mutch’sdiary
I got funnelled last year and it was a first for me. I hadn’t realised it was the day of the vote on the student fees issue. Imagine my surprise when, as I walked up on to Westminster Bridge I found my path blocked by an army of riot police. “Can’t go this way sir,” said an officer in a perspex mask. I retraced my steps, working my way round to Whitehall where I encountered a large mob gathered around a bonfire. Dressed as I was in a pinstripe suit, I speculated that I might be taken for an MP fit for roasting to keep the chilled protesters warm. Turning around to find a different route I was approached by another hulking officer who advised me that there was only one way for me and that was straight toward the mob. “Great Scott!” I thought, “ I’m being funnelled.” In the meantime I was treated to a nostalgic festival of street entertainment as placard-wielding protesters roared at mounted police officers whose horses also sported visors to protect their eyes. Meanwhile a helicopter hovered low over the palace of Westminster like a huge insect. Swooping back and forth along the river, tilting this way and that as it interrogated the streets with a powerful search light, it provided a surreal dimension to a dramatic evening. I’d entered a Pink Floyd album. ‘The Wall’ had come to life, any minute now someone will shout “stand still laddie” in a hysterical Scots accent. All of this was wonderful of course and I logged it within the ‘rich tapestry of life’ folder.
As it turned out I found a way through by way of the Mall and finally arrived at my destination within The House of Lords where a gowning ceremony had been organised by the Institute of Couriers. With the cries of the mob outside dulled by historic stonework, only the sound of rotor blades provided a reminder that we were in a siege. Blessedly my rattled nerves were calmed by the ministrations of a waiter who approached with a splendid glass of mulled wine, which, for medicinal reasons was followed by several others. Apparently my presence was required to add gravitas to the occasion, a role I am happy to fulfill so long as it costs MAG nothing and an ocean of mulled wine is on tap. Shuffling toward the front of the assembly I was in time to catch all heads turning toward me as our host, Carl Lomas, made a grand gesture in my direction to identify the ‘A’ list celebrities who had graced the occasion.
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I’ve done precious little riding of motorcycles lately, in fact fewer miles than at any time I can remember since leaving the sea. The problem is that I shouldn’t really be here. It’s winter and as a hot house plant I am not keen on winter. Motorcycles, warm sunshine – good, snow ice, rain and coldness – bad. Thanks to IT my publishing duties no longer dictate location as foreign trips have proved but other things keep cropping up on the MAG front and the wicked stepmother that is MAG keeps asking me to go here there and who knows where. I lost my home email connection for most of
Dressed as I was in a
pinstripe suit, I speculated that I might be taken for an MP fit for roasting to keep the chilled
protesters warm
January as a very pretty Brazilian girl knocked on my door. Being intensely cold at the time I naturally invited her in and made her a cup of tea, after which I learned that I needed to change my phone service from BT to Talk Talk. Sadly this turned out to be a terrible mistake resulting in screeching sounds on the line and expensive implications for my apple support contract. Changing back took time and I lost all email for a bit during which interval I had to trot back and forth to cafes in Brick Lane which offer free wifi. I’ve also made trips to the Apple Stores in both Covent Garden and Regent St. This is when you really know you’re in the 21st century. The Covent Garden store couldn’t fit me in for an appointment at their Genius Bar for several days and my email had failed completely so I trotted off to Regent St where I ascended a huge glass staircase to an upper floor, feeling like a visitor to an alien space ship. At the top I met a smiling girl in a uniform with an ipad in one perfectly manicured hand. I explained my problem and she tapped at her ipad. “A vacancy for 17.40 has arisen at Covent Garden,” she chirruped cheerfully. “Can you book it on that?” I asked. Of course she could, this was the Brave New World of limitless possibilities. We can’t stop bike theft or littering but information and technical help is available at the tap of a pad. “Can you beam me over there?” I asked with tiresome wit. She smiled patiently and turned to an android who had trotted up for a battery recharge. . .
Rather like John Cleese back from Bolton with his parrot, I duly re-appeared at Covent Garden where I perched at the Genius bar to learn that my system had become constipated by an email of epic proportions. Step forward Ken Thomas who has sent me 180,000 pictures of his African trip. Thank you Ken and I am sure readers will get to see some of them soon. I guess it’s all punishment for me whining on about thumbnail- sized images of 50kb that aren’t big enough to print even though they look OK on screen.
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I do hope you notice the efforts being made to raise the quality of The ROAD in terms of design and proofing. While I am the only full time person who produces it I should recognise the efforts of Nich Brown, Paddy Tyson, Di Pugsley, Ferg, and Rory Wilson without whose efforts there would be far more howlers in the finished product than currently leap out from the paper version to embarrass me. Thanks also to Dr Leon Mannings for his design input and all whose contributions make this tome what it is. If you compare recent issues to earlier ones you will notice more political campaigning material than ever. This is down to Nich and Paddy and the increasing band of local activists who care enough about motorcycling to do something. A thousand blessings on you all and as they say in the Apple store – “who let that clot in here?” Sorry some crossing of wires – cut!
Ian ‘IT guru’ Mutch The ROAD 3
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