sighkl

The Triumph has been sat quietly in my dad’s garage, chaincase off, clutch out, waiting for its drive sprocket to be removed in order to attend to the oil seal in the gear box that, until its cessation, has been pissing transmission fluid all over London.

Said oil seal, about the size of a basic-range ginger nut, is supposed to fit tightly into the gear box casing, not flop out like a dead dog’s tongue when touched. Nor is the casing from which it has flopped have parallel score marks that could cost literally thousands of pounds to repair.

So far, so good, then.

Tomorrow, after having glued in a new oil seal with Araldite (yes, really) I’ll re-assemble the cited components and pray it’s worked. Then, hopefully, the only time you’ll hear mention of my bike will be as a result of a wonderful ride rather than yet another thing dropping off.

It’s not just motorcycles that have been making my life difficult/unfulfilled, bicycles haven’t been on my recent list of ‘yay’s’ lately either, not since the one I bought in the spring got stolen the night after I brought it home. The monster I’d been using up until this point -and by default, after- I’d purchased some five years ago and I despised it with its wanky peddles and lack of engine. It’s one of those mountain bike things, sprung forks, knobbly tyres, the bicycle equivalent of a Mitsubishi Shogun, and despite being of reasonable quality it’s a relative dinosaur when compared to the current crop of razor-wheeled singles that populate this part of that there London.

Not that I care, a bicycle is a means to an end for me. I use it three times a week to get to the gym for the sole purpose of preventing my spine from coming off. IC, on the other hand enjoys this peddling lark, she uses hers every day to cycle into the city and has been vocal in her keenness to involve me in going on bikerides. I have, of course, contemptuously spurned this idea.

A few weeks ago I was about to clamber aboard my dishevelled velocipede when I noticed that my rear tyre was flat. I shouted some rude words into the ether, fucking cunts, I think it was, and retrieved my bicycle pump from the flat. For weeks after, before I darkened the doors of the gym, I had to spend a minute or two pumping up my rear tyre. It’s not as if attending the gym is easy in the first instance, factor in the addition pumping, and the fact I hate cycling anyway, it’s a miracle I’m not bumbling about Hackney in a mobility scooter.

A handful of days ago I decided enough was enough. I briefly considered taking my bike to a repair shop but that would’ve been an unnecessary expense, fixing bicycles is easier than farting. I just couldn’t be arsed to do it. Reluctantly I ordered a new inner tube (I thought it wise to get a fresh one, the current, flat, incarnation hasn’t been changed in half a decade) and then decided that whilst I was about, why not fit more suitable tyres as well. The knobbly ones, aside from being about as practical as Stephen Hawking’s trampoline, were virtually worn to the carcass. I was certain you could get more road-friendly mountain bike tyres so after a quick search ordered a pair in my size.

On Friday afternoon I left the office with my recently delivered orders and set off home to fit my new purchases. I brought the bike into the flat, turned it upside down and set to work. As anticipated it was a very straightforward affair, half an hour later I had a new rear inner tube and a pair of knobble-free tyres.

With a good hour before I was due to meet IC (in the pub) I took it on myself to give the bike a bit of a clean, remove the surface rust, get the grunge and muck out of the derailleur, even adjust the brakes. I found myself rather enjoying the whole process; unlike the Triumph matters are resolved relatively quickly and your achievements are feedback to you instantly. By the time I tuned the bike upright and wheeled it into the sunshine my relationship with it had altered somewhat.

First off it felt like a new bicycle and secondly, peddling towards the pub, it felt smooth, easy and, Christ on a bike, actually fun. Sort-of. Would’ve thought eh?

Before I leave you with Gerry’s chart and a tune, I was fortunate enough to catch Tim Minchin at the Greenwich Comedy Festival (quick thanks to the operators of the DLR who, on our return excursion, left hundreds of us literally dangling over Canary Wharf for almost a fucking hour). I have to say I wasn’t expecting what I got, for a start his act is truly hilarious (largely because it’s darker than Burzum) and he’s single handedly restored my faith in the whole comedian-with-instruments deal.

Toodle pip.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 You Me At Six Loverboy 30 2 30
29 Florence And The Machine What The Water Gave Me NE 1 29
28 Black Keys Howlin’ For You 21 5 15
27 Two Door Cinema Club Undercover Martyn 20 7 7
26 The Kooks Is It Me? 29 2 26
25 Snow Patrol Called Out In The Dark NE 1 25
24 Baxter Dury Claire 18 6 14
23 The Fixers Swimhaus Johannesburg 24 4 23
22 The Drums Money 27 2 22
21 Cerebral Ballzy Cutting Class 16 7 7
20 The Horrors Still Life 12 14 1
19 Cults Go Outside 25 2 19
18 Red Hot Chili Peppers ……..Rain Dance Maggie 14 7 14
17 The Horrors I Can See Through You NE 1 17
16 Kids In Glass Houses Animal 19 6 16
15 She Wants Revenge Must Be The One 9 7 6
14 Blink 182 Up All Night 22 2 14
13 The Wombats Our Perfect Disease 15 4 13
12 Mona Shooting The Moon 6 7 4
11 Foo Fighters Arlandria 17 3 11
10 The Blackout The Storm 7 5 7
9 Japanese Voyeurs Cry Baby 4 6 2
8 Kasabian Days Are Forgotten 13 3 8
7 The Subways We Don’t Need Money…… 10 3 7
6 Bring Me The Horizon It Never Ends 5 5 5
5 The Strokes Macchu Picchu 8 5 5
4 Kasabian Switchblade Smiles 2 6 2
3 The Vaccines Norgaard 3 6 3
2 Bombay Bicycle Club Shuffle 11 3 2
1 All The Young Welcome Home 1 10 1