Ride Before the Fall...

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The 1970s….a period defined by political upheaval, strikes, blackouts and the disbanding of the Beatles. Yes, it was unquestionably a time marred by a miscellany of challenging events, make no mistake, but for the average moustachioed male life was pretty simple; a heady fusion of Old Spice, Carlsberg Special Brew, and a perpetual yearning for that oft vinyl-roofed phallic emblem from Halewood…the Ford Capri. People were transparent, uncomplicated, unburdened by the complexities of modern life; smart phones, computing, the internet…all the things which now seem to be dragging us into a perpetual state of isolation whilst simultaneously (and somewhat paradoxically), destroying that last bastion of self-seclusion…our privacy. And, while the world continues to descend into an interminable state of ambiguity, those who are able, fondly reminisce about flares and glam rock and remember a life that seemed infinitely more, well…black and white.

It was a time when a push bike signified independence; men and women alike were mesmerised by that bewitching icon of mechanical wonderment that provided the ability to travel gracefully to and from C&A (no one ever used it to travel to and from the pub, that activity was exclusively carried out in one’s own motor vehicle). And, as a very small boy, I shared that wide-eyed excitement myself, personally straddling that spoked horse of freedom and pedalling like I was Eddy Merckx on acid. In my mind, as I rode to the local newsagent with a letter in my pocket from my mum to buy two packets of Peter Stuyvesant (she always smoked gold), I was him. Okay, so I might have had lighter hair at the time and significantly shorter legs, but I had a comparably ridiculous surname and in terms of revolutions per minute, I probably put way more effort into it than he did, that being the burden of the single speed cycle. So, up yours Eddy Merckx.

As far as serious cycling went though, powering your way to the Spar to buy fags was where it was at. Yes, the Tour De France generated a certain excitement, perhaps even more so than today, but your average punter would have been lucky to have been acquainted with a three speed Sturmy Archer, let alone a Shimano triple chain set or a Campagnolo rear derailleur. People certainly weren’t compelled to rush out and purchase cleat shoes (I didn’t even know what they were, I just found them on the internet). There was no iPhone app to measure distance, time and calorie burn rate, and a weekend cycle was something that was typically experienced at the launderette. Furthermore, any layman who heard the word ‘peloton’ would have immediately assumed it to be at best a radical new sex toy or at worst, a new-fangled Belgian craft lager. Simple times, simple folk…everything was simple…everything apart from children’s bicycle design.

At some point post 1974, my brother took ownership of a red Raleigh Tomahawk. It was a beautiful thing with a design so incredible, so extreme, so breathtakingly revolutionary that I’m sure upon receipt he would have been utterly spellbound. It was to be the first of many hand-me-downs. In fact, I can still remember the day that my brother finally passed over ownership to me, I was utterly delighted, blissfully unaware of the challenges that it might bring. The Tomahawk was essentially Raleigh’s attempt at creating a Chopper for younger kids between the ages of six and nine. It looked fantastic. It looked insane. It looked absurd and idiotic in equal measure. In fact, no matter how you cut it, it was downright ridiculous.

Like the Chopper, the Tomahawk had a frame that resembled a metal farmyard gate, or one of those locking gates that swing only one way to stop you leaving a shop with stolen goods. Atop the short seat stem sat an elongated arse platform which looked something like a Jeffrey West winkle picker, presumably to enable the rider to bring their friend along with them to the corner shop to buy cigarettes for their mum as well. The handlebars were high, wide and a somewhat confusing affair, forcing you to adopt a riding position that made you look like you were holding up a sign whilst sitting astride a wall and not giving a shit. The wheels were similarly confusing, like a reversed penny farthing with a large wheel at the back and a small one at the front as if those were the only two wheels left in the parts bin at the design shop. The rims were relatively wide with fat tyres which were slick and had a tread pattern that followed the direction of travel.

Like its namesake, it was a total weapon and it had attitude in spades. It was every small boy’s wet dream; it was, dare I say it, a Ford Capri with pedals. If you owned a Tomahawk, you were a legend, a god amongst the other kids. It had a look that suggested you could ride up and down kerbs, grind on a handrail, and manual like you were Mat Hoffman. The problem was, despite having the attitude of a Capri it rode more like an Austin Princess. It was slow, wallowy, comfortable even. The combination of wide wheels, slick tyres and directional tread meant that steering was rendered next to useless, as any intentional handlebar movement was translated onto the road with a dangerously lengthy delay. Not only that but the tyre tread forced the Tomahawk to adhere to the smallest of grooves in the tarmac which often led you unwittingly into the path of oncoming cars.

The laid back ‘cool’ riding style impressed fellow riders but enforced a highly uneven weight distribution and this presented as one of the bike’s key shortcomings. The laughably small front wheel only served to exacerbate the problem, providing little to no counterweight when attempting to pull even the most modest of wheelies. This meant that every time the front wheel was lifted from the ground the rider was in danger of rotating a full ninety degrees, with the potential to shatter the un-helmeted (helmets were not considered cycle appropriate attire until much later) occipital region of the skull on the edge of a metre of concrete kerbing. I can attest to this being a very real and often horrifying occurrence. The fact that the brakes didn’t work that well didn’t matter, because at some point your unfeasibly wide bell bottom was inevitably going to get stuck fast in the chain bringing the Tomahawk to an abrupt stop regardless of previous speed. This often resulted in the undesired consequence of sending you flying head-first through the seven-year-old-boy sized gap in the comically U-shaped handlebars.

So, as art, the Tomahawk, like the Chopper, was iconic. As a mode of transport, however, it was an utter travesty, a death machine; Russian roulette on rubber. In fact, the Tomahawk’s only saving grace was that it lacked the crossbar mounted gear lever found on the Chopper which only served to make the Tomahawk’s larger sibling that bit more challenging to ride (if that was even possible). Like garden darts, it epitomised the fact that designers of the seventies went about their work with utter gay abandon, with the consequence that products came to market that had the potential to dramatically reduce the overall headcount of under tens. Perhaps that was the plan? There are way too many of us nowadays anyway.

In purchasing the Tomahawk for my brother, I can only assume that my parents, in a state of trance-like naivety, must have been tragically swayed by its aesthetic. Amusingly, they went ahead and bought it despite its glaringly obvious design flaws, an occurrence that leads me to think that my father, almost certainly being the least safety conscious of the two, must have had the final say. They then innocently bestowed it upon my unsuspecting older brother, himself an innocent party to the excitable fervour that was generated by the Raleigh suicide cycle. Over the course of at least two or three years, they lay witness to the cranial-crushing potential of that two-wheeled weapon of doom and it remains baffling to me therefore, that it was retained as a viable form of transport.

What concerns me more, however, is the fact that, subsequent to witnessing the potential for life-threatening havoc the bike was capable of during its tenure in my brother’s ownership, my parents saw fit to then hand it over to me. I can only assume that I had either caused them some real pain in my tender, pre-junior years, or they were just happy to go along with the calamitous health and safety philosophy of the era. I didn’t care, I loved the Tomahawk despite its brazen desire to kill me. I rode it like a boss, my head hitting the deck more times than Floyd Patterson’s. Fortunately, like Floyd I always got back up. The steering too caught me unawares, once sending me directly into the path of an oncoming Mini, the brakes woefully inadequate to be of any use and an unfortunate wardrobe choice that day meant the hem of my shorts were unable to reach the chain. By some fortunate quirk of fate, I even survived that. Amazingly, being seemingly cast from solid iron, so did the Tomahawk.

I must have covered thousands of miles on that bike, wearing through to the thread of its absurdly smooth tyres countless times. Its bizarre wheel sizes made it particularly arduous to find replacement tyres and it was the fitment of a white replacement tyre (the only one my father could find) to the front wheel that spelled the death knell for that red metal wonder. To my mind the addition of a white tyre made something that looked ridiculously cool look just, well, ridiculous, and the Tomahawk’s days in the sun were finally at an end. Either way, despite being well aware of the dangers of the Tomahawk, like my brother had when it was under his ownership, every time I got on it, I rode that red death trap with sheer, unadulterated pride...right up until the point at which I fell off.

 

Iconic…(both the Tomahawk and the Argos catalogue).

Iconic…(both the Tomahawk and the Argos catalogue).

Radio Country

Thanks to my friends at Radio Country for including ‘Firefighting’ by Future ‘72 in their main category for music. Use the TuneIn app to hear it on air.

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Lady on the Rock...

“Are you ready? You’re up in five…” came a faint voice from outside the artist’s trailer. She casually wiped a rogue piece of egg from her leather jeans which had previously detached itself from a small triangular sandwich, before reaching for a nearly empty bottle of Maker’s Mark. She was half-cut and had been slurring her words since at least eleven that morning, reinforcing the fact that there is a certain beauty in an ample rider. Although the room was spinning and her vision mired by a mild haze, she was confident of her ability to perform. She was a consummate professional, always had been. There was no doubt in her mind that once she had ingested the remnants of the whiskey and taken a couple of drags on her jazz cigarette, she would rise up like a female rock and roll Jesus and knock this shit out of the park.
“Yup, I’ll be right out.”
 

Her eyes settled momentarily on the gold top Les Paul in the corner; the guitar that had been her weapon of choice from the start of her long and illustrious career. It had featured on the band’s eponymous first album, the masterpiece that had launched them into the rock and roll stratosphere, and it was a fitting tribute that this instrument would now become the iconic visual symbol of the band’s latest video. It had been a while since she had felt the buzz of being part of such a big budget production and today’s events had conjured a certain nostalgic emotion. In her heart she harboured the sense that this could be the last hurrah, the graceful finale that would provide an ornate, audio-visual bookend to thirty-five years at the pinnacle of the music industry. And if this was it, she was going to milk it for all it was worth. This video would be the spectacle that would burn her image indelibly into the memory of everyone who cast their eyes upon it.
 
Okay, so the concept was a little unoriginal, cheesy even, but it contained that one optical sensation that would provide the archetypal aesthetic to accompany the band’s latest rebound power ballad: the clifftop guitar solo. And there was only one way this was going to go down; the Gibson hanging low on her upper thigh, legs astride, her long, dyed locks tussled back by a strong headwind barrelling off the sea. Coupled with the wall of sound of the track it would be nothing short of epic. And she knew it. Once the drone footage taken from high above her ended up in the editing suite, her place in rock history was golden.
 
She took a deep breath and lifted herself off the worn brown chesterfield in the trailer, steadying herself for a moment. Taking purposeful, determined strides, she traversed the short distance to the corner of the room and lifted the guitar, carefully positioning it over her shoulder before walking over to the door. The coastal wind embraced her as she pushed it open and, taking a deep breath she stepped out into the open air. There was a buzz about the place; people and equipment were strewn across the hillside and she could see the drone hovering high overhead. The track was cued and ready and the first few bars came thundering from the PA system as she got herself into position.

By the time the second chorus had kicked in the tears were streaming down her face. The crew assumed that she was feeling overwhelmed, overcome by the sheer emotion of the event, but she knew better; her blood alcohol content was by now irrationally high and the strong wind was playing havoc with her contact lenses. As the second chorus reached its final throes, she assumed the pose she had rehearsed in front of the mirror so many times and prepared to create celluloid nirvana. It was a one take triumph. Her hands mimicking the solo to perfection, her stance creating a solitary beacon of attitude and defiance, a rock goddess battling, and succeeding against the elements. Everyone looked on in awe.
 
That was her vision, her dream. It was exhilarating, sensational, the culmination of years of careful planning. It was a dream played over and over in her mind until she felt compelled to act upon it. And that’s what it was; a dream. Because at the same time, at approximately the same height on a hill across the harbour, some bloke nursing a pint in a steeply terraced pub garden raised his iPhone, zoomed in and took a snap. And that bloke, was me.

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Inspiration...

Inspiration is a cruel mistress. One minute she is there by your side, encouraging your burgeoning thoughts, nurturing them, holding your hand through the creative process; the next she has stifled your imagination. When she is benevolent, ideas come forth from the conceptual conveyor belt in my brain at a rate of knots. At other times I can’t think of a thing. And there I sit, drifting listlessly on a sea of mundanity; floating on the salty tears of inspiration which have the ability to neither satiate nor sustain. It is drab, as far as the eye can see. The artist’s burden.

The days seem short, compressed. My life, usually a whirlwind of creativity goes cold. And then, panic. All inventiveness replaced with panic. I constantly contemplate a resolution to end the drought. Hours turn to minutes as if to taunt me. Every raised head towards the clock hurtles me more rapidly forward in time. My brain becomes ever conscious that I still haven’t started a new project, and that the notion that this is ‘just a blip’ has lingered that bit too long.

I am beige. I am cream cheese. My witty repartee replaced with verbal detritus, fashioned out of concepts stolen from Saturday night television. Is this it? Will this slow, agonising death of a persona ever reach its conclusion, or could this be my new equilibrium? If so, this is a sore, bitter epiphany. The realisation that the vibrant tapestry that surrounds the soul has dulled, the colours fading from it like an ancient mosaic, painted with visions of former glories.

But previous experience tells me that in time there will be an awakening, a rebirth. The phoenix rising from the ashes once again, this time clutching an Adidas holdall spilling over with schemes, ideas and notions. A plethora of evolving thoughts, all seeking to blossom into a creative whirl. Yes, at some point inspiration will return to me. She will replenish my power of thought and normality will resume. Of that I am certain.

But for now, I am nothing; a shadow, a shell. My mind is in neglect. I am being steered by a dark force that seeks to erase the rich complexities of ingenuity. I am burdened by a waning positivity which is leaving my mind barren. The devil of idleness controls me. I am Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I am the man I passed in the street one early weekday morning who, whilst staring longingly at a leg of lamb in the window of a closed butcher’s shop, uttered under his breath,

” …that’s fucking lovely’.

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Driven to Insanity...

Life is for living…to be experienced at the absolute max, like a speeding bullet, at two thousand miles an hour. Exist, but exist right on the cusp, on the limit of human endeavour, before going out in a high octane-fuelled fireball at a billion degrees Fahrenheit. That’s what I used to think, and that’s exactly how I used to get from A to B, spending most of my youth driving about with as much finesse as a scuba diver at a salsa class. And there was good reason for that.

When I was a boy one of my favourite toys was that plastic Evel Knievel which you wound up with the red and white winder before it let rip across the lounge. True to life, it would set off at pace, going some distance before falling sideways onto the carpet sending Evel sprawling under the sofa. The real Evel Knievel rarely fell on a thick pile Axminster however, which is the main reason he suffered approximately four hundred and thirty-three fractures. The other reason he endured so many breaks was that he was an unhinged whack job. Nonetheless, he was unconventional, a renegade, a pioneer…and I guess that’s why he named himself Evel. He also couldn’t spell.

But what the hell, the guy was a total frickin’ legend. He left an impression on me, and that impression was that travelling at breakneck, death-defying speed was the only way to go. Knievel’s on-screen antics had conditioned me; in my imagination I had developed the assumption that cars and bikes went significantly faster than they did in real life. I had this notion that once you planted your foot to the floor in a Renault Four it would hurtle you rapidly towards the horizon, shattering your upper vertebrae in the process. So, my calibration was way off from the start, something I disappointingly realised as soon as I was able to drive unsupervised.

My driving test was a somewhat measured affair but it was merely a sombre precursor to the unhinged calamitous shit-show that was to ensue:  a career behind the wheel that featured a veritable smorgasbord of naivety, human error, tragic decision making and a total lack of appreciation for basic health and safety. I mean, I could drive relatively adequately; I was great at operating the accelerator, just not quite as accomplished at steering or brakes. Combining all three elements was, for me, essentially a step too far.

And that’s why, when I was on the road I tended to veer about incoherently, bumping into stuff like a hungry Alsatian in a butchers. Over the years, each new car I purchased was increasingly competent. Faster even. That made them more challenging to control which only served to exacerbate my other motor-related shortcomings. I had developed an unenviable ability to destroy vehicles in increasingly unique ways; colliding with things like walls, posts and other vehicles (sometimes colliding with more than one at a time). And I didn’t discriminate….cars, vans, I didn’t care; anything was fair game. I had become a poster child for the insurance company refusal process.

The list of cars was long and predictable, from BMWs to Subarus. And a Subaru was the genesis. The first vehicle to successfully deliver the power that I had imagined as a boy. A four wheeled jewel from the Far East and a masterpiece of Japanese engineering. It was small, quick and agile and had switchgear that looked like it had been salvaged from a failed R&D project at Mattel. I tossed about in that silver tonk-wagon as if I bore a grudge against myself, driving like I was either perpetually late for somebody’s funeral or early for my own. The day I purchased that absurd hybrid between family transport and turbo-charged lunacy was a defining moment, the birth of my prolific period of driving bell-endery. As a mode of transport, it was ridiculous, being conceptually similar to strapping a jet engine to a frisbee, but it satiated that need to feel alive.

Unfortunately, it also set the standard of how I would drive every vehicle that followed; with a wanton neglect of my own welfare. Having said that, I can’t take the blame for every terrible event that I endured; other similarly inept ‘drivers’ also careered into me on occasion. Call that either karma or just good old bad luck. But, on the whole I have to hold my hands up and admit that from the Subaru to every vehicle that succeeded it, my driving was at best woeful and at worst horrifying. A benevolent, impartial observer might describe it as spectacular and, on rare occasions, nothing short of impressive.

Nonetheless, those years behind the wheel were littered with accidents, haphazard occurrences and road-related misadventures. It is a period somewhat akin to a Shakespearean ‘Tragedy on Tarmac’ and it is only by sheer fluke that I am here to tell the tale. If I had my time again, I’d probably buy a half-track and park the ‘to-hell-or-be-damned’ attitude. As for now, thankfully I no longer drive like I’m on a Hot Wheels corkscrew crash track and my co-ordination is infinitely more refined. However, my past has left me with an emotional scar, and I can sometimes be found staring wistfully into middle distance, fostering dreams of fully autonomous motoring for my children.

But it was a moment lived, and through the grace of a higher being, survived. Like Evel Knievel, my hero, I have experienced moments of exhilaration and excitement, alongside moments of sheer, heart-stopping panic. I have suffered broken limbs, unimaginable insurance costs and a bruised ego. None of them enjoyable.  Unlike my hero, I have had the good sense not to take my prowess onto two wheels. And so, the key thing I would take-away from this sorry tale is that Evel Knievel, although a deranged psychopath, was a significantly braver man than I. And the key thing you should take away is….don’t drive like I did. Remember, if you don’t have a fully coordinated team, a forty-foot artic crammed full of fire control equipment and replacement parts, and a couple of medical outriders on hand, then you’re not a stuntman.

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My Career in a Graph...

See below for an accurate, graphical representation of my career. From the graph it is possible to deduce that, despite a less than mediocre start, between 2000 and 2005 the quality of my career actually increased by 62.5%, from 20% to 32.5%. This was due to a heady mix of youthful exuberance and an open willingness to engage with others. Misguided, I continued to display those positive traits under the service of a new employer between 2006 and 2010 who exercised a less than congruent approach to my desire to progress.

A brief hiatus ensued between 2011 and 2015 where, driven by an ability to operate almost fully autonomously, and with an expense account which could dwarf the national debt of Nepal, I flourished. Encouraged by my new employer’s inexplicable desire to put their unquestioning faith in me, I travelled the length and breadth of the world rapidly evolving my career for the better. Furthermore, the upward trajectory of my prowess and skill was directly proportional to my ability to intake vast quantities of alcohol. This golden mix of newly honed experience and irresponsible ingestion of drink turned me into a plucky young buck with balls like two melons in a rucksack. Unfortunately, this wasn’t to last.

Having peaked approximately half a decade ago, my career regression has been spectacular, sliding downhill faster than Franz Klammer on coke. And now, as I peer tentatively into the abyss that is my future, I look back in bewildering confusion, wondering what happened to that promising, bright-eyed champion of personal growth. A once small boy who harboured disproportionately sized dreams. The boy with the eyes of an innocent child who only wanted the simple things, like touring the world in first, with a bottle of Krug and access to eye-watering amounts of disposable cash….

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This is Adair...

This is Adair. He lives here for better or worse. A constant, shining example of positivity even during times when the ambient mood is less than joyful. Loved by most, he is often held aloft despite his numerous faults. Amusingly, his face looks as though a child could have drawn it, displaying a perpetual, happy innocence which never wanes; never falters in its resolve. I would imagine him to be unemployable but if he were to find himself a career I suspect he’d be a weather analyst or a children’s entertainer (there isn’t much money in that though). The use of technology may prove challenging for him, predominantly due to his anatomical shortcomings. Despite this, I feel that aesthetically he has everything required to become an online influencer (feel good, light on skill)

I don’t mean to be two faced, I mean, I like him and everything but despite all his positive traits Adair can be extremely vacuous and particularly thin skinned. He is also inherently lazy, often found just lying about, only making an effort if someone really pushes him to it. It just feels a little like he’s a fraud. I generally find people who are perpetually happy, to be operating right on the lid; riding the crest of the wave of sanity and I get the feeling that Adair is no exception. He might have an air of serenity but I reckon if you push him too far, too often, he’ll turn violent and just explode.

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The world is a crowded place...

The world is a crowded place. There are over seven and a half billion of us all vying and competing to be seen or heard, all attempting to fashion an inexorable rise to fame and glory. Where before excitable dreamers were given a reality check, they can now evolve an identity unabated. For better or worse; irrespective of skill, mastery or talent.

But it wasn’t always like this. If we look back twenty or thirty years it was all very different. There was some order. In addition to the fact that there were significantly less of us on the planet, the arts had their gatekeepers; the hallowed custodians of the keys to notoriety. Despite the fact that a great number of them propagated the careers of palm greasers, narcissists and peers, they brought some structure to the arts and successfully filtered out those who didn’t have a chance.

Today things have changed. The world has a voice, a platform, a vehicle by which literally anyone can be whatever they want to be irrespective of talent, skill or expertise. And the internet is accessible to all. This coupled with a reluctance to call things out for what they are means that anyone can fashion an identity for themselves. There are now a thousand unfettered voices all shouting to be heard when before there were ten carefully curated ones.

Now, the voices of those who apply themselves and tirelessly nurture their talents are significantly less likely to be heard than before. Those are the ones that, disheartened, sink into obscurity, drowned in the sea of the multitude. So perhaps the question is whether it is better to reach the pinnacle of mediocrity and be happy, or sacrifice happiness in the pursuit of the mastery of a craft.

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Virus

Virus, another poem about our lives in lockdown has been published on:

www.inspirationinisolation.co.uk

Inspiration In Isolation

House Arrest….a poem, is currently on Inspiration In Isolation, a website showcasing creative writing in lockdown. Inspiration in Isolation can be found at:

www.inspirationinisolation.co.uk

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