Thirsty
I believe that the people of Salisbury must be the thirstiest people in the world. I'll explain in a bit...
Day 2 of Brian's stag do was a lot less drama than yesterdays little shenanigans with the air ambulance and stuff.
The guys were a bit muted today, unsurprisingly. I set off ahead with them, and Martin had some stuff to finish off and would catch us up. As we rode towards the Plain, I was musing on how to deal with this.
It's the guys stag do, and he wants to have fun. Riding the bikes should be fun, but everybody's confidence was shaken after yesterday - they'd not be human if it hadn't put a damper on things for them. To me, this was not acceptable. They deserved better. I figured out what I was going to do.
First though, Martin is a very clever individual. He has seen me out on the Plain, out with people. He has seen the way that I really identify with what I am doing. That I am passionate, that I love it, and that that is infectious. He knew that if he gave the guys an hour or so with me then it would change the mood.
It's not just a bike thing either. When I am on form - and boy am I on form just now - then it is impossible to be in my company for an hour without pissing yourself laughing at least twice. I am razor sharp, and can see humour in anything. Don't invite me to a funeral when I'm on form.
Not like my Uncle Joe, who chose to leave us a few years ago when I was on form. We were at the funeral and the pirest was giving it "bless bless bless ..." over the coffin. Let's be clear though - I loved my Uncle Joe, and sobbed my heart out when he died.
So we're at the funeral and the priest is blessing away and he started rummaging around in drawers and cupboards on the altar. I says to The Missus - "ah, so that's where he keeps the whisky. Want one?". Grievers around me started pissing themselves. It's what Joe would have wanted.
I took them to the trees. The tight, twisty trees with only a 12-inch path running through it.
Firstly, this means they have to concentrate a lot. They really need to pay attention to what they're doing - not like open fields where they get a chance to think. They're dealing with a Nobel Prize winner of taking your mind off things - they're in the right place. Roots and trees soon occupied their thoughts, and elbowed tibias and helicopters out of the way. As ever - a great metaphor for life. Monsters can only survive if you feed them. Monsters in your head only survive if you pay attention to them. Focus on where you want to be, not where you are.
The second thing is that the trees are slow - they have to be. You can't go quickly when you'e got to change direction on slippery mud every few feet. Since Little Richard's injury was down to speed, I had to break the link in their thoughts between motorcycles and speed. I had to get them confident on the bikes at slow speeds and - crucially - enjoying it, otherwise we'd never be able to get them out of it.
The third thing is that woods are tiring. Your body raises its heartrate to pump blood faster and get more oxygen to the muscles and brain. It is impossible to be depressed when you are exercising, and - equally - it is near impossible to exercise when you are depressed.
Add into that little mix my infectious enthusiasm and constant piss-taking, and it didn't take long. There's only so much of "Look at that - body of an athlete, shame the sport is tiddlywinks" people can take before they either punch you or laugh.
What happened yesterday happened yesterday. The real problems are in front of you. Just like life.
We emerged from the woods and stopped for a breather. The change in mood was audible and visible. People were excited and smiles started to appear. Brian pointed out that those woods were "so confidence inspiring". In that moment, I could have thrown the British Enduro Championships at these guys and they'd have lapped it up. We had turned a corner.
A little 4 wheel drive golf buggy thing came towards us across the field. I said "Oh-oh, here's trouble" and everybody's face fell.
The guy skidded to a halt and jumped out his little buggy. He demanded "Do you have permission to be here?".
The guys looked at eachother, at me, and at eachother again. This wasn't part of their plan.
I took off my helmet and said "No, we're just taking the piss".
"You shouldn't be here"
"I know"
The guy grinned. I grinned. We shook hands. "You should be over here! I found this brilliant track!". It was the farmer, and we were just winding the guys up.
He drove down the hill in his little buggy and put a couple of blue stakes and some tape so that we could find the track. It involved some fairly slippery uphill work, and he drove his buggy round the corner so that he could witness the carnage and have a laugh.
As the guys realised that it was a wind-up, and that everything was OK, they relaxed even more. Yes, Martin - wily old dog - knew what he was doing.
The farmer told me about Lee Wheatley. Lee was the service manager at Honda of Bournemouth, and used to give me discount off all my gear and parts because I was a regular and put thousands of miles on my bike every couple of months. What I didn't know at the time was that he was also an enduro champion who rode at Midwest.
Lee Wheatley, Darryl Bolter, Dave Nuttall and Darren Wheeler. The top 4 at Midwest was always those four, although the order varied.
Lee, working at Honda, was able to "borrow" any bike he chose and regularly did so. He borrowed a 1000cc FireBlade, and overcooked it on a corner. He managed to jump clear of the bike, but had a little bit less success avoiding the lamp-post he was flying towards. He was killed instantly.
Last week was the Lee Wheatley Memorial Enduro, and it will probably be a yearly event. Dave, Darren and Darryl finished 1, 2 3 in truly fitting style. Dave won the three-hour enduro by 22 seconds.
Lee, you will be missed. And, one day, I will lift the cup with your name on it.
Martin caught us up at the wods where we had laid out a better, longer, track - nearly 2 miles. I had moved a lot of logs and stuff and carved a couple of new routes up and down the hill. This gave us a real zig-zag up and down the hill, before going out across the fields and then up the steep hill we use to teach the guys momentum.
I took the guys round it a few times to show them where the route went. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure they were there. One time, as I looked, I saw this huge yellow hooligan bike bearing down on me - Martin.
"Right", I thought, "let's get the gloves off". I tore off across the field and I could hear the roar of the Husaberg behind me. We flisked left long a barbed-wire fence and came to the top of a steep hill that would have scared the shit out of me a few months ago. None of this first gear malarky - I went down in second and gassed it all the way down. I heard Martin still behind me.
Through the slipper and wet woods, we had to pull a hairpin to go back up the hill. Martin overshot the corner - the Husaberg is no match for the PR3 in the woods - and I gained a few yards. By the time I hit the bottom of the hill, I was doing 60 - as measured by the speedo and Martin was gaining.
Across wet field with wet grass, we had a sharp left turn before going down a very chalky and slippery track. Martin, too much power again, overshot the corner and I zipped round it - MX-style - on the PR3. Again, we came to the bottom of the steep momentum hill where I had first spotted Martin behind me. First lap to me. I held up a finger and shouted "That's 1!".
When we got across the field back to the woods, we realised that the guys had stopped to watch what was unfolding. They recognised that this was not just a couple of hooligans, they recognised that this was a duel - a battle which had been going on for some time. They watched. They shouted. "Go on John!", or "Go on Martin!".
Martin, on a race-prepped Husaberg 450, had more power and better accelaration. Me, riding Tango, had more agility and an ability to change direction like a startled hare. Up, down, round, skid, gas, brake. Rinse repeat. We came to the bottom of the steep hill. I held up two fingers - "Thats 2! Your powers are weak old man!".
On the third lap, Martin found grip at the top of the hill, and nailed me with an MX-style blocking pass on the corner. As Meatloaf said, 2 out of 3 aint bad.
We stopped at the end of that lap and got the helmets off. Martin, sweating and breathless, asked the milion-dollar question:
He knows. He knows that I have designs and plans way beyond the petty squabbles we have on the enduro track. He knows and, most important of all, he believes.
As Martin Luther King said - "Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step".
Sometimes, people wonder why I am so fiercely loyal to Martin. They wonder why I refuse to give up on the little AJP despite cooked clutches and the like. The answer is simple.
I believe in the AJP. I believe in the little AJP the same way that Martin believed in me.
A year ago last Monday, I went out for my second time ever on an offroad bike. I stopped at the edge of a set of woods and I said to the guy I was with:
The guy was Martin. The edge of the woods were the same edge of the woods where we saw the farmer today.
I am riding at Midwest on Sunday, as a travelling Marshall. Thanks to Martin, and the work we have done together at AJP. I am going to Enduro Africa, thanks to Martin and the work we have done at AJP. Not everything can have a price ticket attached to it, and doing so can interrupt the natural flow of things.
Do the maths for yourself. And then ask me again why I am so fiercely loyal to Martin. Ask me again why I have absolute faith that the little AJP will take me where I want to be, and why I have absolute faith in Martin.
The guys got back to AJP and declared it "the best weekend they've ever had". The grins were genuine, the handshakes were warm. They were off to the hospital to see Richard, with our regards and best wishes.
Martin gave me a cheque. It was a cheque for Queen Madge II - somebody had bought her. He asked if I'd be willing to take more, and I asked him to add a zero or two. He added a few shekels, and he was visibly relieved that I took some munny in return for my efforts. I like cheques.
I went into the workshop and gave Queen Madge II a kiss and a cuddle to say goodbye. I dont expect you to understand. She's hauled my ass through mud, ruts, roots and all kinds of carnage and has never - ever - let me down. She was named well. Madge, the real Madge, that fearsome heart-of-gold giant of a woman Aunt of mine, never let me down either.
Madge, I will never forget you. Both of you. You stood by me through thick and thin. You guided me from where I was, to where I wanted to be. You taught me that life could be more than it currently is. You were patient when I needed patience, and you were fierce when I neeed ferocity. You never, ever, let me down. Either of you.
So, thirst. I was driving home through Salisbury - where I had the run-in with the traffic cop a few weeks back - and popped into Waitrose. I was driving out of Salisbury and I thought to myself - "lot of cops out tonight".
Next minute, there's blue lights everywhere and all kinds of signalling for me to pull over.
I stopped the car and was out in a flash - just the way my Da taught me. I've got three cops approaching me from the front, and god knows how many from the rear. There's two cars in front of me, three behind me, and a meat wagon pulling up alongside. I realised that I better hide my shotgun or bomb or whatever it is, because this is serious.
A cop grabbed the keys out my car. That's clue number 1. I'm smiling, asking what the problem is. He won't tell me, and starts asking me questions. Have I been into Waitrose? What did I buy? That kind of thing.
The cops then do what cops are trained to do. Picture the training course at Police college:
"Step forward. Invade the suspects space. Like THIS. Make them take a step back. Asset your authority."
Oops. Sorry. I skipped school the day they taught the how-suspects-will-react lesson. I stepped forward too.
So now I'm about 3 inches from the cop's face. He again demands to know what I bought in Waitrose. I ask him, again, what the problem is. He demands, again, to know what I bought. I've had enough by now.
"Nothing. I bought nothing. I stole the whole fucking lot. So, tell me, have I committed, am in the provcess of committing, or about to commit an offence? What reasonable cause do you have for preventing me going about my lawful business?"
He looked at his more senior colleague - he didn't know how to deal with this one. This is exactly the language they use on the training courses. His more senior colleague decided that they just weren't invading my space enough, or that there weren't enough cops, since the manual says that I should be intimidated. They took a step forward. I stayed my ground. There was now only an inch between his eyeballs and mine.
"So, officer, if you tell me the nature of your enquiry then I will try to assist you"
A swarm of black. Five cop cars and a transit van. Lots of squawking radios.
"We've had a complaint from the member of the public that you were drinking at the wheel of your vehicle".
Ahh. That explains it. Drinking at the wheel. Drink driving. Guaranteed conviction. Nice statistic. If it were a fight in a pub, you would all be busy right?
"Yes, I was drinking whilst in control of a motor vehicle".
Ka-ching. Lights on all round. The sea of black gets tighter.
"Tell me something"
"Whats that?"
"The legal limit for alcohol is 35mg correct?"
"Yes"
"And the offence of driving whilst under the influence is well established, correct?"
"Yes"
"So, is drinking alchohol at the wheel a separate offence? Or is it OK to drink alcohol at the wheel as long as I am under the limit?"
The poor cop. That one overloaded his brain. He had to sa ythe three words that, according to the Police training courses, you never EVER say:
"I don't know"
Bingo.
"So, have I been stopped because you suspect I'm over the limit, or have I been stopped because you don't know if I've commited an offence or not?"
He looked at his more senior colleague.
Whilst they think about it, I produce a packet of fags. A young lady by the name of Rhona - brilliant lawyer - taught me this trick. If you want to keep the upper hand, always ask your next question before they've answered your previous one.
"Can I smoke?"
"OK, go on"
"But if you're going to breathalyse me, then I shouldn't smoke for 10 minutes prior to being breathalyased, otherwise the evidence is inadmissible. Is it still OK if I smoke?"
"Better not"
Poor guy. I almost felt sorry for him.
Up comes the breathalyser. They puke when I tell them that I have been drinking and show them the bottle - it's juice. What they saw - and it was a cop who radioed it in and not a member of the public - was me drinking red bull.
So what is it with Salisbury and Red Bull? Last time, it was a mobile phone (aka Red Bull). This time, it's alcohol. Five cop cars and a meat wagon - for a can of Red Bull.
If I lived in Salisbury, I'd be afraid to drink anything. The people of Salisbury must be the thirstiest people on earth.
By the way, two hands and a foot on the next rung ...
Day 2 of Brian's stag do was a lot less drama than yesterdays little shenanigans with the air ambulance and stuff.
The guys were a bit muted today, unsurprisingly. I set off ahead with them, and Martin had some stuff to finish off and would catch us up. As we rode towards the Plain, I was musing on how to deal with this.
It's the guys stag do, and he wants to have fun. Riding the bikes should be fun, but everybody's confidence was shaken after yesterday - they'd not be human if it hadn't put a damper on things for them. To me, this was not acceptable. They deserved better. I figured out what I was going to do.
First though, Martin is a very clever individual. He has seen me out on the Plain, out with people. He has seen the way that I really identify with what I am doing. That I am passionate, that I love it, and that that is infectious. He knew that if he gave the guys an hour or so with me then it would change the mood.
It's not just a bike thing either. When I am on form - and boy am I on form just now - then it is impossible to be in my company for an hour without pissing yourself laughing at least twice. I am razor sharp, and can see humour in anything. Don't invite me to a funeral when I'm on form.
Not like my Uncle Joe, who chose to leave us a few years ago when I was on form. We were at the funeral and the pirest was giving it "bless bless bless ..." over the coffin. Let's be clear though - I loved my Uncle Joe, and sobbed my heart out when he died.
So we're at the funeral and the priest is blessing away and he started rummaging around in drawers and cupboards on the altar. I says to The Missus - "ah, so that's where he keeps the whisky. Want one?". Grievers around me started pissing themselves. It's what Joe would have wanted.
I took them to the trees. The tight, twisty trees with only a 12-inch path running through it.
Firstly, this means they have to concentrate a lot. They really need to pay attention to what they're doing - not like open fields where they get a chance to think. They're dealing with a Nobel Prize winner of taking your mind off things - they're in the right place. Roots and trees soon occupied their thoughts, and elbowed tibias and helicopters out of the way. As ever - a great metaphor for life. Monsters can only survive if you feed them. Monsters in your head only survive if you pay attention to them. Focus on where you want to be, not where you are.
The second thing is that the trees are slow - they have to be. You can't go quickly when you'e got to change direction on slippery mud every few feet. Since Little Richard's injury was down to speed, I had to break the link in their thoughts between motorcycles and speed. I had to get them confident on the bikes at slow speeds and - crucially - enjoying it, otherwise we'd never be able to get them out of it.
The third thing is that woods are tiring. Your body raises its heartrate to pump blood faster and get more oxygen to the muscles and brain. It is impossible to be depressed when you are exercising, and - equally - it is near impossible to exercise when you are depressed.
Add into that little mix my infectious enthusiasm and constant piss-taking, and it didn't take long. There's only so much of "Look at that - body of an athlete, shame the sport is tiddlywinks" people can take before they either punch you or laugh.
What happened yesterday happened yesterday. The real problems are in front of you. Just like life.
We emerged from the woods and stopped for a breather. The change in mood was audible and visible. People were excited and smiles started to appear. Brian pointed out that those woods were "so confidence inspiring". In that moment, I could have thrown the British Enduro Championships at these guys and they'd have lapped it up. We had turned a corner.
A little 4 wheel drive golf buggy thing came towards us across the field. I said "Oh-oh, here's trouble" and everybody's face fell.
The guy skidded to a halt and jumped out his little buggy. He demanded "Do you have permission to be here?".
The guys looked at eachother, at me, and at eachother again. This wasn't part of their plan.
I took off my helmet and said "No, we're just taking the piss".
"You shouldn't be here"
"I know"
The guy grinned. I grinned. We shook hands. "You should be over here! I found this brilliant track!". It was the farmer, and we were just winding the guys up.
He drove down the hill in his little buggy and put a couple of blue stakes and some tape so that we could find the track. It involved some fairly slippery uphill work, and he drove his buggy round the corner so that he could witness the carnage and have a laugh.
As the guys realised that it was a wind-up, and that everything was OK, they relaxed even more. Yes, Martin - wily old dog - knew what he was doing.
The farmer told me about Lee Wheatley. Lee was the service manager at Honda of Bournemouth, and used to give me discount off all my gear and parts because I was a regular and put thousands of miles on my bike every couple of months. What I didn't know at the time was that he was also an enduro champion who rode at Midwest.
Lee Wheatley, Darryl Bolter, Dave Nuttall and Darren Wheeler. The top 4 at Midwest was always those four, although the order varied.
Lee, working at Honda, was able to "borrow" any bike he chose and regularly did so. He borrowed a 1000cc FireBlade, and overcooked it on a corner. He managed to jump clear of the bike, but had a little bit less success avoiding the lamp-post he was flying towards. He was killed instantly.
Last week was the Lee Wheatley Memorial Enduro, and it will probably be a yearly event. Dave, Darren and Darryl finished 1, 2 3 in truly fitting style. Dave won the three-hour enduro by 22 seconds.
Lee, you will be missed. And, one day, I will lift the cup with your name on it.
Martin caught us up at the wods where we had laid out a better, longer, track - nearly 2 miles. I had moved a lot of logs and stuff and carved a couple of new routes up and down the hill. This gave us a real zig-zag up and down the hill, before going out across the fields and then up the steep hill we use to teach the guys momentum.
I took the guys round it a few times to show them where the route went. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure they were there. One time, as I looked, I saw this huge yellow hooligan bike bearing down on me - Martin.
"Right", I thought, "let's get the gloves off". I tore off across the field and I could hear the roar of the Husaberg behind me. We flisked left long a barbed-wire fence and came to the top of a steep hill that would have scared the shit out of me a few months ago. None of this first gear malarky - I went down in second and gassed it all the way down. I heard Martin still behind me.
Through the slipper and wet woods, we had to pull a hairpin to go back up the hill. Martin overshot the corner - the Husaberg is no match for the PR3 in the woods - and I gained a few yards. By the time I hit the bottom of the hill, I was doing 60 - as measured by the speedo and Martin was gaining.
Across wet field with wet grass, we had a sharp left turn before going down a very chalky and slippery track. Martin, too much power again, overshot the corner and I zipped round it - MX-style - on the PR3. Again, we came to the bottom of the steep momentum hill where I had first spotted Martin behind me. First lap to me. I held up a finger and shouted "That's 1!".
When we got across the field back to the woods, we realised that the guys had stopped to watch what was unfolding. They recognised that this was not just a couple of hooligans, they recognised that this was a duel - a battle which had been going on for some time. They watched. They shouted. "Go on John!", or "Go on Martin!".
Martin, on a race-prepped Husaberg 450, had more power and better accelaration. Me, riding Tango, had more agility and an ability to change direction like a startled hare. Up, down, round, skid, gas, brake. Rinse repeat. We came to the bottom of the steep hill. I held up two fingers - "Thats 2! Your powers are weak old man!".
On the third lap, Martin found grip at the top of the hill, and nailed me with an MX-style blocking pass on the corner. As Meatloaf said, 2 out of 3 aint bad.
We stopped at the end of that lap and got the helmets off. Martin, sweating and breathless, asked the milion-dollar question:
- "Fuck me! So why don't you ride like that on an enduro?"
- "Because, until Tea till Dusk, I didn't realise that I could".
- "I will whip your ass this year Martin"
- "No, not this year. You already did. You have no idea how hard I had to work to pass you"
- "Then again, you were taught by a master"
- "Only a master of evil Darth"
He knows. He knows that I have designs and plans way beyond the petty squabbles we have on the enduro track. He knows and, most important of all, he believes.
As Martin Luther King said - "Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step".
Sometimes, people wonder why I am so fiercely loyal to Martin. They wonder why I refuse to give up on the little AJP despite cooked clutches and the like. The answer is simple.
I believe in the AJP. I believe in the little AJP the same way that Martin believed in me.
A year ago last Monday, I went out for my second time ever on an offroad bike. I stopped at the edge of a set of woods and I said to the guy I was with:
- "Do you think you could get me to the start line of the Dakar?"
The guy was Martin. The edge of the woods were the same edge of the woods where we saw the farmer today.
I am riding at Midwest on Sunday, as a travelling Marshall. Thanks to Martin, and the work we have done together at AJP. I am going to Enduro Africa, thanks to Martin and the work we have done at AJP. Not everything can have a price ticket attached to it, and doing so can interrupt the natural flow of things.
Do the maths for yourself. And then ask me again why I am so fiercely loyal to Martin. Ask me again why I have absolute faith that the little AJP will take me where I want to be, and why I have absolute faith in Martin.
The guys got back to AJP and declared it "the best weekend they've ever had". The grins were genuine, the handshakes were warm. They were off to the hospital to see Richard, with our regards and best wishes.
Martin gave me a cheque. It was a cheque for Queen Madge II - somebody had bought her. He asked if I'd be willing to take more, and I asked him to add a zero or two. He added a few shekels, and he was visibly relieved that I took some munny in return for my efforts. I like cheques.
I went into the workshop and gave Queen Madge II a kiss and a cuddle to say goodbye. I dont expect you to understand. She's hauled my ass through mud, ruts, roots and all kinds of carnage and has never - ever - let me down. She was named well. Madge, the real Madge, that fearsome heart-of-gold giant of a woman Aunt of mine, never let me down either.
Madge, I will never forget you. Both of you. You stood by me through thick and thin. You guided me from where I was, to where I wanted to be. You taught me that life could be more than it currently is. You were patient when I needed patience, and you were fierce when I neeed ferocity. You never, ever, let me down. Either of you.
So, thirst. I was driving home through Salisbury - where I had the run-in with the traffic cop a few weeks back - and popped into Waitrose. I was driving out of Salisbury and I thought to myself - "lot of cops out tonight".
Next minute, there's blue lights everywhere and all kinds of signalling for me to pull over.
I stopped the car and was out in a flash - just the way my Da taught me. I've got three cops approaching me from the front, and god knows how many from the rear. There's two cars in front of me, three behind me, and a meat wagon pulling up alongside. I realised that I better hide my shotgun or bomb or whatever it is, because this is serious.
A cop grabbed the keys out my car. That's clue number 1. I'm smiling, asking what the problem is. He won't tell me, and starts asking me questions. Have I been into Waitrose? What did I buy? That kind of thing.
The cops then do what cops are trained to do. Picture the training course at Police college:
"Step forward. Invade the suspects space. Like THIS. Make them take a step back. Asset your authority."
Oops. Sorry. I skipped school the day they taught the how-suspects-will-react lesson. I stepped forward too.
So now I'm about 3 inches from the cop's face. He again demands to know what I bought in Waitrose. I ask him, again, what the problem is. He demands, again, to know what I bought. I've had enough by now.
"Nothing. I bought nothing. I stole the whole fucking lot. So, tell me, have I committed, am in the provcess of committing, or about to commit an offence? What reasonable cause do you have for preventing me going about my lawful business?"
He looked at his more senior colleague - he didn't know how to deal with this one. This is exactly the language they use on the training courses. His more senior colleague decided that they just weren't invading my space enough, or that there weren't enough cops, since the manual says that I should be intimidated. They took a step forward. I stayed my ground. There was now only an inch between his eyeballs and mine.
"So, officer, if you tell me the nature of your enquiry then I will try to assist you"
A swarm of black. Five cop cars and a transit van. Lots of squawking radios.
"We've had a complaint from the member of the public that you were drinking at the wheel of your vehicle".
Ahh. That explains it. Drinking at the wheel. Drink driving. Guaranteed conviction. Nice statistic. If it were a fight in a pub, you would all be busy right?
"Yes, I was drinking whilst in control of a motor vehicle".
Ka-ching. Lights on all round. The sea of black gets tighter.
"Tell me something"
"Whats that?"
"The legal limit for alcohol is 35mg correct?"
"Yes"
"And the offence of driving whilst under the influence is well established, correct?"
"Yes"
"So, is drinking alchohol at the wheel a separate offence? Or is it OK to drink alcohol at the wheel as long as I am under the limit?"
The poor cop. That one overloaded his brain. He had to sa ythe three words that, according to the Police training courses, you never EVER say:
"I don't know"
Bingo.
"So, have I been stopped because you suspect I'm over the limit, or have I been stopped because you don't know if I've commited an offence or not?"
He looked at his more senior colleague.
Whilst they think about it, I produce a packet of fags. A young lady by the name of Rhona - brilliant lawyer - taught me this trick. If you want to keep the upper hand, always ask your next question before they've answered your previous one.
"Can I smoke?"
"OK, go on"
"But if you're going to breathalyse me, then I shouldn't smoke for 10 minutes prior to being breathalyased, otherwise the evidence is inadmissible. Is it still OK if I smoke?"
"Better not"
Poor guy. I almost felt sorry for him.
Up comes the breathalyser. They puke when I tell them that I have been drinking and show them the bottle - it's juice. What they saw - and it was a cop who radioed it in and not a member of the public - was me drinking red bull.
So what is it with Salisbury and Red Bull? Last time, it was a mobile phone (aka Red Bull). This time, it's alcohol. Five cop cars and a meat wagon - for a can of Red Bull.
If I lived in Salisbury, I'd be afraid to drink anything. The people of Salisbury must be the thirstiest people on earth.
By the way, two hands and a foot on the next rung ...
Download the Manic Mission Information Pack for the full story ...
posted by 2009 Dakar at
Friday, June 27, 2008
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