I'm going to get told off soon.

LOL!

With age is meant to come wisdom, but I find that the older I get, the
less I understand women.

 

Trouble at Mill...

 

One thick twat of ours called in from Brentford because he couldn't find
an address in - Brent.
That was bad enough, but he was just limbering up for his next stunt a
couple of months later, when a similar call came from him in Cheltenham,
asking the office to call the customer and get directions. The customer
was sitting waiting for him - in Chelmsford.

 

No, not at all.

 

That's because the older we get, the more inventive we get.

 

heh.

<thinks> that makes some sense, actually.

 

It is, but conversely, being stuck in the car in slower-than-usual
traffic due to an 'incident', when I'd usually be on the bike, is a
seriously frustrating drag. The recurring thought is: 'why *today* of
all fucking days?'

 

XS850? I tried ot in an elderly XS750. Big mistake: the bike lasted
one month before it became a twin, which is almost exactly how long my
DR career lasted. I think I also spent as much on oil as I did on
petrol.

 

I had one rather shit one: pick up from a solicitor outfit and deliver
to a place in Ely. I was explicitly told to get a signature. Thinking
that some brief was working from home, I had a job finding the
address: it was a sort of side door in a rather lass than salubrious
housing block. Not what I was expecting.

After some knocking, eventually a rather dishevelled lad opened the
door, answered to the name given, looked puzzed for a second when I
said who the delivery was from, then said 'oh' and signed the paper.

I wouldn't normally have looked but it was all very odd and the paper
wasn't even in an envelope: it seemed that I'd just served an eviction
notice.

 

Thighs like Molegrips, I reckon.

 

Quality fuckwittedness. And after that, he gave up the job, right?

 

Our of curiosity, did you or anyone else here, ever deliver a drugs
package or something they suspected to be one?

I remember, on the subject of dirty dealing, that one of our new
recruits absconded in his first week after collecting a small[1] package
from Hatton Garden.

[1] And as it turned out, rather valuable.

 

Not when I was a DR, no.

 

Not that I was ever aware of. Some went to private addersses but
always from business addresses.

Oops. Bet he was popular.

 

ISTR that it was worth about £7500, in early 1980s pounds. We were
insured, of course.

He'd started that week, nobody knew him or anything about him, the
address he gave turned out to be a squat or something and nobody there
knew him. He just vanished.

 

Mine was picking up some err, Lingerie from Harvey Nichols and delivering
them to a gentleman in The City. This was a wet November and I picked it
up from the lingerie counter in the shop and not the tradesman's
entrance.

Top marks must go to the Harvey Nics staff for playing the straightest
bat ever played in the history of batting.

 

Ouch. A pony account that turned out to be.

Heh. I delivered a similar giant teddy to the sister of a friend a few
years ago, for her little daughter. Christmas raffle prize, it was, and
I *think* it was Christmas Eve, or damn close to. I did just that:
carried it as a bungeed-on pillion passenger. Got some bloody odd looks.

Which was that DR outfit that used to dress its riders up as Santas in
ther run-up to Christmas? Two days in the London winter slop and they
all looked like tramps, I recall.

 

On the subject of wimmin, we used to have the Vogue magazine account and
I remember that every single female in the building was a stunner. And
not as snooty as you'd think.

I also remember we had the account for Ocean Publications, who produced
Ski Magazine, in Buckingham Palace Road. I went there once to collect
some artwork, and while I was there said: "Look, I know you're not
seeing me at my best but I'm actually a freelance journo trying to crack
it and I'm a ski freak..."

And this woman looked up, and said: "Oh, hello, Neil." It was Jenny
Scott, wife of Mike Scott, then editor of Superbike. And she turned to
the rest of the office and said: "Yes, he really is." I had no idea she
worked there.

And I started writing for them and three years later landed the job as
editor[1]. It's a funny old world.

[1] They sacked me, but that's another story. Every hack worth his salt
has to be sacked once, apparently.

 

Mine managed 19k miles in 18 months and was utterly reliable until I binned
it in Camden wrecking the alternator. It would still run if I charged the
battery. Amazingly, it was nicked soon after (with no battery in it!).

 

Suspected yes. I picked up a package from High Barnet and the guy seemed
keen to pay me over the odds for the delivery to a music studio in Camden.
When I got there they virtually snatched it from my hand ...

Another stange one was a womans handbag that I picked up from a police
station. I must admit I was tempted to look inside (it was very expensive
looking). Didn't though.