blackrat - @ 20six.co.uk

URBAN WORRIOR

Sometimes, I forget I'm a biker. Since I started working from home over eighteen months ago, my R6 (above, pic taken last year before I grew my hair back) has been relegated to the garage for the most part and I'm more likely to be driving my desk than anything else.

I bought the bike in March 2001 as a commuter tool, fed up with the rocketing prices and appalling service levied by WAGN. Even on finance, bought new, the bike was cheaper per month than a season ticket for the train. I could also guarantee my journey time on the bike, regardless of weather or traffic, and I had massive fun each morning 'doing battle' with the traffic on my way in. Homebound, I would leave all the day's stresses behind as I rode home.

Now though, I've invariably got any number or cars or bikes on the drive from press fleets. When I do have to travel into London, it's inevitably going to be for a meeting where I need to be smartly dressed or am laden down with briefase and laptop, or to a photoshoot - none of which lend themselves well to travel by bike. Hence I've come to the conclusion that we are going to have to part company - I simply can't justify having so much money tied up in what is essentially an ornament.

That doesn't however mean that I don't still get the odd bit of fun from her still. Like this morning. I've been waiting on a cheque from one of my clients which I was reliant on arriving today. I called them last week and arranged to collect it myself rather than relying on the vagaries of the Royal Mail and this morning, saw the perfect opportunity for a ride into town.

10:15 saw me kitted up and riding off to SE11, a journey which by train would have taken me the best part of 70 miutes. I arrived at my destination at 10:50, parked for free in a motorcycle bay 50 yards from the offices I was destined for, collected the cheque and was on my way back by 11:00. Took a circuitous route back, across Westminster Bridge, round Parliament square and up through Regents Park. The roads were drying out, the weather clear and I revelled in the ride, my walk-on role in every scene being played that I happened to be a part off, if only fleetingly. I rode fast, cornered hard and enjoyed a little of that old thrill where time becomes elastic because you reel it in on a bike. See a gap, chase it, filter past line after line of cars to the front, coast up to the red light and nail it as green appears. Bliss.

I was back home by 11:40, and that included stopping at the bank to pay the cheque in. Kinda sad too, as I realised that, subject to sale, it would be the last time I indulged and rode her in the way that I did today. Riding is all about grip and to get the most out of a high performance bike, you need heat in the tyres. Given the temperatures we can expect from now on, heat is going to hard to come by and sports rubber isn't effective during winter.

So the bike's back in the garage whilst I ponder the best way to sell her to a worthy home.

Nothing to report from this weekend. Quiet time, spent cooking and reading, relaxing in the bath and chilling on the sofa. Sometimes, it's good to do nothing - puts life in perspective, hence why today's full-on ride into London was so enjoyable.

3.11.03 15:34

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HERE KITTY

OK, so it's not all bad. Phone rang with another assignment - drive this for a week and report please:

She'll be black, with black leather interior, 20inch Detroit wheels, twin superchargers allied to a 4.2litre V8 mill pushing out 400Bhp. It's Jaguar's gorgeous, pouncing XKR.

The downside: It'll be winter. Cold temperatures, big fuck-off 285 cross section rubber and 400bhp are not a good combination. Arse.

3.11.03 16:28

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THESE ARE MY PRINCIPLES. IF YOU DON'T LIKE THEM, I HAVE OTHERS

So said Groucho Marx, the man who is also famously quoted as saying "I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member" and to whom Soho's Groucho Club owes its name.

The Groucho is known as the club for those involved in the media and was rather fittingly, the venue for a lunch meeting I had yesterday with Alex, besuited cartoon hero of the Daily Telegraph's business pages.

Conceived in 1988 at the height of the financial City boom and written by Charles Peattie and Russel Taylor, Alex is an acutley observed satire on the financial community in general and on stockbrokers in particular.

Alex is a yuppie. In fact, he is the yuppie. Selfish, greedy, rich and ruthless, he is a merchant banker, the sort of person who gets fan mail from his bank manager. I find it kind of ironic that despite being conceived as a gross caricature of all that is worst about the City, those who work there perceive Alex as some kind of hero and are flattered in extremis by the recognition he represents for them. He's almost 17 in cartoon years and every bit as obnoxious in real life as he appears on the pages of the DT.

Actually, that's rather silly as you'll no doubt be aware. It was Peattie and Taylor, his creators who I met with and who chatted amiably to me about their protege for a feature I'm writing. Charles Peattie has even agreed to draw a cartoon of Alex being interviewed by me to illustrate the feature - a fantastic gesture on his part and a source of great delight for me.

I own several original Alexes which hang on the wall of my office, a nod to my own City days. Any one who follows the character will appreciate his appeal and the way he acts as a barometer of what's going on in London - and in society - at any given time.

Peattie and Taylor were awarded MBEs in the New Year Honours last year, another irony that is not lost on either - career satirists being recognised by the establisment, the ultimate swipe at their satirist credentials. I suspect that they thought there'd been some sort of mistake - a typing error which saw honorary MBAs become MBEs or something. They are currently in talks with a producer to bring Alex to the stage in London’s theatre land.

Still, it was a pleasant enough way to spend lunchtime, which saw me home again shortly before 15:00 to catch up on some admin.

5.11.03 12:02

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REMEMBER

Sunday the 9^th is Remembrance Sunday, so despite the fact that I'm off to review top flight new restaurant in central London on Saturday night with all its attendant fine wines and brandies, Sunday morning will see me paying my respects in front of the BBC coverage of the Cenotaph. The coverage never ceases to move me, no matter that it takes the same form year after year. In some respects, the whole thing is becoming more poignant and thought provoking, as the passing years diminish the physical presence of the survivors of those two great wars this century. There is now but a handful of the ‘Old Contemptibles’, those that endured the 1914-18 war, still alive.

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The sheer gravitas and understated solemnity of the occasion somehow adds to the proceedings. The weather always seems to have conspired with some greater force, adding weight to the aesthetics of the event. The steel grey of the ffice:smarttags" />skies, the sheen of the rain-washed tarmac complements the winter greatcoats of the massed Guards Regiments and the sea of greys and blues and blacks of the RAF, Navy and Marines blend to become one, a vision of remembrance for those who gave their lives, that we may live freely.

The whole thing is a masterpiece of orchestration – from the music and the soundbites, to the visual spectacle. The sheer weight of experience, the seniority of those present, is humbling. It is awe-inspiring to see the Chiefs of the General Staffs - the respective heads of the armed services – stood heads bowed. These four men, the greatest of the great, leaders of leaders, stand humbled before the memory of those that have died. The Chief of the Defence Staffs, The Admiral of the Fleet, The Chief Air Marshall – these are the men that govern our armed forces, the most experienced and heavily decorated warriors of our time. Their sheer presence adds solemnity.

Elgar’s music never fails, Nimrod must surely be one of the most evocative and moving pieces of music ever written, it’s understated gravity a perfect eulogy to the dead. It brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. The refrains that “Age shall not weary them, as it wearies those of us that survive them”, or “They will remain forever young whilst we grow older” both serve to reinforce the sense of debt that we owe these unknown soldiers. War exacts a terrible price for the freedoms that it confers, and Remembrance Sunday is a perfectly fitting encomium, that we may never forget.

7.11.03 17:13

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OUCH

My Head. P and I went to Nick and Eva's last night for dinner. Didn't need an excuse, but last Tuesday was their 3rd wedding anniversary.

That was one helluva wedding - Eva's Spanish and we flew en-masse to her home town for the wedding in 2000, some 20 of us from the UK living it up in a mountainous region of Spain's heartlands. Suffice it to say that we almost missed the flight home (it's a long story!) but were enventually bussed out to the aircraft after the flight had closed. How the other passengers laughed! Still, the airline got the last laugh, splitting us all up so that we were all seated singly to face the glowering resentment of our fellow flyers on the way home.

But I digress. Last night was perfect - last minute, unplanned and just as it should have been. 'A' was on a sleepover at best mate Lucie's last night so P and I had no worries about getting home early. Nick was planning to cook Chinese last night, and that's exactly what we did. When I arrived, everything was chopped, spliced and diced, measured and prepared - it just needed cooking. So with a wok each, we deep fried crispy shredded beef in 3 batches (keeps the oil hot and renders the beef crispy), salt and pepper prawns with chilli and spring onion, chicken chow mein and Thai fragrant rice - lots of it.

Whilst the girls chatted, Nick and I made like Keith Floyd as we demolished a bottle of red wine between us in beween chatting, frying and stir frying. By the time we sat down to eat, another bottle had disappeared, so we were both well oiled and giggly.

After dinner, we split up along sectatrian lines - boys one end of the lounge gathered around the computer, girls at the other gathered around the TV. We raided Nick's mp3 collection but drink and the progress of the evening made us hungry for the music of our youth, so iMesh was fired up and we downloaded to order - Grandmaster Flash, Gary Byrd and the GB Experience, Freeez...and then started rapping and singing along in fluent drunkenese. Apparently, we drank another bottle of wine too. Ouch!

It all got messy when I remembered some Derek and Clive stuff I've got on my PC but couldn't for the life of me remember the details of my remote server log in to access it. No matter - I downloaded it all on Nick's courtesy of iMesh.

First was the 'Jump you Fucker' sketch which had us both laughing until I thought my stomach would split. By the time we'd played 'Nurse' I was praying for a swift and merciful death such was the intensity of our drunken laughter which rendered breathing a task too far. Always said us men are useless at multi-tasking and there's the evidence.

Apparantly P and I came home shortly afterwards, although I remember nothing of that. I just remember waking up this morning feeling better than I should have done. Still, I did better than Nick - at least I made it to bed. I've just spoken to him - he woke up on the sofa, still dressed at 06:30 this morning. Sat up, switched the TV on and 30 minutes later, the lads arrived to watch the rugby!

8.11.03 13:16

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SOLEMN

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I took this picture, which I have titled 'Piano Keys' a couple of years ago on a visit to the Somme with friends for Remembrance Sunday. The cemetery is on the old battlefields, near to what would have been the German front Line between 1915-17as it crossed a village called Albert. The way the morning sun played across the immaculatly kept lawns and headstones was magical, seeming to bring the place to life.

This one brings a lump to my throat and is entitled, "Goodbye, Old Man". It's by an artist called Fortunato Matania who was commissioned to paint a picture to highlight the sufferring of the thousands of horses who were something of a forgotten casualty of the Great War. Most haunting of all though, are the words which were written by an unkown poet, Henry Chappell, to accompany the picture:

A Soldier's Kiss

Only a dying horse! pull off the gear,

And slip the needless bit from frothing jaws,

Drag it aside there, leaving the road way clear,

The battery thunders on with scarce a paffice:smarttags" />use.

Prone by the shell-swept highway there it lies

With quivering limbs, as fast the life-tide fails,

Dark films are closing o’er the faithful eyes

That mutely plead for aid where none avails.

Onward the battery rolls, but one there speeds

Needlessly of comrades voice or bursting shell,

Back to the wounded friend who lonely bleeds

Beside the stony highway where he fell.



Only a dying horse! he swiftly kneels,

Lifts the limp head and hears the shivering sigh

Kisses his friend, while down his cheek there steals

Sweet pity’s tear, "Goodbye old man, Goodbye".

No honours wait him, medal, badge or star,

Though scarce could war a kindlier deed unfold;

He bears within his breast, more precious far

Beyond the gift of kings, a heart of gold.

How moving it was to see the three old boys, veterans of World War I aged 102, 103 and 104,  leading the parade past the Cenotaph this morning. They were three of just 27 men still alive who can claim to have fought in that bloodiest of modern wars - what a sad occasion it will be when there are none left to lead the ceremony.

I've long been interested in Military History, particularly the pewriods 1914-1918 and 1939-45 and have made a number of research trips to the battlefields of the Somme. My last visit a couple of years ago was memorable for a number of reasons.

We took in an incredible number of cemeteries, including the Thiepeval memorial, a huge arch designed by Sir Edward Lutyens commemorating the 76,000 dead on the Somme whose bodies were never found, their only resting place the soil for which they fought and died so bravely. Their names are carved in the marble that makes up the edifice’s walls, and it felt as though those 76,000 were there, watching us. It was the most eerie of feelings, a place so alive with the memory of the dead.

It moved us all, the experience draining us with its intensity. As we progressed from one grave site to the next, we became engrossed in the fabric of the stories each individual grave had to tell. Each headstone bore the name, rank and regimental badge of the person buried beneath the soil, and the location of various graves, groups of the same regiment buried together on the same day, gave some clue to how they had met their deaths.

Five Royal Artillery soldiers buried alongside one another suggested a gun position taken out by a single shell. Four Lieutenants, three Captains, a Major and a Lieutenant-Colonel buried together suggested a Brigade HQ taken out by a gas attack. The graves of VC winners, DSO’s and MC and MM’s were too numerous, each act of bravery shining through the eighty years to humble us all.

We walked many fields across the site of the old ‘no-man’s land’, the freshly ploughed mud underfoot yielding the tell-tale debris of the fierce and bloody battles fought there so long ago. I was amazed to find a perfectly-preserved and formed bullet, a full metal jacket .303 round which I found somewhere near what would have been the German front lines. It sent a shiver through me to know that I was the first person to touch that bullet since the British soldier who loaded it into his rifle behind the British lines and fired it in anger at a faceless German enemy some 30 yards ahead. Clearly, whoever had his name inscribed upon that bullet was a lucky man, for its condition suggested that it had never found its mark – the soil became its resting place for 80 years as it ran out of energy and fell to the ground.

Shell fragments, grenade fragments and the like were plentiful; shell casings, brassware, buckles, human bones – it was all there. How many have walked these fields before us in the past 80 years? How many of the spoils of war have been cleared, and still we find the minutiae of the war without even looking. Live shells were in evidence at every turn, ploughed up by the modern machinery of the farmer. I was stunned to find a live hand grenade, a British Mills bomb laying semi-buried in a furrow ahead of me. It was a little rusted, but otherwise intact, even retaining the firing pin. Had we been minded to remove this and throw it, the thing would have exploded, fulfilling its very raison d’être so long after the event. Sensibility prevailed, and we left it by the roadside for collection by the French authorities when and if they got around to it.

The stories that the old battlefields yield are as individual as those whose blood make the lands so fertile. There is no sense of evil about the place, perhaps as one would experience on a visit to the site of Aushwitz. Despite the horror visited by man upon his brother, the one prevailing sense that the Somme elicits is despair, a deep sadness that we could be capable of such unspeakable horror. There is a serenity about the region though, a sense of calm that blankets the whole area and is present everywhere you go. One comes away with the feeling that this wasn’t a bad war; it was a senseless war, a tragedy visited upon so many of the world’s youngest men.

We travelled on to Ypres after leaving the Somme where we spent the final night, taking in the Menin Gate ceremony there at 2000hrs . There, for the past 69 years, the buglers of the local fire brigade blow the Last Post , that haunting tune that means more than it was ever written to achieve. Under the arches of another Lutyens masterpiece, the notes ring out, echoing around the marbled walls bearing the name of the 59,000 who fell during the Ypres and Passchendale offensives and for whom no known grave exists.



9.11.03 14:18

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OOPS! OR, HOW I TURNED BEAUTY INTO THE BEAST

Feast your eyes on this: It’s a Ducati 998, the two-wheeled equivalent of Ferrari’s finest. Its 998cc twin cylinder engine delivers 123Bhp to the rear wheel and drives you on to 165mph as standard, despatching the 0-62mph sprint on the way in less than 3 seconds. All that and it looks simply gorgeoffice:smarttags" />us. In fact, the last time anything was this sexy, her name was Debbie Harry at the stage in her career when she was doing a ton of drugs and wore no knickers on stage.   fficeffice" />

There’s a parallel universe out there somewhere where the sun always shines, the temperature is a warm, but dry 30 deg Celsius and there’s a ribbon of perfectly laid tarmac which leads from your front door right to the pit lane at Imola. Your air-conditioned luxury apartment has floor to ceiling windows overlooking a harbour of crystal clear azure waters and the women are all genetic replicas of the three female members of The Corrs – in both temperament and looks. You ride like Valentino Rossi, and your garage has in it each and every vehicle that’s ever set your heart afire. Trouble is there’s only room for one bike.

Chances are that if you possess a full motorcycle licence, you just made a mental note to have a Ducati 998 in there alongside whichever other fusions of steel, alloy and rubber you fancy. Somewhere, in that parallel universe, there must be an attic with an aged, broken Ducati within. Like the fabled picture of Dorian Gray, it ages whilst its many derivatives stay fresh and captivating. Going on nine years old, the Ducati 916 and its successors seem not to have aged at all; the sheer simplicity of design manages to be both utterly of the moment and utterly timeless. And this is the hallmark of a true work of art.

But difficult as it may be, put aside its iconic looks and pedigree. Forget its arse up, head down ergonomics and ride it. Just ride it. Do so, and all the words you ever read about this bike fall away into the ether to leave you with an utterly sublime ride.

I missed out on the 998s predecessors – the 916 and the 996. Didn’t get to ride either, but I knew about the bikes’ alleged propensity to be snatchy on the throttle, the jerkiness that made slow-speed, cross-town riding feel less inviting than a penitent’s cross. Listened to the countless stories of the full-on racing crouch that meant that anything more than a couple of laps on a forgiving circuit left your wrists numb and your body feeling like it had gone ten rounds with Nigel Benn. So to say I had a few preconceptions when I collected the review model from Ducati's press fleet last year could be construed as understating things just a little.

The ride back from up north was sublime, though, the bike just a dream. The Öhlins shock did its stuff, the Showa forks worked their magic and the brakes performed faultlessly. She tipped into corners beautifully and gripped like nothing else I'd ever ridden. Ducatis are like that - they're so stable, the chassis so good, that with the right tyres, you can just lean and lean until you ride off the edge of the tyre - so you better be careful!

I took the twisty route back, better to enjoy the bike's capabilities and the day's 75 degree temperature. She had 1,500 miles on the odometer when I signed for her, and in two hours, I’d added almost 200 more to that total.

They were the last miles she ever notched up.

Onto the nice big roundabout which I know so well, have driven round, ridden and used for photoshoots more times than I can remember. I’m fully committed, cranked over with my knee scraping the tarmac and the bike just slides away from me. One minute I'm Troy Bayliss, the next minute I'm sliding into a slip road to the M25 on my arse.

There’s a moment in every motorcycle accident where, provided you’re not unconscious, your brain assimilates the available data and tells you there’s a chance that the bike will be ok. It’s a futile hope in 90% of cases – gravity and the lack of any natural balance do the rest – but you hope all the same. Given my relatively low speed when I threw the bike away, I was in pretty good shape and as all my extremities checked in and my brain reported ‘OK’, it signalled the command for me to stand up. Not a good idea as I was still surfing across the tarmac at this stage and my resultant giant strides saw me back on the deck almost as soon as I’d righted myself – it’s a little like when we were kids and we’d jump off the open platform of the Routemaster London busses as they coasted to the bus stop. Sometimes, you got the speed wrong and your legs couldn’t cope with the sudden touchdown at 20 mph – you’d manage 2 steps before the motion carried you into the concrete. Not cool.

The bike in this case didn’t look too hot, either.

I almost wept as I cast an eye over the beauty that I had tainted with my over enthusiasm. The Front and RHS fairings were scarred, the front wheel buckled, the RHS Headlamp smashed, and the clutch cover looked like the clutch had decided to emigrate. That was my fault.

Having stood up and righted the bike, I tried to start her. That was so not a good idea – not given that the clearance between clutch and clutch cover on a Ducati is not much more than 1mm. Taking a dive onto the cover had dented it, and as soon as I thumbed the starter button, the laws of physics did the rest – the clutch spat its springs out, ejecting swarf and bits of plate onto the tarmac through the protesting light alloy that was the cover.

So ended in ignominy the shortest and most expensive road test I ever conducted. Have to say, the press office were rather good about the whole thing, which made me feel even worse – I guess they just took another of the £10,000 bikes from the production line. It wasn’t just a sore leg that I took away from that accident – the leg has healed nicely but my pride still hasn’t recovered.

10.11.03 16:38

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