I am presently living in a 30 square metre studio flat that contains five people - myself, the girlfriend, two screaming brats and her twelve year old sister (thoughts on whom we won’t go into here, not wanting to become fodder for mad, bored, desperate social workers).
I am allowed a small table on which this computer precariously perches, mostly lost under various bits of paper that are supposed to constitute the next couple of issues of the UMG, yet another motorcycle magazine and the seeds of an import/export company - I go into a screaming frenzy if I can’t find the piece of information I need in an instant and chuck the whole lot across the room in disgust, which leads to a mad, desperate cycle of frustration and anarchy.
Believe me, this is a crazy place to be! The walls bounce to various stereo systems playing everything from MOR trash to obscure bass tracks that rumble the whole building, the TV screeches in the background, the infants wail, demanding milk and then pissing it out all over the place, and I am supposed to be running three different businesses simultaneously, and have to travel halfway across town to get to a fax machine, having, in a fit of paranoia and pique, torn the telephone out of its socket and chucked it out of the window. In idle moments I turn off all the lights and lob eggs over the balcony, hoping to hit some passing plod... but there are few idle moments!
Three things make this situation tolerable. The first, I can pick up a box of computer discs and a few scraps of paper and do a runner at any time, although I have no intention of doing so, the knowledge that the maximum amount of freedom remains serves to reassure me that I am not going to get bogged down and eaten up by the mere basics of staying alive and procreation - you know the old saying, too busy earning a crust to make a fortune.
The second, a Yamaha RXZ sitting in the car park clamped in position by no less than three shackle locks. This little 22hp stroker has more guts and go than bikes twice it size (in that respect it mirrors the writer, if you'll excuse the lack of modesty on this all but too rare occasion). Its taut suspension and the decayed roads combine to give a perfect workout to my aged muscles and I can pretend that I am at least enjoying myself at the same time as improving my physique. All for less than a thousand notes brand new!
The third and possibly the most important, a Sony Walkman. When these things first came out I dismissed them as merely yet another fad of a technologically mad Japanese industry, bent on producing a new gimmick every five minutes and refused to even think about buying one, which was probably just as well as early efforts were down both on battery power and sound clarity compared to today's audio powerhouses.
I dismissed as morally weak cretinous youths who insisted on bouncing around the streets all tooled up... and motorcyclists who converted their helmets to hear their favourite music when in motion? Obviously mentally deficient kerb crawlers who didn’t know the kind of music their right hand could muster. It all had shades of Yank wankers on Gold Wings equipped with mega watt stereos and a headful of 56mph sloth.
The reason I bought a Walkman was because I was becoming totally pissed off travelling in aeroplanes with the choice of movies I'd either seen before or ones that were so stupid they should never have been made in the first place (my idea of an ideal aeroplane hop would be eleven hours of porn movies, the kind of hostesses who give the profession a bad name and... stop, stop, this is a family magazine, at least that's what irate readers keep trying to tell me) or dreadful radio music that would drive you crazy if you had to listen to it in a lift for thirty seconds let alone eleven, dead, ever so long hours, with only the rattling aeroplane structure for company and irate glares as you insisted on keeping the light on to read someone else’s great novel (I find it increasingly difficult to read other people’s work, a rather large shortcoming when you're supposed to throw together a rag like the UMG).
So, I bought myself a Walkman as a 35th (sob!) birthday present. Tearing out a few wads of foam in the helmet (a pure white but disappointing AGV with a visor that flipped up at 50mph if I was inconsiderate enough to look rearwards and leaked enough air not to need the ventilation slots — bring back the Griffin) meant I could wear it on the bike, too - if I allowed my ears to be crushed momentarily and didn't worry about a weird echo effect when the volume was turned up, as was Gonzo compulsory, high.
All I needed now was some ancient British hack to add vibratory double vision to the echo effect, but those who own British bikes that still talked to me did so with a muttering under-tone of violence, so well have UMG tales of British bike degeneracy filtered throughout the classic scene (oh, joy of joys, what sweet revenge on that bastard Triton).
The first ride was a revelation and bloody dangerous. I usually zoom along with a modicum of restraint. I have been around long enough to know that falling off hurts like hell and any momentary elation from riding like a juvenile delinquent always, at some time even if it isn't instantaneous, exacts a price; with Charlie Parker wailing away on saxophone (even I had the sense not to put on the Sex Pistols or very early Psychedelic Furs) I was like; some druggie wedded to a Space Invader machine and totally removed from reality, plunging and weaving through a mad galaxy of alien vehicles - it was just a pity I didn't have a missile launcher or at least some way of hopping over offending vehicles - I've always wanted to ride over the roofs of cars in heavy traffic jams.
After a series of near misses which nearly took my kneecaps off, insane speeding which all but blew my mind away with the illegality of it all and late braking which shook the forks and burnt the tyres, I turned the volume down to a level which would be more background than mind ripping foreground. It was all very well riding in tune with the music, but when the noise indicated actions diametrically opposed to good common sense it was only a question of time until the Big D grabbed out and kicked you in. Over and over.
Anyway, soon it was on to the airplane armed with a couple of talking book cassettes (being able to listen on the bike to Women's Hour at its relocated time was a boon, as the Walkman also had a radio before you laugh, being forearmed against feminist harridans is lot better than waking up with your balls cut off) to while away the hours. Switching between Grover Washington and Mr Parker, I had the time of my life and didn't bother with the books. The journey appeared to take half its usual length, although the Oz stewardesses eyed my wide eyed grin with something approaching trepidation. The only downer was some old hag who came out of the toilet and accused me of banging the door half to death when in fact I'd only just arrived... anyway, I just turned the volume up.
But, dear reader, you can imagine how essential the Walkman has become in the production of this dubious rag, given the current, appalling, nerve-racking working conditions. I actually prefer Lao (Laos is next door to Thailand, bonzo) music for this task because although it flows rapidly, madly, insanely. I can’t understand a word of the lyrics so they don't interfere with my thought processes, just put me in a great frame of mind for the fourteen hour work sessions fuelled by the odd bottle of ever so cold beer.
The whole ratbag of crazy noises which include a novice Philippino Elton John who is learning to play a massive piano which takes up half his apartment across the hallway and bounces the goddamn floor when he gets into his 2am discordant flow, are completely, effectively blocked out. Brilliant! The fact that rather than talking softly at the femmes I apparently shout at the top of my voice only adds to the effectiveness, and if the brats are screaming for attention I'm the last to hear of it.
I can't remember how long Walkmen have been around and I now curse my original rigid, derisive reaction to their appearance. It is the same kind of knee jerk reaction that shuts so many people in motorcycling off from each other. British bike fanatics take the piss out of Japanese maniacs just as much as the latter like to laugh at the chopper crowd who will go out of their way to insult race reptile riders who dismiss anything less than a 170mph hyperbike as obvious wimpishness. At least this column is open minded enough to, at some time or other, insult everyone!
Bill Fowler
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