Mutch's Diary
The Road's editor
To Newport to face the beaks over my heinous crime of lying on the hard shoulder to photograph Hoggin' the Bridge (see ROAD issue 5). There is a pre- trial hearing at which I state my case and take the offer of going on to the actual court that day. At the trial the magistrates spend 10 minutes reading my 2000 word statement which I then supplement with a verbal statement after which I am fined £60 with £40 costs. I learn something very interesting at the pre-trial hearing however and so am taking this further. Watch this space and prepare yourself for the collapse of our entire judicial and law-enforcement systems.
To Cornwall for the wedding of ex MAG Chairman Nicky Myakachef and former MAG Political Director Phil Neale. I have been prevailed upon to perform a reading which I have written myself. Since it is a poem packed with appalling contrived rhymes, I disguise myself with a false beard and glasses lest anyone approach me later in the evening and identify me as 'le Bard Execrable.' From here I ride to Lee Bay in North Devon for the Lee Bay weekend. All 56 rooms in the hotel are booked as this is becoming a rather popular do these days. I ride over Exmoor and visit the Doone church, immortalised by the novel Lorna Doone which captured my youthful imagination a rather long time ago. Here I am astonished to meet bad boy Carver Doone himself outside the church and photograph him on his VFR for a 'My Bike' column, see elsewhere in this issue.
I drop in at the Gothic Image bookshop in Glastonbury to see how sales of my books are going and am delighted to find that they have sold out. After an obligatory herbal tea and a mosey round the hippie shops to buy incense and Arabic music to soothe my soul, I saddle up and ride on to the Capital where the pace is a little more frantic.
I accost a motorist who has dropped a tin can out of his car while sitting at the lights. He doesn't want to take it back so I toss it through his window after considerately flattening it to save him space and he behaves most ungratefully. After a verbal exchange he spits at me and screeches off, leaving me with a flattened can and a cloud of burning rubber. The sooner these vermin are arrested and taken round the streets picking up filth, as they do in some countries, the better. I report the spitting as an assault to my local police who naturally ignore my letter.
To the historic Guildhall to receive the Freedom of the City of London. I hire a morning suit for the occasion and prevail upon the Brigadier to photograph me in it with my certificate. I swear allegiance to the Queen, sign a huge book, and am handed a glass of finest Madeira sherry by a grand fellow in a top hat. It's all rather wonderful and underscores the fact that I am obviously a splendid fellow whatever anyone or everyone might say to the contrary.
To the Farmyard Party in North Yorkshire. I pause in Hull at the home of my ex bearfriend who advises the purchase of a sea bass at a fishmongers where she used to work. Grasping the fish in her paws she stuffs it with herbs, wraps it in foil and hands it to me. I think it is the only time I have ever seen her grasp a fish that has not instantly disappeared down her cavernous maw and I can only imagine that she was not hungry.
The Farmyard is just wonderful, see report elsewhere.
The National Courier Awards is next on my list of commitments. I am a judge in this contest which seeks to divine from the examination of testimonials, those who have really excelled themselves. I cycle to the dinner which is held at a wonderful venue in the Square Mile in which each table is identified by a London post code. As a Freeman of the City I am naturally at the premier table which I share with former Roads Minister David Jamieson and incumbent minister Stephen Ladyman.
No sooner has the meal got under way than something so utterly appalling happened that I could scarcely believe my eyes and ears. I was just wrestling with a plate of duck pate decorated with Elk antler lettuce, when the oafish sound of a roaring crowd burst forth from giant speakers and a huge screen at my end of the hall exploded into life to reveal a horde of cloned thugs booting a ball about. Apparently it was some kind of contest and to my mounting horror the majority of the guests seemed captivated by it. The Roads Minister actually appeared more fascinated by the event than by a delightful story I was telling him about how the late David Niven used to con restaurants out of meals in his leaner years. Actually I forgot how the con went but that's not the point. The decision to broadcast this exercise in imbecility goes down as the crassest act of the year so far and I wish to record my horror. I haven't feared for the nation's culture so much since I heard that the speaker of The House of Commons watches Big Brother, why did he admit it?
To Birmingham next for the street demonstration on licensing and the Heart of England rally. It was a scorcher which always helps though those in serious full leathers seemed to be wilting a bit. I bought a pair of camouflage strides from a trader on site and was delighted to discover that I now fit into 34 inch waist troosers, having been shamefully stumping about in 36 inchers for the last couple of years. Working from home has its dangers and grazing is one of them but I am now exercising an iron control that is paying dividends.
I stayed up later than everyone else, a fact that you will read in the report on the event but I just like reminding people. I also slept in a sleeping bag on the ground without the benefit of a tent, another fact I record for the benefit of those who think I always stay in hotels. Well at the time of writing we are basking in the hottest weather in recorded history which is great for riding motorcycles or for sitting in the shade and reading my new book, 'Lowrider' which is just utterly wonderful - see bikerlifestylepics.co.uk
Ian 'Not a Number' Mutch
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