Trikes

It's taken a long time to get back to biking, or triking for that matter. What happened in the middle? Boozing probably. So we are off down to Wales to talk to trike people. To talk to trike people you have to go to Yorkshire or Wales, which might say a lot; trikes are not really a metropolitan thing, but we need boot space, and we thirst for the road, and you know what, with a trike, it's a design exercise.

So whether it's a Harley donor or a Goldwing, whether kit or bespoke build, everything down to the piping on the paint finish needs to be decided. Oh god.

For this exercise I start with another model (see below and see above) the only model trike I've found, a Harley Tri-Glide commemorative from Obama's election, and several back copies Trike Magazine, surely one of the more esoteric of publications, for trike riders may, if the whim descends, build anything, base it on The Magic Roundabout, whatever. We are not talking products here, these are works.

But that is also very cool indeed, very correct in principle. You get craft, you get engineering, and of course you still get cold and wet.

We prepare, no way we are going to turn up without helmets, jackets, gauntlets and all the rest. I figure if we begin to look the part, we'll become the part. That, after all, is why I've ended up with a ZZTop beard. And we have to start now, building takes twelve weeks, so you commission one of these things in the chill of winter for your blasts of summer breeze. This will be quite a ride. 

New House

House for Two Brothers on the Fen. The top block is a barn conversion for bedrooms, otherwise the living space is dissected by a garden wall where everything falls off over the east or western sides, embracing the amazing landscape/weather. Obviously younger brother with less family gets small side. Horticultural greenhouses begin to sprout out back, and ....not much else. A cool little thing for my brother to think about, since he has the opportunity with the barn. Note the model trike in the background. We'd need one up there for sure.

Page Three

Now Page Three has gone, it seems to me the obligation of web participants to plaster it with images of demure girls with their tops off, since even the most hardened of new feminists agree that it's rights to show themselves off (thank god) given more prevailing circumstances. Not that I give a damn for Page Three and don't think its as shoddy as it's possible to get; this was simply one of those Murdoch ploys found out; and he's reacted too dumb and too late, and it's an embarrassment that the puritans (such as Harriet Harman) seize the pseudo joy.

Sunny Day

It's New York in 1975, and exotic dancer Sunny day is protesting at the lack of funds in the public coffers. The more I think about this the more peculiar it becomes. Strippers campaigning for public funds! How extraordinarily public spirited. Mind you, that is exactly what Lady Godiva was doing when she took her husbands bet to ride naked through Coventry, if he would stop taxing the populace so harshly.

What's in a name? Well that's another sign of the times. Dancers nowadays are likely to choose names like 'Shadow' or 'Diamond'. I imagine last on their list would be something as innocent as 'Sunny Day'.  

Where have all the flowers gone?

Of course she's not nude, she wants to protest, not get arrested, so the provocation is mild, as is the placard, but she is on a horse, and that can't be easy to find in downtown NewYork New York. She is also siting side saddle; maybe that's comfortable as well as demure, and she appears to have now assistants, no compadres. Perhaps she's more powerful for all that.

Necker Island

Just about the worst place in the world? Quite possibly given last night's television documentary; ostensibly a promo for Richard Branson's island paradise; once his, now yours by the hour. Typical Branson; ever a man of the people. 

Luxury suddenly looked so annoying. Since it's whatever you want whenever you want it, being stuck on Necker must be extremely tiresome. Officially 'letting your hair down' you'd actually sulk in your room feeling bad noting the bill ticking hankering for cheese on toast instead of caviar: Like all 'all you can eat' buffets; the situation is crass (but fun at first) and always profitable to the house.

What do people do there? Well they Kite fly (see above) that's for sure, and drink cocktails and don formula 'dress up' items (thoughtfully supplied) to go to disco night (as all this has never happened before) and wonder if the bar staff are lonely enough to give them a sympathy shag. Said staff are well aware of the deal, and they think it's fun. I have no problem with prostitution or 'just a bit of fun' if only people (and this awful program) weren't so coy about it. The scenarios; including eating sushi off the 'hot' accountant (another bit of fun) were really quite off putting.

The guests might exercise a peculiar desire to share breakfast with Richard (his wife stayed well out of it) oggle at him actually eating a burger over lunch, and then pitch some dreadful idea to him; such as installing a lift so that other pitchers might do the lift pitch. How does RB survive this crap? Well because that's exactly what he's like. He thrives on shit like this. To the camera's he's running his empire from the pool side, with his chief PA an ex stewardess. The orchestration! The artifice! The rustics in paradise! Give me a fucking break. In the old days multinationals craved conspicuous respectability; the Seagram Building; Branson swings the other way; flip flops. His accountant's tummy is presently laden with sushi. If I were in the mind for such a high flying experience, I'd prefer a good suit and dinner in the Four Seasons anytime; it's called class. Perhaps the real accountant was out of sight crying.

Dry January

So it's off the booze for January. This is not as funny or as easy as it sounds. You get aware of that very quickly; like the first evening, and even this is little more than a 'Less Sodden January' since I'm only cutting down to the barest of rations so far; but perhaps it's best to give it up altogether. That's a dreadful thought; that or the doc enforces perpetual sobriety.
The effect is very disturbing, like walking around with half the lights off or being condemned to listening to Iron Maiden for ever. It's clear I'm particularly choosy about my reality, and I don't like not being able to filter it out at will. What to do? Feel like a zombie, save up for a Harley, a turntable upgrade? Whatever middle aged people do when they can't enjoy what they actually like doing?
So I stare nostalgically back at the picture above, of me with Gordon Murray, a student who for some reason had the nickname 'Daisy' in Cleopatra's Barge, Caesars Palace, Las Vegas, circa 1997. Those were the days/nights/whatever.
Photo Copyright Paul Davies