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Thread: G’day from down-under…….

  1. #281
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    Re: G’day from down-under…….

    Thanks for the update. I will leave you in peace now to enjoy your next bran muffin and exotic coffee of your choice.

    Along with others, I await any further reports from The Antipodes with breath fairly baited.
    Three wheeler clerk

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  2. #282
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    Re: G’day from down-under…….

    ……..as the UK slips and slides into a colorectal winter, the mighty Aussie sun gives up on the taciturn northern hemisphere, and returns to its rightful place in the antipodean heavens. Yes, folks, spring has sprung down-under, and we will now have unbroken blue-skies for the next 6 months. Sitting back in the warm embrace of “Rise and Grind”, yet another of Sydney’s ubiquitous Vegan coffee shops, a crafty smile slithers onto my smug face. As I sip on an extra-strong decaf almond milk vanilla latte and nibble on a slightly over-cooked bran muffin, I mull over my adventurous plans for the coming summer months.

    ……..for those of you unfortunate enough to have never visited these balmy and pleasurable lands, will probably be flabbergasted when I say, Australia is essentially a handful of population centres joined by a million or more kilometres of the finest motorcycle rides ten lifetimes couldn’t do justice to. The big difference between down-under and Europe is you can actually get away from people. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as social as the next antisocial person, but every now and then, I want to get away from Homo erectus and our continued inability to get on with each other. Just being able to strap on an open-face helmet, shrug on my leather jacket, fingerless gloves and goat skin chaps, then ride out into the wild blue yonder is more therapeutic than the entire clinical output from a pasture full of psychologists.

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  3. #283
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    Re: G’day from down-under…….

    …..even though I’m more Australian than a Speedo wearing Paul Hogan while he’s stuffing his face with BBQ’d kangaroo burgers on a sheep farm in the Northern Territory, I still like to listening to podcasts of Tony Blackburn’s Sounds of the 60’s. Oddly, I’m neither a child of the 60’s, nor a particular fan of the toupeed Mr Blackburn. However, like Nutella pizza, there’s no accounting for taste. So, on Saturday morning, I finally finished up the Commonwealth KPI report (that needs to be submitted on Wednesday) to the aural backdrop of Freddie and the Dreamers iconic, "If you gotta make a fool of somebody". As the opening chords to Vanity Fare’s, “Early in the morning” fired up, I decided all this work and no play wasn’t good for my viral-free constitution. On a whim, I thought I’d go and seek out a free extra strong cup of decaf in one of Sydney’s less salubrious motorcycle shops.

    …….now, for those of you who have never perused a motorbike emporium in down-town Sydney, imagine eating a 4 day old egg and onion sandwich whilst stuck in a lift with a person who ate the self-same sandwich the day before. Still, never let it be said I let terminal flatulence stand between me and a good deal. So I feathered a kiss on the wife’s moist cheek, told her I was just popping down to Coles for some Gentleman’s Relish, shrugged on my motorbike gear and was out the door before you could say, “Distichodus sexfasciatus” in a faux Swedish accent.

    ………Big Dirk’s discount bike shop is squeezed between the retail buttocks of a turreted carpet warehouse and a Sudanese poultry market, which I noticed had a special on chicken’s feet. As a non-chook eater, I only mention the discounted feet in case one of you is in the area and fancies frying up a couple for your supper. Anyway, I digress. As I strolled into the air-conditioned confines of Big Dirk’s dusty workshop, I was immediately enveloped in the gorgeous aromas of Swarfega and Castrol R. As you would expect, Big Dirk, was neither big nor Dirkish. His real name is Gregory Grapes and he was once a member of the nearly famous Four Skins, a Wilson, Keppel and Betty tribute act, although that’s a story for another time.

    ………introducing myself to Dirk, I gave him my practiced virtual COVID-19 handshake. Pleasantries over, I fixed him with my best John Steed stare, and asked if he had anything a man of my obvious refinement might be interested in. Dirk smirked at me like a worker who’d just seen a baby lamb inadvertently stroll through the door of a Turkish abattoir. Nodding at a jet black Ural Wolf sitting next to a gorgeous 1972 Puch VZ50, he then let his Marty Feldman eyes drift down to my bulging wallet pocket. Without another word, Dirk slid out from behind the counter and motioned for me to follow. He pushed the Wolf outside into the sunshine, presumably so I could marinate myself in the full glory of its 70 year-old Union of Soviet Socialist Republics technology. For those of you lucky enough to have never seen a Ural Wolf in its metallic flesh, it looks like a BMW concept custom bike, if the concept had been how not to make a custom bike. Every inch of the Wolf is a testament to designers who probably looked forward to a cabbage supper and had yet to buy their first pair of Levis. However, the bike had a certain Reliant Regal sort of charm about it. After adjusting my chaps, I slipped a leg over its leatherette saddle and was instantly reminded of a girl I went out with in 1978. Sensing my nascent interest, Dirk pulled a long thin object out of his pocket that looked like something a proctologist might use. Thrusting the object, which I assumed was the key, into my fingerless gloved hand, he murmured I might want to take the beast out for a test ride. Is Yogi bear a Catholic? Hell, yes.

    ……...giving the opposed twin’s throttle a tentative blip, the ensuing vibration almost dislodged my dentures, despite me not having dentures. Still, never let it be said, I wasn’t game for a laugh, so I kicked the drop-forged gear-lever into what I hoped was 1st and wobbled onto Regent Street. With the high handlebars, even higher forward controls and an engine that sounded like a Norton Commando with chronic emphysema, it felt like I was riding a Massey Ferguson inspired surfboard. Putting on my best Peter Fonda feral grin, I hoped there was no one around who knew me. Riding off in a cloud of enough blue smoke that would have had an Ariel Leader owner sobbing with joy. With the harsh unremitting vibration and dubious build quality, the bike had probably lost 3 kilos of metal-work by the time I pushed it back into Big Dirk’s court yard. Yes, the Wolf had broken down less than 200 metres into my test ride. If Dirk was surprised by my premature return, he hid it well. Grinning like a Polecat with inverted nipples, he proceeded with the sales patter. He’d sell me this appreciating classic for a piffling $15,300 because he liked me and wanted to do me a favour. If my lips hadn’t been fused together from the bike’s vibration, I would have laughed in his bulbous face. Instead, I farted loudly enough to startle a Brussel sprout loving wombat and wandered off in search of percolated coffee and fresh bran muffins. Sometimes the world really is a safer place if you just concentrate on the Commonwealth KPI’s and really do go to Coles for a new jar of Gentleman’s Relish.

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  4. #284
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    Re: G’day from down-under…….

    Mmmmm....... Gentlemans Relish!
    Three wheeler clerk

    Join the Harley-Davidson Riders Club Great Britain

  5. #285
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    Re: G’day from down-under…….

    That's a machine I never knew existed! (would be great to tie Putin to one with a small bomb in the seat set to go off if he drops below 50..)

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  6. #286
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    Re: G’day from down-under…….

    Quote Originally Posted by Paul P. View Post
    That's a machine I never knew existed.......
    ......after attempting to ride one, I would be quite happy if they didn't exist. Putin is only about 5ft 2in, so he'd need a ladder to get onto the saddle.
    REAL MEN RIDE MOPEDS......

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