Disappointing behaviour from The Guardian

Stuart Jeffries, writing in today's G2, says"maybe, in this tranquil corner of Somerset, I will find nature's symphony. Or maybe not: there's another noise in the distance – a motorbike. The rider is pulling vexingly on the throttle. He (I am sure it's a he) goes through the same noisy routine repeatedly as I meditate. It is insufferable. Why, I ask myself inwardly, doesn't someone from the Self Realization Meditation Healing Centre string one of the lanes round here with cheesewire? That would settle motorcycle boy's hash."

Not very funny or ironic.

Maybe Mr Jeffires is just channelling Jeremy Clarkson, writing in 2004:-

"What I cannot abide, however, are ... born-again motorbikers who come to the countryside on a sunny Sunday specifically to make as much racket as possible. One day I will silence them by stretching a piece of cheese wire across the road."

It wasn't funny then either.


If you feel moved to comment, here's a link to the G2 piece.

Out of the mouths of babes...

Small child driving the Postman Pat car outside Tesco: "Get out of the way you moron!"

Put on your red dress, baby - we're going out tonight

The temperature is somewhere in the 30s. The air conditioning unit must be on, because it's making a noise, but it's making no appreciative difference to the scent and smoke and sweat of this North London cellar. A man called Steve is blowing Summertime on his harp - chromatic, but we forgive him, because he's storming it - and Lee Sankey is sitting on a sofa waiting to burn our ears with some blues.

Last time I was in this basement room in the Torriano about 15 harp players were here to swop tips and learn an ensemble piece. Tonight, on London Harmonicas Performance Night, it's impossible to get to the stairs which lead up to the bar and to fresh air without stepping on someone. The twin benefits of getting here early and of having an ankle fresh out of plaster mean that I can sit next to Tom on the comfy sofa without feeling obliged to give someone else a turn. And this in turn means that I am close enough to the music to see Will's ribcage bounce with every breath of his amazing Amazing Grace.

I have been playing about a year now, and can hold my own with some simple blues for Mojo Triangle. Watching the talent that casually steps up, throws out a song or a solo or a fox chase and sits down again reminds me that I have a long, long way to go on this journey. But - mainly thanks to the compere with flair, MuzHunter - tonight never felt like them vs us. The invitation was to do what you could - which for me was mainly applauding, but music needs an audience as well as players - and to enjoy doing it. I might be stuck in the foothills at the moment, but I'm good enough to stab some rhythm into a team rendition of High Heel Sneakers, which means that I can now say that I've played with Lee Sankey. And if I'd been quicker I'd have got a solo as well.

Possessing the Secret of Joy

Last Sunday I woke up at 7.30am in a strange bed with a sore head (single malt), a dodgy ankle (dancing beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free again) and a pair of texts on my phone from the man I had been talking to all night suggesting a date: the morning after the Mojo Triangle after-show party, at which Hugh had made the generous error of putting a bottle of Glenlivet and a glass in front of me with the injunction to "help myself." The least dramatic of the consequences to which has been my volunteering to learn to fly the mixing desk before our next gig. The more dramatic of which are still unfolding.

Somewhere around mid-day I arrived back at Dojo Ursus Maritimus, gingerly clutching my bottle of full-fat Irn Bru, to find a plot being hatched to test-ride the new Aprilia Caponord Rally Raid (manifested the previous weekend.) As this plot involved riding to Hunstanton for ice-cream I thought that if I deployed my full arsenal of hangover cures - starting with the Irn Bru but running through coffee, cake and lying submerged in a lukewarm bath rehydrating from the outside in - I would be in a fit state to join the ride.

At 3.30pm we rolled out of the drive and onto Norfolk's finest B-roads, under the compulsory post-late-night-drinking session blazing sun, to test the Aprilia 2-up and to see how I coped with the Africa Twin after a week riding motorways on Ruby.

I have spent considerable sums of time and money on therapies which promised to free me of the black dog which has followed me for years. And I can tell you with some confidence that chasing an Aprilia through the coastal roads of Norfolk, taking a moment to wave at the Queen as she passed us on the road, eating ice-cream while watching the kite-surfers and then racing the clouds home beats them all.

Why does it always rain on me?

There are lots of reasons I hate cagers. Lane-changing without looking, refusing to move out of lane 3 when both other lanes are empty, dominating transport policy, and parking in motorcycle spaces are just a few. But yesterday on the way up to Leeds underneath a thunderstorm, while the lightning did its spitty, forky thing overhead, I remembered the main one – THEY SLOW DOWN WHEN IT RAINS.

Why? Are you not in a lovely warm cage with windscreen wipers to clear your view, and a phone to text your mates on when it gets a bit dull (Yes, there was a man in the middle lane travelling about about 55 mph with the phone in front of his face, texting. In the rain.)

Instead of proceeding at a reasonable 60 – I’ll accept that a little moderation of speed in the fact of 2 inches of standing water on the motorway is a reasonable response – most of the time the cars rolled at about 40. Just a bit too fast for filtering, and - it would appear – almost exactly the same speed a thunderstorm travels north at, for the gap between the flash of the lightning and the clap of the thunder, which you count to see how far away the storm is, was always zero,and the rain was always coming down so hard it hurt.

“It was bright sunshine here 45 minutes ago” said the hotel receptionist. I dripped on him and went in search of a bath.

Ruby in the Smoke

6.15 am - slightly damp Norfolk morning. Sound of cocks crowing, horses snuffling and sheep protesting at the weather.

9.00 am - jostling for advantage on the Euston Road. Sound of cyclists shouting, taxis touting and pedestrians protesting at having to get back on the pavement when the light turns green.

Lots of aggro from cyclists this morning - in particular one lady cyclist a bit over-anxious about me rolling slowly backwards away from the bus blocking my view. Thankfully Metal Mules are built sturdily enough to survive the pounding she gave them. She pushed past me and then stopped an inch from the back of the bus. I thought about suggesting that she would be less stressed if she gave herself more room, but then I decided that this would not be a morning for dialogue. It is, in fact, a morning for smugness.

CBR man at lights "How did you get in front of me? You must know a shortcut"

Me: enigmatic smile. What I meant to say was "Maybe I'm just that good....."

On the Road Again

On Friday morning a doctor poked my ankle and asked if it hurt - yes, it did, thanks. He looked at the same x-ray the previous doctor looked at a week ago, made me stand on the floor and sent me away plaster-free and with instructions to abstain from sports for 2 weeks. Obviously this will be a hardship. However, he neglected to instruct me to abstain from motorcycling so on Saturday morning I packed up my gig bag and headed to Swavesey for a Mojo Triangle rehearsal on the (still gorgeous) Africa Twin.

After a week on crutches and confined to various low-level reclinatoria, such as beds, sofas, and the devilishly comfortable LaFuma, being back on a bike was a physical and mental joy, the nearest parallel to which I think is probably unsuitable for mention in a family blog, so I will suggest instead the first gasp of a cold pint on a hot, hot day. The Africa Twin even sounded like happy bubbling water as we bimbled along the back roads to the pub.

Music, bikes and beer are making a tripartite twist of happiness for me at the moment, though mindful of the dangers of mixing 2 and 3 too closely, during the rehearsal I stuck to coffee and water. On Sunday we had a birthday party gig and were paid in beer tokens. In my brother's (slightly eccentric) lexicon, a beer token is a five pound note, but these were actual beer tokens redeemable at the bar of the Duke of Wellington in Willingham. I counted on my fingers and reckoned that two pints of IPA over 5 hours would stay the right side of legal. Everyone seemed happy except for the grumpy neighbour who gatecrashed the party to shout about the volume at Andy. Who told him to "talk to the band 'cos the bass ain't listening."

Next bike outing: Ruby to the Smoke, tomorrow
Next band outing: St Ives Regatta, Saturday
Next beer outing: about 3 hours time...

Ruby in the Dust

Well, it has finally happened - after 14 years riding motorcycles I have a leg in plaster. And I didn't even crash....Saturday was a fabulous sunny day clearly granted by God to be used for the playing on motorcycles. So I squeezed myself into the van which had been pre-loaded with off-road bikes by Mel and Paul, with a view to spending some of the afternoon playing on China Girl and the rest of the time taking photos to justify my place. Plan B had been to take Ruby and find out how she goes on dirt, but it was a bit too hot to get geared up - which proved to be a good decision.

This was only my third trip to the off-road training ground, and I am a slow learner. I remembered that, to get over a hump, it was important to roll on the throttle at the crest. I didn't remember that that the goal was to cruise effortlessly over the top, not to fly.

"She's going a bit quick" said Mel to Paul, just before I appeared over the horizon with both wheels off the ground.

The flying part was fun. Sadly I have no photos to show you - despite what you may be led to believe by the purple gear, that's not me up there. The landing part was good too, as we stayed upright and managed a creditable level of control. However, China Girl is not blessed with the kind of suspension which can cope with hefty amounts of Highwaylass landing from on high and something had to give. My right ankle.

6 hours in A&E later I have a comedy white plastercast on my right foot and a pair of extra-long crutches. On the positive side, hurpling around is doing wonders for my bingo wings. All I need now is a well-trained parrot.

* I did get some cracking pics though - check out Flickr for some photos of people who actually know what they are doing on the dirt.