My best man and his beloved Reliant Robin

A post on my old school facebook page caught my eye this morning. Lady S and I are enjoying a well earned rest from the rigours of our job; at a luxury resort in Cyprus. Thus giving me the rare opportunity to catch up on the lives of my fellow inmates of Salesian School Chertsey, whilst sipping on my banana daiquiri.

For those of you fortunate enough to not know the school; it sported a motley collection of drunks, perverts, sadists, in-denial homosexuals, mysogenists and general neer do wells. And I’m talking about the teachers. In fact most of our more ‘colourful’ betters were priests and brothers of the catholic order of Salesians. Enough said.

Anyway, it would seem that despite their best efforts “the class of 80” has turned out to be a pretty nice bunch of people. The group postings have evolved into a gently humorous reflection of life as a teenager in the seventies, with a tendancy to spark new memories and recollections along the way. And it was one of these that got me thinking about the events leading up to my wedding back in ’84.

The post in question was about the crappy old cars that were part of our lives back then and I was reminded of my best mate’s, and soon to be best man’s, car – a Reliant Robin. 3 wheels and 650 ccs of pure motoring pleasure to the enthusiast.

“Wolfie”, who modeled himself on Citizen Smith but was formerly a punk rocker called Andy Littlecott, had grown long wispy biker hair and a serious pair of sideburns. His main mode of transport was his BSA Bantam but, like many bikers reluctant to get a shed license, he also owned a Robin. At this point in time he was also petrified as his destiny awaited him in the form of the best man’s speech. Not known for his public speaking, this was a daunting task for the poor lad. Especially as I had already addressed the question of his hair and it’s compatibility with a morning suit and top hat. ‘Andy mate?’, I asked, ‘it would be nice if, twenty years later, we looked at our wedding photos and didn’t wonder who the hobo was pretending to be our best man. Any chance you’ll get a hair cut?’ His assurances of smartness were genuine and, we felt in the circumstances, reasonable.

Six weeks to go and all that remained was the question of our transport to the wedding. Obviously, the Bantam was out which left the Robin. “it’ll be fine!” Wolfie said, “I’ll make sure it’s working properly and nice and clean and everything! Don’t worry!” Which did nothing whatsoever to alleviate my concerns, but I had no choice. “Okay”, I said slowly, “but you better be right or Lady S will have a bot fit.”

Three days before the glorious event Wolfie rings up mysteriously, “I’ve had a bit of a problem with the Robin, but don’t worry it’ll be fixed before Saturday.”

“What the hell are you talking about Andy?”, I said.

“Well I haven’t hit anything and I should be able to make good the damage by Saturday. Bye” and hurriedly hung up.

Jesus I thought, what will my darling betrothed say? Lady S, being possessed of considerably bluer blood than myself had the great and good coming to the event and was not in a mood for potential embarrassment. Or as she put it, “All you’ve got to do is get yourself to the wedding sober and presentable so don’t f**k it up!

Come the glorious day I’m a bit more than the average groom’s nervous, waiting for my carriage to arrive. At the appointed hour I hear to my relief the familiar putt putt putt of the Robin’s lawn mower engine as it crunches down the parent’s drive. A pair of mirror shades grin out of the driver’s window at me.

“What the f**k have you done to your car Wolfie it’s all stuck together with packing tape!”

It transpires that Wolfie has been minding his own business driving the Robin down a leafy avenue in Virginia Water at about 40 mph – almost its top speed – when suddenly a car pulled out in front of him on his side. Unable to brake, Robin brakes were almost optional, he was forced to swerve onto the other side of the road. Now any one who has watched Top Gear will know how Robins perform under these conditions for those of you who haven’t I give you The Robin’s party trick. The car, well I call it a car, rolled unto its right side and slid down the road towards the oncoming car. Wolfie, keen to remain cool at all times, managed to right the car by bouncing off a grass verge narrowly avoiding the oncoming car but such was his angular momentum he rolled the car on to the left hand side too. Fortunately the other grass bank leapt up to meet the body work and the car miraculously righted itself without hitting either car.

“I can’t believe it”, he said, “I’ve managed to completely f**k the Robin by missing two cars and they didn’t even stop! The bastards have rubbed my door handles off!”

“Never mind your door handles, how am I supposed to get in the car?” I asked.

“Through the window of course! We’ve got to get some petrol so you can practice at the station. It’ll be fine.”

You can imagine the amusement I managed to generate for the inevitable crowd that greeted me at the petrol station as I struggled to get out of the window of a Robin – with the doors held on by brown packing tape – in my morning suit and top hat.

“You’re not going to a wedding in that pile of shit are you mate?” some wit called out. Yes I am I thought, mine. I was livid.

“Right Andy”, I said, “we’re gonna have to get there early. Park round the back of the pub and make sure no one sees us. If Lady S finds out we’re f**king dead!”

It was one of the longest journeys of my life but Andy, like any good best man, kept his cool and got me there on time. A couple of large sharpeners and a cheeky Rothmans sorted out my nerves and I was ready for the event.

It was a lovely ceremony and as my beautiful wife to be glided up to meet me at the alter she looked at me quizzically, “are you alright my darling?” she asked “you look a little flustered? Any problems getting here?”

I’m looking over at Lady S sipping her glass of bubbly in the fading sun and wonder what would have happened had I answered her.

It’s not for us to reason why.

Norfolk: The Broads : The final frontier

Gravel crunches on the drive as the three car cavalcade quietly disappears into the early morning mists surrounding Windsor. The first car pauses. A rear window purrs open and a beautiful woman’s face looks back to the house. “Don’t forget to tell him to feed the dogs and put the bleeding bin out!”.

The tall figure by the house nodds silently at the closing car window as it continues on down the drive. A young man’s voice could be heard drifting from the house. “Edwards. where’s my breakfast?” The tall figure turns replying “Apologies Master Henry-yoof, right away sir”…..

Three hours later in a nondescript village five miles north east of the provincial town of Norwich three dark windowed cars glide briskly through. Not stopping for the red lights, they turn un-noticed into a shaded marina and park up. The cars doors open and several heavy-set people, too quick for their size to be ordinary, spread out and start foraging.

The car window purrs down, the upper class face appears again. “Has one arrived?”

The Marina crew speak in muffled tones to the shadowy team as they start loading the boat.

Named the Romany 2, it was once a sleek, smart looking white hulled boat. Now, twenty years later, it had lost much of its allure, but the unmistakable burble of powerful v8 engines indicated a high performance machine. The elegant lady is escorted aboard and, without a backward glance, goes below decks. Once the boat had been provisioned and the luggage stowed the mooring lines were quietly slipped and the boat glided away.

Chapter 2

I bet you never guessed… It’s only me. Heraldo! With Lady S and two other famillies. We’re on holiday! Ouch, sorry, just had a bit of feed back. Not holiday. Stupid me.

We’re on a heart reach, out hug mission. Wow! To seek out new civilisations, to boldly go where no wo-person has gone before…….. Our mission: to save poor people from their miserable existence and to convert them into her quasi-religious/post-apocalyptic/pro-earth/proto-lesbian sect. The lower levels of the sect, of course…

It was pleasing to note that Lady S’ entourage was more than happy for us to take the only 1st class cabin. But, to be fair, she would have comandeered it anyway. Lady BSM did make a small comment under her breath but was quickly ushered away by the others. After another hour of loading the prodigious quantities of food required to required to keep The Sexton, Master George and Master Johnny fed for a week, we finally departed.

I’m the good looking one on the left.

Driving the boat is wee Robbie, his little eyes bright with excitement as he quickly transfers his chauffeuring skills to a new medium. He bought the pirate hat himself without the approval of his lovely wife Lady Barton St. Mary. Big mistake. Obviously I had to keep a fairly close eye on him to start with…

When Robbie was taking his afternoon nap Penny, the vicar’s daughter, regularly took the wheel. It has proved an invaluable tool for her to work our her aggression – caused by her challenging social work role. Unfortunately this scared off many river craft who couldn’t afford the damage waiver insurance and – after one particular incident where a 10ft steel girder appeared from nowhere to ram us – gave most of her crew whiplash. Being stoic folk we didn’t say anything. We didn’t dare.

We spent most of the week trying to find suitable candidates for the cause, its amazing how much ground you can cover with the aid of a boat. But try as we might we couldn’t find anyone.

Eventually we found a pair of local half-wits in a pub but, despite their obviously low iq’s, they mostly had all their own teeth so didn’t meet the definition.

That evening’s meal was a sombre affair. It’s silence was only broken by the Sexton gnawing away at a lamb leg and making a smacking sucking kind of noise on finding a juicy bit. It was clear from Lady S’ and Lady BSM’s body language that their was a problem. Raising your eyes to the ceiling then deeply sighing whilst rolling the head forward to look at the floor and dropping your shoulders can only mean one thing in anyone’s book.

‘Clearly, the quest is not working. Where are all the poor people?’ Lady S wrung her hands. ‘What is one to do about it?’

‘Oh fack it’ Lady BSM starts, ‘this is all bollocks, lets go down the pub and get pissed!’. Well you could have heard a pin drop. Realising the enormity of the consequences of her out burst were she not to nip it in the bud immediately. And not wanting to upset her old school friend, she blurted out ‘Oh! er.. why don’t you use my man instead? Get him to search up river with you, maybe you’ll find some recruits there?’. Which was a bit harsh on old Rob as he gave up his chauffering role way back when he married her. ‘We can stay in tonight if you prefer?’

‘Ok’, said Lady S reaching for the gin bottle, ‘But he’d better be bloody good! or I’m gonna get the hump!’ Fortunately he didn’t cause a scene as he was unaware of his fate that evening. Encumbered, as he was, with iTunes earbuds stuck in each ear and faintly humming to his latest drum and bass track he’d downloaded.

It wasn’t until the next morning that, on learning what was about to happen, he tried to make his escape. But to no avail.
Lady S saw him from the first class lounge. She jumped up and ran out on to the main deck. Reaching down, she grabbed a knapsack, tucked her bowie knife in her mouth, said, ‘don’t worry about me I maybe gone a while’ then jumped in! I looked up from a particularly interesting article in the Times, in part because water had splashed on it, and mumbled ‘oh, well take care then.’

But she couldn’t hear me as she was climbing aboard the dinghy issuing instructions to the shocked Rob. As the pair disappeared around the corner it became clear to the remainder of the company we would have to fend for ourselves. Lady BSM called up from the galley ‘Champagne any one? …..Where’s Lady S?’

Three days later we heard the unmistakeable sound of oars slowly making their way to our boat. ‘Cooeee’ Lady S called out, ‘we’re back!’ Rob was ashen faced and appeared to have lost about three stone from all the rowing, but from the sounds of it their deeper exploration of the tributaries of the river Bure had paid off. ‘We’ve found some recruits’, Lady S cheerfully announced, ‘we can all relax now. I’m sending them their uniforms and welcome packs next week. Let’s have a pissup.’ And so we did. And the rest of our time on the Broads passed restfully and peacefully. Thank gawd.

With the mission over and the largely undamaged boat returned to it’s owners, and the remaining booze stowed in the boot of the Bentley, Lady S and I sat back into the Connolly leather as the car whisked us away. I glanced over at her. Incongruously she wearing her camouflage trousers and headband and khaki sleeveless vest, glistening in the early evening light. ‘Did you enjoy your trip to the Norfolk Broads darling?’ I asked. She looked back and smiled. With a winsome look she said, ‘Of course my dear, it’s the land of the dykes, why wouldn’t I be?’

Enuf said.