoors' permission - if she didn't fancy it, I'd look for somewhere else (needless to say, this applies to all my prospective house purchases).

Next, a holiday home. Forget the Bahamas or the Maldives etc. - stay in hotels instead. No, what's really required is a little place a bit closer to home (i.e. France), so it's easily accessible. Maybe somewhere in the south of France. Hmm, maybe not. Too poncy. So where then?

Well, I have many happy memories of hols in the Greek Islands and Ibiza (before it went trendy) with Georgie, so they're possibilities. A Greek island that's always intrigued me is the tiny isle of Ithaca. Never been there but almost made it when we stayed in Kephalonia. Maybe worth a look. Trouble is, Greece isn't exactly down the road. As I said, we need somewhere closer to home. Maybe Ibiza. But perhaps not - the place has been ruined and, like the south of France, it's far too trendy. However..., there's a tiny island just off Ibiza called Formentera. Been there a few times and simply adored the place. Not too difficult to get to. Drive to Barcelona or Marseille, park up, hop on a boat to Ibiza, then a tiny boat to Formentera, hire a bike or scooter and then simply enjoy the simple delights of a little island that hasn't yet been ruined (at least I don't think it has). Spotted this little hideaway for around 600k euros (approx.). Yup, that'll do.

Right, next requirement is a London gaff (bet yer boots Georgie will insist on one) and maybe a little (or massive) place in the country to escape to when I get one of my attacks of London claustrophobia.

Hah! This is fun!

P.S. Georgie's just told me that Simon Cowell earns this sum (45 million) annually. Whaaat?!! Find that hard to believe.

As well as being a fan of Vincent motorcycles (see previous posting), I'm also a big fan of MZs. This may come as a surprise because the two brands are at opposite ends of the biking spectrum. One's iconic and taken very seriously, the other's considered a joke. Grossly unfair.

My enthusiasm for MZs began way back in the '70s when I first rented a bike shed to garage my trials bike. In the next shed along, a little old man kept his beloved 250cc MZ Supa 5 and on Saturdays, when we'd both be tinkering with our bikes, I'd often pop in to see how he was doing. Surrounded by old Castrol posters and faded black and white biking photos from a bygone age, he'd pour me a cuppa from his Thermos as he started nattering about 'the good old days' of the TT races. Kept me enthralled for hours. When I first asked him why he had a crappy old MZ, he laughed and said "because it's all I can afford!". Then he explained that he'd also bought it because he admired the way a tiny little East German factory took on, and beat, the 'big boys' at the TT. And it was all down to some chap called Walter Kaaden. Who? So he told me the MZ story. There's a lot you can learn from an old man in a shed. Sadly, the old boy died about a year later. But his stories, enthusiasm, and love of MZs never left me. As I said, I've been an MZ fan ever since. Had five so far.

A book has recently been published ('Stealing Speed' by Mat Oxley) which goes into greater detail about the story I first heard from that little old man. Extracts have appeared in one of my classic bike magazines and, for some months now, I've been meaning to order the book. Finally did so this afternoon. Really looking forward to a riveting read.

Even for non-bikers, it's a fascinating tale and a ripping yarn...

Where to begin? Well, perhaps the moon landing is as good a place as any. When Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, it was the ultimate step in NASA's space programme of the '60s. Head of NASA at that time was Werner von Braun, a German rocket scientist who fled to America after the second world war. I presume the Yanks gave him an offer he couldn't refuse: come to America and give us your rocket science 'know how' or be hanged (von Braun designed and developed the V1 and V2 'doodlebug' rocket bombs that caused so much devastation towards the end of the war). There's no doubt that von Braun's contribution propelled the USA ahead in the space race, but people forget that they also benefitted from Sir Frank Whittle's jet engine secrets conned out of the UK (along with millions of pounds, land, and heaven knows what else) as payment for the US assistance in WW2. Hah! The Yanks would never have got their moon-landing plans off the ground if left to themselves. I mean, look at their cars and bikes - rubbish.

I digress.

During the war, Walter Kaaden was a junior member of von Braun's 'V' Series rocket team. Working alongside von Braun, Kaaden gained valuable knowledge of jet engine gas flow, resonance, air pressure harmonics and all sorts of other stuff that I don't understand. After the war, he chose not to join von Braun in America, settling instead for a simple life as a carpenter in Zschopau, East Germany. His means of transport was a humble little 100cc DKW motorcycle. In order to make it go faster, he experimented with different exhaust systems that he knocked up out of old bits of tin, utilising knowledge gained from his wartime experience. His test track was the road that went by the DKW factory where his speed and the banshee wailing of his screaming exhaust soon attracted the attention of the factory bosses. Impressed with his bike's performance, Kaaden was invited to join the DKW workforce. To cut a long story short, Kaaden soon became head of DKW's race team, DKW later became MZ (Mottorwerke Zschopau) and Kaaden was tasked by the communists to make MZ a world-beater on the racetracks. Some challenge! Especially with very limited resources.

Until Kaaden came along, the two-stroke engine was regarded in race circles as being uncompetitive. Four strokes were faster, more efficient, more powerful and more reliable. But Kaaden reckoned he could beat them. Working day and night in a scruffy little garage, he soon perfected his theories of exhaust gas expansion chambers and disc valve carburetion, thereby creating the same effect as supercharging. Miraculously, in a very short space of time, he almost doubled the power of his racing engine. Kaaden was now ready to challenge the might of Honda, MV and various other grand prix factories.

(MZ team - Kaaden far right)

While developing the MZ racer, Kaaden had groomed a young East German mechanic named Ernst Degner as his assistant. He was also to be Kaaden's no.1 rider. When Degner entered the grand prix circus, he gradually started to win races which surprised everyone except Kaaden. He saw life in Europe. He saw his competitors' fancy cars and tasted their champagne lifestyle. He thought about defecting but, with a young wife and baby back home, he always had to return behind the Iron Curtain when racing was over.

(Kaaden and Degner)

In 1961, Degner was just one race away from becoming 125cc world champion. The next race was the Swedish round and Kaaden was ready to celebrate. But it was not to be. Degner's bike had apparently broken down somewhere on the far side of the track. After the race, unbeknown to Kaaden, Degner defected. The rumour is that he was whisked away with his wife and kid by the Japanese in a pre-arranged plan, taking Kaaden's secrets and a few vital engine parts with him. Kaaden was devastated. The communist government immediately shut down Kaaden's operation and he became a forgotten man.

However, his legacy continued. Armed with Kaaden's secrets, Suzuki won their first world title: the 50cc world championship. The rider? Ernst Degner. Then Yamaha and Kawasaki began utilising Kaaden's two-stroke theories. Pretty soon Japanese two-strokes dominated racing. Take a look at Barry Sheene's world championship winning Suzuki and you'll see it bears a remarkable similarity to Kaaden's MZs.

The guy was a genius. A true genius.

Walter Kaaden died of cancer, aged 76, in 1996. He lived to see the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of communism. Just before he died, he was tracked down and interviewed by Jan Leeks (author of 'MZ - Birth of the Modern Two-Stroke Racer). Kaaden said he was amazed anyone remembered him or his deeds and achievements at all.

Walter, you'll never be forgotten. You changed the world.

But that's not the end of the story.

Ernst Degner retired from racing after an accident on the Suzuka racetrack when he fell off his bike and it burst into flames. Degner's burnt body was pulled from the inferno and he somehow survived, but he suffered horrific burns. He moved back to Germany. In 1983, while in the Canary Islands (on holiday?), he apparently committed suicide by overdosing on the medicine to ease the pain of his burns OR by slitting his throat OR by shooting himself (seems to be some confusion from the reports I've read - hopefully 'Stealing Speed' will provide clarification, when it arrives!). Inevitably, there's speculation that it wasn't suicide but murder. KGB/Stasi hitman? A revenge killing? Possibly. We'll never know.

(The humble MZ - a proper biker's bike)

I first read 'The Wind in the Willows' aged about nine. 'Toady' became an instant hero. Like him, I used to sniff exhaust fumes in much the same way as the Bisto Kids sniffed gravy. Been addicted to bikes and, to a lesser extent cars, ever since. Not these modern things though; just stuff from the 'fifties and 'sixties. Or, at a push, the 'seventies (you always have to push 'seventies cars - boom, boom!).

My dream machine is/was the Vincent Rapide - the 1000cc 'V' twin motorcycle that's arguably the best (whatever that means) bike of all time. Started looking for one semi-seriously a few years back. Prices were then around 12 grand - twice the price of a new Jap superbike. Astronomical. Then toyed with the idea again when we sold up and moved to France. By which time prices had risen to around 20 grand. Looked at one just outside Bromley, a minter. Tried to convince Georgie it'd be a wise investment, all the time knowing that all I really wanted to do was thrash it through country lanes on full chat. After all, that's what the damned things were built for; not museums or stashing away in heated garages. Almost bought it, but didn't. So near and yet so far.

I keep looking though. As I said, I'm addicted. Prices are now up to about 30 grand. Or more. Way out of reach. Spotted a good 'un on eBay last week. Bidding ended this afternoon. Last night it was up to about 24 grand. Hit 25 this morning. Thought it'd go for about 30. Made 32,100 at the last minute. Worth every penny.

Feast yer mince pies on this eBay beauty (with reluctant vendor who's selling to fund retirement home) while I cry inta me Rosie Lee...

Me and my big mouth. While watching the last France/Scotland Six Nations rugby match on telly round at neighbour Christian's way back in February, I casually mentioned that it'd be rather a wizard wheeze for us to visit Murrayfield for next year's Scotland/France game. Only really said it as a bit of a joke, never once thinking Christian would take the idea seriously. But a couple of weeks ago he mentioned that the game was scheduled for 7th February, thereby suggesting that he was quite keen on going. In order to put him off a bit, I told him tickets were gold dust but I'd look into it. Then, down at the market last week, Isabelle asked if she should find out about getting Christian a passport, just in case I managed to get match tickets. The whole thing had snowballed. Too late to say I wasn't really serious about going. Time for action.

Kicked off by looking for tickets on the internet. Visited a few dubious ticket agency sites where they were asking silly money with no real guarantee of delivery. No way, Jose (where are the damned accents?!). Then accidentally stumbled into the official Scottish Rugby site where I was amazed to find one could book face value ticket vouchers on a first come, first served, basis (I'm a mere novice in this ticket game - I thought tickets were only available to rugby club members). Immediately booked two 70 quid tickets.

Then went to the RyanAir site to book a couple of seats on the Limoges-Edinburgh flight. Disaster! Fully booked a week either side of match day! So checked various alternatives. Snapped up a RyanAir Limoges-Stansted flight, followed by an EasyJet Stansted-Edinburgh flight a few hours later which would get us into Edinburgh at around 6pm Friday (match on Sunday). For the return journey, I booked a Monday afternoon Edinburgh-Stansted flight and a Wednesday morning Stansted-Limoges flight, thus giving us a day in London, staying at Georgie and Don's in Putney.

So, with match and flight tickets booked, I needed to find somewhere for us to stay. Checked out various Edinburgh hotels and b&bs. Seemed all the cheapos were already full (not that there were any cheapos - they all whack their prices up during match week), so I was now faced with the likelihood of booking a room at some posh hotel at a cost of anything up to 250 quid each a night. That could be 750 quid each! No way, Jose; Jock, rather. After much feverish internet surfing, I eventually tracked down a cheapish guest house on the edge of town and booked their last room: a twin sharing. My relief at finding somewhere was only matched by the terrible thought of sharing with Christian. We'd be on top of each other for days on end - enough to drive both of us crazy. Nothing for it but to continue searching for two single rooms. Must be some somewhere at a non-extortionate rate. Eventually turned up trumps at a little hotel in the middle of town: two rooms at 50 quid each a night, including breakfast. Bargain. Immediately booked 'em and cancelled t'other one. Job done. It had only taken a couple of days! Only?!

Told Christian the good news last week. Looked a bit stunned, though excited as well. After all, he's never flown, never been abroad (apart from once when he had to briefly drive his lorry into Germany), never been to an international rugby match, can't speak English, worried about 'English' food, extremely worried about catching swine 'flu and, above all, he's incredibly concerned about not being able to get any of that foul drink Ricard.

Should be an interesting trip.

(Just found this 1990 clip. Great match. Great win. I was there!)