If there’s one thing that narks the average British bike restorer, rider, bodger, more than anything, even more than having to put up with a wife who bollocks him day and night about lumps of sludge laden iron in the bath removing enamel; it’s having to put up with snide remarks from the likes of complete strangers. And, by that I mean those pasty faced, brain dead, hoodlums from the younger generation, who have never in their miserable lives felt the pleasures of a good spine tingling vibration, or, for that matter, ever experienced the extreme adrenalin high of having to control a seize-up on a tuned Triumph Bonneville at 110mph. Which incidentally happened to me only recently, travelling up a side road just off the sea front at Blackpool Promenade.
Problem with some classic bike owners is that they just can’t take Criticism. At rallies I have often seen grown men coming to blows with some less than civil bystander simply to justify the love and money put into their glorious machines. I for one, do indeed have some sympathy, but - touch wood - it has never in all the shows, sprints and auto-jumbles I've visited happened to me. I have never been known to lose my pudding and use my fists. There is a more subtle way of gaining the upper hand that is far more worthy of consideration.
If any drunk, any obstreperous person ever wants to offer unjustified criticism, ever wants to insinuate within earshot, or even close to my face, that one of my machines is not in the condition it should be in (mentions the words, “heap of rusting scrap, death-trap or wreck”) I would do what most hot blooded, sensible men would do in the same position. I would hold my ground, stare them straight in the eye and do absolutely nothing except offer a smirk - at least for the moment.
Being the sensible sort of bloke I am, I bide my time and wait until the moment is just right, and then without warning - I strike and get my own back. And this what happened to me when I was at the renown Lutterworth show in Leicester in 1988. There I was minding my own business, having a fag and a read of a magazine, taking it easy sitting down besides my trusty Ariel Arrow, when who should mosey on over to disturb the peace and quiet but a bunch of noisy, scruffy, drunken lager louts. I’d heard them coming a while back, making a nuisance of themselves. They paused, and me being a polite sort of fellow turned back to the centrefold and kept a low profile.
It didn’t take them long to pick a few faults. They were there to stir up a commotion and within no time at all, out came the laughs followed quickly by the comments - “Haw, haw! What the fucking ‘ell’s that?” My bike is not entirely standard. “Harr, har!” blabbed another, “Look at the fucking back wheel, wot's it off, a fucking wheelbarrow? Haw, haw,” he grunted, screwing up his piggy little eyes leaning down towards the back end. “Fucking wheel,” he shouted, “Look at that fucking tyre, it’s.as bald as a fucking badger.” My bike is not entirely legal. ” Fucking ‘ell,” mouthed another, taking a swig of lager, “the bloke that owns this ‘eap a shit must be a limp brained cretin. Wa, haaa, hea. I'd rather drive around on a moped! Wouldn't you? Wha, haa!”
Lucky for them I wasn’t standing on my feet, and good job too they’ didn't see the bolt-on vacuum cleaner supercharger. They cleared off to make a din further down the line, but unknown to them I had them firmly in my sights. I put the magazine back in the Ariel’s dummy tank, switched on the ignition and gave the TT Amal a tickle. A quick prod and she fired up. The milling crowds were impressed by the powerful, turbine like whoosh and crackle. They were also to some extent misled, it was running shortened plus sixty pistons in plus eighty bores, and as an extra you could actually file your fingernails down on the ring scores.
In two minutes I was in with the crowd, rumbling along at about the same pace with my feet on the ground. It didn’t take long to catch sight of them, they were behaving in the same staggering manner as before. I could even hear the guffaws and this time the recipient of the flak was an old BSA combo owner. I stopped the bike, took it out of gear and adjusted up the Scott Flying Squirrel petroil mixer (this is a late addition fitment that can be adapted by most two stroke owners, simply turn up the screw a bit and a larger quantity of lube is supplied to clapped main bearings and big ends). It also, as one might expect, puts out a little bit more smoke than usual.
I rode steadily and came up besides the louts, giving the motor some revs. I had needed to stop by then because of a build up of passing bikes and heavy foot traffic; to my delight the wind was in my favour. I opened up the oiler some more and cranked the throttle onto full revs - within an instant the yobs were covered in a dense thick blue choking fog. The sort that could bring out the fire brigade in two minutes flat, and at the same time induce a thick enough pea souper to make a heavy drinker throw up. I kept a straight face, totally ignored the words “dirty bastard” and without further ado I shoved off, only to come back again to give them some more a mere five minutes later.
For all they knew I was just some obnoxious prick driving by on a dirty oily motorcycle. To me, of course, it is all a matter of biding your time, and with guile playing a game of cat and mouse, which to my eye is a far better way of getting even than offering an exchange of abuse, or, failing that, a bunch of fives from a couple of knuckle sandwiches.
The last time I had cause to mete out some justice was only three weeks ago. This time it was at the Cumbria Auto-jumble near Darlington. There was I, just minding my own business, securing the centre stand with a piece of inner tube rubber when who should attract my attention but a well dressed biker. A jerk with all the right gear on. You know the sort, the weatherproofs, proper riding boots, arm bands, white satin neck scarf, Hesketh owners badge. He said to me, ” Hey, what's it worth then, eh? A fiver?” As usual, I turned a deaf ear as he was obviously showing off in front of his girlfriend. He beat a hasty retreat, though, as soon as I stood up when I revealed my six foot four inch frame, but the rot had set in.
Unknown to him, he had just perpetrated a terrible insult. By my estimation, the bike complete with oiler and spare plug was worth at least £15, and probably more if you took into account the ‘Turkey Roast’ drip tray and spare gaskets. Nevertheless, this creep had dropped a clanger. Unknown to him, I had a long standing reputation for extracting revenge, no matter how long it took, having as it happens mountains of patience and stubbornness to fall back on, so he was privileged indeed to have me follow him out of the arena hot on his scent.
It was only a twenty minute ride. Being a person noted for guile I'd already enquired as to his address while the mug was away at the hot dog stand. Thanks to the Hesketh Owners Club en mass coming up trumps with the answer after I told them I had a couple of Hesketh engines I was breaking, I was simply inundated with addresses, one of them even handed me a card introducing me to a gay riders club. Anyway, I was behind this creep all the way, but not too close. It was a nice quiet area, all detached mock Tudor houses, tennis courts, suburban swimming pools and water sprinklers feeding large fancy gardens. It was my sort of dive, a place where I could really do some burn ups, conditions allowing.
The creep’s bike, girlfriend intact, had pulled into a gravel drive that led to a bungalow. I wheeled the Ariel over to a shaded copse of trees at the roadside and removed the suppressor caps. Normally, I would have waited until they went to bed and caused an unearthly din by removing the silencers. Five minutes later, after they had settled in, I kicked the motor into life and kept it spinning over at about 1500rpm. In no time at all, two bobbing heads appeared at the window. A bit more throttle did the trick, hey presto Mr Loudmouth himself strode outside to see if he could find the cause of the interference.
It was his unlucky day. Tough luck indeed if he couldn't settle down to watch Neighbours. I turned the motor off before he could pick up the sound of the grinding bearings. He soon cleared off back inside, slightly bemused. Perhaps he was captivated by the cartoons or that other kids' garbage, Eastenders. I gave them another five, waited until the birds started to sing and then I kicked the motor back into life and held the revs just about on full at the 6500rpm redline.
He was out in a flash, looking as if he was fit and ready for action, looking as if he could really get to grips with someone's throat and do some damage, but to disappoint him yet again I casually turned the motor back off. His bit of crumpet was with him (long blonde hair, tight fitting white jeans, pink tee-shirt). They wandered around the garden, stood up on a high man-made conifer terrace and then strolled down the gravel path to the gate. They were only a few yards away from me, the oil and grease on the bike providing excellent camouflage amid the trees. They saw nothing, the woman looking into the sky, guessing that perhaps the television had gone haywire because of some passing model aeroplane. Mr Loudmouth, short of words, only grunted.
After they had gone back in I opened up the dummy tank and took out a flask of hot tea and whisky I'd prepared earlier, plus a couple of sarnies, rested up for a while and had a bite to eat and a snooze. It was ten o'clock before they finally got rid of me. In the four hours that had gone by they had suffered constant television interference, flashing lights, a six volt wailing horn and choking blue smoke filtering down like the mist from a bog, leaving a thick film of grease on the windows and knicker-laden washing line. Enough poison to give greens a mass heart attack. I cleared off as soon as the police arrived. Waited until they had gone down the drive, before free wheeling away down a nearby hill, bumping the Arrow into life once I was out of their hearing.
This motor mouth was, if I say it myself, extremely lucky. If, for some reason, he had caught me at the Lutterworth Show on my Royal Enfield Constellation and insulted that, then without a doubt his nice fancy crazy paved patio would have suffered my raw, uncompromising, indignant revenge. By that I mean a midnight sortie comprising a taste of the Connie's renown oil leaks. I suppose from most people's point of view, some of this may seem extreme, but to coin a phrase, the punishment has to match the crime. All manner of boasters, braggarts and show-offs must in the end be brought to heel. After feeling my wrath, 90% have certainly suffered a miserable night’s sleep as a consequence, with all that it entails including a halt to passionate embraces and leg-overs.
The 10% that are missing I do admit have to be put down to errors on my part... so excuse me if I don’t ramble on here about my various skirmishes with the law, or mention those rare occasions I’ve suffered bodily attack, or, come to that, the time that I experienced a hospital tetanus jab, thanks to a mauling from a nasty dog. All in all, I would say that my determination to discourage these people is worthwhile and honourable. Without question, big mouths have taken me all over the country, they have given me a sense of purpose and identity that I would find hard to match in any other sphere [Dude, you need a life. Urgently. - 2021 Ed.]. A pest at a bike show makes me brim with joy!
If after reading this article, any of you experience weird goings on at night - perhaps a light shining onto your bedroom wall, a dark shadow crossing your window or strange wailing noises that you imagine could be the wind, take your mind back to the events of the day. Ask yourself if you could at any time have made some off the cuff remark, sniggers included, at a show or auto-jumble, put the grey matter into overdrive and try to recall, for instance, if there was anyone you may have accidentally bumped into. Try to substantiate why you, of all people, should at this time of the night be the recipient of such weirdness, and if you can’t come up with a logical answer, then whatever you do don’t worry. The chances are you probably have the burglars. Best wishes to buyers, bodgers and interested parties.
MADCO