A SUMMER SUNDAY is played out, against all expectations, in late October. It's unseasonably warm. Too warm. Somnolent wasps are awake and bloody-minded; they’re not too thrilled about being on the wing six months early. Belly buttons are on casual display; it may be our last chance to see them this year. Catch them while you can.
Bongo players are extemporizing in the square. It's for peace, apparently. And, let’s face it, if random percussion doesn’t make George W reconsider his foreign options, then nothing will. I don't know what they do to the enemy, but by God these drummers frighten me.
I’m sitting next to an old guy, who’s nursing a pint. It’ll be good when they stop, he says. I assume he means the bombing. It turns out that he means the drumming.
He goes to the loo and asks me to keep an eye on his bag. This simple request takes a lot for granted, if you think about it. It means there is one person in the world - me - who now knows that his bag contains something worth stealing. I have, in essence, everything I need to know about how to rob him. Except that, for no apparent reason, he has assumed that I am a trustworthy character and not a thief at all. This displays either stunning naievity on his part, or a touching faith in humanity. Your choice.
For a couple of hours the square is transformed into an impromptu display of classic motor-bikes. And, a few yards away, lounging on the benches outside the pub, is an impromptu display of classic motor-bikers. Yes, lock up your daughters, the Hell’s Angels are here.
To hear some of the locals talk - in hushed whispers - you’d think we’d been invaded by aliens. The bikers’ reputation goes before them. But that’s all it is, a reputation. Respectable parents shield their childrens' eyes as they walk past - which merely lends the bikers an unwarranted air of mystery and menace. But these superannuated outlaws are, in truth, about as menacing as a troupe of boy scouts. No need to lock up your daughters; maybe just keep granny indoors.
These guys may try to look fierce, but they’re not looking for a fight any more. They loll around, squinting into the late afternoon sun, and talk about... well, bikes mostly. Good British bikes that sound like an artillery barrage, and drip oil all over the road. None of your Japanese rubbish.
And when the day is done they‚ll gun those bikes all the way home, through narrow Pennine lanes. They’ll make a few old ladies jump, oh yes. Then it’ll be mugs of Horlicks, a few shortbread biscuits and an early night. Yes, their hell-raising days are over... they’re the Mild Bunch. |
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