Journey to the Land of the Thugs Game (Played by Gentlemen)

 It’s been a while! But then any of you who can be bothered to read this stuff or just need a cure for insomnia will know that I only post when the muse takes me. Be warned, there are no demon-possessed bikes or humiliating trouser-falling-down episodes in this story!

 Concerning the journeys of my youth series – that’s going to happen but I have had a battle with the big C which has, among other things,  prevented me from getting on the bike. However, in good news, it looks like I’m winning said battle. Whatever comes next, it's time to live my life once more!

This particular story comes from an invitation to see some friends up in the wilds of Rugby to have a Sunday lunch. I’m always up for a free lunch so that was an easy sell. Add the prospect of good food, a historic setting and fine company and I was hooked!

Normally this would have been a journey I’d have taken on the bike, but given that my friends don’t drive for right now and they weren’t up for being towed to the restaurant on rollerblades (dammit!) I had to take the car. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I like my ancient Honda. It does the job, is dead reliable and extremely well-engineered. It just lacks the fun factor of a bike and definitely lacks the fun factor of towing people on rollerblades. (Don’t give me rubbish about personal risk either! Half of the most enjoyable things I’ve done in my life would bring Health and Safety out in hives!)

Given the limited choice in transport, I still chose to take a scenic route for the journey up and was treated to some of the delights of the English countryside in Oxfordshire and beyond. Yes, it lacks the immediacy of taking the bike, but I enjoyed the journey as much as possible in a ‘slightly less crappy Honda’. (And the person who described my admitted granny mobile like this knows who they are!).

When I arrived in Rugby, I was struck by how old the part of the town I was driving through was. Thatched cottages and Tudor-style buildings were everywhere, nestled alongside very modern shopping centres and industrial estates.

The town has quite a history too, with settlement in the area since the Iron Age, and I found that a fortified Roman Town existed about 3 miles northeast of where the town is today. According to legend, the Thugs game was invented in 1823 by a schoolboy named William Web Ellis. Go Figure – I thought it was much earlier than that, being the first version of football with actual rules, and now being called a thug’s game it was rather wussy because the original ‘Beautiful Game’ was played between two villages with a solid ball and people died in the matches!  I do know that there were concerns that football would interfere with the legal requirement for archery practice on a Sunday after mass and there were many attempts to ban it for various reasons, not just the archery.

Gentlemen Illsutating how to play the thugs' game

When I picked up my friends, I was treated to a whistle-stop tour and potted history of the town as we passed through it, touching on the history of Rugby School which was originally meant to be a free Grammar School for local boys but gradually became a private school for fee-paying pupils drawn from all over the country. I am told that the Lawrence Sherrif School (named for the founder of Rugby School) was created to continue the original intentions of Rugby School.

Rugby School Today

In any case, we arrived (all too soon) at our ultimate destination, the Dun Cow, which has its own storied history and was first built in around 1540. You’ll see the outside of the Pub below and a representation of the Dun Cow below that.

If you were to ask me she’s a bit of a page 3 cow but legend says she was a "monstrous beast four yards high and six yards long" which provided milk to the locals.  A witch made it go on a murderous rampage (which, I guess, is what witches do) until it was slain by Guy, Earl of Warwick! I imagine it’s a bit of a change from dragon-slaying, right? I am sure his fellow knights were suitably impressed by his bravery and prowess

French Knights being truly impressed

Lunch was rather splendid, a very good Sunday lunch indeed. The roasties and Yorkshire puds did not appear to be celebrating their birthdays (a feature of pub Sunday lunches in my experience) and we were served with humour and attitude by the staff there. However, what made it truly special, as you hope these days will be, was the company and conversation, which ranged all over the place and didn’t hesitate to go into some deep places which I won’t be talking about here!

Afterwards, we went on a tour of the immediate area and I found, as well as some lovely old houses, to my complete shock, the site of ‘Guy Fawkes House’, marked by an understated plaque, with no commercialism in sight!  

This was the old Lion Inn where the gunpowder Plot conspirators met on the fifth of November, 1605 to await news of the destruction of Westminster. Upon the arrest of Guy Fawkes their plan to seize Princess Elizabeth from nearby Coombe Abbey was abandoned and the rebellion which led to their defeat three days after the fifth was planned by the conspirators here at the Lion. To commemorate these connections this old inn goes by the name GUY FAWKES HOUSE (Dunchurch Parish Council. A.D. 1951).’ So Guy Fawkes never lived here and nor did he own the property, but who cares! It was quite a find nonetheless!

Walking around the area (you’ll see something of it in the photos) was a real treat, especially if, like me, you enjoy the old places in this country but the thing that struck me was that there were fresh flowers on some old grave sites. Given where I was at the time this gave me a degree of hope in the human spirit.

So we headed back, by murky passages, and some roads, where I was treated to more fine company (and a nice cup of tea) after which  I headed home. By now it was dark so I couldn’t enjoy the journey back in quite the same way but I did get a nice break in a service station where I reflected on the day.

Reflections

I have said before that one of the things I am fortunate to be rich in is my friends. This day reminded me very forcibly of that simple fact, which is, in essence, why I’m writing about it.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’d like to be rich in knowledge and wisdom, and well, riches, but If I had to choose just one of these things to have, this is what I would select first of all. I am really, truly, rich in this regard and I am so very thankful for it.

The Surprising Beginning to the Stories of the Places of my Youth

Introduction

Today a friend mentioned the concept of a golden thread of memory. I found it intriguing, so I had a bit of a think about what it meant to me. I’m of the opinion that a golden thread of memory is a thing that winds its way from the past, bringing out good times with extra clarity and reminding us of what they meant and perhaps have come to mean to us.

 I had every intention of starting a new series on my blog called 'The Places of my Youth' with a nostalgic trip around the Chesham area, which saw the beginnings of a time of my life which I refer to as a little piece of magic. That’s a golden thread of memory if ever there was one!

This story, however, hijacked my planned start to the series because of how it ties beautifully into this idea of a golden thread, because that’s exactly what it came to be, a golden thread of memory tying a journey in the present to a fantastic time in my past. What made it all the better was that it came as such a complete surprise.

Places of My Youth Part 0.5

Last Sunday, at least as I write this, I took my bike out for a ride. Essentially, I looked at the chores and DIY I was supposed to do, looked at the sun shining outside, said something rude about chores and DIY and got on my bike to see what adventures awaited me on the road. I just wanted the feel of the wind on my face. With 750,000 odd miles on bikes under my belt I still love it.

Anyway, back in the day I used to do this every now and again, and it could lead me all over the country to some quite interesting places. Sometimes my ultimate destination would be a mysterious ruined castle, sometimes it would end somewhere like the romantic and exotic wilds of West Ruislip. More recently, local rides led me through a magical little village with what looked like the remains of a medieval wall and another ended up in Tesco's in Prince's Risborough about 5 miles away! These were, in microcosm, how these things went in the past.

Today's totally unplanned ride took me into a bunch or roads on the other side of West Wycombe. There's some truly lovely countryside in the area, particularly on a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon, so I set off with no particular destination in mind, just a desire to know where 'this' random road would lead and what sights it would show me. 

It was while I was riding around these roads that I was struck by a sudden sense of deja vu. Somehow, I knew these roads, and knew them really well. Shortly after this realisation struck me as I saw a series of signs for places, like Skirmett, Fingest and Bovingdon, and I came to understand (with no small sense of wonder) that I was on the very same roads that I learnt how to ride a motorcycle on back when I was 17 and started what was, in some respects, a storied career as a biker. I was riding once more down the very first roads I ever saw on a bike.

Memories of summer afternoons on my Oh So Mighty CB100 came flooding back, rides with my best friend, Graham (who is sadly no longer with us) on his Z200, a beast compared to what I had. Journeys round these roads by myself, the time when I misjudged a corner and ended up in a hedge, the first time I managed to get my CB100 to its absolutely massive top speed of 60 mph. That's pretty hairy on those roads you know! Golden times. 

It was as I rode around all these great roads, enjoying the memories and the truly lovely countryside that I saw a sign which said 'single track road with no passing places for 2 miles'. I'd never seen this before, so despite the forbidding nature of the entrance I just had to turn aside from nostalgia and try something new. I just HAD to; you understand?

In contrast to the roads I had been enjoying, this one was extremely narrow, dark, overgrown and very, very wet. My feet were quickly soaked, which reminds me that the next time I do this I should prepare better, and the potholes had potholes! I am sure that some at least lead into a mysterious underworld populated by Svarts, the Morrigan, worse things if that's possible and maybe one led to the Abyss itself.

However, before my imagination could paint me into a place from which there was no escape, and after travelling downhill for what seemed ages, I literally emerged out of the trees to see more lovely countryside, into what I realised was the bottom of a narrow, steep-sided valley.

I was then that I met a pair of horses (with riders, fortunately) coming in the opposite direction! I literally had to drive into the hedge at the side of the road and switch the bike off. They could have been King Arthur's knights on a terribly grand quest, but they were instead a lovely couple doing the same as I was, and enjoying the countryside on a far more genteel mode of transportation than I was using. We exchanged pleasantries as they passed and it was then that I realised that a van was following them at a discreet distance. Fortunately, I was then in a good place to bury myself even further in the hedge and we JUST managed to pass each other. JUST.

Coming out of the other end of the road I came to the realisation that I was totally, utterly and completely lost, which is quite a feat in the back roads around Marlow and Henley, and it took me absolutely ages to find a signpost. In fact, had I driven through a patch of mist I might just have believed that I had travelled to the other side and was about to see the hosts of the Sidhe arrayed in all their otherworldly glory.

Well, that thought was completely smashed to very small pieces indeed when I came across a sign that said 'Marlow' this way and 'Henley' that way and I realised that I wasn't lost in the Otherworld at all, but very firmly in a mundane part of this one, close to the town where I grew up.

Not the Otherworld, Somewhere between Marlow and Henley

I then ended up (by design this time) at Marlow Sports Club. The tennis section of the club is where I started to discover these wondrous creatures called 'girls' (I still know nothing about them by the way) naturally played some tennis, winning a few Junior tournaments and later (post accident) becoming the Junior Organiser and Club Coach. On the other side if the cricket field was the bar. I'll draw a kindly veil over the multiple, classic, ways I made a complete fool of myself there. 

And that, in effect was the journey. I rode down Marlow high street, which bore very little resemblance to the place it was in my childhood, except for the toyshop which was the most important place in the high street (for me) for years, and rode back home, with a stop at my local Harvester for a good meal with people who have become friends. I finished the afternoon tired but happy.

Postscriptum

This, was in a small way, a very good day. This golden thread of memory reminded of absent friends and good times I'd had in the past. You could argue that this is the whole point of these golden threads and I won’t disagree with you. Having been through some dark(ish) times in recent years driven by stress and overwork, it was good just to let all that go, and remind myself that in a lot of way ways, I am very rich, especially in the friends I have and the people I know. I hope some of you will read this one day.

Storms and Stonehenge

For once this is not a story of a breakdown or a near-death experience. It was a bit of a brown trouser moment mind you, although by then I was far too cool for brown trousers. Yeah, right.

I’d left Exeter in bright sunshine. A perfect day, and I was riding along the A303 when I literally saw the clouds roll in from absolutely nowhere and the rain began. Rain was a bit of an understatement actually. Let’s call it a monsoon! So much so that I was soaked right through before I could stop the bike and change into the waterproofs I’d brought along.  

So I got back on the bike and carried on riding. Then the storm started and it got really wet. Then I saw lightning strike a tree some distance ahead of me, and then I saw it strike a hill not far away. There I was on my demon-possessed metal bike in the middle of nowhere and not a car in sight. I was just a tiny bit worried. Only a tiny bit. OK? Was this yet another coincidence, a hell-driven storm from absolutely nowhere? I think not.

I carried on riding through the downpour, since there was literally nothing I could do about being struck by lightning. In due course, I saw Stonehenge on the left-hand side, and I thought, why the hell not? There was no one around so I parked the bike, climbed what was then a low fence, and capered around in the stone circle like a mad thing while the storm raged around me, screaming and yelling as if I’d been possessed by a demon myself. I later put this whole incident down to the said diabolic influence of Yellow Peril.  Obviously.

Then I went ‘OK I’ve done that' and rode the rest of the way home without incident. Like you do.

While I didn’t realise it, that was the end of the big stories of Yellow Peril. That summer, I decided I’d had enough of being a labourer and someone had told me that I could make a minimum of £200 a week as a motorcycle courier. Well, that was true, but you were under so much pressure to get stuff in that if you weren’t in London from Slough in 20 mins they were on the walkie-talkie thing they lent you, saying ‘where the hell are you!’ and you had to take massive risks filtering traffic In London, every minute of every day, thrashing your bike to death, just to make deliveries. One guy in this company got prosecuted for doing 100+ miles an hour filtering through traffic. He got away with it because he claimed that it was impossible and the judge believed him. He told us he’d actually done it.

It all came to a head for me when I hit a speed wobble at an indicated 92 mph. You normally accelerate out of one of those, but on Yellow Peril, I literally had nothing left, and I ended up on the central reservation of the motorway and I was damned lucky not to hit it. Yet another brown trouser moment courtesy of Yellow Peril and in fact a near-death moment that effectively makes a lie of the first paragraph, even if this isn't the thrust of the story. 

You understand therefore why I finished my 2nd week, collected my pay packet and never looked back, and spent the summer fibre-glassing the inside of oil rig cabins for the princely sum of 1.50 per hour. They took me back essentially because handling raw fibreglass was so horrible that no one else would do it, but at least it wasn’t going to kill me! (though the raw fibreglass did make me feel like hell every night)

Why I Learned to Hate Spokes

I’d just worn out a tyre – and I mean really worn it out. It was balder than Yule Brynner after a close shave. It was one of those Bridgestone tyres of the era that came with the bike, which were hard as nails and lasted for ages but weren’t great for actually sticking to the road. As I recall Bridgestone makes good tyres today, by the way. Anyway I digress, and to get back to the point I’d had it replaced with an Oxford tyre which had massively thick treads and was square like a car tyre; but that wasn't a concern.  Yellow Peril handled like a boat anyway and I thought it’d last. In the event it didn’t and here’s why.

I was travelling back to dad’s from Exeter going along the A303 at about 60 mph when the rear tyre blew out, and I mean it really blew out! One second it was functioning as normal and then it just wasn’t there at all.  

The bike jack-knifed like those guys you see doing speedway circuits and I was in a lot of trouble. There was a car right behind me and if I’d gone down it would’ve run over me with the obvious results. Yet another brown trouser and indeed near-death moment courtesy of Yellow Peril to add to the ever-growing list. Thanks.

Anyway, I fought the bike onto the side of the road and brought it safely to a halt. That was not a bad piece of biking as I remember it and I’m quite proud of it. 

However, the car was off over the horizon with never a backwards glance. Thanks a bunch! Though with the complete lack of ironic waving or general mickey taking I am pretty sure they got away with it since my bike's superpower wouldn't have kicked in.

I took stock. I was in the middle of nowhere with no means of communication. There were no mobile phones back then. I needed to get to a phone and do whatever I had to do to get rescued. With no AA or RAC membership that meant a call to dad on a workday. Thankfully I remembered his number! I just hoped he wouldn’t be too mad.

Dad being mad, always such an angry man

I think it says something about the bike that I didn’t even think much of what I had to do and just got on with it. I pushed the bike about 5 miles to the nearest garage (I didn’t want to leave it on the side of the road) made the call and took the wheel off the bike while I waited. Yep, I had enough tools with me for that to be quite routine.

Dad came straight out to my rescue, for which I was and am forever grateful, and we got the wheel to the nearest bike dealer, which was in Amesbury, and they put a new and far more expensive tyre on. When they took the old tyre off (which I’d ruined by the way) they discovered that the people who’d done the previous tyre had neglected to put rim tape on the damned wheel! The only surprise was that it had taken that long to cause a puncture. 

I put the massively inconvenient timing down to the diabolic influence of Yellow Peril, and this is the root of why I hate spoked wheels. (Above and beyond the obvious inconvenience of cleaning and adjusting the damned things). 

Tyre weld was added to the tool kit. Sigh. (I did need it later on in a much more mundane way, for those who might have a vague interest).

Long Vehicle, Short Vehicle

By now I was getting Yellow Peril sussed, I had done a whole bunch of ‘stuff’ to it (which I’ll talk about elsewhere – it’s not of interest to everyone) one of the key things being Locktiteing the timing cover screws – not just with Locktite either these were special and expensive screws with a plastic insert, so this journey isn’t about something that went wrong. Shhh, don’t tell anyone! 

I was heading across the A303, it was a lovely day, and I got stuck behind a yellow trailer, a very long one with Long Vehicle Signs on the back. Yes, I was immediately struck by the irony of the situation, a yellow long vehicle being followed by a yellow short vehicle. Well, who wouldn't be?

So was the guy in the mini metro who overtook us both, deliberately preventing me from overtaking by the way. How very rude! 

I saw the pointing and the laughing as this family went past me, especially the laughing, so it was no surprise to me after I’d got past the trailer – and I got further delayed by the scorpion tank which was not far beyond, when I saw this same car stuck on the side of the road, with the driver changing the wheel as I passed him. I gave him a totally non-ironic ‘cheery wave’ as my Short Vehicle left him in my dust. It confirmed what I’d always thought, my bike was possessed, but once more it gave me Justice!!  Yeah, baby! 

And yes, the other part of that journey was having a very hard time getting past the Scorpion tank which was on some sort of exercise (I am sure it wasn’t supposed to be on the road but I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.)   Those things are pretty quick! Those guys gave me a thumbs up as I went past so I am pretty sure they didn’t break down later! 

Just for reference, I saw quite a few tanks on the A303 – this was the first one however that was under its own power, the rest had all been on trailers and were mostly Chieftains. Those things were so unreliable that they gave Yellow Peril a solid run for its money and that's saying a lot.

Rebuilds and Mods

The list of things I did to Yellow Peril is quite extensive – by the time the bike did its last miles with me I’d replaced almost all of the Philips screws with Allan heads, and all the key ones had been coated with locktite. The Timing cover screws had been replaced as I’ve mentioned with special screws with a plastic insert which did a fine job of holding the points in place, a considerable relief let me tell you. 

 

In addition, I’d replaced the seals on all the shocks, and when a Haynes manual says some force may be required, what it actually means is a bloody great mallet and a lot of cursing, or more sensibly, don’t try this at home folks! 

That was just some of the small stuff I did. I’d also coated the downpipes in Zinc (not the nice plating either) because did I mention the finish wasn’t great? and chemically blacked them myself which was in reality some sort of high temperature spray called chemical blacking. 

I’d rebuilt the top end twice. Every 12k miles,  although the second rebuild was minor by comparison, reground the valves (twice), decoked the head, found that the tappets and camshaft were too soft on the first rebuild and with dads never failing help stoned them clean and had them case hardened. 

I'd also replaced the cam chain tensioner. I should probably have fitted needle roller bearings to the cam, but given what happened to the bike it’s probably a good thing that I didn’t. 

There’s more, most of it being small stuff like more locktite on many key bolts (which I didn't replace with something better, new and better headlight bulbs, plus all the usual exigencies of bike maintenance back then – not forgetting boiling the chain regularly in grease and causing a massive stink in whatever place I was in, which wound everyone around me up, especially mum who was a saint about the whole thing. Did I mention replacing the cam chain tensioner? The list went on and on and included replacing wiring, and as I've said already plug caps, those being the simplest thing I did.

In the end, I did get the bike working reliably, but on balance, while I learned a lot it so wasn’t worth it. I think back then it was something you just accepted if you were going to put any sort of miles on a bike!

Thor, Love and Thunder. In Review

 

Most of you who read this will already have decided whether you’re going to see this or not, so I’ll confine myself to saying that if you like superhero movies you should go and see this, and see it on a big screen with a good sound system. I thoroughly enjoyed this film, and while I had concerns when I saw who was directing it, I have to say that everything he did worked, and the first act flowed seamlessly into the last and set it off perfectly. One day they’ll do a bad one of these. Really.

If you want the wordy version of the review here we go! 

I’ve got to tell you all that I had pretty strong doubts going into this film. While Thor Ragnarök wasn’t by any means bad, it was tonally uneven and the Guardians of the Galaxy bit felt grafted on, even forced. Given that the films share the director, you’ll understand my concerns. However, I was so utterly wrong to be concerned.

I and finding it quite hard to write a meaningful review and keep it spoiler free, so I’ll confine myself to saying that like Thor Ragnarok the film is indeed tonally uneven but in a good way. Many parts of the first act and a half are laugh out loud funny, the interactions between the various characters are great, the Guardians of the Galaxy part was, in its own way awesome, and Russel Crowe totally stole every bit in which he appeared, especially in terms of his general campiness.

However.

This all serves to lead into the final act and  the contrast is all the more marked for what gone on before, As the adversary Christian Bale was lacking only in that I don’t think he got enough screen time, and the way his ‘stuff ‘was handled was just visually and conceptually amazing, while the way it ended was better than I could have hoped for.

While this film was literally a tale of gods and monsters, in the end it was a human story, and was all the better for it. Go see this.