Edgar Jessop
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Last issue, mention was made of Edgar Jessop’s initial foray into the Isle of Man TT; a successful mission both on and off the track. Although his Isle of Man debut has been well documented in both racing and social channels, less is known of the build up to that first TT week.
In order to bolster his race fitness and sharpen his reflexes, Edgar was naturally keen to put some competition miles under the wheels of his Spagforth Skangster, but any demonstration of his shattering speed at Brooklands – Britain’s only private circuit which drew huge crowds and was infested with journalists and photographers – would necessarily shorten his odds with the TT bookmakers.
So instead, he and works mechanic Billy Blister, quietly gained a passage on a fishing vessel, loading their precious cargo and sailing from Dover to Koksijde on the Belgian coast and arriving under cover of darkness. There they were met by members of the Spagforth Enthusiasts Club of Benelux (an understandably small but elite group) and loaded into a van for the 100km journey to Kortrijk where the annual road race linking the towns of Harelbeke, Zwevegem and Kortrijk was to take place on the following weekend. Although striving to maintain anonymity, word soon spread that the dashing British speedster Edgar Jessop was in town, not just in racing enthusiasts’ circles, but throughout cultural society. In short order, Edgar received a hand-delivered missive from Count Van der Scallop, the Marquess of Dweeb, to attend a garden party at Véves Castle, the ancestral home which sprawled along the river that ran beside the racing circuit. Hastily organising a dinner suit and dress shoes, Edgar cut a splendid figure as he strolled throughout the lush gardens, impressing guests with his wit, aplomb and charm, none more so than the Marchioness, the former Princess Babette of Norway. As the Count, who was imbibing heavily in the product of his sumptuous vineyard, slipped rapidly into the arms of Morpheus, Edgar slipped into the arms of Babette.
As the first shaft of morning light entered the noble bedroom, Edgar lifted his slightly numb head from the silk pillow and collected his thoughts. This clearly was not Giggleswick, nor the sleeping beauty beside him one of the Spagforth factory lasses. As his brain clicked into gear, the urgency of the situation struck him violently. Slithering silently from between the sheets, Edgar collected his raiment from whence it had been flung during the previous evening’s bestial encounter and crept imperceptibly out of the vast palace. Once outside and dressed, he doubled to the paddock where the racing motorcycles were already being warmed up by mechanics, slipping under the canvas of the Spagforth marquee and emerging moments later in his racing attire. With goggles pulled down to conceal his bloodshot eyes, Edgar strode to the grid with all the dignity he could muster, pulled the Spagforth back onto compression and trained his blurred vision on the starter’s flag.
Two hours later he stood triumphantly, if unsteadily, in the winner’s enclosure, a laurel garland around his neck and a headache coursing between his ears. A magnificent silver trophy awaited presentation by… Count Van der Scallop. Edgar remained motionless, fearing the worst, as the Count moved towards him with the trophy. Then a quivering hand was proffered to him and the Count remarked meekly and almost inaudibly, “Terribly sorry for my early departure last night. It seems I took a bad grape.”
“Quiet so, Monsieur de Dweeb”, replied Edgar.
“I had an early night myself”.