Issue 131 : October - November 2003
The ACE
Take a Breva
Roland Brown
Bristol Show
Gremlins
Buell's on Test
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The ACE
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Gremlins
The White Lion pub provides the venue for the bash and a great pub it is. Low ceilings, that make you feel tall, and creaking wooden floors that make you feel heavy; my kind of place. Out back is a big garden where the barbecue was held and huge hounds posed for my camera and basked in the sun, blinking, their wet noses twitching as the smell of grilling burgers drifted by. In keeping with most of the summer, the weather was great and the turn out reflected it. Now I'm always a little surprised to find bikes of such quality at a small show but perhaps I shouldn't be, there's more great stuff out there than ever and most of it never turns up in a show anywhere. For one thing, not many people want to leave their bike for a whole weekend to be gawped at when they could be riding it, but with an afternoon show that's not really a factor. The Chopper club is pretty strong in this area judging by the numbers of them that I saw there and so, it would seem, is the vintage/classic crew. Vincents, Gold Stars and red Post Office Bantams grazed handlebars with radical chops and outrageous trikes. What about Godzilla! A well named beast about 25 feet long with seating for at least six and acres of that non slip steel plating they use in ships engine rooms. The machine had presence. I unearthed a few HOG members lurking by a Battistini Harley which one of them owned, and signed them all up to MAG which made me feel a bit more useful. If only every one who ever went to any MAG show would just do that, if only; the world would be a different place! I ran into plenty of people I knew which is always nice, one of whom, 'Bear' he of the Intruder collection, re-joined and made a donation to MAG that was so big it would be crass and embarrassing to quote it, but not so embarrassing that I won't mention it at all. It really lifts your spirits when individuals make a gesture like that, welcome back sir.
The casual nature of a one day event minimises commitment, no tickets in advance, no debates about camping and what to take, you just drop in and drop out. We have members who are totally passive and just pay their membership, and don't socialise at all, which is fine, those subs are all important. But some of you who answer that description might like to think about some of these one day shows. You won't be badgered into greater involvement but if you want to play a role you'll be very very welcome. Even if you commit to helping staff a barbecue once a year and that is the extent of your commitment, fine, you'll be doing more for MAG than 99% of the riders in this country. A two 'man' ensemble played sporadically inside the pub, Mickey Flynn, good but not overbearing as in 'let's go to the next village to hold a conversation loud.' How often is a daytime bash thrown off course through trying to turn it into a heavy rock concert? The Gremlin Show got it right. You can't have ointment without a fly and to provide momentary irritation, a half wit who was not part of the event rode by along the High Street and popped a wheelie, which is just what you want in the bustling High Road of a nice village; presumably he thought we would be impressed. I suppose these are the same kind of people who rev their engines to destruction at two in the morning on rallies. Will the world ever be rid of these imbeciles one wonders? Scouse, who was out front telling people about the barbecue, gave him some abuse on a megaphone and I managed an old fashioned hand gesture as I was over the road photographing the pub. One wonders if the message got through ? He looked baffled. Best testimony to the feelgood factor of the show ? It came from the local council. Not just - looking forward to next year but - 'could you do it twice a year?' Now that's the kind of comment that gives you a nice warm glow inside. Mutch  |
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Baldock is a very English village come small town close to the metropolis, with a broad High Street that once hosted coaches a day's run from London. It's the kind of place where the ghostly sound of hooves on cobbles still rings around the brickwork of the buildings born in an earlier era but appreciated enough by sympathetic souls to have survived the 20th century.
On the MAG stand which was manned by the faithful Juliet Macvee I heard someone say that Kate on the helmet park wanted someone to get her a drink. I was moved by an uncharacteristic generosity of spirit to volunteer and headed for the garden where I found a delightful creature clad in a tank top bearing the slogan 'stop staring at my tits and buy me a beer.' Are you Kate? I asked somewhat unnecessarily.