husky

I was bored half to death, I’ve tried so hard with so-called classical music, I really have… it just doesn’t, well, ‘work’ for me. My job has exposed me to the very best orchestras, conductors and musicians the world has to offer, so it’s not as if I’m making do with second fiddle if you will, or because I’m too bloody stupid to glean the intricacies and subtleties of whatever it is I’m missing, no, I simply find it dull.

Of course, in very rare moments, I’ve found myself stirred; I’d even go as far to say as ‘moved’ but this night wasn’t one of them. I was fighting to stay awake when the programme, sat on my knee during some recital or other, slipped off and hit the floor with a slap. The person in front spun round with in a visage of contempt and I found myself frozen in the steely gaze of one Sir David Attenborough.

The Last Night of The Proms had interrupted my first proper weekend in my new gaff. On the Friday I’d raced home and met up with IC prior to her taking me out for dinner in Stoke Newington a lovely (and empty) Italian place specialising in seafood, though I had a meaty antipasti to kick things off. The main course was half the Tyrrhenian Sea on a plate and required much fiddling in order to separate flesh from shells, bones and heads, bloody worth it though. We left not feeling overly full or that pissed and walked back to Hackney to make up for the latter aspect of our condition in my flat.

On Saturday I woke and made breakfast, we had coffee in the garden and I began to gently shake, not because of the previous evenings intake of Pinot Noir but for what I was about to do with regard to the blog on Friday. I jumped on the Black Bitch and rode over London Bridge and headed East to the bike dealers on the Old Kent Road where I met the guy I’d been discussing various options in terms of buying a new Husqvarna SM 610 and, the reason I was there, to test ride one.

I nearly pushed the dealer over when he started the engine, sweet Christ I nearly got a bonk-on, he was trying to explain some of the finer points with regard to the controls but they fell on deaf ears. Off I went, more gingerly than I anticipated, it felt like nothing I’d been on before and I came close to falling off the fucking thing when I turned right out the garage. Thing is you’re virtually stood up, if I were any shorter buying one would be inadvisable, and you’re sat legs akimbo over the front wheel with your arms sticking out. It made sitting on the Black Bitch an almost conservative affair and Speed Triple is renown for it’s confrontational riding position and styling, put it this way, if the Black Bitch is Cage Fighter then the Husky is Ninja assassin… The bike is so light and narrow but, fuck me ‘til I fart, it’s aggressive with enough torque to turn a road inside out.

Within 5 minutes I’d got into the swing of things. It’s the most fun I’ve had with my trousers on, it’s swoops round corners and quite literally flies over bumps and holes –in short it’s the perfect bike for my daily commute with some space left over for weekend chuckles. I’m sacrificing the brutal force of the Black Bitch for raw useable power. The Husky won’t do much over 100mph but she’ll happily pull the down shorts of anything in the city and due to her agility and thuggish grunt will still probably see off all but the most earnest sports biker in the Surrey hills. I intend to put this to the test.

But the journey to my flat was fraught. I wouldn’t be able to proceed with any purchase if the Husky didn’t fit into my garden. Aside from the financial aspect of the increased insurance, I’m not overly keen in leaving a brand new bike without any alarm to the potential violence and light fingeredness of passing East End villains. I’d connected with the Husky so completely the thought of it not fitting in the garden was worse than the though of Ebola. I popped her up the alleys and, with a minor degree of adjustment she slipped neatly into my garden. I could’ve wept if it wasn’t or the fact I needed a tab there and then. I sat smoking in the garden quietly quaking staring at the bike. IC popped down, she didn’t like it (to be honest I was rather hoping she would but knew she had a preference for Harley-type lumps so I wasn’t entirely surprised) but liked the indicators…

I reluctantly rode back to the garage. The Husky thundered cheerfully back through the city swerving traffic and pedestrians out of my way, I blasted over London Bridge and arrived back at the garage quite breathless with a grin on my face as if in possession with two cocks. I more or less made a purchase there and then. Updates will follow. Sadly, the ride back to Hackney wasn’t as enjoyable, the dear Black Bitch felt very heavy and lumpy, though straight-line speed she’s still quite the thing.

After all this excitement I was forced into my suit and left for the last Night. I met up with some colleagues beforehand and bumped into an old mate with whom I sat for the duration of the evening’s performance. Unfortunately for me I was also flanked by Michael Howard, David Mellor, Goldie and, of course, Sir David, a glaring and frankly bloody rude Sir David. In Life on Earth he shared a memorable scene with a Rwandan Primate in which he and said creature exchanged a grooming ritual. I was bored and suitably unimpressed by his attitude to the extent I considered rifling through his wiry hair in order to pick out imagined bugs before eating them, I then considered my employment contract and thought better of it. I substituted my angst for thoughts of the noisy bastard I’d been privileged to thump about on earlier.

After the Proms, which seemed like an eternity, my old mate and I went to Chelsea for dinner, I grabbed a cab and dropped him off at his car on the way to Hackney and arrived just as Mary, IC’s flatmate, returned from a 3 weeks excursion round Europe. It was 2am, I was a little pissed so it seemed foolish to not catch up with Mary and reclaim some of the lost Saturday with the missus. I’ve no idea what time we turned in but Sunday began rather hazily.

The afternoon involved more unpacking and shopping, early evening Mary had arranged a visit to the local with some pals, so we took on board a couple of two-for-one cocktails before heading back to mine for dinner. It’d been a splendid weekend even if I had been on the receiving end of the hairy eyeballs of a National Treasure. I accept I accidentally dropped my programme and put him off a nano second of some warbling dirge but what the arse is the point in turning round to give the offender evils and missing even more of the piffle? The fucking twit.