yen_powell

Sweaty friend was in the Territorial Army, a machine gunner in the Royal Anglian Regiment. His dog ate his beret and he needed me to take him to Silvermans to buy a new one. Silvermans, if you don't know, is a famous Jewish surplus store in Stepney, they sell everything. My friend had nodded off in the passenger seat, he's wearing light grey jogging bottoms. He woke up when we parked outside and when he got out he had erm.... developed down below, god know what he was dreaming of. He had no shame though and proceeded to walk into the shop with this thing waving left and right in front of him. When he got inside I swear it made a noise when it hit the glass fronted cabinet.

Google is your friend.

Ignoring The French Fleet for a while, my sweater mate story. As I said before, his hormones often got the better of him, not just through sweat but a constant chase of women. He met a girl at a works do and before you know it, they were living together in Stanford le Hope and planning a wedding. The wife to be's mother had seen a photo of me with long hair, leather jacket and holey jeans and had forbidden me being invited to the wedding. I'd had my hair cut and happened to call on my mate when she was there one day. I was charm itself, so smarmy you'd have been sick, but she seemed to like it. I was waiting and sure enough she asked me if I was coming to the wedding and I was able to tell her I was banned for being a scruff. Anyway, wedding happened, I'm at the reception, barmaid serving me made some comment about that creepy bloke over there keeps pawing the bride, him old enough to be her dad as well. Then the creepy man walked over and I introduced her to the groom! To be fair he thought it was funny when he found out. A few years go by and my mate starts chatting up a mother and daughter pair of cleaners at his work. For some unknown reason he comes home to wifey and announces he loves one of them (daughter at the time I think). She does her raving narna and orders him to ring this woman up and tell her he's not allowed to be with her, then all will be well between them. He does this and his wife then asks him all sweetness and light to get something from the shop for her. He was just going out the door when he remembered 'last number redial' and ran back in. He found wifey threatening death and dismemberment down the phone line, then she turned on him and said she wanted a divorce and to pack his bags and go. So they both moved back home with their parents, they had not long had a baby so she was with the wife. I'd just been given a lease car by work and he asked me if I could take him to pick up some clothes etc. Off we went, me trying not to filter in a car. When we got there he couldn't get the key in the lock. It was full of superglue. He managed to get that out in one piece and open the door. Inside the place was bare. Every item of furniture except one was gone. The light bulbs had gone. The fuses from the fuse box had gone, the handles from the cupboards were gone. He knocked on a neighbour's door and he said a large removal van had been there and he hadn't thought anything of it. My mate got a bit emotional, I was hungry. The one remaining piece of furniture was a display cabinet in the front room. It had some framed family photographs with him cut out of each one and some easter eggs. I asked him if I could have a bit of easter egg as I hadn't had any breakfast. He said fine in a heartbroken voice. I was just chomping on one when he said he hoped she hadn't done anything to the easter eggs. I went and spat it out. He rang the wife up and she denied any knowledge of what had happened. He came off the phone and said as her dad owned a storage company he didn't believe her. I said if she said she wasn't involved he needed to report it to the police. I took him to the local station and he did so. They rang wifey up and she said she had all the goods stored away, no problem officer etc. They told him and he rung her up a few minutes later after coming back outside the police station. But she just repeated that she knew nothing about it to him. Later on he moved back into the Standford le Hope place and moved the mother and daughter cleaner in with him. By now it's the mother he is with, it all got a bit confusing. Eventually he fell behind with his mortgage payments and they all got rehoused by the council. The mother and daughter then forced him to leave.

It wasn't a total disaster, they weren't 'Titian blonde' pubes like yours. I have a story about him, I will put that up now.

I did. This bloke was a proper sweater. I first saw him when I was 11, he was in a different class to me at school, but the classes were combined for games. We had just partaken in my first ever game of Rugby, we were covered in mud, wounds and blood. We had all just tramped back into the changing room. We got a talk from the Welsh games teachers about how we need not worry about stripping off together for a communal shower. It took me a few years to realise that all UK games teachers are Welsh sadists. The speech was along these lines, 'Look you boys isn't it, who's coat is this jacket, get you into those showers, none of you has anything that the others don't have so don't you be worrying butt, by the way I use a shower cap for my Keegan perm'. Well they were wrong. 44 boys were pink and hairless, but number 45 (my mate) was a bit further along the puberty motorway and heading for the off ramp. There was hair all over the poor sod, it was like Grendel at the waterhole!

My friend who is 73 loved getting a discount at all the various bike shows. I think they have realised that hardly anyone under 65 is going because some have stopped doing the discount for pensioners.

You do get to know a kick start bike's own individuality. When I had my first stent in, I was trying to stay in and not move about too much, but my friend, who should have known better decided he was going to start enduro racing. He was not the fittest of people or in the first flush of youth. He'd bought a nearly new Gas Gas 4 stroke, a 400 or 450 I think. This thing self destructed at least twice in a very short ownership and had an engine rebuild each time. It would also have a few break downs on the road in that same period. So I made my way over to Kent to a place called Canada Heights and watched my mate leave the starting line and disappear down a wooded hill and that was the last we saw of him for a very long time. Eventually he appeared over the crest of the hill on foot drenched in sweat. He'd drained the battery trying to restart the bike on the button after repeated stalls and begged for someone else to have a go at getting it back up the hill if he could get it started. As I walked gingerly down the hill I found a man frantically trying to kick start and early DR350 with the manual decompressor thing on the handlebar, exactly the same model I had fallen off a zillion times whilst green laning. I asked if I could have a go and started it first or second kick, a few years of anger and frustration had taught me the technique for that one bike. Anyway, we got to the Gas Gas and that was when he gave me his helmet to put on to ride the short distance up the slope. Jesus, I think the entire fluid content of his whole body (and he was a big bloke) was in the lining. It positively squelched as I put it on.

A work colleague (head of Road Safety) had his KH250, a non runner, in his front garden. The little cam that drove the points had worn away or something he said and it had sat in his garden for years. One night he heard someone trying to steal it. He could hear them trying to kick start it. He told me he let them try for ages, only shouting out to scare them off when they were properly knackered.

Oh, yeah, junior Choice. My Old man's a Dustman. The Laughing Policeman. The Happy Birthday song!!

I was singing this as I pedalled today

You do that as well eh. It drives me mad, I sing to myself for the whole journey, even if I only know a single line and hate the song.

Everyone forgets about the CX500 replacement now, it was there and then it wasn't. The VT500

Filth!!!!

They all look the same to me.

You probably know it as a CB500X

Yup. He had one of those multi-bike policies for years, with a 750 limit so he replaced it with a jelly mould GSX750 for a while, then they discontinued the policies so being no longer being limited by engine size he went for a V-Max, then BMW 1150GS, then a series of get to work bikes, XT660, was one I recall. He now has my old Versys for touring/camping and one of those Honda 500s (the half a Jazz engine sort) for going to work.

My mate has a GS750 rusting in his dad's front garden. But it was lovely back in the 80s, he'd bored out the engine to 850, fitted a lengthened swing arm and put some wheels from another Suzuki on it to give better tyre choices. It had big wide handlebars and an Eddie Lawson style seat. He painted it white with 2 tones of blue stripes on the tank, gas board colours we called it when taking the piss. I so wanted to ride that bike, but he wouldn't even let me sit on it. Then the engine went bad after a few years so a second hand 750 unit was fitted. Then he repainted it in garish dayglo colours and put ape hangers on it. It started winning rat bike prizes at rallies. The only picture I have of it back then has most of it out of view. This is Martin and his girlfriend in approx 1985, he's sitting on the GS, my other mate's Honda Silverwing (500) is behind them. His dad is nearing the end of his life at the moment and they have introduced a controlled parking zone in his street. Suddenly the tiny drive needed to be cleared so the carers could park without getting a ticket. It took some effort but it moved eventually after sitting under a cover since about 1992.

I went on holiday with them to Minorca. He lay on a sun lounger all day for a week with no sun screen and turned black. He also hardly drank at all, making me realise he wasn't an alcoholic, he only drank when with his old friends. Away from them it was just coffee through the day and maybe a single lager of an evening. My next story will be about him, the French fleet and my most embarrassing moment ever.

So, all eyes turned to N, who seemed quite sober for a man out on the piss all day. He said he just had to have a quick shower before speaking to us and legged it back to the bathroom. We waited impatiently and he finally came back out, sat down in his bath robe and proceeded to tell us his tale of woe. So, he was drinking away in some pub that has its toilets in a block outside in the car park. He's super pissed and having a lovely time with his mates on a blisteringly hot day. Then he decided he needed to have a dump, he really really needed to have a dump and he's headed off to the carpark in somewhat of a hurry. He's almost made it...... but at the last minute he has trouble undoing his trousers and suddenly his weekend has taken a downward turn. He's shat his trousers. Being a bit woozy and the worse for wear he decides it would be a good idea to take his trousers off, throw his underpants away and wash the trousers under the hand basin tap. He's just doing this when he hears someone coming, so he rushes back into the cubicle and locks the door. Then a long stream of blokes are coming in and out and he's stuck in this cubicle with his shitty trousers and no pants. He decides to try using the water in the cistern to give them another rinse. He realises he now just has wet shitty trousers. Too ashamed to go back into the pub he puts the wet trousers back on, ties his jumper round his waist to hide the back of them and decides to walk home without telling anyone where he is going. Now it is about 30 miles home, he's wearing new shoes, but the drink says he can do it (Google says that is about 9 hours to walk 30 miles). He reckons he had walked about 5 miles when a car pulled alongside him and the man and child mentioned earlier are in the car. They ask if he is okay. Not wanting to say what happened he tells them that his car has broken down and he is walking home to Hainault. The man offers to drive him back to his fictional car and see if he can get it going. N panics and says no, there's no point the engine has blown up. N then ask where they are heading. 'Romford', comes the reply. This is only a short distance from Hainault. N says if they can drop him there he will give them a tenner and he can get home from there. They agree. N climbs carefully into the back seat of the car in his trousers of shame and quickly winds down the window. As they pull into the Romford area, N says if they can take him all the way home he will give them £20. No problem says the man and takes him all the way home. By now N says the car is a bit hummy, but he's hoping the man thinks it is his kid and not him. Now! Back in Maldon there is a man hunt going on. The pub has been searched, the toilet block has been searched, nothing there but a pair of shitty pants in the bin. Next, men are checking all the caravans, then it is ditches and other places N might have fallen over in. Finally they realise they are going to have to ring his family and tell them he is missing. But when they ring, instead of a fretful wife they get the missing N himself who tells them he just got bored so decided he would hitch hike home, he would see them down the pub on Monday night!!

In the late 80s early 90s I went out with a girl for about 5 years who's dad was called N*gger. It took me a long time to find out what his real name was as everyone called him that including his wife. The story I was told was that he was from a family that had lived on Nanny Goat Common before it was turned into Europe's largest council house estate. I got the impression that the family had only transferred to a little cottage there after many years living in horse drawn caravans. His mother had so many children over a long period that when he was born, his brother who was home on leave from the army during the second world war looked down at this small brown baby and gave him the nickname that everyone knew him by. Now my girlfriend's dad, who shall henceforth be referred to as N, worked for himself, a one man band skip hire company. When I knew him he had bought a small bungalow in Hainault forest with enough room to have a vehicle drive in and a vehicle drive out, a yard behind for his lorry and some garages that he would rent out and behind that a bit of grazing land where he had a small double stable, two cows, two horses and a collection of chickens and ducks. 2 large female alsations lived in a brick built kennel by the side of the house, 2 small jack russells lived in the the house. N liked a drink, he was very good at drinking. He would go out 6 nights a week and then on the seventh day (Sunday) he would go out lunch time and drink till early evening. He would get very drunk, but in a funny way, never aggressive, and quite a few times me and my girlfriend would collect him from the pub on our way home. If it was me who had to go in and get him, I learnt early on not to shout his name across a Romford pub full of black males, oh no, it was tip toe across and ask him quietly to come along home. No matter how blotto he got, he would be up early next morning for work, full of life and annoying energy. He was a small skinny man so I don't know how he did it. Anyway, one weekend I was sitting in their house with my girlfriend and her mum watching a bit of telly. N was away with his drinking friends at their caravans near Maldon for the weekend, he'd only been gone for about 24 hours. Suddenly the side door opened and in walked N, he muttered a quick hello, then walked straight past us and disappeared into the bath room. Then a stranger, a large man, walked in through the door behind him with a small child trailing him. N's wife stared at him, not quite sure what was going on. N did not have a car, he had been taken to Maldon by his friends so how he had got home was a mystery and no one knew who this strange man was. The man then asked if it was okay to use the phone, he got a confused yes and then rang someone up to tell them he was going to be a bit late. N reappeared, this time he is only wearing a bath robe, his skinny legs sticking out the bottom. He handed the man a £20 note and the man and the child left. Rest of the story after my zoom meeting.

I've told this many times, but for the few who haven't heard it:- I'm laid up in a 4 bed bay of a hospital ward. From the next bay of 4 beds I can hear a man with a really beautiful speaking voice suddenly pipe up with a question. Man, "Hello, hello, is anybody there, hello, can anyone tell me where I am?" Nurse, "Hello John, don't panic. You're in hospital." Man, "Oh, I see. thank you. What's happened to me? Nurse, " You've had a stroke and you were brought in unconscious." Man, "Oh dear, I see, do my family know?" Nurse, "Yes, don't worry, your wife has been informed and she's been in to see you and knows you're okay." Man, "Oh Thank you nurse." 20 minutes go by of silence from him....then. Man, "Hello, hello, is anybody there, hello, can anyone tell me where I am?" Nurse, "Hello John, don't panic. You're in hospital." And so on, he just went round in this continuous loop for a day or so. Then near the end of my stay I hear him again, this time he's more himself. Nurse, "What are you doing John?" Man, "I'm rolling a cigarette nurse." Nurse, "You can't smoke in here, it's a hospital." Man, "But I'm not smoking I'm just rolling a cigarette." Nurse, "If you're doing that, then you're obviously going to smoke it aren't you." Man, " Well I've got a pair of slippers under my bed, but I'm not going for a fucking walk am I......"

You cheeky bastard, I still am young! 39. Everyone else on the ward was born in 1922. I know this because they ask every patient their date of birth about 20 times a day to make sure you are who you say you are and not someone with the same name in the wrong bed. After a week I could tell you when everyone's birthday was. One old bloke (83 if he was born in 22 at that time) had collapsed a mile or so from home on a rural footpath and had managed to drag himself home to get help. Ooh, story from the ward for my other thread. I'll just pop over there.