Ever since I’ve had the  BMW R1150RT It’s been prone to “pinking”, i.e. pre-detonation where the petrol ignites before it should. It sounds like stones rattling on the front of the bike and it can damage the engine. In the early days I took it back to Coopers of Tunbridge Wells, the dealers where I bought it, you remember them, and they balanced the throttle valves and advised me to change my riding style. This reduced it but it never fully went away.

Just recently I took it in to Hastings Motorcycles for new tires and a 24,000 mile service. One of the things I asked for was adjusting the tappets.

When I picked up the bike they said that they had checked the tappets and “surprisingly” they did need adjustment.

And low and behold I now have what appears to be a new bike, there is no pinking at all.

Now this may seem like more Coopers bashing but why the hell didn’t they check this before they sold it to me, it was second hand but buying even a second hand BMW from a dealer is not cheap. Dealers have the equipment, the skills and one would assume greater knowledge of the marque they are selling than anyone else but they appear to not give a shit.

To be honest I have only myself to blame; in my early twenties I read “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” and it warns against motorcycle dealers, particularly mechanics (and, as I recall, all people) who don’t care about the quality of what they do. I have still got this touching faith that most people are not like that but slowly I am being proved wrong.

Engine after service by modern commercial mechanic

One of the reasons I don’t “do” politics here usually is that it’s such a complex subject and as I get older I’m wary of the semantic straw men we use in place of thought, it also doesn’t get the laughs. I’m also leaning towards the opinion that any discussion deals mainly with the psychology of the participants and the shared pretence that “facts” are involved is moral cowardice. Surely the one thing the internet has shown us is that there is so much knowledge swilling around that anyone trumpeting their grasp of a situation is, er, a self deluded liar.

One other reason I have is that few people seem that interested and almost nobody is interested in solutions beyond bashing each other with their ignorant “pick and mix” tribal beliefs.

Fast becoming a core belief with me is the concept of “always being wrong”. I am. I have changed my mind over thing so many time throughout my life I am amazed that people can keep the same views for more than a few years, and they do. Why?

Then I realised, there are two reason to gain knowledge, 1: find out something new, 2: validate a held view.

This brings us back to all conversation being about personal psychology. The first reason requires confidence the second is an admission of fear.

I know which I prefer, and you?

One of these is a politician, clue: it’s not the one with a pocket watch.

Yesterday started at a funeral for an old school friend and ended with me having enjoyed a jazz concert. Both of these things I never hoped to see. In reality the day ended at around quarter to eleven with your hero, having thoroughly defeated sobriety, laying on his back on the West Hill photographing the moon through clouds; a clue here for all you photographers, a drunk taking 13^th second exposures requires the deepest of beer goggles to look even vaguely interesting.

Jocks funeral again brought home to roost some old chickens, as I think funerals often do. Its been dawning on me of late how badly I’ve treated people in my life; for me guilt has always just been a dictionary word and as an emotion up there with the best fairy tales. And with two more pieces of the jigsaw; a capacity to leave, anything, and never look back and a wonderful skill at justifying absolutely everything to myself, the creation of a glorious wake of casual cruelty was inevitable.

Up there with Ansel Adams I think you’ll agree!

I’ve just driven down through the pi***ng rain from Mums place in Lincolnshire and like many people nowadays I let the robot do the navigating. I’m very pro the robots and look forward to my eighties when I will have a robot to clean my bottom that looks somewhat like Brittany Spears and when I am buried she/it will accompany me just as if I was a Pharaoh, but I digress. The problem with the rather more basic robot in the car is that it doesn’t sound like “the only woman I ever loved” (TOWIEL) or Kate Bush singing “Under the Ivy”. As I haven’t spoken to TOWIEL for around twenty years and as far as I know she is still married, I would suggest that Kate contacts me to apply for this prestigious post so I can kill two birds with one stone so to speak – or just a quick call to help me navigate the Polegate roundabout would be appreciated…

Norfolk was, well, this is where self censorship rears it’s head, it was family; that can be good and it can be crap but for the sake of peace you don’t dwell…

I’ve been back for some time but am victim of my reclusive side at the moment, the word “drifting” doesn’t come close – I seem happy with a sort of “groundhog day” where I am constantly re-installing the Linux operating system on a range of computers made up from piles of bits, top fun I think you’ll agree but not great conversation!

And the world has changed, my how it’s changed. I thought the problem was the slowly encroaching state increasingly defining what views I should hold as it moved to re-introduce body snatching, sorry, presumed consent (if I ever knock anyone down at a zebra crossing I am happy to assume they consented to it). But what really has amazed me is the value of what little money I have evaporating. What is it that makes people not care when their money disappears except when its property values? The value of the pound has dropped against most other currencies so as we import most of what we consume, especially my toys, that means, for instance, that every hundred pounds I had is now worth about 70 pounds after just a few months. The effect is masked for the moment with over stocked shops desperate to sell before Christmas but come the new year imported good must start to go up in price – and I am now expected to roar down the shops because of a few quid off VAT, er, I don’t think so, I’ll save it as I’ll need to buy heating in January thanks!

Though the truth is, possibly because I don’t have children, I’m really looking forward to the depression. I remember the three day week and rolling power cuts in the seventies, great fun or at least it helped hide the fact I dressed in my Mums fur coat and stack heels, thank God digital cameras didn’t exist then.

The seventies – I wonder whatever happened to Celia…

With my commercial hat on today I did a bit of writing for a client, the usual stuff; “gawk in awe at the quality of our product and slickness of service” and so forth.

In my early twenties I suffered from the disease of “schoolboy poetry” (alarmingly I’ve recently been made aware that some of this material still exists in the vaults of an ex-girlfriend) and for a brief instant thought I would be the new Bob Dylan. It must be said that I was not alone in this as, at the time, the art schools were full of ner-do-wells such as myself fuelled on idleness, Pink Floyd, alcohol and librium.

The real Bob Dylan is still around and producing material that beggars belief.

Now, the rule is that as you get older and more comfortable the creative urge retreats, especially, I would content, as that the roots of the best creative material are nourished by pain. Has anybody mentioned this to Bob? I would admit that the latest album is not, for someone of my generation, “Highway 61” but it’s still way better than most things around. It must be depressing for all the talents that burn out after a year or ten to see an old guy producing songs that are better than most penned in their long forgotten brief burst of creative light.

I wonder how Bob is when waxing on about the pleasures of a clients all to familiar product?

New bicycle – sandy beach, new bicycle – sandy beach, are you getting the picture? I should have known, I’m a gadget boy, I hate sand & salt but the beach looked so exciting to the inner kid…

Boys don’t clean bikes.

A month ago on one of my pompous rants by a bar I talked myself into joint comparing a pub quiz. I had hoped Shelagh had forgotten but a couple of days ago I got the call, “are you ready?”. Bricks and sh**ing come to mind. I can occasionally talk a good talk but the walking has often eluded me. Tonight was the night so powered by a bag of chips & two pints of cider I “did my thing”.

For a guy who’s all mouth I have a real problem getting up in front of a group, but it seems to have gone well. I did a couple of rounds of questions (Science & Entertainment) and got a few laughs. My problem is that I have a tendency to ramble, big time, you can’t do that with and audience. But in the end a few people came up and said I’d done okay and before I could stop myself I was offering to do it again. Basically I’m a tart and the lure of babes & fame is too much.

I was never a good listener, too “me, me” for that, then a few years ago I found “listening as a weapon” was a great way to win arguments so I learnt to listen, not well, but enough for my purpose. As I get older I find I’m starting to develop a genuine interest in listening. This you think would be great, but no. What I’m interested in is what goes on in peoples heads; dreams, fears, failures, successes, motivations, this is all the stuff I like. It’s what makes people so special. This is dangerous territory. Today I met someone and just a few interested enquiries about their life led to tears. This was a real shock. I proffered a slightly embarrassed kind word and things moved back to small talk, which, it must be said, I’m crap at.

Every picture tells a story

One thing that must be said for being a clown attracted to the unobtainable is that it’s safe for everyone especially me. Talking and listening to women can be one of life’s most rewarding experiences but dealing with a real relationship, whoa, terror territory. I suppose my reality is that I like angels but scared stiff of real women. Give me intellectual “stand up” before the the nightmare of emotional nakedness any time. Oh, of course, then there’s the appalling low libido!

Today I took 175 photos, the current “future Mrs Hardy” and her, grr, exceptionally nice husband were the only ones blurred, what are the odds…