A question of degrees.

At the arse end of four educationally untroubled years, I was surprisingly awarded a first class honours degree by half of one percent. My perennial roommate was a swotty top of our class and received a£50 merit prize. I received partial liver failure and a late night Snickers habit.

A year later, the polytechnic invited me back to address the undergraduates. Their less than subtle subtext was to convince their drunken charges that if only they’d stop fondling each other long enough, they’d realise a little bit of application now maketh a successful career.

My less subtle state of undress “ they really should have twigged my refusal to wear a suit or to provide a copy of my speech likely hid a fifth columnist “ directed a rambling monologue on life in the real world. It can “ and I’m sorry to report, it was “ summed up with a single piece of robust advice Have as much fun, sex and booze as you can now, as it’s properly miserable out here”. Surprisingly, I wasn’t invited back.

Continue reading “A question of degrees.”

Cycle Show – Part ii

In a doomed attempt to emulate those string and wire boys of earlier, a fun boy three of riders headed into deepest London for a street ride. We’d feasted on Shoreditch’s finest Chinese take-away, pontificated widely on appropriate tyre pressures and finally ran out of excuses to engage arse-gear.

After an early doors puncture, the vague yet plausible threat of molestation by roaming gangs and considerable performance anxiety brought on by thousands of pissed Londoners, a team decision mandated that we’d be having it small going on infinitesimal.

Still this hardly detracted from the fun of a two wheeled preamble through a balmy London evening. As a city of lights, it’s really properly impressive with major landmarks illuminating a night sky already brightened by a fat, full moon. Light spilled from every bar, streaks of significant wattage bounced off a clear sky whenever we passed something famous, but the pavements were dark and the pedestrians programmed random.

Wierd pavement, odd exposure Looks sandy Small wall, large photoshop

In search of something new, we inevitably paid return visits to old favourites; the ˜architected for MTB’ steps down to the millennium bridge, a dart around the South Bank and some barely defined concrete madness at the Tate Modern. We rode a few walls and sized up many more. But the press of a Saturday night crowd, interspersed with what felt like the entire Met, left us riding more but cleaning less.

Cheeky riding on the Mil Bridge A ghostly Brad Properly bridgey

After a final incident where about a hundred sozzled café dwellers were screaming for a concrete based injury, we cried enough and retired pubwards.

Only two downsides marred a fantastic day. Firstly Brad chose to emboss a perfect mirror of his DMR V12 pedal on my car door. Reasons currently unknown although brain fade and excessive Nurofen are high on the judging list.

Secondly, I’ve been unable to reconcile the quandary that is to retain a loving, long term and, most importantly, local relationship with my testicles against the chances of smuggling in a new frame under the cover of darkness.

I’ve been testing the ground under the barn and believe there’s potential for a BatCave arrangement. Pass me the shovel.

Cycle Show – Part i

A long day of driving, walking and riding awaited with the London Cycle Show smack bang in the middle of it. I was raring to stop and full of beans only in that my digestive system rumbled ominously with the synthetic aftermath of a couple of bucketfuls of Heinz’s finest. That’d be the four pints of Whympler’s Old Peculiar then, which saved me the price of last nights dinner at the cost of an eye blurring hangover.

London traffic and my refusal to believe the SatNav “ e.g. I drove past here once in 1975 and it’s definitely up that street there even if it’s now bricked off “ made us late and the human millipede queue for tickets added frustration and more delay. Still, this did provide ample time to be essentially robbed, with a nice smile, at recognisable food outlets with unrecognisable prices. Just sign over the deeds to your house and sell a single child into white slavery and you can enjoy this stale, lamp hardened, baguette“. And I use to think only indirect taxation was licensed theft.

However, the event itself was great, acres of unattainable bling backed up by a trials show. Watching these small boys leap large gaps and landing perfectly on tyre width moist logs, was in no way spoiled by the knowledge that string and wires cunningly fabricate this illusion

First up, a spot of clique but entirely deserved back patting to Cy Turner “ he of Cotic bike design fame. Two new frames join the existing Soul and Roadrat, of which I own and rather enjoy both, an amped up hardcore brother for the Soul and a singlespeed bike so simple, he’s named it, er, Simple.

Simple SinglespeedB-FE. Hardcore SoulThe back end so to speak

Continue reading “Cycle Show – Part i”

A beer? Do you want a breast with that?

Titty Bars. Gentlemen’s clubs. Pole Dancing Emporiums. Call them what you will but, resident in every world capital, they harvest big bucks from a hardcore of men for whom the Internet is just a bit tame.

There’s a shared deceit around attendance motivation. It’s just a bit of fun“, The girls get paid well, what’s the problem�? and it’s no worse than downloading porn off the Internet“. Maybe, maybe not.

Prudish though this sounds, I really struggle with these places. On entry into the dim portal of watered down drinks and excited sweaty bodies, I turn instantly gay. The girls are, understandably as it’s a buyers’ market, incredibly beautiful, their tanned and lithe torsos’ standing on legs that finish somewhere close to their armpits. They’re all revealing outfits and seductive smiles at the start of a dance, with those outfits lasting all the time it takes for some guy to throw a twenty onto the stage. The smiles stay though, they are the money capacitor “ turn up the wattage and watch the cash flow in.

My problem with such places isn’t really that it’s degrading for both sexes, slightly seedy or horribly contrived. It’s the denial of a middle aged bloke rolling in cash and fat, truly believing that this Goddess of Beauty actually finds him witty and attractive. You just want to shout it’s a business transaction mate, flash the cash or she’ll be off to leech the next tragic victim“.

I sit and watch and feel like a fraud. When some vision of sex floats up and offers a private dance, you only need to nod faintly before the sales spiel clicks smoothly in and the rules of the game are explained. Twenty Dollars but no touching, kissing or knocking one out in front of me. Get frisky and the twenty stone hunk of bored beef in the corner will rip off your head and piss down the whole. I’m paraphrasing a little but the sense of the transaction should come across.

I never go. Others do and return with obvious enjoyment plastered across flushed faces. Dance follows dance, and soon it’s just Big Gay Al necking watery beer and wondering when excuses can deliver a hasty exit. The cold night air is fresh enough to wash away the stink of cigarettes and half formed sexual acts. It’s a bloody relief and again I tell myself this is absolutely the last time. Until the next time, anyway.

Okay I’m a prude. Because I can’t really enjoy the show, it seems apposite to preach a pious sermon instead. In reality, these places don’t do any harm, they’re serving a need of sorts and even offer up some amusing connotations such as the Businessman’s Lunch�?. What’s that then? Naked women starter, breast of inner thigh to follow and sweet nothings to finish“. But still a lingering sense of doubt remains.

Whereas obviously downloading porn off T’Internet and giving the old fella a vigorous rub in your own home is fine. Allegedly, not that you’d fine me doing treading the subtle line between public and private masturbation.

Not with Carol reading this blog anyway.

It’s all our own fault

Last year, some madman fretted that our children may be physically blighted or mentally scarred through the violent exchange of stringy conkers. This week a council is cordoning off a copse of malignant trees and their fruity ammunition. Last month, we had Mad Ken sound biting policy initiatives to license plate cycles and imprison non bell ringers. How much of this is feeding a slow news day and how much is rampant political posturing is hard to say. But it’s clearly silly and yet there is something a little darker emerging.

Firstly, however, anything like this should be wrapped in neon-signed handle with extreme care�? warning as it’s essentially the Daily Flail gone global. We’re always looking for politically correct gibberish to first ridicule and then shape as a stick to beat the hand wringing, lentil eaters who defend such nonsense. For every ˜Pear Tree Could Be a Killer” and Conkers “ the new Weapons Of Mass Destruction” screaming taglines are mitigating scenarios where badly supervised kids die in rivers and un-maintained tracks derail trains.

A sense of perspective should act as a prism to divine the lay lines of truth buried under the headline selling static. But there is no doubt that, as a society, we’re dealing with far more restrictive regulation reinforcing a culture of personal irresponsibility. No one is to blame, so everyone is to blame. It’s hard to see how this can work both ways, either we learn to take responsibility for our actions and those in our care, or we submit meekly to a state who feels they must do it for us, however crassly.

Less than a lifespan ago, kids of 19 and 20 were battling for their lives and the freedom of all civilisation over the skies of Southern Britain. Since those times, successive governments, of all colours, have stealthily eroded our ability to take our own chances and live or die by the consequences. If those young men had the attitude of a similar sample today, I wonder would they have risked anything to save everything.

It’s probably a specious argument, but whole generations will soon be lost to the power of individual choice if we aren’t allowed to walk the line between social responsibility and freedom of the non mandated option. We’re not sheep, there is more than one path to take, many sides to an argument, infinite outlets for expression. More baring of teeth and less toothless baa-ing would be an alternate approach.

Do you know how many Health and Safely officers there are in France? None, that’s right, if you want to dice with death under a swollen pear tree, c’est la vie. We could do much worse than adopt such a carefree attitude.

God, I’m turning into my Dad.

Feeling Peaky.

I hope you’ve noted the seamless evolution of the medical title theme, started last Friday. It’s not all beer and skittles in here you know “ rather a more complex game of blogging chess where moves have to planned three posts ahead. It’s hardly classy to juxtapose grouting lyrics with a forthcoming anal probe reference. You would be rightly irked by such lazy linkage and on that tangential note, here are some words that should never be seen together.

Marketing Budget, Holiday Slideshow and, my personal Armageddon, Alcohol Shortage. Feel free to add you own while I suffix Weather Forecast to this list of unholy couplets. The finest computers which advertising revenue can buy, predicted firstly dry but cold conditions, then localised flooding before settling on dreary and prolonged showers. These meteorological charlatans have clearly shunned their electronic doomsayers in favour of a glance out of the window following an intense study of the tea leaves.

We had a fantastic ride in what are considered the lesser lights of the Peak District. A cheeky route plotted by Andy TrackLogs” Shelley “ a man who has spent three years hunched over a computer developing mapping and GPS software. It was with a little surprise and not some alarm, we noted his total lack of navigational aids other than Google maps. This Guerrilla niche double bluff marketing is clearly more subtle than I thought.

IMG_0062IMG_0064IMG_0081IMG_0045

Continue reading “Feeling Peaky.”

Proper ‘ills

Not medical complaints more vertical geography. A weekend in the Peak District awaits although God’s country, as ever, has rather more weather than us down here in the soft south. It’s also rather well regarded for it’s rockiness and since my rolliness has lately been on the painful side, I’ve installed Lithuanian Lesbian” as my riding style.

It’s unlikely anyone’ll notice much difference but in case they do, the offer of joining our host in a somewhat pervy long travel hardtail covern has been pooh-poohed in the strongest possible terms. It’s about time the Turner had an outing, you never know I might find someone who can ride it properly. Statistically, it’s unlikely to be me.

Before I go, my friend Jay (the story hunter of all things sexually deviant) has insisted I be his virtual mouthpiece and post this. He’s bigger than me so it seemed prudent to give him the opportunity to share this with my reader. I hope that doesn’t include my mum.

Before you open it, I should warn you of the non lunchable contents within. It’s an expose of Bejing’s Penis Emporium with references to knob of the day” and Todger health cures” I’m paraphrasing but I’m sure you get the drift.

Honestly, I’ve no idea where he finds this stuff. And more worrying the frequency in which he finds it. Maybe I’ll register I-want-my-knob-back and let him get on with it.

A game of two halves

The weather was forecasted sunshine and showers; that’s sunshine on the Saturday and showers on the Sunday. In a moment of unfamiliar seflessness, I chose the Saturday to improbably stuff 4 bikes and 4 people into and around the car and go riding on the local sustrans. It didn’t start well with Verbal ignoring eight feet of pristine concrete, instead veering off alarmingly into a steel fence. The impact threw the bars sideways and the child forwards where the waiting concrete bloodied her knee. After a mild whinge and the application of the magic finger, we were on our way again.

Random, on the other hand had gone mad, powering her pink singlespeed over the first crest, spinning away with a cadence last seen on an Olympic hammer thrower. While pedalling is her forte, braking and steering aren’t and only desperate shouts from terrified parents prevented a freeride plunge over the railway embankment.

Here’s a couple of pictures from calmer times.

Abi ridingJessie Resting

We managed eight-ish miles which may not sound epic until you realise that for three members of the family, this is their personal best. Tired legs morphed with increased confidence by rides end and I couldn’t help but feeling rather proud of them all. Parentlng you see, not difficult at all if you remember to turn up.

The forecast was horribly accurate with thunder outside the bedroom window and frightened kids inside. Although Random and Verbal are now at an age where we’re largely ignored at the weekend unless one of them has accidentally set fire to the other one while making breakfast, this morning we had a four in a bed scenario which gave me ample opportunity to unleash my personal duvet lifting thunder. I’m pretty sure everyone was impressed with “ThunderPants Dad” – I know I was.

The rain stopped leaving me almost no excuse but to go riding. The trails were understandably moist and slippy which provided more than enough excuses for my continuing confidence issues to loom large and irritating. There is an MTB myth, periannially spouted by those shielded by Internet forums that crap and muddy conditions make one a superb bike handler. I’m not prepared to except that unless you’re already a superb bike handler rendering the whole exercise totally bloody pointless. And not a little scary. Speed isn’t an issue, turning is; until I can shift the mindfuck that insists five degrees off vertical will conclusively lead to an explosion of extra vehicular activity ending in slashed limbs and open wounds. It’s bloody annoying and nothing short of riding, riding, riding is going to fix it. Or strong drugs – maybe that’s a short cut worth considering.

Here’s what the bike looked like. At least it’s warm enough to clean it wihout the risk of frostbite.

Mud. Remember me?

Once the cold muscles in for a three month stay, I’m going to with the site namesake and considering hibernation.

Another new bike Sir? Surely not?

No, not for me which considering I already have *ahem* quite a few, this seemed an appropriate time to redress the balance. My wife’s old bike was, in no particular order, too big, too heavy, too old and too rusty. It also employed an innovative braking system technically described as “pointing the behemoth uphill” or, in extreme cases “abandon speeding bike and head for the soft shrubbery“. As she’s not exactly enthusiastic about riding anyway – although this could be because her husband is essentially a mobile scar tissue lab – this seemed the ideal time to add safety and a little style to her cycling environment.

Sideways Tim offered up one of these:

Hardrock Sport Disc Womens

at a very reasonable price since it was all Woman specific with ickle fork springs and lowered standover. My eyes were drawn to a proper set of brakes, although I did warn Carol than her traditional technique of using both hands to wrench the lever barwards was going to require a rethink. Unless she’d kept quiet a pechant for describing a perfect parabola over the bars before being lightly nudged by the riderless bike.

The courier had been obviously playing frisbee with the box which slightly diluted the myth than new bikes are fantastic whoever they are for, but 20 minutes later she’d properly christened it by riding it gently into a wall. I’m proud to say that she’s learnt from the master there; Al ‘target fixation‘ Leigh preaches the word of accident to the entire family. It’s a great little bike and I think we’re going to have loads of fun wobbling around the countryside as a family zoned mobile chicane. So it is mildly ironic to consider I’ve spent way more on a single set of forks than we did on this entire bike. Best to keep that quiet I think.

Having first bought cycle specific clothing in 1994 and never felt the need to purchase anything since, she’s now keen to prod the tender underbelly of modern riding clobber. I’m assuming this opens up all sorts of opportunities for me to add to my modest collection of frames and clothing, but I’ve yet to find the right time to check.

I’m so impressed with this splendid little Spesh that it’s been granted permanent residency in the barn. It’s that good 🙂