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bhawna123

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I found that standing on a buffet whilst typing out the script was just as good as using a thick topped pen.

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Since offering the above advice I have found that standing with one leg akimbo and with mouth full of whitewashed oyster shells, whilst playing God Save The Queen on a pair of Timpani, can be more effective that riding a push bike through the channel tunnel on Saint's Days.But only if you part your hair slightly off centre.

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But only on Even dated Thursdays when the month starts with a G. Fail to meet these criteria and you may as well whistle Dixie.

 

PS if you're not to sure how to :-

dixielnd.gif

 

Should work.

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Regarding the above. 

I would give my support to Belatucadrus if I could be sure he would wear it.

There is still a lot of life in it....mostly the creepy crawly type.

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Ranking has always been a tricky business.

The primary problem is which method of ranking should be used. Some members here are favouring the Wellbourn  method (because it seems to have a welcoming streak in it).

 Others go big guns on the Edgar Harrison method because of its success in 1939/45 troubles in Europe.

My personal choice would be the suggestions put forward to by Dorothy Braithewaite which, if adopted, would put an end to all the doubts of efficacy.

Most of them have their plus point and also their failings, but do not let that put you off, and it is only October 9th. 

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I didn't know that until you just told me. You do realise that because my brain is already full, I have had to sacrifice a valuable memory to make room for Dorothy.

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I have a sister called Dorothy and she has never been on the Lusitania. She has been on the back of a motor cycle. Her husband, who by chance just happens to be my brother-in-law, used to race a 1000cc Vincent Outfit. She did not ride on the sidecar, He had a chum who was quit a lot lighter and he rode sidecar (if you can call leaping about, at 100 mph, riding).

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Anybody owned a Vincent get automatic massive respect  :brilliant:

 

Anybody rides a racing sidecar rig as car rider gets massive respect, plus a free entry to the care in the community program.

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In my yoof I raced an AJS 7R but was hopeless. Girl friend pregnancy, marriage and fatherhood (in that order) put paid to it and I had to exchange it for a 1954 Standard 8 car.

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Probably the saddest day in my life was the day I gave away my last motor cycles to my nephews. One was a1000cc BMW fully kitted out with full fairing, panniers and top box. This took us all over the UK and Ireland and as far as the Black Forest in Germany, and the other was an full fairing 800cc BMW with single seat sidecar. This was seldom used because management loved riding on the pillion of the 1000 job

 

We had a Tabbart campervan, and for a number of years  we used to go down every "new year", for a couple of months, to a site near Perpignon,  I made a trailer and we took with us the 1000cc model (the sidecar outfit would not shrink enough). We had some wonderful trips around the area and in to Spain too.

 

I bought my first motor cycle the day I was old enough to have one, and have had at least one right up to the day about 10 years ago when I said "good by" to a pair of BMWs .

 

 

 

 

 

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For some reason or other I have had a "flash back" about the above and it centred on the saddle of the 1000cc BMW

 

We had been out on the "hills" to the west of Perpignon. and were dropping down into the flat land and the road leading back to our site. I felt a little noise rather than hearing it and so pulled up just off the road to do an inspection. The noise seemed to come from under the seat/saddle/bum-rest or whatever.

All I could see of anything amiss was that one of the saddle's stainless steel  mountings looked as though it had a very  slight crack. It did not feel loose or slack so I decided to carry on and on the morrow find a exponent of stainless welding.

I started my quest reasonably early the following morning and by late morning I had not had any success. Suddenly I realised that there is little call for stainless steel welding when most cars, wagons, tractors etc do not have much need for stainless steel,  but all the expensive yachts have quite a lot of use for both decoration and, more importantly, for longevity of parts that are constantly getting wet with seawater.

That took my mind back to a village a couple of miles inland where I had seen a building which looked just like an old people's home converted into a yacht hospital. So off I tootled. It was about mid-day by this time, and the gate was still open, as was the rear door. The only sign of life was a woman who was in her middle years.  I cross my fingers and hooked up the bit of my poor old brain that handles the French language and asked if they did stainless steel welding.

She said that they did but the man who did the welding had gone home to lunch and he would not be back until 2.00 pm  (they are as siester struck as those over their Southern border.) She did confirm that he would do the job after he came back.  I thanked her and said I would be back for 2.00 pm.  As I left I saw a French local yokel sat astride a scooter at the end of a road that ran into the one I was on. He was just sat there, both feet on the road, smoking a fag as though this was his lunchtime rest.

 

Fast Forward to two o' clock.

 

As I returned, after going back to the campervan for lunch, the French local yokel was still in exactly the same place doing exactly what he was doing before. As I passed he waved in a very friendly manner. I went round to the rear of the yacht hospital and there was the lady, but as yet there was no man. So I went out and fired up the bike and went for a short ride up the road. I returned and went into the yacht hospital with exactly the same success. As set off on my fourth trip the little Frenchman threw away his fag end, fired up his scooter and came rushing after me.


I stopped and he started burbling or gargling a French language which I could not comprehend (it turned out that it was the local version). I eventually understood that he wanted to take me to a house a couple of miles away wherein  dwelt an English lady who could convert to me that which he was trying to tell me. So I followed him to “the English house” and we had a laugh about it. As we were laughing a tradesman arrived at the English house and so we said cheerio to the English Lady and went back up to the Stainless Welding Man.

We were riding side by side and every yard or two the scooter man would look across and shout out the names of well known English Sportsmen of the time ( I can't think of one of them just now but they were footballers, cricket players, rugby players, motor car racers …..etc.) When we got back to the yacht hospital he waved a cheerio and motored away.

I went into the yacht hospital and the welding man had returned. It took all of two minutes to cure the problem. He would not accept any payment and off I went back to the Tabbard taking with me another quaint little memory.

The “English Lady” had told me that the man on the scooter thought that I was touring on my own on the motor bike, and was worried about where I would sleep if the repair could not be done. My competence with the many French patois is N B G.

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Another great little tale - there is nothing wrong with your memory. Mine is getting worse by the day Fred.

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2 hours ago, AlanHo said:

Another great little tale - there is nothing wrong with your memory. Mine is getting worse by the day Fred.

One of the lasting little memories of our sojourns and travels around Perpignon was, and still is, quite odd.

We were miles away from Perpignon and up on the hills to the East.  They are very high but nowhere near as cold as our hills, and also less windy. There are few roads and those that there are are virtually endless and userless.

Sprouting out from the road going West, that we had come on so far, was a junction going North. (Like most of our travels there we had no fixed route, because we had no fixed aim, we just went and then found our way back.) So we stopped and pondered the question "should we or should we not"?.

I got off the bike with a desire to drain off some of the breakfast coffee which was still there. As the noise of the bike engine ceased a buzzing noise could be heard. It sounded like hoards of buzzing wasps.

The odd thing was that it was impossible to tell from which direction the noise was coming from. There was not a soul within miles, so I just went to the edge of the road and "watered the grass". But it wasn't grass. It was an endless sea of a whitish pale green hairy leafed plants stretching as far as the eye could see and under the leaves were hordes of  buzzing insects on small flowers under the leaves.

I walked down the road quite a way and found no decline in noise just as management did in the other direction. It was obviously the annual rape of the rape or something, but what ever it was the bees /wasps/or whatever had much more interest in their breakfast than having anything to do with a creature who was going to wet them.

We remounted and left them happily gorging themselves on some sort of irresistible vegetation.

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I must admit that if I had come across what I imagine was your buzzing noise, I would have insisted on getting back on the motorcycle and heading off out of there!

 

 I am somewhat of a wimp in that situation...

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3 hours ago, andsome said:

Shaggy dog stories

I disagree with that term for a number of reasons.:sign_groan:

 

A Shaggy Dog Story is a plot with a high level of build-up and complicating action, only to be resolved with an anti-climax or ironic reversal, usually one that makes the entire story meaningless. It has a basic premise, a long amount of build-up and a deliberately underwhelming punchline.

 

A classic example is a man who finds a shaggy dog similar to one in a "Lost Dog" poster from a rich family.

He bankrupts himself trying to return it to them in England for reward money.

When he finally makes it there, he's told that "the dog wasn't that shaggy" before the door is slammed in his face. 

 

Now if we examine catgate's tales they are ---

  • Not a plot with a high level of build-up. His stories slowly evolve and gradually draw you in
  • They do not include complicated action. They are brilliant because of their simplicity
  • They do not end with an anti-climax or ironic reversal. They flow naturally to a lovely conclusion
  • They are far from meaningless - unless you believe there is absolutely no meaning in life itself

Hence the accusation that they are shaggy dog Stories is inappropriate. They are lovely photographs of a full and active life.:rtfm:

 

Keep them coming catgate - I am going to start a catgate fan club.  :goodjob:

 

 

 

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2 hours ago, AlanHo said:

I disagree with that term for a number of reasons.:sign_groan:

 

A Shaggy Dog Story is a plot with a high level of build-up and complicating action, only to be resolved with an anti-climax or ironic reversal, usually one that makes the entire story meaningless. It has a basic premise, a long amount of build-up and a deliberately underwhelming punchline.

 

A classic example is a man who finds a shaggy dog similar to one in a "Lost Dog" poster from a rich family.

He bankrupts himself trying to return it to them in England for reward money.

When he finally makes it there, he's told that "the dog wasn't that shaggy" before the door is slammed in his face. 

 

Now if we examine catgate's tales they are ---

  • Not a plot with a high level of build-up. His stories slowly evolve and gradually draw you in
  • They do not include complicated action. They are brilliant because of their simplicity
  • They do not end with an anti-climax or ironic reversal. They flow naturally to a lovely conclusion
  • They are far from meaningless - unless you believe there is absolutely no meaning in life itself

Hence the accusation that they are shaggy dog Stories is inappropriate. They are lovely photographs of a full and active life.:rtfm:

 

Keep them coming catgate - I am going to start a catgate fan club.  :goodjob:

 

 

 

You too are very good at Shaggy:laughter: dog stories.

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Well, well, well.

I really do not mind if they are shaggy dog stories or some other sort of stories. As far as I am concerned they are little stories that contain some little oddity or even surprise. The other necessity, of course, is that they must be true.  This latter requirement necessitates me being present at the "event" or "happening".

 

I suppose another thing is my outlook on life and those "like souls" fighting through it .

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