The Fleet Street Norton
The sequence of events leading up to my acquisition of a Norton Dominator 88 of approximately 1959 vintage now escape me, but I still have a few photographs taken in London in August 1977, showing the bike in front of a bleak looking tenement building. It was for sale, and since I visited UK fairly frequently in those days, I reasoned that it would make stylish transport if I could find somewhere to store it between trips.
It was a totally original bike, fitted with a rear rack made in London by Craven, with one of their fibreglass top cases to suit. On my next visit, I collected the Norton and spent a few days breezing around the place. It certainly was a pleasant machine to ride, with a wonderfully smooth engine, although not particularly powerful. Many say that this 500cc motor was the best of the Norton twins; with each subsequent capacity increase they became grumpier and vibrated excessively. This one had a particular aversion to having the lights switched on, which would cause it to misfire violently.
My mate Lindsay ‘Duck’ Walker was also in the country, visiting the Avon Tyre people (for which he was the Australian agent) in Bath, so I decided a ride out there was in order. Duck was staying at a flash pub called the Priory, a majestic edifice set in several acres of gardens, so he booked a room for me as well. It was an uneventful ride, although by the time I arrived most of the engine oil was on my boots. I rattled into the vast courtyard paved in white pebbles from the Avon River, drew up to the front steps, and switched off the engine. My arrival had been closely observed by a chap in a very quaint outfit with epaulettes on the shoulders. “G’day mate,” I chortled. “Where can I park this?” With an expression of repugnance he hissed, “Preferably somewhere else,” before turning his attention to a more genteel pair who had arrived in a Bentley.
Undeterred, I propped the oil-less Norton against a wall and showed myself in to the foyer, and hence to the bar, which was Duck and my favourite habitat. A few days later it was time for me to return to London and as it was an uncharacteristically bright and sunny Saturday I decided to avoid the motorway and head back through the town of Marlborough, which is famous for its open-air market in the main street.
The place was buzzing, but I had little chance to take in the scene. As I made my way slowly down the crowded street, a car door was flung open directly in front of me, which struck the Norton between the left handlebar and the headlight, stopping it immediately and depositing me on the ground. Instead of a heartfelt apology from the door swinger, the driver set about a tirade of abuse, accusing me of reckless riding causing major damage to his precious vehicle.
I thought briefly about calling the police, but as the Norton was neither registered nor insured, I felt a hasty retreat was a better course of action. Adopting a highly affronted attitude and shaking a stern finger I told the apoplectic driver that I was off to report the matter to the authorities. Fortunately the Norton started immediately and I took off as quickly as possible, because I had an appointment in London. London in the ‘seventies was in the grip of an epidemic of squatting. Any dwelling left vacant for more than a few days was fair game, and evicting the unwanted occupants was a major undertaking. For this reason, I had agreed to ‘house sit’ for some friends in Fulham while they spent a week in Spain, an arrangement that suited me well, with a spot off the street for the Norton. As they rushed to a waiting cab to take them to the airport, an enormous bunch of keys was thrust into my hand – door keys, window keys, closet keys, spare keys. “Make sure you lock up, this can be a dodgy neighbourhood”, was the fleeting instruction as they sped off.
Soon after, I arranged to meet with a chap by the name of Peter McKay, a Fleet Street journalist who was the current writer of a very popular gossip column called William Hickey in the Daily Express. McKay had been in the Scots Guards with two other friends of mine, and was an outrageously funny character, as one would imagine in his line of work. His day consisted of social engagements and barhopping to top up his column with the latest dirt, and he was very good at it. In those days, most pubs in England closed at 3.00pm and reopened at 5.30pm, meaning the dipsomaniac inhabitants of Fleet Street would repair to ‘other’ establishments, such as underground wine bars and private clubs in order to maintain an uninterrupted intake of alcohol. It was at one of these grog cellars that I found McKay, hard at work.
The original arrangement was simply to have dinner at his house which was, from memory, not that far away in Islington, but this naturally involved a few drinks beforehand in one of these dives. At the conclusion of our ‘few drinks’, McKay and I emerged onto Fleet Street and he made moves to hail a cab. “Hang on”, I said, indicating the Norton. “I’ve got my own transport”. McKay’s slightly bloodshot eyes lit up. “Blimey Charlie, what a beauty. You’ve got to let me have a ride. Let’s have your jacket and helmet.” Clearly, any debate on the subject was pointless and I reluctantly handed over
the garments. McKay was of considerably greater girth than I, so there was no question of doing up the jacket’s zipper. By now a cab had drawn up. “Follow me”, shouted McKay as he booted the Norton into life and dropped into the seat. “Follow you where?” But it was too late; he was off up Fleet Street, jacket flapping wildly. “For God’s sake don’t lose sight of him,” I implored the driver, who did his best to keep the disappearing Norton in view. This proved to be an impossible task, but we continued up the main road and incredibly, some time later, I spotted the Norton in front of a one of the endless rows of small houses. McKay was already inside with his wife, enjoying a large glass of wine.
“Ah, there you are,” he said offhandedly as he responded to my bashing on the front door. He was still wearing my jacket which he eventually took off and handed to me. I froze. The jacket was considerably lighter than it had been, due to the fact that the side pocket no longer contained an enormous bunch of keys. This sent me into a blue funk, but did not seem to unduly perturb Mr or Mrs McKay, who were more firmly focussed on the libations. I simply had to locate the keys, and the only feasible way to do this was to carefully retrace the journey, which I decided to do on foot, immediatement! In the fading light, I scanned the roadway for mile after mile. Then, miracle of miracles, after almost an hour of walking, I spotted the keys in the gutter! The bunch was intact and appeared not to have been run over by the incessant stream of traffic. Looking back, I rate the chance of finding those keys at a million to one, but sometimes you do get lucky.
It was late by the time I trudged back to the McKay residence, and the proposed dinner had degenerated into somewhat of a shambles. Having sobered up during my marathon slog, I decided to head for home. There was one other small issue, in that the Norton’s lights were still off-limits, so it meant a gingerly ride back to Fulham via the back streets, which were generally well lit, but still involved getting lost a few times. I felt a wave of relief flood over me as the key slipped easily into the front door lock.
Rather than risk any further misadventures, I resolved to ride the Norton to Stan Rodwell’s place in Ilford, Essex the very next day and have him crate it for me and ship it back to Sydney. Stan and his wife Pam ran a business trading as Stanley Phelps (Stan’s Christian name and Pam’s maiden name) and sent tons of British parts and quite a few complete bikes to Australia over the years.
Some months later the Norton duly arrived, still covered in oil and grime, luckily escaping the attention of the customs and quarantine people. Over time I partially refurbished it, painting it in the rather fetching shade of silver so beloved of Norton, and used it for a year or so. Apart from unreliable electrics and copious oil leaks it was a nice machine but I eventually succumbed to an offer from someone to buy it and moved it on. I wonder where it is now?