From htpp://www.umgweb.com

adventures of a retarded giant and reluctant ancient motorcyclist

Happy Henry
Parisian Prelude
I am still, even to this day, unsure exactly what kind of madness it
was that possessed me to venture abroad on an ancient British
motorcycle with a sex starved, moronic mammoth on the pillion. The last
time I'd departed Great Britain during the Second World War, when
there was little choice in the matter. Happy Henry, my determined
pillion, would, pointed in the right direction, doubtless have majored
in military action - frightened the wits out of the Germans, anyway -
but in civilian life was a total menace, a giant of a man with the
brain of a child, who had thrown his tyre-iron through the back window
of a big BMW the last time I'd given him a ride.
Although I didn't dispute the choice of automobile, he was banned
from the pillion after that. After all, when riding a motorcycle that
had neither insurance nor road tax the last thing I wanted was to draw
the attention of the authorities - the lad was easily bored, often
liked to stand on the seat and wave his extra large tyre-iron through
the air in a menacing manner. Though it has to be said that the bass
rumble out of the exhaust of the BSA A10 twin tended to have the local
police force on edge, though to what was left of my ancient hearing the
exhaust resonated, quite properly, to the beat of Rule Britannia...
ultimately, the plod took one look at my pudding basin helmet, goggles,
trench coat and waders, decided it wasn't worth the effort.
The BSA 650 twin was still, more or less, running; the addition of a
few consumables all the preparation needed for the epic journey from
the North of England to France, a testament to its fifty year-old
design. The reason for such longevity, admittedly, down to a series of
owners who had never taken the motor over 5000rpm - the lad's
penchant for twirling the throttle all the way around to the stop soon
curtailed by a slap around the groin from my walking stick.
Henry was elated at the thought of French women - the lad was even
rebuffed by obese British pensioners - but frightened out of his wits
at the thought of going through the Channel Tunnel. His mantra for the
day was, I can't swim, I can't swim... such was the idiot's lack
of logic that he was overjoyed when I conceded that we could go on the
ferry.
Neither Henry nor I were in anything approaching regular employment
and, left to his own devices, the useless layabout would've happily
lived off the state. Not something I could ever contemplate and I
trained the lad in the art of painting houses. We'd just finished
some old dear's semi, Henry precariously waving a brush at the wall
from the top of a too short ladder - you couldn't take your eye off
him for a moment as he was easily distracted and not unknown to
head-butt his way through a window or put a foot through a roof.
The result of such labours, five hundred quid in used twenties. Henry
wasn't allowed near serious money as the blighter would leave us in
penury within hours, much to the satisfaction of the local hookers.
Five hundred notes might not go far in a modern household but we only
had ourselves and the motorcycle to feed, could sleep rough if
necessary.
The journey down to Dover took three days. Any modern machine
could've blitzed down the motorway in half a day but such main roads
were an invitation to immediate arrest, not due to speed but because of
the generally illegal nature of the machine. A series of neglected
B-roads tested the ancient suspension, whilst the intensity of the rain
- not far off a tropical monsoon - and howling gale checked out the
efficacy of our unconventional clothing. Drowned rats had nothing on
us. Henry kept muttering impolite soliloquies on the state of Blighty,
couldn't understand why we weren't on the ferry yet.
Birmingham stands out in the mind for the sheer stupidity of its
landladies, who wouldn't let Henry nor I cross the threshold of even
the most dilapidated bed and breakfast establishment. Even my mention
of having fought in the war didn't gain us ingress, something about
not allowing tramps on the premises - bloody cheek! We ended up
sleeping under an abandoned railway arch, refugees from a Dickensian
novel. Even youthful Henry was, in the dusty atmosphere of dawn,
cramped over from muscle spasms due to the all-prevailing dampness. The
clown actually had the audacity to moan about his condition, totally
lacking any degree of stiff upper lip, the youths of today.
Dover was a dismal sight, what we could see of the place through the
omnipresent rain. No sooner had we stepped foot in the ferry terminal,
taken off our outer layer of clothes to reveal ancient leather jackets,
holed jeans and scuffed boots, than some likely lads from passport
control descended on us. Henry looked frightened out of his wits by the
uncalled attention, whilst I kept muttering that I was in the war, you
know. Hustled off to a room where a plain-clothes guy tried to work out
if we were international drug dealers, terrorists or merely rich
eccentrics. Luckily, they didn't turn their attention to the BSA.
Eventually, we were allowed on to the ferry. Henry spent the entire
journey drinking cans of beer whilst eyeing up the middle-aged women
off for a sojourn in France, making crude gestures with his hands
whenever he saw someone who was particularly well endowed. He knew that
even his extra large, chrome plated tyre-iron was no match for my
walking stick, managed to keep himself in check. I kept to orange juice
- would've been foolish in the extreme to arrive drunk in charge of
an ancient motorcycle in a foreign country where the driving skills
were minimal; a drunken giant on the pillion with a penchant for
unpredictable movements when he became overwhelmed by boredom. No,
stone cold sobriety and full possession of my faculties needed.
Our first taste of French life not encouraging. No sooner had the lad
set foot on solid ground, he threw up about ten cans worth of beer.
Admittedly, the giant had to push the BSA and myself off the boat as
the resolutely British twin objected to a sojourn on foreign soil by
refusing to start. At least the fool had the good grace to regurgitate
his beer over some gleaming Audi monstrosity that took up far too much
room. The windscreen blades worked ferociously to clean off the muck;
sensibly, the guy took one look at Happy's massive bulk, decided not
to venture out of the vehicle in remonstration.
The incident brought us to the attention of irascible Frog customs
officers who decided to enliven their day by strip-searching us. Henry
looked totally perturbed, kept muttering that we weren't gay,
conveniently letting off a massive fart just as some rubber-gloved
fascist approached. They waved us off in disgust, not far off gagging;
gibbering away in French - no doubt a long list of insults, forgetting
that we saved their bacon in the war.
The BSA deigned to start first kick as if it had just come out of the
showroom. Henry was already muttering about going home, not finding
anything, other than the lack of rain, to his liking but I perked him
up by mentioning the delights of Paris. A few hours on the open road
with the BSA strung out to 65mph soon put that incident to the back of
our minds, bathed in the fineness of the sun and stirred by the
relative lack of cars.
At the first fuel stop I was perturbed by the natives' lack of
understanding of the English language, even when I raised my voice and
spoke to them as if they were retarded children. I then spent the next
hour worrying if I'd filled the tank with diesel or some unleaded
muck that would ruin the ancient twin's valves. The motorcycle
vibrated ever onwards. The French countryside didn't look that
different to England, though the ever bright sun was certainly not what
we were used to.
A strange noise, like a banshee wailing or an engine about to overheat
due to lack of oil, had me frightened out of my wits for a moment until
I realised it was merely Henry grunting out his obscene version of the
National Anthem. The lad so distracted by life in a foreign country
that he had yet to brandish his tyre-iron at any innocent motorists. A
couple of times, some ancient French car had sauntered across our path
as if we didn't exist but a hefty lunge on the handlebars saved us
from death and the lad had no time for immediate retribution.
Our arrival on the outskirts of Paris coincided with the disappearance
of the sun, the night's shadows blitzed by the headlights of the vast
numbers of Citroens and Renaults driven by obstinate madmen who refused
to give an inch to a mere motorcycle and didn't seem to have any
concept of traffic laws. I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was a
Gallic manner and promptly joined in - more from a lack of any choice
than natural inclination.
The low rev torque of the BSA was still more than a match for modern
tin boxes; the fury of the open pipes in a low gear enough to have the
French cagers craning their necks trying to see what kind of airplanes
were about to implode on their heads. So disoriented by the sight of a
mere motorcycle making the racket that they actually gave way. I felt
like bursting into Rule Britannia as we sped through the French streets
with little idea of where we were going.
I could feel Henry twitching in frustration, having just confiscated
his extra large tyre-iron - so big he had to carry it inside his jacket
rather than up his sleeve. Unarmed, the lad wasn't totally harmless,
having buckled the roof of one tank-like Volvo with his mere fist,
though he spent the next week muttering about the resulting pain.
Unfortunately, Henry's brain circuits didn't actually incorporate
any kind of long term memory, the lad living happily in the present,
not beyond the realms of possibility that he might start thumping the
French cages. I'd lectured him before we left Blighty that France was
different - the police carried guns and the locals didn't have a
sense of humour!
We eventually pulled up next to a large station that looked a bit like
Kings Cross gone wrong. The surrounding houses made the BSA appear an
icon of modern engineering. Immediately, we felt right at home, even if
Henry's strange lurching waltz up and down the street caused some
consternation in the locals - the lad was far too large for the pillion
perch, ended up with cramped muscles and restricted circulation. The
passing resemblance to a particularly demented, oversized gorilla
didn't go unnoticed.
We'd heaved the BSA up on to a piece of vacant pavement, causing a
wave of disgruntled pedestrians to flow on to the madness of the road;
as if choreographed, they gave annoyed Gallic shrugs amid much
muttering. Only Henry's size saved us from retribution. Wandering
through the district in search of a hotel, Henry eyed a kiosk giving
off the carcinogenic odour of bad meat, and before I could stop him had
ordered hamburger and chips. The hairy monster who served up the
delicacy gave every impression that he would happily take out any
meandering canines as a source of meat. Henry didn't seem to notice,
was on a second helping before I waved my walking stick at his groin!
In deference to being in a foreign city, I had actually handed the lout
his chrome plated tyre-iron under the stricture that he would keep it
hidden under his jacket. There were lots of small hotels but every time
we entered one we were met with total horror. Usually, some small
infant was summoned to inform us that the hotel was full, as if the
owners would fall dead on the spot if they uttered a single word of the
English language. Sometimes we were just waved away in disgust. Henry
and I quickly came to the conclusion that they were a thick lot, these
French.
With the disappearance of the sun, the spring weather had turned even
colder than in England and life under a railway arch didn't inspire.
After about two hours of being rebuffed in a way that would leave the
average English landlady in awe, having little idea of exactly where we
were or where we had left the motorcycle, we blundered into a large but
seedy building... the guy behind the desk actually spoke English. Of
course, he wasn't French, Algerian by the look of him.
A room with two beds for a 100 francs a night. Up rickety steps went
we, dodging peeling wallpaper, into a small room just long enough to
fit two single beds. It did have a washbasin and bidet, more peeling
wallpaper and a noisy radiator. We'd stayed in much worse. Henry eyed
the bidet with disbelief, grunting something about midgets, bounced up
and down on the bed and tore a few large swathes of wallpaper off the
wall. It was obvious he was getting bored...
Took us another two hours to find the bike. Some local moron, one of
the few who could bear to listen to English, had directed us to the
wrong station after Henry had done a reasonable impression of a steam
train, albeit one that included destroying someone's dustbin and
denting a nearby car - Henry had perfected the two left feet dance that
usually ended in tangled limbs and mass destruction. The local made a
fast exit, a look of total disbelief writ deep in his face.
When we finally found the BSA, a local porker was poking at the
venerable machine. Our motorcycle gear gave us away. He fired a stream
of incomprehensible words at us, jowls and stomach wobbling away as if
defining corruption, but eyed Henry carefully, patting his gun in
reassurance. People always eyed men with Happy's bulk carefully.
Eventually, he shrugged and walked off. As if in defiance of its
examination, not to mention the deep cold of the night, the engine
fired on the first kick and made a lovely racket, reflected off the
ancient stone walls of the houses. It was nearly midnight by the time
we'd stored the BSA in the hotel's forecourt.
Henry totally disgruntled at the time wasted, pulled at my sleeve,
pointing in the direction of a couple of street cafes we'd seen
earlier. I was tempted to allow him to go off on his own but letting a
sexually starved, mentally retarded giant loose in a foreign country
was just asking for trouble. We plonked ourselves down at the first
outside table, Happy Henry endearing himself to the locals by knocking
over an adjacent table and almost breaking the cafe's plate-glass
window when he leaned back only to have the flimsy chair spring
rearwards. No harm done to the idiot's head.
The beer was horrendously expensive, the cheapest red wine ordered. The
lad grimaced, almost spat out the liquid elixir on the first taste but
by the time he'd finished off a bottle he was calling for more as if
to the manor born. I had to restrain the drunken lunatic from buying
drinks all round. The locals looked profoundly aghast at the sight of
Henry emptying a bottle without recourse to a wine glass.
A few bikes flitted past, mostly scooters and those silly French mopeds
with the motor over the front wheel... not the kind of Velo I wanted.
One kid, on a flash moped - no helmet or anything - flitted up on to
the pavement opposite and grabbed a girl's handbag. Before I knew
what had happened, Henry launched a nearly full bottle of wine at the
fast retreating back of the youth. The bottle hit him just below the
head, drenching him in wine. The bike wobbled, the thief dropping the
handbag but escaping.
Happy received a round of applause from the locals and a free bottle of
wine from the bar but the girl scuttled down the road to retrieve her
handbag without a backward glance at the grinning giant. The atmosphere
thawed a little and some of the locals even managed the odd word of
English, though not without a pained expression... mostly old boys who
seemed to know how to enjoy life and consumed wine at a faster rate
than even Happy Henry.
Pleasantly drunk, we staggered back towards where we thought the hotel
should be. We quickly became lost again, streets that looked familiar
in the minimal glow of the lamps turned out to lead nowhere useful.
Suddenly, Henry gave a cry of delight, sped off as if trying to do a
four minute mile. Jogging after him, as fast as my aged heart and lungs
allowed, I finally caught up with the smirking ogre and after the
blurred vision cleared up a little I saw why he was so excited...
Half a dozen women lounged against walls, sporting skirts so short that
the top of their black stockings showed a hint of suspender belts. As
we neared, Henry jigging around like an excited four year-old, I saw
that they were so well made up that in the glow of the street lamps it
was impossible to discern their real age. Henry liked a woman with a
bit of meat on her, after demanding 200 francs from me, chose the
largest of the bints and was pulled down a dark alleyway. My last sight
of him, he made an exaggerated gesture with his hands in front of his
chest whilst grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
I had no choice but to hang around trying not to look like a complete
idiot, eyeing up the predatory women, thankful that sex was a memory
hidden well in the past. Throw in the huge range of modern diseases; I
had no qualms about staying well out of their range. After a couple of
minutes, Henry started shouting abuse whilst the new love of his life
responded in a surprisingly deep voice...
I wasn't going into that alley even to save the lad's life, seemed
like a hole in the universe, a point of concentrated evil. Besides,
Henry was big enough to look after himself. He came running out with a
bloodied, torn up face and fear deep in his eyes. We scampered up the
road like the end of the world was nigh. Henry appeared turbocharged,
leaving me in his wake... half a mile later I was ready to expire,
could only just see Happy in the far distance.
There was no sign of the hooker, the lad reluctantly clomping back to
where I was sagged on the pavement, both sweating and shivering at the
same time as if all my internal organs were about to implode. Well, I
was a bloody-minded old-age pensioner! The fear on Henry's face -
what was left of the skin, anyway - displaced by a dumbfounded look
that would define a village idiot. He stuttered in his idiomatic matter
that few could comprehend, that the lady was, in fact, a man dressed up
in women's clothes.
Talk about gormless idiots. The thought of Henry, full of lust,
grappling with a transvestite, only realising at the last moment the
state of play, hit my funny-bone... pain replaced with hysterical
laughter. I looked up through tears to find Henry eyeing me as if I had
gone completely off my head, which only intensified the laughter. Only
the thought that the idiot had lost 200 francs for nothing pulled me
back on to the straight and narrow, gave the lad a few slaps around the
knees with my walking stick.
Needing to avoid the whore, we spent a good half an hour locating the
wine bar and then the hotel, more by luck than judgement. Wouldn't
have liked to walk the streets on my own at that time of day, lots of
surly locals hanging around looking for an easy victim; Henry's
outrageous bulk and disgrunteld, sexually repressed visage kept us
safe.
Two French bints lounged in the hotel's lobby; both young and well
shaped, they at least looked female. What we hadn't noticed before, a
stairway to a basement with a couple of doorbells at its entrance, the
girls' names written under them. Turned out we actually had a brothel
on the premises! Henry studied one of the girls for a long time until
he was sure the gender was correct. The cheeky blighter then demanded
another 200 francs; at this rate we would soon be bankrupt.
Henry gave no impression that his aborted attempt at sex, less than an
hour earlier, had made any impression on his brain, his shot memory
promoting a rare state of immediate gratification and living in the
present that would make a Zen Buddhist envious. The lad clomped down
the stairway, a mad grin plastered all over his face whilst I levered
my weary way up three flights of stairs to our room.
Happy wasn't far behind, beaming with happiness at a job well done.
Not even perturbed by the lowly slung bidet which he used like a
urinal, a delinquent firehose that went on for a good five minutes. The
lad then collapsed on the bed, immediately falling asleep, emitting a
sonorous bass reverberation that joined in with hissing radiator and my
own cackly breath. Exhausted by the day's happenings I soon fell
asleep.

Read the rest of this free e-book at http://www.umgweb.com