Too excited to stay in bed, up by 8am, far too early. A traditional breakfast in an awakening Sydney St. then off to Mister B's to get in the van and navigate (mostly badly) to P&H at Gatwick. The breadth of selection is dizzying, really. We wander round like children in a sweet shop the size of which they never knew existed. To business, and over to the Yamaha section. Somehow the Fazer S2 looks huge parked so close to its even bigger brothers. The MT-01 is just silly size. Over to the KTMs and the fantasy RC8s look like storm troopers deressed in their stealth white armour. A short break for clothing purchases (summer gloves, a little optimistic perhaps but they fit so I'm happy). A quick sit on the Kawasaki Versys but it's a bit of a big girl's shopping bike. Almost missed the Honda showroom as it's separated up the road. Turned back and very glad we did. The new model Transalp is waiting for me outside. Quickly arrange a test drive and off we go. It's my first time on a Faired bike so it's disconcerting that the instruments stay still while the front wheel turns. Get over that and pootle round the industrial estate for a while then find a way out onto the country roads. That's more like it. No idea what gears to use when so try 'em all. 30-70 in 4th is excellent and even with just 60bhp you still have to hang on quite tight. Up and down a few more circuits before returning to the dealer, grinning. I'd buy one straight away but I'm going to make myself try the Fazer, the Kawasaki Z750 and of course the BMW F800ST.The Honda's so easy, so comfortable, would I just get bored. Maybe, but that V-twin is a beauty. Very, Very tempted ...
After another sleepless week, the fateful Friday finally arrives. A nervous start at the training centre but a quick refresher with poo-scale Pete gets both me and the bike warmed up nicely. Shakey wait in the test centre watching the clock tick round to 10:24 when Mr Examiner walks calmly in and takes me to his little room. Fits me with the radio kit and we're off back down the stairs, out the back, into the car park for a nice east eye test. Can't believe I've actually been sweating about the eye test, how many of those have I had ?? Equally easy tyre and brake questions done and it's time to show him what I can do. Head out of the entrance, forget to signal, remember to signal, stall the engine !, right, get on with it. Round the houses, stop, start, U-turn, emergency stop, all OK. Pull out a bit too quick on one junction and run a bit wide, just once though, did I get away with it, really don't know - oh well, let's just get this over with. Out on the open road and I'm much happier. Clock all the speed limits, nicely up to each one no problem. Now we're on my favourite road in the aream the Long Furlong, this isn't testing, this is just having fun. Up to 60, no problem, on to the A27 slip road and push it straight to 70 - Arrrrgh !! White van doing 50 in front of me ! do I overtake?, well yes, have to 'make progress'. Of course, as soon as I start to pass, Mr Whitevan decides to accelerate. He's doing 65, I'm doing 67, 68, still 68 and I'm oh so slowly easing past. The examiner is stuck behind anyway so not sure if he could tell what speed I was doing but I know I'm still legal, just. After that mini drama it's back to the test centre. Park up, follow the man in for the slow climb up the stairs. Sneak a peak at the clipboard, no forest of black marks, think I've done OK. Back into the tiny room for the magc words "You'll be pleased to know you've passed ...."
So, the DAS it is then. Preparations
began for the assault on the full test leading to purchasing a proper big
bike and an end to leaning over the bars to squeeze up to 55 mph in a headwind
or up a slight gradient. First step, the theory test. A whole
week of preparation for a 40 minute mixture of scarily easy multiple choice
questions and a few pretty obvious hazard perception videos. Navigating
to the test centre in Worthing was actually more taxing than the test itself.
Then again, it's better then the old method of the examiner flashing
a few road signs before patting you on the back and sending you off clueless
but roadworthy. Now I know when I can't use my horn in a built up
area which will come in useful if I ever remember where the button is without
looking down for it first. So, pass certificate in hand, I'm able
to book some big bike training and the practical test. Now I'm proper
nervous like nothing I've experienced since 1987. Finally the first
day of training arrives and we're out on the road on our little bikes first
just to concentrate on the highly complex set of observations required
at every turn of the wheel. Mirror, Mirror, Blindspot, signal, close
the door, blindspot, go round the corner, mirror, cancel signal, accelerate,
something like that anyway. Even worse when it comes to speed limits,
observations and a touch of the brake lever for slowing down, checks before
speeding up, watch for the signs, don't go over the limit but don't go
too slow ! Not easy. If I fail for anything it will be for
speeding, an instant dismissal. Oh and the small matter of avoiding
pedestrians, not good to wipe any of them out on the test. On to
the afternoon's fun and it's up on to the 600cc machines. Going from
10bhp to over 70 is a big step up and it feels awkward and heavy to
start with. After a few laps of the pad though it's not too bad.
The increased power and weight makes the big bikes handle better
and the brakes and clutch are upgraded to match. Engine braking is
massive of course but there's no need to drop too much of that in. Slow
speed turns are a little more tricky with less steering lock and the weight
transfers suddenly at the tipping point but hopefully I'll get a few successful
U-turns in before the test ! total good turns made so far = 1, complete
failures = lots.
So, the low speed training continues and there's definite improvement to be seen. Well, until the pressure's on of course. On the practice ground it's thumbs to the tank and super slow and tight turns executed pretty perfectly. A sudden requirement to turn round on a busy street after missing the turning and it's a different story, especially on a gradient or steep camber. Still, I'm heading in the right direction, unless I'm U-turning, er, you know what I mean. Out on the open road and as confidence increases, so do distances and speed, even the Sussex border has been crossed now, at one point finding myself fairly lost in South Surrey. Taking unknown corners at high speed is still off the menu but mostly I'm keeping a fairly respectable line and a healthy lean too.
After a long day of CBT yesterday finishing with a 2 hour ride around the suburban sprawl of Worthing, I'm legal. Fully certified to go and pick up my new(ish) Yamaha XT125X. A visit to the accessories shop to get kitted out in some protective clothing, a run through the operating instructions and suddenly I'm sitting on the bike, keys in the ignition and ready to go. Well, ready once I've set the clock on the LCD and fiddled around with it for 20 minutes to achieve just the desired configuration of rpm, mph, time of day, average lap time ?? etc. Eventually there's no choice, the moment has arrived and it can't be put off any longer, I've got to head out on my own to play in the traffic. More importantly of course, I need to pull away cleanly without making a wobbly mess of it in front of the Yamaha dealer showroom. Kick down into first, a few more revs and a tentative release of the clutch and we're off at a blistering 5mph. Around the corner to my first challenge. I'm faced with a right turn on to a busy dual carriageway. No chance, I turn it round and go the long way to find some traffic lights to help me out. So far so good. Next, the big roundabout. Now I'm starting to sweat a bit and my visor is fogging due to the heavy breathing. Wait for the gap, give it lots cos I don't want to stall in front of a queue of traffic, but of course I let the clutch out far to fast and the poor little beastie lurches forward, the front wheel trying to head skywards. Off the power and we're safely away. Things can only get better. A few more junctions, a pelican crossing or two, head out of Worthing and I'm on the seafront road. It's windy. I know this because I'm being regularly shoved in the right shoulder by a mass of air pressure that won't be argued with. Up to 30 mph and at least I'm keeping up with the traffic, maintaining road position and generally doing all right. A few problems getting into 1st gear at the lights and a slight altercation with an Alfa driver but eventually I'm back into familiar territory, the Brighton and Hove borders. Up Holland Road, carefully, round into Landsdowne and on to the scariest bit of all. Montpelier Place is narrowed on both sides by parked cars and populated entirely by taxis who drive on the wrong side of the road. Brilliant. All negotiated safely though and finally I'm pulling in to my local parking bay where I sit for a minute to get my heart rate back to somewhere near normal. I've made it.
I'm
struggling, and hard. It should be so easy, just a reach out
and
grab the next handhold but, but there's nowhere to go, nowhere but back
down. Back down the slopes to where I'll be safe again. I
speak of
course about the continued search for the elusive peak that is
'proper' rock. Made it to base camp years ago, a training regime
of
Jimi Hendrix, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin was all there was too it.
Double
dose twice a day and the symptoms of 'no-proper-rock' fade
rapidly.
But from there it's a long and winding road through the valley of the
turdsome before getting to the next Yeah point. It's so easy to
give
up, to just turn back and lock the door on your 1974 cave and refuse to
ever come out again. Come on, there must be more to life than
that
Shirley. So, onwards, on through the 80s desert where guitars
were
made illegal in this country for any use other than strictly prescribed
indie shoe staring. Onwards along the precipitous crest of the
90's
techno house just because at least it had four to the floor which just
about made us feel a bit better, But, starved of the rock we
emerge
wasted, emasculated into the apocalyptic optimism of the 2000s, gasping
for the first breath as we break the surface we look around for a
branch on which to cling, frantically hopeful for a helping hand to the
shore. At first there's hopes raised, some promising Austrlians
take their dubious heritage to heart and form late 70s tribute
bands. England's Northside churns out some rebels with chips to
prove, even the U.S. populace starts taking notice of the Green Day
punky party under their noses. Ozzy Osbourne is a venerated on
both sides of the pond, teenage guitar bands sell out secret last
minute seafront venues. Heads up, we look back to check how far
we've come along the road. Compare where we are to where we
started. Put on an old Deep Purple CD, Highway Star starts.
For a moment I'm ecstatic, caught up in the sheer artistry and energy
of the moment. Then my rock world comes crashing down around me
as the realisation hits me, it's not how much we've lost along the way,
it's more a case of how much we haven't won. We've gone
nowhere. Has no-one been paying attention, er, sorry, yes you,
you at the back, you entire population of rockin kids, record company
execs and pop pundits, what the fuck have you been doing while the
demise of rock music burns at your feet, fiddling ?
Smokey Dave, International Promotions
Served
Straight Up. 
A
veritable mezedopolis 
The Half
Brazillian. 
There's an extraordinary light emanating from the basement darkness of the National Gallery's "Caravaggio: The Final Years". The massed ranks of art punters create a dense thicket through which these masterful pieces can just about be viewed. The light or, more accurately, the light gradient in all of the paintings here serves a dual purpose. First and most simply, the changing intensity highlight's prominent characters in the story and demotes the supporting cast to the shadow. Almost instantly second and more stunning is the depth of focus which makes objects appear to edge out into the world of the viewer. The table in "Supper at Emmaus", Salome's silver platter holding the severed head of John the Baptist, the plaintiff fingers of Peter's denial saying "Who me Sir ?, No Sir." This drawing of the eye through the combination of composition and colour / light balance is brilliantly executed and far more subtle and powerful than the similar stunts pulled by Rembrandt to illuminate and flatter his Dutch Berger paymasters. In fact you could even say Caravaggio occupies an altogether higher realm of complexity.
Just as complex is the treatment of the subjects of each painting which are all famous tales from Christian myth and legend but told decidedly from the artist's point of view. By promoting certain characters' place in the composition, the emphasis of the story shifts. A glance or an expression or just the angle of a flexed digit transform a basic representation of a well known text into his individual narration with as much personal and political bias as he can get away with.
The unique aspect to this specific collection is the display of contrast in Caravaggio's work during the last few years of his life. So, we get to see couplets of the same picture with a five or six year gap between them and this gives a fascinating insight into his turbulent situation and shifting inner consciousness. As he tires of life on the run after being banished from Rome for his crimes, his work starts to loose tone and colour. The expressions are notably more down-turned. Even then, the passion behind the work remains overwhelmingly naked and all-consuming.
The artist's passion is also expressed through the sheer level of detail he includes. From behind the crowds of hyped up visitors and standing ten feet away, you see the painting and you read the story. Squeeze through the throng to get up close and personal and a whole new set of objects come into focus. My personal favourites are the table, it's cloth and victuals in "Supper at Emmaus" and the sparks flying up from the accusing fingers in "The Denial of St Peter". Minor players in the big picture they maybe but they are perfectly executed additions which make these paintings deserving of their place in art history and a long queue in a crowded gallery.
It's time to award this year's Homer's Golden Doughnut to the best restaurant in Brighton taken from the short selection defined by the ones wot we've been to. After slightly overdoing it in over 50 ressys across Australia and New Zealand at the start of the year, the judges had to take a short break before returning to some old favourites. We did the canteen of course (Terre a Terre), and we re-tried the Strand. We've even gone back to Hotel du Vin and were impressed by the improvements to both the menu and the execution of some mighty fine dishes. However, there is one single shining light shooting heavenward and looking down upon the rest of the Brighton fine dining wannabes. The name of this luminary lunchery, this fine fair of feasting, this debutante of beachfront dining is... 