There’s social distancing and then there’s anti-social dipsticks. Another sad but true story.

Easter Eggs.

I went for a contemplative stroll this Easter weekend,
Round our slow lazy river I thought I’d quietly wend,
Then three dumb asses came roaring round the bend.

Three Bandidos blasted past, patched and proud,
Three buddies passing a pipe- that’s not allowed.

It was Mesrrs Harley and Davidson plus their Indian friend,
It’s an unmuffled and strident message those bad boys send,
Just what part of ‘quiet Easter weekend’ can’t they comprehend?

A party of three, in days when three’s a crowd?
Three Bandidos two many, and too fucking loud.


(Egg is a Kiwi term for a dipstick/dipshit/dickhead/dropkick, etc.)



Harley-Davidson just can’t win when going head-to-head with Hardly Rational.

Low Rumbling Grumbling Sounds.

For half a century those Harley guys have gamely tried
To hold back the unending Oriental copy-cat Cruiser tide,
Fakes of their venerable V-twin, a design so old and ossified
It deserves to be seen in ‘Antiques Roadshow’, or Formaldehyde.

Yet the President sees this decrepit anachronism as a thing of pride
So, the Harley Board is finding dealing with Don a wild, not easy ride,
No, Don don’t want their icon screwed together anywhere but Stateside
(Putting Putin’s plan for producing Harley-Davidsons in Petrograd aside.)



Bitten by the riding bug again, for some reason. If you can’t dream, eh?

Firing Up In The Classic Manner.

The Promise.

I’m enamoured by most motorcycles I must profess,
There’s a plethora of eastern promises I’ve come to posses,
But I have lived long with one overriding regret;
That’s that I’ve never owned a classic Velocette.

But now, thanks to a late great Uncles largesse
I can turn my wife’s ‘no way’ into a reluctant ‘yes,’
Soon as I heard the word I sat down with smile set
And my fingers fairly danced as I hit the Internet.

Not for me a malleable mildly tuned inoffensive MSS,
No, I yearned for the fabled Thruxton, nothing less,
But I was seduced by a cheap tarted up Viper, and less debt,
Still, she retained the svelte lines and promise of the true coquette.

The Arrival.

In my garage she’s sat, submitting to my caress,
A twist of the throttle, her kick start I gently press,
A backfire, a belch of flame, a long ululating epithet,
A kick start to the calf, a bruise like a lingering sunset.

… My praise for the Velocette’s designers I cannot express-
Their crankily geared starter painfully slowed my progress,
If my coarse criticisms cause those old buffers some upset
When it comes to that maddening clutch, how crazy can you get?

The Reality.

The old dear’s propped up, oil dripping, making its own mess,
Her starting procedure and clutch adjustment- anyone’s guess,
My once bewitchin’ now forlorn Viper leaves me in a cold sweat
But my long-standing limp keeps making her impossible to forget.

© Obbverse

A light moment, recalling motorcycing and memories of those who’ve gone before. Some of us learn, some were destined to never…

Skid Mark.

I was idling patiently at that long red light on Shakespeare Road-
Perhaps it was seeing that name that drove me to pen this ode-
When I was shaken from my reverie by a motorcycling moron
Who blasted through the still-red light, off to Hell and gone.

Over the fading roar I heard a mindlessly maniacal chortle
Trailing from a halfwit who thought a Hog made him immortal,
It was his lunatic behaviour made me recall it was at this very place
That an aquaintence from my past had moved on to a state of grace.

Not friends, a love for motorbikes the one thing in common we had,
This was your archetypically simple surly monosyllabic bit of a bad lad,
I’d had the privelege of crossing his path on the interschool football field;
He’d proved a brutal tackler then, but with time, my wounds have healed.

His private school could find no way to remediate this malcontent,
At fifteen, educated with only a bad attitude, out the door he went,
Yes, I realise that it’s neither good form or etiquette to think ill of the dead
But could there ever be much of a future in store for this prize knucklehead?

Yet, at fifteen, without a job or skill
He’d lined up a deal to buy a Bonneville,
What would a rigorous IRD audit possibly reveal?
Besides cultivating good business sense, a great deal.

His red-rimmed eyes gazed off into space
Behind the dark tint of his full-face,
He’d taken to smoking what he sold
-He soon sounded like Vader with a cold.

Next he took to flying high, at speed,
An accident waiting to happen, all agreed,
He began gambling approaching the amber light,
It was glaringly obvious this boy was none too bright.

What a wild card he was, pushing the boundaries and his luck
Until he ploughed his Bonneville into an innocent container truck,
There the Triumph and its rider terminated. coming to a crashing halt,
So stop for lights, otherwise its lights out, and it’s whose damn fool fault?