I pulled my bike up on the forecourt of the Great Eastern Hotel in Doncaster. It's by far and away the best hotel in Doncaster; you have to travel a good few miles to find one better. The doorman gave my bike a long, very appreciative look. Surprising, I'm much more used to being told. You can't park that thing there. He gave me a nod and a knowing smile; I gave him one back. A nod between bikers is like a freemason's handshake. He knew it was a classic 70's icon. My bike is a thing of beauty; it's a Leverda Jota. It's the original series one model, but it has been upgraded by Slater Brothers, the importers, to match the final 1982 spec.
An hour later I'd checked into my room, had a quick lunch, and freshened up. It's a sin to have a bike like mine and not ride it on every journey I take. That is exactly what I did, though; I caught a cab into the town centre. It is often said that nothing ever changes; it's also often said that nothing ever stays the same! I had hoped to replace my old, faithful leather jacket. It was one of those items of clothing you would have fought with your wife about throwing it out because it was old, worn out, and smelt like a three-week-dead badger. I didn't have a wife, but it did smell like a three-week-dead badger; it had to go.
In this case my conundrum resolved itself to" nothing changes. When I arrived at the indoor market, the shop I was looking for was still there. As far as I could tell, still the same shopfront with the same shop name, "Market Leather". Inside was different; instead of the old Spanish couple who owned the place back in the day, there was a wee little guy who could give John Inman lessons in camp.
He, however, turned out to be just as good a salesman as Mr. Humphreys. American readers may have to resort to searching YouTube for John Inman and Mr. Humphreys for help here.
I think the poor guy was nearly sick when he caught a whiff of dead badger. He did, however, stick around to read the badge on the lining. He disappeared for a moment before reappearing with a brand-new, identical jacket. Sadly, you pay through the nose for quality; it still hurt to pay the bill on this; it had another 0 on the end of the number and then some.
My Mr. Humphreys clone weighed in with a little extra value with a little advice. I asked him if such a thing as a Levi or Wrangler 60s-70s style denim shirt could be bought anywhere he knew of.
"You can find a fake, if you know who to ask; mind you, she is a fussy bitch and will only make one if she likes you. Her name is Maylene; she is the manager of the St. Margaret Hospice Trust, fund raising charity. You can find her in their shop and office on York Road; it's the market end of York Road, an easy walk."
One easy walk later, I entered a huge jumble sale of a charity shop.
"Is Maylene in?" I asked the two girls behind the till.
"She is still out at lunch," I was informed; "she is usually back by half past."
That was a good twenty minutes away. I was about to leave; Mr. Humphreys had made it clear "Maylene" was highly unlikely to agree to make me a shirt; I was there on an off chance.
I was keen on exploring every avenue, though I was to attend a "25 years on Disco" at my old rugby club. That was the reason for my visit back to Doncaster. I had many good friends who were now scattered to the four winds who would be in attendance. It was a themed party; the theme was "Come as you were." It was this years "old boys" Christmas party. Music from my era! Not some Gangsta singing about putting a cap in ya ass or a highly polished black bint singing about her minge.
Back in the day, my clothes were Levi jeans, check. A flying jacket, check. "Pit boots" and sea boot socks, check. And most importantly, a denim shirt. For me, preferably Levi. A Wrangler would do in a pinch. The jeans were no problem, courtesy of Matalan; the jacket, my Mr. Humphreys clone had sorted for me; the pit boots and sea boot socks were courtesy of the Bay of Evil, but the shirt was a huge problem. I had set my hopes upon a huge donation to Maylene's charity to persuade the lady to do the trick for me. I decided to wait for her.
I love charity shops. I'm like a little boy in a sweet shop. I particularly love the CDs and old vinyl sections. The twenty minutes had flown by, and there was a nosy cow asking me if I was done yet.
There is a compilation vinyl set of every recording Buddy Holly ever cut; it's as rare as rocking horse shit. I had just picked a copy up and my joy was rising, it was in my hand, and as far as I could see, it was faultless. No ripped sleeves: the cover box was perfect, and I could not find a scratch on any of the 24 playing surfaces. The complete works of my Rock 'N' Roll idol from Lubbock.
The nosy cow said, "12 LPs; that's 12 pounds for the set; we won't split them."
I almost punched her on the bugle for suggesting such a callous reprehensible thing. The set was worth double the value of the individual discs, never mind 12 quid. The charity would get a decent donation from me to assuage my conscience. I had getting on for 30 CDs sorted out as well.
"I'll stop when I get to 50 quid, I told her."
Then as I watched as a total smokescreen of a woman come walking towards me, I remembered I was there to see Maylene about a shirt.
This woman had a strange familiarity about her. "May?" I asked.
"Not too many people still call me that Kevin, not many at all."
I was gobsmacked, May was gorgeous back when I was the blue denim kid. I chased her around when I was 16, as did every red-blooded young male for 50 miles. We were engaged on her 20th birthday I thought we were together for keeps, until she blew me out, without a word and married another club player, Jimmy. To be honest about it, Jimmy was the bookie's favourite to catch May; he had a better earning potential than me at that time, he was a bit smooth as well, not a greasy biker like me. I knew that, but it still broke my heart when one day she cut me dead and refused to speak to me.
Wedding plans went ahead at a breakneck pace and then when May started to swell, I decided to leave. Despite my feelings, I bought them a wedding present. I got very pissed on Jimmy's stag night, went to the wedding, then upped sticks, I left and cut the pair of them dead. The bitch had told me she loved me then sold me out for a few hundred quid a year extra in salary
I Got on with the rest of my life.
It all worked out well for me when I met my business partner Dave B, we had a little luck, then we got very lucky, and then the money just rolled in until it didn't. Then I sat back and lived on a lucky fortune until now. Dave was just a bit dodgy in his past dealings. The police took a very unhealth interest in him. Dave scarpered, I hear from him occasionally, I get the odd Christmas and birthday card and occasional letter. Sometimes he phones me to chat about old times, he's married to a Thai girl, but he won't tell me where he lives, I'm not sure if he has a permanent address. I guess plod still want to invite him to a handcuff party.
I knew I'd probably run into Jimmy and May. These days, I knew nothing of them; I supposed they became lifelong rugby club members, had the six kids May wanted, and lived happily ever after.
I'd loved May the first time I saw her, I'd loved her the last time, though that love was a bit tarnished after the Jimmy thing. However much I tried, I could not hate her, despite myself, I still loved her. But she was Jimmy's wife, he was never my best friend, to be honest I hated him but I'm not the kind of guy that would even flirt with a married woman. May dropped to sit on her haunches; the hem of her skirt slid down and exposed her stocking tops and suspenders. She kissed me on the lips, just a kiss, no tongues, and hugged me into her huge, firm boobs she still gave me an instant hard-on.
