happy henry rides again

http://www.lulu.com/content/478980

Happy Henry

adventures of a retarded giant and reluctant ancient motorcyclist

Parisian Prelude

I am still, even to this day, unsure exactly what kind of madness it
was that possessed me to venture abroad on an ancient British
motorcycle with a sex starved, moronic mammoth on the pillion. The last
time I'd departed Great Britain during the Second World War, when
there was little choice in the matter. Happy Henry, my determined
pillion, would, pointed in the right direction, doubtless have majored
in military action - frightened the wits out of the Germans, anyway -
but in civilian life was a total menace, a giant of a man with the
brain of a child, who had thrown his tyre-iron through the back window
of a big BMW the last time I'd given him a ride.

Although I didn't dispute the choice of automobile, he was banned
from the pillion after that. After all, when riding a motorcycle that
had neither insurance nor road tax the last thing I wanted was to draw
the attention of the authorities - the lad was easily bored, often
liked to stand on the seat and wave his extra large tyre-iron through
the air in a menacing manner. Though it has to be said that the bass
rumble out of the exhaust of the BSA A10 twin tended to have the local
police force on edge, though to what was left of my ancient hearing the
exhaust resonated, quite properly, to the beat of Rule Britannia...
ultimately, the plod took one look at my pudding basin helmet, goggles,
trench coat and waders, decided it wasn't worth the effort.

The BSA 650 twin was still, more or less, running; the addition of a
few consumables all the preparation needed for the epic journey from
the North of England to France, a testament to its fifty year-old
design. The reason for such longevity, admittedly, down to a series of
owners who had never taken the motor over 5000rpm - the lad's
penchant for twirling the throttle all the way around to the stop soon
curtailed by a slap around the groin from my walking stick.

Henry was elated at the thought of French women - the lad was even
rebuffed by obese British pensioners - but frightened out of his wits
at the thought of going through the Channel Tunnel. His mantra for the
day was, I can't swim, I can't swim... such was the idiot's lack
of logic that he was overjoyed when I conceded that we could go on the
ferry.

Neither Henry nor I were in anything approaching regular employment
and, left to his own devices, the useless layabout would've happily
lived off the state. Not something I could ever contemplate and I
trained the lad in the art of painting houses. We'd just finished
some old dear's semi, Henry precariously waving a brush at the wall
from the top of a too short ladder - you couldn't take your eye off
him for a moment as he was easily distracted and not unknown to
head-butt his way through a window or put a foot through a roof.

The result of such labours, five hundred quid in used twenties. Henry
wasn't allowed near serious money as the blighter would leave us in
penury within hours, much to the satisfaction of the local hookers.
Five hundred notes might not go far in a modern household but we only
had ourselves and the motorcycle to feed, could sleep rough if
necessary.

The journey down to Dover took three days. Any modern machine
could've blitzed down the motorway in half a day but such main roads
were an invitation to immediate arrest, not due to speed but because of
the generally illegal nature of the machine. A series of neglected
B-roads tested the ancient suspension, whilst the intensity of the rain
- not far off a tropical monsoon - and howling gale checked out the
efficacy of our unconventional clothing. Drowned rats had nothing on
us. Henry kept muttering impolite soliloquies on the state of Blighty,
couldn't understand why we weren't on the ferry yet.

Birmingham stands out in the mind for the sheer stupidity of its
landladies, who wouldn't let Henry nor I cross the threshold of even
the most dilapidated bed and breakfast establishment. Even my mention
of having fought in the war didn't gain us ingress, something about
not allowing tramps on the premises - bloody cheek! We ended up
sleeping under an abandoned railway arch, refugees from a Dickensian
novel. Even youthful Henry was, in the dusty atmosphere of dawn,
cramped over from muscle spasms due to the all-prevailing dampness. The
clown actually had the audacity to moan about his condition, totally
lacking any degree of stiff upper lip, the youths of today.

Dover was a dismal sight, what we could see of the place through the
omnipresent rain. No sooner had we stepped foot in the ferry terminal,
taken off our outer layer of clothes to reveal ancient leather jackets,
holed jeans and scuffed boots, than some likely lads from passport
control descended on us. Henry looked frightened out of his wits by the
uncalled attention, whilst I kept muttering that I was in the war, you
know. Hustled off to a room where a plain-clothes guy tried to work out
if we were international drug dealers, terrorists or merely rich
eccentrics. Luckily, they didn't turn their attention to the BSA.

Eventually, we were allowed on to the ferry. Henry spent the entire
journey drinking cans of beer whilst eyeing up the middle-aged women
off for a sojourn in France, making crude gestures with his hands
whenever he saw someone who was particularly well endowed. He knew that
even his extra large, chrome plated tyre-iron was no match for my
walking stick, managed to keep himself in check. I kept to orange juice
- would've been foolish in the extreme to arrive drunk in charge of
an ancient motorcycle in a foreign country where the driving skills
were minimal; a drunken giant on the pillion with a penchant for
unpredictable movements when he became overwhelmed by boredom. No,
stone cold sobriety and full possession of my faculties needed.

Our first taste of French life not encouraging. No sooner had the lad
set foot on solid ground, he threw up about ten cans worth of beer.
Admittedly, the giant had to push the BSA and myself off the boat as
the resolutely British twin objected to a sojourn on foreign soil by
refusing to start. At least the fool had the good grace to regurgitate
his beer over some gleaming Audi monstrosity that took up far too much
room. The windscreen blades worked ferociously to clean off the muck;
sensibly, the guy took one look at Happy's massive bulk, decided not
to venture out of the vehicle in remonstration.

The incident brought us to the attention of irascible Frog customs
officers who decided to enliven their day by strip-searching us. Henry
looked totally perturbed, kept muttering that we weren't gay,
conveniently letting off a massive fart just as some rubber-gloved
fascist approached. They waved us off in disgust, not far off gagging;
gibbering away in French - no doubt a long list of insults, forgetting
that we saved their bacon in the war.

The BSA deigned to start first kick as if it had just come out of the
showroom. Henry was already muttering about going home, not finding
anything, other than the lack of rain, to his liking but I perked him
up by mentioning the delights of Paris. A few hours on the open road
with the BSA strung out to 65mph soon put that incident to the back of
our minds, bathed in the fineness of the sun and stirred by the
relative lack of cars.

At the first fuel stop I was perturbed by the natives' lack of
understanding of the English language, even when I raised my voice and
spoke to them as if they were retarded children. I then spent the next
hour worrying if I'd filled the tank with diesel or some unleaded
muck that would ruin the ancient twin's valves. The motorcycle
vibrated ever onwards. The French countryside didn't look that
different to England, though the ever bright sun was certainly not what
we were used to.

A strange noise, like a banshee wailing or an engine about to overheat
due to lack of oil, had me frightened out of my wits for a moment until
I realised it was merely Henry grunting out his obscene version of the
National Anthem. The lad so distracted by life in a foreign country
that he had yet to brandish his tyre-iron at any innocent motorists. A
couple of times, some ancient French car had sauntered across our path
as if we didn't exist but a hefty lunge on the handlebars saved us
from death and the lad had no time for immediate retribution.

Our arrival on the outskirts of Paris coincided with the disappearance
of the sun, the night's shadows blitzed by the headlights of the vast
numbers of Citroens and Renaults driven by obstinate madmen who refused
to give an inch to a mere motorcycle and didn't seem to have any
concept of traffic laws. I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was a
Gallic manner and promptly joined in - more from a lack of any choice
than natural inclination.

The low rev torque of the BSA was still more than a match for modern
tin boxes; the fury of the open pipes in a low gear enough to have the
French cagers craning their necks trying to see what kind of airplanes
were about to implode on their heads. So disoriented by the sight of a
mere motorcycle making the racket that they actually gave way. I felt
like bursting into Rule Britannia as we sped through the French streets
with little idea of where we were going.

I could feel Henry twitching in frustration, having just confiscated
his extra large tyre-iron - so big he had to carry it inside his jacket
rather than up his sleeve. Unarmed, the lad wasn't totally harmless,
having buckled the roof of one tank-like Volvo with his mere fist,
though he spent the next week muttering about the resulting pain.
Unfortunately, Henry's brain circuits didn't actually incorporate
any kind of long term memory, the lad living happily in the present,
not beyond the realms of possibility that he might start thumping the
French cages. I'd lectured him before we left Blighty that France was
different - the police carried guns and the locals didn't have a
sense of humour!

We eventually pulled up next to a large station that looked a bit like
Kings Cross gone wrong. The surrounding houses made the BSA appear an
icon of modern engineering. Immediately, we felt right at home, even if
Henry's strange lurching waltz up and down the street caused some
consternation in the locals - the lad was far too large for the pillion
perch, ended up with cramped muscles and restricted circulation. The
passing resemblance to a particularly demented, oversized gorilla
didn't go unnoticed.

We'd heaved the BSA up on to a piece of vacant pavement, causing a
wave of disgruntled pedestrians to flow on to the madness of the road;
as if choreographed, they gave annoyed Gallic shrugs amid much
muttering. Only Henry's size saved us from retribution. Wandering
through the district in search of a hotel, Henry eyed a kiosk giving
off the carcinogenic odour of bad meat, and before I could stop him had
ordered hamburger and chips. The hairy monster who served up the
delicacy gave every impression that he would happily take out any
meandering canines as a source of meat. Henry didn't seem to notice,
was on a second helping before I waved my walking stick at his groin!

In deference to being in a foreign city, I had actually handed the lout
his chrome plated tyre-iron under the stricture that he would keep it
hidden under his jacket. There were lots of small hotels but every time
we entered one we were met with total horror. Usually, some small
infant was summoned to inform us that the hotel was full, as if the
owners would fall dead on the spot if they uttered a single word of the
English language. Sometimes we were just waved away in disgust. Henry
and I quickly came to the conclusion that they were a thick lot, these
French.

With the disappearance of the sun, the spring weather had turned even
colder than in England and life under a railway arch didn't inspire.
After about two hours of being rebuffed in a way that would leave the
average English landlady in awe, having little idea of exactly where we
were or where we had left the motorcycle, we blundered into a large but
seedy building... the guy behind the desk actually spoke English. Of
course, he wasn't French, Algerian by the look of him.

A room with two beds for a 100 francs a night. Up rickety steps went
we, dodging peeling wallpaper, into a small room just long enough to
fit two single beds. It did have a washbasin and bidet, more peeling
wallpaper and a noisy radiator. We'd stayed in much worse. Henry eyed
the bidet with disbelief, grunting something about midgets, bounced up
and down on the bed and tore a few large swathes of wallpaper off the
wall. It was obvious he was getting bored...

Took us another two hours to find the bike. Some local moron, one of
the few who could bear to listen to English, had directed us to the
wrong station after Henry had done a reasonable impression of a steam
train, albeit one that included destroying someone's dustbin and
denting a nearby car - Henry had perfected the two left feet dance that
usually ended in tangled limbs and mass destruction. The local made a
fast exit, a look of total disbelief writ deep in his face.

When we finally found the BSA, a local porker was poking at the
venerable machine. Our motorcycle gear gave us away. He fired a stream
of incomprehensible words at us, jowls and stomach wobbling away as if
defining corruption, but eyed Henry carefully, patting his gun in
reassurance. People always eyed men with Happy's bulk carefully.
Eventually, he shrugged and walked off. As if in defiance of its
examination, not to mention the deep cold of the night, the engine
fired on the first kick and made a lovely racket, reflected off the
ancient stone walls of the houses. It was nearly midnight by the time
we'd stored the BSA in the hotel's forecourt.

Henry totally disgruntled at the time wasted, pulled at my sleeve,
pointing in the direction of a couple of street cafes we'd seen
earlier. I was tempted to allow him to go off on his own but letting a
sexually starved, mentally retarded giant loose in a foreign country
was just asking for trouble. We plonked ourselves down at the first
outside table, Happy Henry endearing himself to the locals by knocking
over an adjacent table and almost breaking the cafe's plate-glass
window when he leaned back only to have the flimsy chair spring
rearwards. No harm done to the idiot's head.

The beer was horrendously expensive, the cheapest red wine ordered. The
lad grimaced, almost spat out the liquid elixir on the first taste but
by the time he'd finished off a bottle he was calling for more as if
to the manor born. I had to restrain the drunken lunatic from buying
drinks all round. The locals looked profoundly aghast at the sight of
Henry emptying a bottle without recourse to a wine glass.

A few bikes flitted past, mostly scooters and those silly French mopeds
with the motor over the front wheel... not the kind of Velo I wanted.
One kid, on a flash moped - no helmet or anything - flitted up on to
the pavement opposite and grabbed a girl's handbag. Before I knew
what had happened, Henry launched a nearly full bottle of wine at the
fast retreating back of the youth. The bottle hit him just below the
head, drenching him in wine. The bike wobbled, the thief dropping the
handbag but escaping.

Happy received a round of applause from the locals and a free bottle of
wine from the bar but the girl scuttled down the road to retrieve her
handbag without a backward glance at the grinning giant. The atmosphere
thawed a little and some of the locals even managed the odd word of
English, though not without a pained expression... mostly old boys who
seemed to know how to enjoy life and consumed wine at a faster rate
than even Happy Henry.

Pleasantly drunk, we staggered back towards where we thought the hotel
should be. We quickly became lost again, streets that looked familiar
in the minimal glow of the lamps turned out to lead nowhere useful.
Suddenly, Henry gave a cry of delight, sped off as if trying to do a
four minute mile. Jogging after him, as fast as my aged heart and lungs
allowed, I finally caught up with the smirking ogre and after the
blurred vision cleared up a little I saw why he was so excited...

Half a dozen women lounged against walls, sporting skirts so short that
the top of their black stockings showed a hint of suspender belts. As
we neared, Henry jigging around like an excited four year-old, I saw
that they were so well made up that in the glow of the street lamps it
was impossible to discern their real age. Henry liked a woman with a
bit of meat on her, after demanding 200 francs from me, chose the
largest of the bints and was pulled down a dark alleyway. My last sight
of him, he made an exaggerated gesture with his hands in front of his
chest whilst grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

I had no choice but to hang around trying not to look like a complete
idiot, eyeing up the predatory women, thankful that sex was a memory
hidden well in the past. Throw in the huge range of modern diseases; I
had no qualms about staying well out of their range. After a couple of
minutes, Henry started shouting abuse whilst the new love of his life
responded in a surprisingly deep voice...

I wasn't going into that alley even to save the lad's life, seemed
like a hole in the universe, a point of concentrated evil. Besides,
Henry was big enough to look after himself. He came running out with a
bloodied, torn up face and fear deep in his eyes. We scampered up the
road like the end of the world was nigh. Henry appeared turbocharged,
leaving me in his wake... half a mile later I was ready to expire,
could only just see Happy in the far distance.

There was no sign of the hooker, the lad reluctantly clomping back to
where I was sagged on the pavement, both sweating and shivering at the
same time as if all my internal organs were about to implode. Well, I
was a bloody-minded old-age pensioner! The fear on Henry's face -
what was left of the skin, anyway - displaced by a dumbfounded look
that would define a village idiot. He stuttered in his idiomatic matter
that few could comprehend, that the lady was, in fact, a man dressed up
in women's clothes.

Talk about gormless idiots. The thought of Henry, full of lust,
grappling with a transvestite, only realising at the last moment the
state of play, hit my funny-bone... pain replaced with hysterical
laughter. I looked up through tears to find Henry eyeing me as if I had
gone completely off my head, which only intensified the laughter. Only
the thought that the idiot had lost 200 francs for nothing pulled me
back on to the straight and narrow, gave the lad a few slaps around the
knees with my walking stick.

Needing to avoid the whore, we spent a good half an hour locating the
wine bar and then the hotel, more by luck than judgement. Wouldn't
have liked to walk the streets on my own at that time of day, lots of
surly locals hanging around looking for an easy victim; Henry's
outrageous bulk and disgrunteld, sexually repressed visage kept us
safe.

Two French bints lounged in the hotel's lobby; both young and well
shaped, they at least looked female. What we hadn't noticed before, a
stairway to a basement with a couple of doorbells at its entrance, the
girls' names written under them. Turned out we actually had a brothel
on the premises! Henry studied one of the girls for a long time until
he was sure the gender was correct. The cheeky blighter then demanded
another 200 francs; at this rate we would soon be bankrupt.

Henry gave no impression that his aborted attempt at sex, less than an
hour earlier, had made any impression on his brain, his shot memory
promoting a rare state of immediate gratification and living in the
present that would make a Zen Buddhist envious. The lad clomped down
the stairway, a mad grin plastered all over his face whilst I levered
my weary way up three flights of stairs to our room.

Happy wasn't far behind, beaming with happiness at a job well done.
Not even perturbed by the lowly slung bidet which he used like a
urinal, a delinquent firehose that went on for a good five minutes. The
lad then collapsed on the bed, immediately falling asleep, emitting a
sonorous bass reverberation that joined in with hissing radiator and my
own cackly breath. Exhausted by the day's happenings I soon fell
asleep.







Fall From Grace
The next morning I gave the BSA a good going over, adjusting things and
tightening up the bolts. Henry was only allowed to pass me the tools,
the last time I'd let him adjust the chain it ended up so tight that
the back wheel refused to turn. The Algerian viewed our antics with
some distaste but didn't actually throw us out on to the pavement. I
offered to paint his hotel in return for free lodging for a few weeks
and the guy agreed straight off, the local artisans charging outrageous
money. It would give Henry something to do, anyway, and take his mind
off the delights in the basement - already badgering me for more money!
I told the lad if he finished the front of the building by the end of
the morning I would fund another basement session.

The four storey building had balconies running across the front on each
level, no ladders needed. Henry's outlandish height had its uses. By
the time I'd adjusted the valve clearances to perfection, the lad was
halfway down the building working up a furious sweat; there was nothing
like a bit of incentive! I decided an inspection of his work was in
order, clambered up the rickety fire escape at the side of the building
that was built into the end of the balconies.

Henry's work a touch slipshod around the window frames but nothing a
little gentle touching up couldn't cure... Henry was so absorbed in
his fantasies that he didn't realise I was standing behind him. When
I tapped him on the shoulder with my walking stick he leapt a good yard
in the air, screamed and swung round. The large paint brush wobbled
through the air at my head, causing me to leap backwards, only the
balcony was in way.

Thumping into the dodgy stonework of the balcony, I almost tipped right
over. For a moment I thought I was safe, readying my mind for a long
diatribe on Henry's failings only to have any such thoughts cancelled
by the stonework giving way. I had half righted myself so the vertical
fall through two stories was more or less upright.

In retrospect, I am able to recall an army lecture in 1945 on the art
of falling from a great height, the main point being to bend your legs
as you hit the tarmac. My mind was so wracked by the sudden fall from
grace that I had no time for coherent thought. My life didn't pass
before me, my only recollection a flash of intense pain as my feet hit
the deck...

My next sight was Henry jigging around like a demented chimpanzee, the
cause of his angst a hospital ward full of young French nurses wearing
short skirts and stockings. His outrageously engorged member threatened
to catapult out of his jeans at any moment. Embarrassing. As was my
lower right leg in a white cast. Given that I was naked beneath a
hospital gown, I suspected the clown had commandeered the monetary
stash from the envelope I'd stuffed in my underwear.

My first reaction to finding myself in a hospital was to flee. Before I
could impart a master plan to the lad he'd given me the thumbs up,
grunted something about the BSA and clomped off towards the exit.
Whatever pain-killers that'd been administered to my innocent body
had an almost euphoric effect, causing me to fall into and out of sleep
in a strange and disturbing manner.

The next day Henry returned in full motorcycle regalia - waders, trench
coat and ex-army boots - and, as if reading my mind, demanded my
release. One of the wonders of the European Community - perhaps the
only one - no payment was needed as they would claim off the British
government; just sign about twenty different forms.

The French weather turned violent, purple clouds threatening a massive
downpour. Henry pointed at a strange looking vehicle, a boat-shaped
structure precariously perched on a central wheel. As we neared I was
able to spy that the BSA was attached to the other side of the unlikely
sidecar. Where the hell the lad had found such a dubious device I have
no idea. Slightly longer than the motorcycle I was able to stretch out
my legs inside, although there wasn't much elbow room.

Whether by design or modification, there was no way to open the door
from the inside, though I could wind the window down on the motorcycle
side. The idea of Henry in charge of such a vehicle left me in a total
panic, but locked in with a damaged leg I had little choice in the
matter. The extra mass of the sidecar turned the venerable twin totally
lethargic, not helped even by Henry's conviction that the only way to
change gear was to rev the engine out to the maximum. Noise and
vibration rattled around the steel structure, a perfect form of
torture.

Henry couldn't understand why all the cars were charging straight at
him, until I tapped his knee with the walking stick a few times,
shouting at the top of my voice, keep the throttle in the gutter. Total
perplexity on the clown's face until he realised that foreigners
drove on the wrong side of the road.

The lad's technique was quite simple, that of brute force over any
other skill. Emboldened by the fact that he no longer had to worry
about a two-wheeled vehicle falling over and reassured by the meagre
top speed and pathetic acceleration, all he had to do was exert all his
excessive muscular force in the direction he wanted to go. The fool's
lack of memory did mean that he often forgot there was actually a
sidecar attached... there was no chance of my drifting off, no chance
of taking my eye off the lad for a moment!

I had to keep the window open, harshly tap the giant's kneecap with
my walking stick every time my life was threatened by a fast
approaching cage or lamppost. There were times when this didn't work.
He'd aimed the monster through a gap, down a one-way street, that was
only just wide enough for a solo A10... fortunately, the pile of
garbage in our path gave way to the hefty construction of the sidecar.
Poor old Henry ended up covered in what looked like the leftovers from
a Chinese restaurant, a look of total befuddlement on his face as he
tried to figure out why his day had been ruined by dead food falling
out of the sky.

Our exit from Paris was in high spirits, the lad sweeping over to the
wrong side of the road and careering the sidecar along the pavement for
a good twenty yards, scattering pedestrians - one spirited old French
dame whacked the top of the sidecar with her brolly. Henry swerved back
on to the tarmac proper, just in time to avoid a lamppost. A parade of
French industrial might in the form of locally produced cars, blared
merrily on their horns as the lad skittered back on to the correct side
of the road.

No real damage done, though. The same couldn't be said a few miles
into the countryside. The old BSA was slugging along at 45mph, sounding
more like a pile-driver than a motorcycle, Henry beaming from ear to
ear at being in control of the dubious device, when a bloody big
Doberman shot out of nowhere. Henry has a certain fondness for canines
but not when they come barrelling out of the ether on a destruction
course.

The first I knew of it, Henry screaming an oath, trying to twirl the
combo on to a new course but merely lining up the front of the sidecar
with the path of the charging beast. Looked like something out of a
horror movie. The robust structure of the chariot won out, but not
without nearly breaking my leg again and leaving a large dent in the
front of the structure. The incompetent idiot in tears as he viewed the
dead dog, taking no notice of the long stream of invective I threw at
him. If we'd stuck around to argue the toss with the police, we
doubtless would've been regarded as heroes for taking out such a wild
beast.

Henry didn't go above 20mph for the next ten miles, the bars wobbling
in his hands... the resulting vibration resonated around the chariot
like having a dustbin stuck over my head whilst half a dozen youths
training to be in metal band got to work! Eyeing the BSA, bolts seemed
to be twirling off before my eyes, one of the silencers half hanging
off. Henry seemed to think all the noise and vibration quite normal,
reluctant to find a sweeter spot in the engine's rev range.

Happy hadn't noticed that the brakes were but barely working, the
excessive mass of the combination rendering the old drum brakes wholly
inadequate. They might work well once a day but that was it. Henry much
preferred to use the sidecar, which protruded a good foot beyond the
front wheel of the motorcycle, as a battering ram - even more
revelatory than whacking cages on their roof with a tyre-iron. Unless,
of course, you happened to be inside the sidecar nurturing a broken
leg! Erring car drivers were in for a hard time!

There was, perhaps, something in the sight of a six foot six inch giant
who's girth was made all the greater by an ex-army greatcoat, sat
upon an equally unlikely vehicle, that frightened the hell out of
drivers, even irascible French cagers. When the combination descended,
rattling, shaking and roaring, upon innocent motorists about to impede
our progress, the reaction was, I can tell you, not one of
indifference.

Through the distorted vision offered by the Perspex screen, cars seemed
to suddenly career out of our way. Those normally afflicted by myopia
suddenly had a miraculous restoration of vision... surprising what a
good old bit of intimidation achieves.

However, Henry's elevation from the pillion to the controls had been
sudden and unexpected, his road sense wholly lacking. Even with the
sparsely populated countryside, careering across France wasn't
exactly a brilliant training ground. No real surprise that the idiot
hit the side of an erratically driven Citroen, sending a vicious spasm
of pain up my right leg. I almost felt sorry for Henry, harangued from
both sides, the idiot stood there with his fingers in his mouth,
moments off bursting into tears.

Oddly, after being battered by the charging canine, further damage was
limited to a bit of scratched paintwork on the sidecar whilst the poor
old cage looked a write-off. The lad was, at least, advanced enough in
the art of survival to give a false name and address, a mythical
insurance number and get the numberplate slightly wrong... the local
still gibbering away as we thundered off into the countryside.

Whilst fumbling around in the sidecar I'd found a pile of hardcore
magazines, instant arrest if the customs into the UK stopped us. I
suspected that after his run in with the transvestite Henry was
desperately studying the female form to make sure he didn't make the
same mistake again. Disgusting stuff, I threw it out of the window -
naked pictures flying past the giant, crouched form of Happy Henry. God
knows what the locals thought.

On and on droned we, fortunately leaving the storm clouds in the
distance, our spirits lifted by the heat of the sun and the rhythm of
the road. France seemed an endless vista, somehow reluctant to let us
out of its grasp. Despite being full of foreigners who couldn't speak
English I rather liked it and thought we might return. I didn't fancy
my chances on a broken leg, though.

Calais finally found, the ferry a blur and the only recollection of
Dover was a custom's officer fighting hysterical laughter at the
sight of Henry on the combo. Darkness fell as we left the town, the
BSA's lights refusing to work. Pulling well off the road, I had a
half reasonable lodging in the sidecar but poor old Happy was out in
the cold. Accommodation was out of the question, the fool had only 120
notes left from our stash. He whined that the sidecar had claimed most
of it but I suspected repeated trips to the basement a more likely
cause of impending penury. The lad banished to a nearby forest to fend
for himself.

In the morning, Henry did a passable imitation of an icicle, but ten
minutes sat of the vibrating BSA, the engine gave off enough heat to
thaw him out. Totally lacking in any stiff upper lip, he twitched,
swore and grunted as circulation reconnected to his extremities. He
wore a demented look as we hit the road again, totally ignoring my
commands to give the machine a good going over. I had the last laugh,
more torrential rain defined our path up north to the Midlands; I could
barely see out of the sidecar but winding the window down a touch I
caught a glance of a sodden Henry, water streaming off him in his self
produced gale.

Amazingly, the BSA's electrical system resisted the elements all the
way to the outskirts of Birmingham. Henry, already confused by a
bizarre array of ring roads, suddenly found a misfire knocking 20mph
off our speed and realigning the BSA in front of a car. Unfortunately,
the car contained two uniformed officers of law and order who demanded
that we pull over. In its sluggard condition there was no way the combo
could escape. At least the rain had stopped.

Pulled up on the side of road, huge lorries thundering past, the cops
took their time going over the machine. They seem half frightened by
Henry and highly amused as yours truly struggled out of the sidecar.
Don't know what they were looking for but they told us we were lucky
they weren't in traffic or we would've been for it. Like, I needed
to be told.

The misfire caused by a rotted HT lead... no problem as I had a stash
of spares. No problem except that trying to bend down sent spasms of
pain up my leg and back. Henry hacked away at the magneto with all the
élan of primate encountering a stone tool for the first time but a few
smacks around the ear brought him into line. Half an hour later we were
on the road, old Happy convinced that he could find employment as a
mechanic!

The BSA was having one of those days, deciding to cut out as if
suffering from fuel starvation. Henry had all the patience of a hungry
five year-old, kicking the engine and swearing his head off. The lad
reluctantly pulled the fuel line off the carburettor, turned on the tap
and sprayed the whole bike with petrol. That end was okay, anyway.
Turned out to be crud in the carb but I nearly did my back in getting
down to it, no way such a relatively delicate component could be
subjected to Happy's heavy-handed regime. The original petrol tank
was rusting from the inside out... Henry's powerful knee-clamp had
probably loosened some of it off!

Birmingham in a general state of decay, genteel in areas but mostly of
a desperate nature. We tried a few large houses in a state of neglect
but all seemed to have been converted into grotty bedsits; no chance of
a paint job. Hobbling around on the walking stick didn't put me in
the best of moods. We decided to backtrack to Redditch where in the dim
and distant past I lived for a couple of years. Much more upmarket.

Soon became involved in a curious race with a pack of scooters.
Hundreds of the awful things crowding us in, making rude gestures at
our splendid conveyance and Henry's attire. They appeared unable to
go much faster than ourselves but a few of the parka-clad imbeciles had
the audacity to kick out at the venerable BSA as they sneaked past. I
handed Henry his tyre-iron, which he immediately waved in their
direction; scattered them for a moment.

They were soon back. I could see Henry coming up to the boil, all I
hoped was that he wouldn't forget he was supposed to be controlling
the outfit as well as attacking the scooterists. Happy managed to
lightly whack one on his lid with a blow that would've given him a
headache for the rest of the day if his head hadn't been protected.
The rider reacted as if he had become very drunk, half collapsing over
the bars, the machine wriggling all over the road, careering into a
couple of fellow scooterists, before he managed to regain control. Six
bikes ended up on the tarmac.

Henry dropped down the large gap between fourth and third gear. The
sidecar body shook, rattled and rolled as he wound the revs on, the
speed creeping up to almost 70mph. The Perspex screen a blur, the floor
vibrated viciously and the whole outfit weaved, wallowed, through the
curves, although such was the bulk of the device that it was impossible
to raise the sidecar an inch off the ground.

Overtaking a Ford Orion, Henry only just realised the width of the
combo and he narrowly avoided taking off the side of the rusted heap.
Coming back on to our side of the road, the sidecar wheel dug into the
grass verge, hit a huge hole, the whole outfit sliding around and
ending up in a hedge facing the wrong direction. Henry beamed down upon
me, figuring he was in dodgem car or something!

Fortunately, the scooterists were nowhere in sight and the engine was
still running. The low speed torque drove the antiquated vehicle out of
the self-made ditch as if it was some ancient tractor. The only real
damage, to my lower leg which was throbbing like it had been run over
by an artic, after I was thrown out of the seat into the side of the
chassis. Only with extreme reluctance did Henry hand back the
tyre-iron; once a little violence was let loose from his system he was
unwilling to revert to his more angelic self.










Capital Caper
Redditch a waste of time, rich bastards taking one look at us,
threatening to phone the cops. Henry threw a fit, sulked, then locked
me in the sidecar and pointed the combo south. Took no notice of my
diatribe. Getting above himself, a taste of good sex had turned his
mind! Henry was so resolute that he refused to stop for anything -
junctions, red lights or other vehicles. He just sat there, only half
in control of the meandering vehicle, ignoring the cacophony coming
from the protesting engine... it says a lot for the venerable twin that
it achieved the capital city in one sitting.

The one good thing about London, the surplus of houses in need of paint
- we could easily undercut the prices of local builders. I hoped we
could hit a rich vein of middleclass money, desperate to keep up
appearances. As always, we lived in anticipation.

We parked up behind a closed petrol station just past Willesden. The
high life would have to wait. I had the sidecar for a kind of comfort,
Henry was sent to a far corner, armed with a few bottles of cheap
French wine, where his snoring and nocturnal tantrums would be less
intrusive. After digestion of half a bottle of wine, I slipped into the
slumber of the dead to the accompaniment of scrambling rats and the
gentle ticking of a cooling motor.

In the morning all hell broke loose. A bearded Jew in traditional rig
was ranting at Henry that we should vacate his land at the earliest
moment, brandishing a stick which was only ineffective in that Henry
was almost twice his height - I could see the lad searching for his
tyre-iron, forgetting that I'd confiscated it again in retribution
for locking me in the sidecar. I struggled to leave the confines of the
chariot to explain that we meant no harm, but before I freed myself the
ignorant lout started crashing his stick on to the sidecar's body.
Such was the fury that the stout walking stick actually broke in half.
He walked off in disgust, muttering something about summoning the
police.

Our quick exit was delayed by the BSA's refusal to start. Evidently,
the old gal had tired of carting too much mass too rapidly from one end
of England to the other. I felt a certain amount of angst myself. Henry
had no option but to push the combo whilst I hobbled along behind. Once
hidden from any lurking officers of the law, I had the leisure to
thoughtfully study the engine whilst Henry leapt up and down on the
kickstart. If nothing else, it would burn off some of his excess sexual
energy. Had to give him points for trying, though not for technique.
After about 30 kicks brute force won out, the motor clattered into
life.

The run into Central London more or less a straight line but it took 90
minutes in the rush hour traffic. The motor overheated, the sidecar
rattled nastily and I could smell the iron barrels melting. Henry
didn't look too happy, either... if looks could kill, the midday news
would've been full of the sudden death of hundreds of car drivers. I
hid the massive tyre-iron under a heap of clothes and tools. Rolling
into Kings Cross, the motor locked up solidly.

I wasn't that worried, felt that it would all loosen up once allowed
to cool down. No sooner had Henry leapt off the saddle to help me out
of the sidecar, than no less than six cops pounced on us. The bastards
were on one of their periodic clean-up drives against drugs and
hookers. The perpetrators having gone elsewhere they were evidently
bored out of their heads, judging by the way they threw everything that
wasn't bolted down on to the street. Fortunately, our lack of
clothing changes or even washing over the past few days meant they
thought twice about strip-searching us!

My carefully crumpled and oil-stained-to-oblivion documents of dubious
providence were not met with much amusement but they'd had their fun
and games, the thought of more paperwork appeared too much trouble for
such a minor collar. We spent the next hour putting everything back
where it belonged, by which time the motor had, as predicted, freed up
nicely. A distinctive rumble from the engine sounded expensive!

I flicked through a grubby copy of Motorcycle News to find a nearby
breaker who sold British stuff and we wobbled off in that general
direction, Henry trying his hardest to finish off the motor. The lad,
by now in a foul mood, appeared to be perfecting the art of the close
shave, leaving a road littered with smashed wing mirrors. As he was
using the sidecar half of the vehicle as the means of destruction, I
found this a trifle disconcerting at first but was eventually reassured
that the tank-like thickness of the metal would not give way to the
flimsy construction of the modern automobile.

Even a Volvo owner was forced to swerve on to the pavement to avoid
having his pride and joy crumpled beyond recognition... I felt like
running up the Union Jack but restrained myself; the large cosmopolitan
population of London would probably have mistaken us for National Front
supporters and strung us up!

The breaker's dog, some huge, vile crossbreed straight out of the
depths of hell, went for my throat as I hobbled into the establishment.
Henry nowhere to be found when his tyre-iron-wielding expertise was
actually needed. The dog's neck almost snapped off when he was
brought up short by his lead - thank god! The beast, rearing back on
hind legs, was as tall as myself and looked like it ate bikers for
breakfast. I gave him a smack on the head with my walking stick, almost
falling forwards into his grasp. The beast thrashed on the end of the
metal chain like it had rabies, foam frothing out of its fang infested
mouth until the owner appeared. He looked suspiciously at the bloodied
head of his mutt whilst I tried to imitate a harmless, crippled senior
citizen.

He eventually admitted that he had a pristine A10 bottom end, mine for
600 notes. Piss off, my reply. I had to hobble out as rapidly as
possible whilst he tried to untie the beast... that's London, for
you! Nearby there was a hotel of sorts. One of those six storey
Victorian edifices that had been carved up into tiny rooms. Henry
parked the bike half on and half off the pavement, a constant trickle
of oil already adding to the character of the area. 30 quid a night
wasn't exactly cheap but my aged bones screamed for a comfortable bed
and hot bath.

Before such civilisation could be obtained, I instructed Henry to
remove the BSA's engine... quite easy to extract even if your only
artistry is that of wielding a five pound hammer. Henry didn't look
too strained as we smuggled the engine and our tools up three flights
of stairs to our room. Henry relegated to handing me the tools, so I
couldn't really blame him when a pint of oil splattered over the
floor. Transpired that the main bearings were shot. A lot of
telephoning followed, a shop located that could fit a new set. Henry
dispatched on the underground, clutching the oily crank assembly as if
his life depended on it, still attired in waders and trench coat as it
looked like rain... he turned up at one in the morning, claiming to
have gone around London five times on the underground trying to find
his way back and had ended up walking about ten miles!

In the morning, after a night full of intermittent sleep caused by
Henry's snoring doing a passable imitation of a pack of pigs in heat,
I rebuilt the engine and met the hotel's owner as we carried it back
down to the street. He didn't seem to believe me when I told him we
took it out for safe keeping each night. After fixing the engine back
in the frame, I left Henry to perfect his kickstart act whilst I tried
to placate an irate hotel owner after he'd inspected our room.
Henry's lustful dreams added a broken bed to the carnage of a ruined
carpet and oil splattered walls. The only good thing to come out of the
conversation, he didn't phone the police.

Unfortunately, all the benefits of hotel life were negated by the mess
resultant from putting the engine back in. We ended up as filthy as
before we'd had our showers. My offer of a discount paint job on the
hotel hadn't gone down at all well - can't please some people -
although as most of the front of the last hotel we'd tried to do had
ended up on the pavement after the balcony collapsed, perhaps we ought
to avoid such buildings in the future!

A whole day wasted trying to find some work but even cutting the rate
to that of slave labourers didn't impress any potential employers -
the BSA was now spraying out a fine mist of oil that left poor old
Henry covered from head to foot, along with my own oil impregnated
hands and face, didn't exactly inspire trust and confidence in
would-be employers! We tried the rich, the poor, countless shops and
even the odd decayed industrial building. Henry was sulking again as I
threatened him with a good Gunking and jet-wash, then force-fitting him
into an Oxfam suit!

We rolled up at a B & B in Acton, of all the desperate places. Run by
some old Polish bat, it was cleaner than the last hotel and five notes
cheaper but she seemed reluctant to let us occupy one of her rooms even
though we had stripped off the outer layer of oil stained clothing.
Perhaps it was the way Henry was leering at the old dear's bosom. I
wearily dug out the notes and told her we wouldn't need a receipt;
they disappeared with a rapidity that would do a magician proud!

Next morning we were given our marching orders. Other borders had
complained about Henry's snoring and grunting, the lad had broken
another bed and demolished a wardrobe, and the final insult was the way
he consumed a breakfast meant for six all by himself. With thirty notes
left, and absolutely no sign of work, it was time to get serious.

Despite the wild ride under Henry's tutelage, my leg had almost
miraculously fortified itself, I could actually fit on the pillion! I
never ascertained the extent of the break but evidently not major.
Unbelievably, the sidecar was welded on to the BSA's frame. Henry
stood in open-mouthed dismay as I gave him a dressing down for
potentially ruining the bike's frame. Four hacksaw blades later,
Henry had finally freed the venerable motorcycle from the abortion. The
Polish landlady kept giving us the evil eye from her front garden but
you learn to ignore these things. No idea what she made of the
abandoned sidecar left in front of her house.

The lad, armed with spit and polish, spent the next three hours
cleaning the bike. Whilst doing the rebuild I'd found almost every
component nearly ruined, a combination of too many miles and far too
much exertation in carting around the sidecar. A complete rebuild was
way beyond my means but the engine still ran well enough to fool anyone
not conversant with the breed. BSA A10's were classic motorcycles
that fetched serious money. Another round of telephone calls, whilst
Henry worked furiously on the BSA, revealed a couple of classic dealers
who were interested. The finishing touch, very thick engine oil to stem
the leaks and quiet down the rattles.

Henry, inspired by thoughts of another foreign sortie, a reformed
character, directed the venerable motorcycle on the merest hint of
throttle in fourth gear. The first dealer went for the plot,
overwhelmed by the thought that all the cycle parts were still
original... 1500 notes richer we headed back into town on the
underground. We'd even thrown in our authentic motorcycle gear,
London weather turning surreally hot as soon as we sold the motorcycle.
Happy was burdened with a large bag of tools and clothes, muttering in
complaint under his breath.

Henry demanding a side trip to Soho, whilst squirming around in his
seat, eyes darting from one young lady to the next. Left to his own
devices, Happy would've reduced us to penury within an hour in some
neon dive or caused havoc by squeezing the backsides of any women
within easy reach. He kept eyeing my walking stick, wondering if the
momentary pleasure was worth the resulting pain.

As Oxford Circus rumbled into view, the lad leapt up into the crowd,
forced his way through and jumped on to the station concourse. I had no
option but to hobble along in his wake, cursing the commuters for their
lack of civility to senior citizens but the combination of ex-army
boots and a sharp edged walking stick allowed me through the momentary
vacuum created by Henry's violent exit. He'd left a few anguished
women in his wake but the train's closing door cut off their
complaints. It was only after the train departed that I realised the
cunning bugger had left my life's accumulation of tools and all our
clothes on the train!

Fresh air, near freezing point, drifted over the exit from the tube
station, the sun disappearing over the horizon. Henry marched off in
the direction of Soho, leaving me at the mercy of loitering muggers and
other undesirables. The density of the dispossessed almost equalled
that of the good citizens. The lad, realising I had all our monetary
means stashed in my underwear, allowed me to catch up, only to demand a
few hundred quid for his merriment. He took no notice of my complaint
that I had just sold the love of my life and a period of mourning
should be entered into.

Luckily, the whole of London's police force was concentrated in Soho,
another drive against illegal enjoyment. Henry's jaw fell down around
his knee-caps, spitting out a litany of complaints against the
heavy-handedness of the police. At least the continentals knew how to
enjoy themselves. The police appeared confused by the combination of a
retarded giant and crippled pensioner, such disbelief allowing us to
get out of their range before they turned nasty.

Happy Henry then demanded that we return to France, gave every
indication of walking all the way to Dover if necessary. Once a certain
idea gets into the idiot's head there's no arguing with him - you
either go with the flow or let him go off on his own. The sheer
stupidity of visiting France, returning, getting halfway up north then
returning to London, and then going back to France again, didn't seem
to penetrate the lad's thick skull. At least my leg was getting
stronger with each passing day!

http://www.lulu.com/content/478980

 

Why keep posting this shite?