PIP HIGHAM
This month, Pip recalls some more yarns.
Idon’t like funerals, who does? But Bill’s send off was attended by those who had shared big chunks of his 70 years with him; their stories were many and varied as we stood in Helen, Bill’s wife’s, garden after the ceremony. Dear reader, you may remember the tale of Cowclap Corner, a bend encountered on one of our bike holidays in sunny Wales. It left poor old Robert and Jimmy a bit dazed in a ditch, the rest of us, meanwhile, fell about laughing before dragging Robert’s wounded 500 Matchless back onto the road. That was over 50 years ago, but now, we were one short in the roll call: the rest of us were all there to raise a glass or two to Bill. Bikes seem to create that lasting bond, whether it’s the anguish of a broken kick-start shaft, usually when trying to create a good impression in front of members of the opposite sex outside Green’s chippy on a Saturday night, or the premature arrival of a toothless back sprocket in the back of beyond, the experiences stick the protagonists together better than Araldite Rapid. Robert had more than his fair share of ‘experiences’ in those heady days; we assisted him with the purchase of most of his trusty steeds from his Tiger Cub (big-end failed, rear wheel collapsed, sundry electrical woes) through the mentioned G9 Matchless (great until the two-piece crank became a five piece crank) up to his BSA A10. Now the A10 had previously been used all over East Lancashire by various members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary, we accompanied Robert to Bradshaw’s motor auctions where we’d previously bought loads of bikes, all of which had been similarly thrashed but maintained to a high standard. Robert nervously put his hand in the air and became the proud owner of the 650 BSA for £99. He proceeded to blat and burble around on it: until that lovely Saturday morning. I could hear the Beezer from about a quarter mile away making brisk progress along the A6, what could possibly go wrong? Well, pretty much everything, the combination of a semi-comatose Morris 1100 driver, some diesel leakage and a large helping of bad luck left Robert and his A10 intimately connected to an innocent Commer van a couple of hundred yards past where I had just waved to him. Robert’s day ended in Hope Hospital with various breakages: 12 in total! He was set to spend a long time recovering from this unfortunate prang. Robert spent his birthday in hospital and visitors were somewhat restricted, well, that was the theory, it didn’t stop hordes of us from turning up at visiting time with grapes and sundry gifts, it was also an opportunity to sign his plaster cast, popular in those days before plates, pins and screws. My gift was a couple of bottles of freshly brewed nettle beer, I’ve always enjoyed a bit of experimentation and after finding an old recipe for the brew I decided to give it a go. I realised early on that fermentation was not a predictable process after a couple of the bottles had exploded in the middle of the night in our front room; never mind, it’ll be fine. Which it was, sort of, until we opened the first bottle which proceeded to re-decorate the ceiling and a significant part of the (fortunately empty) bed facing Robert’s. The other bottle was swiftly secreted below the sheets until the ward sister retreated. After almost five months in hospital Robert spent many more weeks recuperating at home. Whenever we could raise ten bob we’d scoot off down to Robert’s, stopping off at the local hostelry where a dishevelled 10 bob note (50p at today’s reckoning) would pass over the outdoor hatch in exchange for six pints of ale poured briskly into a copper pail. The trip to Robert’s took only a couple of minutes and there we would sit and get him up to speed with matters arising, whose bike had expired, who else had fallen off, and occasionally, but in truth, almost never, who had managed a successful ‘encounter’ with a member of the fairer sex. Let’s face it, when you’re a youth, not much else mattered. Bikes, girls and the occasional glass or two of weak beer kept us entertained far better than sitting in front of a screen playing games with unidentifiable souls in faraway places, and there was always Robert’s plaster to deface with any number of rude drawings or limericks. Such as… There was a young woman named Bright, Whose speed was much faster than light. She set out one day, In a relative way, And returned on the previous night. I thank you... I’m here all week...