New ride coming/Motorcycle Live & rampant sexism

New ride coming
I’ve been mulling over a change of chariot for a couple of months.

This started when I thought I wasn’t enjoying the ZX9R, but then I bought the new Daytona and discovered that I didn’t like that, and felt that the ZX9R was the dog’s danglers after all.

Good that I know my own mind, eh?

External factors started becoming an influence with the soon-to-be-delivered cheque from the insurance company for the old Daytona.

Then I got the new job and, with it, a company car.

So I have decided to sell the Jag.

And also decided to sell the new Daytona.

And let the ZX9R go?

And then, in February, I could pool all this cash together and buy myself a brand spanking new ZX10R?


I think so, yes.

Motorcycle Live & rampant sexism
Last Saturday we went to ‘Motorcycle Live’, the UKs biggest bike show, at Solihull’s glittering NEC.

Motorcycle Live gave me an opportunity to sit on a (static) version of the will-be-released-in-February ZX10R.

Even though it was static, I enjoyed sitting on it.

It felt like ‘home’. It felt comfortable, and right.

Sitting on the ZX10R crystalised my thoughts about selling both the ZX9R and the Daytona, and getting the brand new, leaner, meaner, and much, much quicker big brother to the ZX9R.

We browsed various trade stands and I bought (though they haven’t yet called me to complete the sale), a lovely leather jacket.

We had a chat with the highly entertaining motorcycle travel author, Sam Manicom (who I have an enormous amount of respect for).

We also met writer and adventurer Jeremy Kroeker, who promises to be a similarly entertaining author.

We watched the freestyle motorcross nutcases doing their FMX/X-Fighters lunacy.

We thoroughly enjoyed that!

But oh, the sexism.

It started with the LWP* and me looking keenly at a bike, when a punter leant in and began a conversation with her:

Punter: This is a bit sexist, isn’t it love?
LWP: What?
Punter: This bike. No rear pegs. No pillion.
LWP: I wouldn’t want to carry a pillion when I was out on it.
Punter: (genuine surprise) Oh, you ride do you?

Well no she doesn’t, obviously.

Because riding motorbikes is the exclusive preserve of sexist morons like you.

Isn’t it?

Later, as we were ambling about the various halls that comprise Motorcycle Live, we saw the girls.

The high-heeled, spray-tanned, poured in to body-clinging lycra, cameltoe-fronted girls.

In the name of all that is sensible, what is the relationship between half a dozen girls, dressed like this, and motorbike insurance?



There were several troupes of such girls, and seeing them wandering around the halls, handing out leaflets to goggle-eyed, pot-bellied, midlife-crisis-dodging attendees made me wonder.

It is the 21st Century, and we – as a civilisation – have given women the vote, we are striving for gender equality (because we recognise that women are, after all, people, people who make up 50% of the population of this planet), and yet there are businesses who think it is acceptable to draw a link between a woman as a sexual objective and their product?


We really think this?

Companies think that this 1950s/1960s mentality is normal/acceptable/right in 2015?

All it made me do was question the ethics of the companies that go down this road.

It made the LWP decide not to use MCE Insurance when she buys her Royal Enfield next year.


*LWP = Living with partner. LWP is used as an anonymous, and temporary description that doesn’t denote ownership, gender (though that is implied), or the ability to kill people with her ‘fuck you, moron’ laser eyes

In the words of others

1. Dreams can come true
I’m awake. Woken 20 minutes before my alarm by the aftershocks of a full-colour, action-packed, most vivid dream. I was startled awake by the images that my subconscious served up. Sexual. Explicit. Erotic. And so fucking real. Yet there was no soundtrack – the audio accompaniment was muted. But it was my field of vision. My point of view, that my ‘eyes’ (hindbrain) served up the images through. As a person who never (should read seldom) remembers their dreams, being able to recall this one is weird enough. Recalling the granular detail is disturbing. My heart is racing. I am excited. By the dream.

2. ¿Buscando Quien Eres?
Trying to capture, to articulate who I am/what I am looking for is easy. Trying to get it is much more difficult. I shouldn’t review these things in this post-dream now, but there is a gap in my life and I am keen to fill it. My head, still in a turmoil from such wonderful images, urges me in one direction. The post-dream shreds of common sense tell me to chill out. Relax. Don’t be such a teenager. But it’s not easy, at almost 5am, hands shaking with excitement. I shouldn’t lie here trying to figure out how to get what I feel I want. Not after ‘experiencing’ such real/not real images. It’s like walking out of the best feature film you’ve ever seen and trying to reorganise your life.

3. Comfortably Numb
There was guitar lesson last night. I was less good than normal. My sight-reading failed me and the pentatonic scales couldn’t engage. My head was elsewhere. But we duetted, Trev and I, on some Pink Floyd. Comfortably Numb and then some Wish You Were Here. They both sounded good. Better than good. They both sounded better than they should have. I have only practised three times since last week’s lesson. That’s what being mentally busy gets you. I need to make sure I don’t let guitar practice slip.

4. Splendid Isolation
Daughter is busy. I’m not sure how she has a hectic social calendar, given where she lives, but she is busier than I. Last night’s phone call was brief. I was tired, she had things to do. I miss her. But her next few weekends are fully booked. No time for me.

5. Run To The Hills
Work is entering a less-busy phase. I’m thinking of taking some quality downtime. A long weekend – three or maybe four days. Rome, maybe? Or somewhere in north Africa? Or somewhere else – but somewhere warm. It has been too long since I felt the sun on my skin. Somewhere quiet. Good food. Good wine. Good relaxing. Good company? Want to come with me?


I find I’m getting hooked in to things.

I have been fascinated by the now-finished book ‘Unmastered’.

The content is, frankly, bland (especially if one is used to, ahem, more direct fayre), but the style in which the content is delivered is very readable.

As a piece of writing, Unmastered puts Fifty Shades well and truly in the shade.


In the shade!

See what I did there?

Oh, you did?


But Unmastered as a piece of erotica?


Delta of Venus did it much better.

Anyway, Unmastered has been well and truly mastered.

I have other preoccupations.

I am preoccupied by a girl (woman?).

I think of her and I smile.

I feel excited.

I am, obviously, a teenager trapped in someone else’s body.

It might come to nothing, but still I smile.

Still I think of her.

Still I get excited.

I am also very toey.

At work there is a touch of mild flirting with a doe-eyed girl.

And the leggy redhead from HR is back.


And work, despite the completion of the last two weekends, continues to occupy.

Oh yes, and some daft bugger keeps calling my mobile – from a ‘not disclosed’ number – but rings off and doesn’t leave a message.

What’s that about?

Either leave a message or leave a number or email me, for crying out loud.

It’s like some people are just out to play games. I don’t play games.

So that’s another preoccupation. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

I rode Vin this evening; he makes me laugh so much.

In many ways he is like a big excitable puppy.

Daughter made me laugh this evening too.

She is, though, still no nearer to being out of the teen-girl/goth/emo phase that she has so recently assumed.

The week – and the weekend – stretch ahead.

Dinner in London tomorrow.

No social activities planned for the weekend.

Ride Vin?

Ride the Bandit?

Have a mini adventure?

Maybe go to a six-band gig that is on in Oxford on Saturday?

All of these?

Some of these?

Something else?

Who knows.

Spring is in the air

The UK is currently going through what some people say is an uncharacteristic bout of weather.

But is it?

I can remember Easters where we have had snow and day-time temperatures of 0c.

I can remember Easters where we have had tropical weather and temperatures of +20c.

These facts put the daytime average temperature somewhere in the 10c zone.

Just saying.

I’m still feeling toey.

I have been wondering if it is the weather, the hotter-than-usual, summer-like conditions that have been making me feel like this.

Or is it something else?




Do we believe in love at first sight?

Or lust at first sight?

Or even infatuation at first sight?

Do we even believe in sight?

Answers please, on a skimpy pair of knickers, to me.

Or is it something more routine?

Is it because of the changing seasons – the cycle of renewal – that I am so… ‘possessed by a foolish and extravagant passion’?

Or am I in love?

Actually, I think I’m in love.

And who can blame me.

Such form, such exquisite beauty, such grace, such wit, charm, humour and intelligence.

Falling in love with these qualities is easy.

Judge for yourself. The qualities are hypnotic.

The one with all the sex in it

There is a quaint Strine word; ‘toey‘. It sums my particular state of mind and condition up.


I had a meeting, today, with Leggy Redhead from HR.

I successfully kept my gaze fixed to hers, never once letting my eyes stray towards her tantalising and invitingly pert cleavage.

I may have faltered, once or twice, and glanced at her full and oh so kissable lips.

And caught sight of her tongue, as she lubricated her lips from time to time.

I certainly did not admire…


the way her tight skirt…


clung to her figure…


when she stood up.


And when she shook my hand…

I didn’t notice her long, cool fingers…



I’m sorry about that.

I seem to have drifted off for a moment.

It won’t happen again.

I’m just.

You know.

Feeling a bit.


Not as serious as others?

In the cold light of morning I’m wondering if Justice Secretary, Kenneth Clarke MP, in making his widely reported comments about rape, has accidentally put his finger on a deeper problem.

Is it rape when a 15-year old girl takes her 17-year old boyfriend back to her home and willingly shags him rigid?

How can this act, between two willing, consenting and wholly enthusiastic future Jeremy Kyle subjects, compare with the brutalism of forced sex?

A weekend planned – and unplanned

Yesterday, while I was driving back to the yard from Highclere Horse Trials, I had one of those ‘I’m going to fall asleep any minute now’ moments. I think it was the combination of not enough sleep last week and being out all day at Highclere. So I took a breather and tried to snap out of it but the tiredness only receded, it didn’t vanish. I diverted home, deciding that I was too tired to ride. I haven’t seen enough of the horses this week, it wasn’t an easy choice, but it was the sensible one.

Neighbours can be weird things. Last night ours were setting off fireworks – very loud ‘whooshing’ rockets. They sounded like teenagers – the neighbours, not the rockets. I’m beginning to wonder if the house is occupied by a bunch of students. I’ve tried to work out what they could be up to, setting off rockets, but can’t come up with any sensible answers. Apart from the fact that they’re selfish twats who don’t care about disturbing the peace and quiet that other people might be enjoying.

Daughter sent me an email yesterday afternoon; she asked if any schools near where I live specialise in drama and acting. She’s always been keen on following acting as a career. Evidently the schools in Spain don’t tick the right boxes any longer and she is now setting her sights further afield. I feel sorry for the rest of the world.


Sophie’s laptop is throwing out WiFi connectivity drops. Yesterday evening I planned that I would go to Maplin to pick up a new PCI WiFi card on Sunday afternoon, and then go up to the yard to ride. And then we went to bed and eventually slept.

Insomnia landed at 1.20am. My throat was incredibly dry and I felt dehydrated; I’d love to know what I was up to for the first five hours of sleep. I went downstairs, drank two pints of water, did a little internetting for a couple of hours and went back to bed.

Waking at 9.15am feels just a little bit… sinful. 9.15 is so late to be waking up! I made us breakfast in bed, then I showered, shaved, teethed and then… went back to bed. We read, we did stuff, we fell asleep and I woke up at 2pm. So much for my going in to Maplin and riding plans! I tottered downstairs and started on some overdue webdesign and email stuff. About an hour later those same pesky neighbours started letting off fireworks again – another clutch of loudly ‘whooshing’ rockets. I hate people, sometimes. Soph tottered downstairs and we agreed that people are generally thoughtless twunts, and if they really needed to let off rockets they should do so in the privacy of their own home. And then I realised I was hungry, so second breakfast was had.

Beans on toast x4 and a cheese & onion roll

During the early morning awakenings I had an idea for a video promo for the podcast. I’ve started jotting down the ideas in a kind of ‘shooting script’ sort of way.  There are six scenes to be filmed, here are the first five:

  1. Shot of inside of empty pub
  2. Shot of inside of empty restaurant
  3. Shot of inside of empty library
  4. Shot of inside of empty car park
  5. Shot of inside of empty church

Ideally, I wanted a shot of an empty street scene for shot 5, but I’m not sure that’s achievable.

Advertising people talk shit. There was just an advert on the television that included the words, ‘Timotei searches the world for precious natural ingredients…’ – which, presumably, extends to ‘Timotei are going to rape the planet for, rip these precious natural ingredients out of their natural environment and cram these precious natural ingredients in to their distinctly average hair products’.  Because why else would Timotei include precisely that wordage in their advert? Really, is there any other conclusion to be reached? So here’s a message: Hey people, don’t buy Timotei products, they’re environmental rapists. Or perhaps no-one actually listens to the distinctly mediocre advertising wordage that is rammed down our televisions these days. Except me, obv. But if no-one listens, why are Timotei paying their advertising agency squillions of $s?

Video (from the Latin: ‘I see’)

I’m desperately trying to keep this away from a Bristol-related rant. And also I’m going to work hard to keep this away from an ‘Underage and Having Sex’ (which we’re currently watching) rant…

I’m thinking of making a video.

No, really. A proper one, not one of those videos!

My sitcom sits on the hard-disk; finished and ready to get pimped around London. I think it’s not a bad piece of writing, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be setting myself up for the pain and rejection that the odds indicate are going to come my way.

I also think it’s not a bad piece of comedic writing (which isn’t much of an indication of quality, because writing comedy has always been my weak suit).

But, and here’s my problem, I’m having trouble seeing it as a piece of visual… stuff.

And that’s why I’m thinking of making a video.

Because making a video would help me with the visualisation, no? And it would give me an opportunity to fine-tune the screenplay and really help to develop the shooting-script. No?

It wouldn’t be a posh job.

We’re talking a wobbly hand-held or tripod-mounted camera and the whole product subjected to some seriously bad editing.

But the soundtrack would be a killer. And the soundtrack is a significant component of the sitcom.

My dilemma is, unfortunately, twofold.

Dilemma #1. Setting. Apart from the opening scene, all of episode one is set indoors – but in three different sets. But I think that could be OK. This isn’t supposed to be the finished article, and with a little creativity from the props department (me!) and a bucketload of imagination from the viewers (probably no-one), I think we can work around this.

Dilemma #2. The cast. Episode 1 scripts 6 speaking parts and a bunch of non-speaking extras. Even from the position that no-one will be expecting Oscar-winning performances, how does one begin getting the potential company together, where from and – when they’ve been found – what’s the best way of casting?

Hmmm… I think I need to consult an AmDram specialist. Fortunately, I have one at the stables.

In other news…

The girl on the television in the show ‘Underage and Having Sex’ was just talking about how, as a 13-year-old, she had sex for the first time.

She said ‘It happened, I don’t know how’.

Well dear, I could be a million miles off target with this, but I’d hazard a guess that you let him put his cock in your cunt. Is there anything else you need to know?

Tsk, kids.

As you can see, I successfully avoided a Bristol rant, but the ‘Underage and Having Sex’ rant just kind of slipped out. Sorry.

I’ve been reading the Daily Mail again (1)

Yes I know. I’m sorry. I really should stop.


Rowan Pelling’s Sex Advice Column (and does anyone else have a really good laugh at the double in that entendre?) is a wonderful insight on what the world must have been like c. 1952 – because surely, that’s when this stuff was written.

Today’s offering to the housewife of a bygone era comes to us courtesy of this letter:
My partner really wants me to have a Brazilian wax. He says it will spice up our love life. But I’ve never been that comfortable with the idea of stripping off so much intimate hair. I can’t help feeling that his request is an implicit criticism of my natural body.

Setting aside, for just one moment, the blindingly obvious logic flaw in the (ahem) letter from the (ahem) reader that a discussion about the removal of her pubic hair somehow relates to an implicit criticism of her natural body, would anyone, seriously… anyone… sit down and write such a letter to (of all things) a rabidly right-wing tabloid newspaper? Really?

Well no, of course not.

But I like these (cough) letters in Rowan Pelling’s Sex Advice Column (tee hee!), they are glimpses of a part of the British Empire where the sun actually set many years ago.

But, in the spirit of public service, my somewhat more 21st Century advice to the (cough) letter writer would be something along the lines of…

What nicer way of passing the time can there be for you and your partner to have a shower (not necessarily together) and get thoroughly squeaky clean, dry off, slip in to bed and kiss and caress each other.

After you’ve finished your cup of tea, obv.

And then he (or she – whatever floats your boat), gradually eases his (or her) way downwards via a satisfying diversion at your breasts, down to your stomach, to your hips where he (or she) nibbles playfully before passing further southwards until he (she) is positioned between your legs.

And after gentle, almost teasing, playfulness he (she) explores your most intimate places with his tongue and lips.

Unhurriedly, never-tiring, he allows his gently probing tongue to explore, to become so wonderfully familiar with every inch of your labia, clitoris, deep inside your vagina and perhaps, if he dares, your anus, that you cannot contain yourself any longer and you orgasm, wetly, on his lips.

And how pleasant is all of this for him, how wonderfully enjoyable has it been, to perform these sexual acts without having to stop every few moments to remove fragments of organic dental floss (pubic hair) from his teeth?

And when you have recovered from your orgasm he raises himself between your legs and smoothly enters you, his erection penetrates deeply in to your clinging wetness, his cock stimulates new areas deep inside you, as you gasp your desire and urge him onwards with your hips…


Daily Mail reader?

Yeah, I’d leave it as it is. Be hairy. After all, we don’t want too much enjoyment in the bedroom. It might disturb the natives.

Source: Rowan Pelling’s Sex Column (tee hee)


I am half asleep. Or perhaps a quarter awake; yes, that is more accurate. And I am confused. In a ‘just woken up after some very active, very dirty sex followed by forty-five minutes of unconsciousness’ kind of way.

Confused for a number of reasons.

I’m unsure why Soph has me looking up the Oxford store of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. Surely it’s a little late at night for them to be open?

I’m unsure why American Pie is on the television. And why Willow keeps saying ‘This one time, in band camp’.

And unsure why Soph is tucking in to a plate of half a dozen Oat Cakes spread with Peanut Butter yet when I ask what she’s eating she said with a very innocent face, ‘nothing’.

This kind of half-awareness seems to happen to me now and then. Sometimes I’ll snap wide awake and I’m instantly firing on all cylinders.

But sometimes I’m a V8 firing on just one cylinder.

I love the comedy effect, but only in retrospect. Right now I just wish my head was working properly.

Anyway, Wayne’s World 2 is on in about ten minutes.

I love sitting here with her like this, our naked legs entangled, exchanging happy smiles and occasional farts.

I’m contemplating a bowl of cereal; Shreddies, ice-cold milk, lots of sugar.

Do you think that might kick-start my head, in a battery-booster kind of way?

My next question is very important.

Wayne’s World 2 or bed?

Yeah, that’s what I thought too. 🙂