Loose Lines [Issue 13, Sept-Oct 1988]

Were not my blue eyes my best feature (if not my only good feature) I would put on some black shades and go a little crazy. As it is, I’ve had to temper my anger by playing an old, scratched, copy of Never Mind The Bollocks at a zillion decibels on my twelve year old Hi Fi system far too late in the night (or early in the morning if you insist on precision, although if that’s your neurosis I fear you’re reading the wrong magazine) to cover the screams, safe in the knowledge that even if the roof is about to fall off, the walls of this Victorian edifice are sufficiently thick to save me from a visit from underemployed, over-inquisitive social workers.

You have to understand that the UMG is a cleverly crafted entity that has been waiting for the recession to happen. Whilst many of its readers are already deep into their own personal recession, the country at large is in Boom Time, fueled by easy money from rapid rises in house prices (although even an august organ like the Daily Telegraph is openly questioning how much longer it can go on - everyone I know seems to want to be a slum landlord and my reply that drug dealing has more morality goes down not at all well), tax rebates and easy living in Shit City. Such boom time has even penetrated the Welsh border and done strange things to the housing market - but that is the least of my worries, although if the next issue of the UMG is published from Merthyr Tydfil you'll know exactly why.

No, what’s getting me is that the country isn’t yet in ruins, the economy shattered, the pound even weaker than it is at the moment, unemployment up to five million, riots in the street (they're still happening, they just don’t get reported anymore), the police wielding machine guns and... and all those arrogant car drivers reduced to buying secondhand motorcycles and finding out how much fun they can get out of relatively mundane motorcycles because they can’t afford to run expensive autos anymore. The primary effect of the latter would be to have Bottomley wetting his pants because there were simply too many voters to legislate off the road and the secondary effect would be that the UMG would become the top selling motorcycle magazine and I’d have enough spons to cruise around on a Honda CBR600 all day and be able to pay the fines for riding helmetless.

Which reminds me, is there actually a whole generation of motorcyclists out there who have never done 100mph sans helmet? Or even 10mph? It is a symptom of our society that whilst women are being raped, old ladies mugged and just about everyone robbed (or all three simultaneously if you're born under an unlucky star), the mere act of shooting down the High Street without wearing a crash helmet will have engines revved, sirens blared and whole squadrons of pork mobiles screaming up the road after the offending rider.

Rumour has reached my ears that law abiding citizens are so fed up with the burden of stupid laws flung upon their innocent heads that they are getting up at five o’clock in the morning and riding helmetless down country lanes, just for the kicks. The idea of getting up at 5am is one so foreign to my make-up that I’ve no intention of checking this out or even trying it. Crash helmets are actually the only piece of motorcycle clothing that works well without looking absolutely hideous, keeping the head dry and warm even in atrocious conditions and I’d only want to ride without one on the odd (very odd) warm and pleasant day.

Riding helmetless is a very strange experience in itself the motor sounds like it’s about to explode, its noise doubled; hit anything above 40mph and eyes start to water; wear some shades and at 100mph it’s impossible to turn your head without having the glasses snapped off by the gale; look down at the tarmac whizzing away beneath you and the awareness of speed takes on terrifying aspects, the removal from the cosiness of a full face helmet all too apparent, but the sheer exuberance of the act is so much tied up with the basic motorcycle experience that the infliction of the helmet law can only be described as a crime against humanity. The fact that you or I have to either break the law or go to live in a more civilised (and preferably warmer) country does not do anything for my current mood of disaffection.

Having recently had the contents of the UMG described as negative by one rival publisher (a rather strange description given the number of letters I keep receiving from people who have been inspired by the UMG to begin or return to motorcycling), I was reminded of various personnel officers who took exception to my disinclination for wearing silly things like shirts and ties and strange necessity for sporting a tatty motorcycle jacket; quite simply, I’m just not interested in playing the game.

The current game appears to be pretending that Britain is in a massive boom and the Jap motorcycle manufacturers are going to get rich from selling bikes of quite hideous designs to a bunch of yuppies who have more money than sense. Whilst the last few words might well be true, the rest is a huge fallacy with no basis in reality. Take away all of the government funded industries (ie the ones you and I pay for in still extortionate tax) which just about takes care of most of the little that is left of British engineering and Britain just ain’t producing any goods.

The frightening prospect of spending my old age dressed up as a Celtic mystic to amuse Jap tourists appears to come ever closer, but if the ship is fragile as glass it hasn’t yet cracked up and I’m beginning to have serious doubts as to the coming recession - in fact, only pride prevents me throwing in my lot with the optimists (read ex-motorcycle salesmen turned double glazing salesmen turned estate agents turned slum landlords turned lazy bastards), dumping the UMG and starting a new magazine (how about Motorcycle Money Maker?) or merely buying a house or three and waiting for the price to double.

Luckily for UMG fans, if I wanted to die of boredom I would have carried on working as an engineer and not inflicted this vicious little periodical upon the world. If all the foregoing is more than a little confused that’s merely because I’m more than a little confused as to just exactly what is going on out there. All my predictions point towards a massive collapse of confidence and everyone around me is running happily to the bank, HP company and general loan shark to get all the credit they think they can handle as if every day had suddenly turned into Christmas. My only consolation is that they are not buying new motorcycles.

And in view of all the mindless optimism that’s assailing these weary bones from all directions I find that more than a little strange. I mean, hell, you can’t get as crazy as some little rocketship like a GSXR750 for much change out of thirty grand in the four wheel game and even adding the cost of some ultra flash leathers, a crash hat with 40W stereo built in and an ego building course by mail would leave some change out of a mere five grand, the kind of bread some stockbroker would lose in a couple of weeks holiday in the sun. So why aren’t they selling in vast quantities?

Luckily, that isn’t my problem and, save for a lack of used machinery too far in the distant future to get paranoid over, something over which I have no intention of losing any sleep. Of course, the strangest thing about the motorcycle market is that there are so many magazines on the shelves. Whilst rumour holds that at least two of these titles (one relatively new, the other long established) are due to be axed (and may have been by the time you read this) the magazine market has become so strange that anything could happen.

The fact that, if everything has gone according to plan, I’ve just put 60000 copies of this issue of the UMG into the newsagents can be taken as an indication that I’ve finally been overtaken by the madness of this publishing game, assailed by a sudden and rare fit of optimism or that the recession is about to happen and the UMG is perfectly poised to pick up the suddenly impoverished populace and aid them to a better and more amusing way of life. If Loose Lines has been re-titled Letter From Bangkok in the next issue you'll know something has gone seriously wrong. Or to get even more vague, when the going gets crazy, the crazy get even.

Bill Fowler