Bodger Christmas Special

Pull up a chair, kick your shoes off, grab a beer and get comfortable. I’ve a Christmas story for you, it being that time of year. It goes a bit like this...

The main man is back, full of mulled wine and mince pies, and ready to dish out his festive scootering cheer to one and all.

I’ve always been a member of the same scooter club. Which one? Doesn’t matter, you’ll not know us, we’ve never really gone in for badges and polo shirts. Just take my word for it. Maybe ‘club’ is the wrong word, we’re a group of mates who’ve hung around together since, oooh… many years ago. In fact I went to primary school with Steve, we’ve been friends that long. Anyway, I’m getting all misty eyed here, I’ll crack on.

There have never been more than a dozen of us, but we’ve always looked out for each other, best we can. It’s what you do, isn’t it? This goes back a few years, not so many that we didn’t know which end of a screwdriver to use, but not so recently that I should have known better. That covers it. There I was one spring morning, sat in the flat with my long suffering girlfriend Debbie, when the phone goes, it’s John from the club telling me I need to get down to my rented garage quickly, it’s not good news. So off I shoot, with what can be best described as an overwhelming sense of dread hanging over my head. When I get there, my fears are justified. Some little bastard has forced the door, and my Vespa chop is missing. Gutted. John has already rung around everyone, telling them to keep eyes and ears open but we know it’s probably not going to end well. Soon enough I get a call, the scooter has been found; needless to say, it’s been torched. Got to get rid of the fingerprints I suppose. So I get there, and it’s a wreck.

Okay, it was never a show winner, never even got a name, but it was tidy. Now it was a pile of scrap. The metallic paint I’d carefully applied was burnt away, the chroming I’d managed to get done via a back door was peeled and charred. The seat was a frame, and the legshelds and panels gave the impression it had been crashed before they’d set fire to the poor thing. I remember standing there and staring as the implications hit. This was my pride and joy, my daily ride to work. Oh god… how was I going to get there this afternoon? Bloody hell, need to talk to the insurance company quickly. Nothing I can do immediately.

And that went well, well… it did if you’re the insurance company. They refused to pay out, pointing out that I’d forgotten to mention any of the modifications when I renewed. They didn’t seem to think that ‘I meant to’ was a good excuse. Luckily, I hadn’t let the scooter go, it now lived in the double locked and reinforced garage – stable door anyone?

Work were sympathetic at first, but there was no way I could do the 30 mile round trip each day without the scooter, and… well, let’s just say we parted company. So there I am. Unemployed. Living in a rented flat with the light of my life and without any transport. Yes, I claimed benefits. No, it doesn’t go far enough, you know the score. Even with Debbie’s money coming in, it wasn’t enough so we started selling things. The record collection went first. Funny how you never get back what you pay, isn’t it? I’ve replaced a lot recently, but oddly they’ve cost even more. There came a point when all that was left to sell was the scooter on that well known internet site. Obviously not worth much, but in bits I got a few quid for the frame after I’d kicked the dents out in frustration one afternoon, the forks got a good few quid. You get the idea. But as soon as it came in, the money went out again. It wasn’t a good time.

Thankfully I had the club. Good people, one and all. They arranged for me to go to rallies throughout the summer, a lift on the back of one, gate tax from another, enough beers to keep me going over the weekend. Like they kept saying, it’s what you do for your mates, isn’t it? But there came a point where it felt like I was poncing off them. I had no prospect of getting back on the road, no work, couldn’t offer anything back, so I started making excuses and eventually the offers pretty much dried up. They’d still pop round to see how we were doing, but sometimes you got the feeling that there was something else. Something they didn’t want to tell me.

It didn’t help that Debbie had started acting a little oddly. Phone calls that she’d cut short when I came in the room. Nipping out for a couple of hours here and

there, other little things. Worrying things. I love that woman, and couldn’t bring myself to think the unthinkable, but there it was.

It wasn’t all bad. Even though we had no money, we’d do little things to make life better. I learned to make beer – that was fun! One of the nicest things she did though was for my birthday. No, not that, you mucky-minded bugger… we have the typical collection of model scooters scattered around the flat, and I’d not noticed that one had gone missing. Bless her, she’d spent I don’t know how long carefully sculpting and modifying it to be a scaled down version of my chop. I was in tears. It took pride of place and brought a smile to my face every time I looked at it. A truly thoughtful gift even though she’d got the seat wrong. Me? I bought her some special soap or something for hers. Bloke thinking at it’s very best.

So, Christmas is coming, we’ve agreed to owe each other a present when better times came, something we never stopped believing in, and the annual club get together round at Steve’s is coming. To be honest, I didn’t want to go. I was in full on ‘Bah! Humbug!’ mode and just wanted to sit at home and get legless on homebrew. I wasn’t in a good place, looking back, but you don’t really realise at the time, do you? Debbie made me go though. Pointed out how long I’d known these people, how good they’d been to me through the year. How I’d seem ungrateful. How I had a mountain of beer that I’d made, and no one to drink it with. She had a point.

So one of the lads picks us up early evening. I chuck a box of lethal brew in the back of the car, and off we go. Debbie is made up to the nines, I’m in my usual jeans and T-shirt. We get there and it’s all ‘bloody hell, he’s here’ comments. Thanks lads, as if I’d have missed it. Hmphh.

The next few hours are long, to be honest. They’re all going over the year’s events, laughing at jokes I didn’t understand. Debbie was away in the throng, she’s always been a good mixer, bless her, but I’d already agreed with her that we were going to leave at a reasonable hour if I wasn’t happy. I think it was about half ten when I decided that I’d drunk enough, listened to enough, and had enough. I found Debbie talking to Steve outside, and sharing a ciggy, so to speak. Steve said he understood, and would I be offended if he paid us a taxi home as a sort of Christmas present? We couldn’t really say no, could we? Cheers Steve. Appreciated. Ten minutes later and he’s back. Christmas Eve and taxis? Midnight at the earliest. Okay, I’ll just have the one more beer then. Crack another. Drag an old favourite album out to stick on the stereo. Steve comes back. It’ll be half twelve, he’s talked to someone he knows, got a promise. Lovely. So now it’s approaching midnight. I can’t see Debbie, but think I’d better find her so we’re ready. I’m not feeling sociable any more.

I wander round the house, looking for her. One of the club says that last time he saw her, she was popping out the back to share another hand rolled with Steve. Sounded about right to be honest, but somewhere deep inside I was getting a worried feeling.

Out I went. No sign at the back of the house. No sign at the front of the house, but the garage light is on. Odd. It was drizzling, so maybe that was being used as a smoke hut. I stroll down, nor sure whether to approach loudly to let them know I’m coming, or to creep and see what’s happening. The decision is made for me when I suddenly hear Debbie’s giggly laugh coming from the slightly open door. That’s it, I’ve had enough. Let’s see if we can catch them at it then, shall we?

I stride up to the door, grab the handle, throw the door open and catch them at it. Not what I expected. The buggers are taking a cover off something familiar. A Vespa chopper. One that looks like one I had. They see me and step back, grinning. Debbie holds her hand out. There’s a key hanging from it. I look again and see a familiar number plate. I guess I must have looked a right pillock, to be honest. Talk about the wind taken out of your sails! From behind me, there’s a sudden cheer. I look around and the rest of the club are stood there. Young Tom is holding a bottle of something fizzy out towards me. There’s a chorus of “Merry Chrismas Bodger” and suddenly the alcohol in my system seems to vanish. This is my scooter. No, I mean it’s MINE, the V5 gets shoved in my pocket. Voices scrabble to be heard above my manly crying as they explain. Friends of the club were given the job of buying the parts as they came up for sale, the club then paid them back. Long evenings were spent trying to get the machine back to how it was. It was a club scooter, it was staying in the club. It’s what mates do, isn’t it? All this and much, much more. I hugged the lot of them. I couldn’t talk.

Okay, the paint wasn’t as deep. The forks weren’t chrome, they were silver paint. The seat stood out though. I looked at it carefully. Leather, hand stitched with lettering burned into it. Not perfect but readable. It said “Bodger’s bike. With love from Debbie”. Shit, the scooter was better than it had ever been. It also finally had a name. The fizzy went all over the tank as we christened ‘It’s What Mates Do’.

Merry Christmas all. And may all your dreams come true.