TALES FROM THE SHED
Be gentle. Everyone needs a break from the relentless grind of life in The Shed … or indeed anywhere else, pretty much. And I needed a break. You might have observed elsewhere in this glittering pre-Christmas edition of the world’s most eccentric old bike magazine that the BSA which has infested my life, has made me consider whether it would be better suited as a rolling farm gate or even an addition to the Bude canal’s underwater reef structure – reefs are very helpful for fish, apparently – has actually and almost miraculously been transformed into a kind of motorcycle. A custom job, rather than as an actual restored stock motorcycle. Natural heroism and modesty prevailed, rather than my consigning it to the watery deeps, and the Beezer’s now back in The Shed. It’s under a couple of thick and opaque waterproof covers … not just to protect it from autumnal salty mellow mists from the mighty briny but also to stop it laughing at me.
Because that’s what it feel like. It sits there smugly, sort-of orange sort-of red, and glints in a sneery way. It doesn’t even drip oil. Its tyres retain their air. The old lunk might be scared of Richard Negus, but it ain’t scared of me,
