Well nice seeing you all. Sorted out the sky box and was offered spag bog for my efforts so worth the detour.
Hope you all had a nice day.
My bike is at Scorches, so couldn’t come out to play :pinch:
Home safe and bike hosed down.
Had an excellent rideout - Thanks Chris. Had to bale was finding Oxford backroads a bit too slippery for me - M40/A40 all the way into the City was okay managed to miss the hordes.
I saw you leaving the Ace as I was arriving! I was just out for a short bimble.
Great day out! Thanks for indulging my shopping. Love those roads. Even with the mud and gravel. Glad we only looked at the green land. :w00t:
We have an idea who you went there to meet :Whistling: 
Where’s the pictures :ermm:
I only come here to read the pictures, you guys type to fast for my reading level :pinch:
OK Art, just for you 
We met at the Ace as planned, Brains & Changyami arrived first. We met the lovely Janie and TimR (being car people) then Rusty & Duffnut turned up, so we had a happy posse to start the day. Unfortunately Rusty remembered that he had locked himself out of his house and garage and the only person in the world who could give him access to his life again was Mrs R, for some reason in the depths of Surrey, so off he went.
That left the trusty four - Richard, Nick, Desmond and us. We progressed through mud, gravel, sludge, dead foxes etc (you would have loved it Art) by the back ways to H Café. Desmond & Nick proceeded to Infinity next door for a spot of shoplifting. Refreshments were taken.
Desmond is so upset at our pictures of his tummy in cafés that he hides it behind Nick’s shopping:
Then we looked at some bikes (some of them even belonged to us):
We set off in glorious sunshine from the H, did a few wiggly bits until Desmond bottled out & went home on a motorway. The pace then quickened somewhat, we took a quick detour to look at the entry point to the Ridgway, decided that Chris is bonkers and then carried on regardless.
A nice cup of steamy tea at the Ace ended the Funday.
Hope this is satisfactory Art, the co-pilot has been promoted to write-up wallah this week. 
Cracking picture gallery.
Tummy tucked in Desmond always manages to look like a wanna be bicyclist :ermm:
Some nice bikes there, tank bags, top boxes and bar muffs too, proper exotica in The H Cafe car park.
Whilst me reading and riting could be betterer there’s nowt wrong with me rithmatic and I’m making ‘the trusty four of Richard, Nick, Desmond and us’ FIVE and I counted it twice to be sure to be sure. Who did the counting school boy/girl error forget to count themselves :Whistling:
4 bikes occifer;)
PS forgot to mention, got home, washed bike and ate Haggis. Happy Burns Night xx
Nick was showing me how to strap it in if l couldn’t suck it in😂
PS l noted the crafty edit - wink wink
They didn’t have any haggis in Iceland so we made do with faggots and a goodly dollop of bubble & squeak on the side.
We’re now on the Laphroaig //raisesglass//
Happy Burns night
Edit what edit :ermm:
Are we supposed to recite Burns :ermm:
We’re making do with this (shamelessly ripped from the inter webby).
When west end ladies meet for gin
And say the nights are fair drawing in
In pubs where bankers sing their chorus
“How massive will be this year’s bonus”
As we both eye a last Bacardi
And risk some wrath for being tardy
We praise the Lord for Transport
Scotland
And icy roads we could get lost in
We talk of Celts and watch the clock
And ask: “Do you play heavy rock?”
And though our blessings may be few
We’re better off than Prince Andrew
We doth recall a chilling case
One night lost in Time’s embrace
Of a student bar in old Strathclyde
Where they pretended to be wide
Ah, memories of Strathclyde Uni
Where lassies once wore naught but
goonies
And where you rarely e’er did slumber
Without first having got a lumber
And lads could gain a double first
For simply not being deemed the worst
Behold Good Jim, a sonsie character
Who some had thought must be the janitor
(For nine long years he’d secured grants
A quite unusual circumstance)
Most evenings found him ravin’, shoutin’
For with the drink he oft got howlin’
And by his side thon trusty loon
A flaxen Fifer they called Broon
Hatching plots and stratagems
To help the Red Rose win again
Then one cold night both foul and fell
After the barman rang his bell
Their path home lit by winter moon
Jim quickly stopped and turned to Broon
His words have since passed into lore
“Big man, it’s this: let’s ditch Clause
Four”.
Then upon Broon didst fall a passion;
His face contorted; his teeth a gnashin’
“This day be cursed and you Jim with it,
You yowlin’, howlin’, blitherin’ idjit.
Your face grow thin and your yolk
be heavy
You are now condemned to no more
bevvy.”
Poor Jim, the Guinness had gone sour
And fled he east to fret and cower,
Up the High Street he did stumble
Sweating lest he take a tumble
Up past General George’s Carpets
Turning left ere Barras markets
Groping blindly in the mirk
Until he reached auld Glasgow’s Kirk
And there the great necropolis
Among the dead perhaps some solace
While Jim did think on his folly,
He spied a glow, a light unholy,
Up from the crypt its fingers crept
And in Jim’s soul a terror leapt.
What were these embers that did
glimmer
Making entrails boil and simmer?
Then a sound, a sepulchral moan
Of pipes and drums, a hellish tone.
An infernal din all dark and waily
Like the worst of Capercaillie.
Into the chapel Jim did venture
Fearing a demonic censure
Down the steps he was impelled
By force that could not be withheld
Then lo he came upon a wonder,
That shone and tore his sense asunder
A writhing mass of quines and chiels
Dancing diabolic reels.
With painted faces and hairy armpits
They brandished Scotia’s lion rampant
Jim froze in terror, tight grew his slats
“The vile, perfidious cybernats”
But one amongst them caught his eye,
A barefoot wanton fleet of thigh
Who twisted, twirled her eyes like fire,
And inflamed in him an old desire.
Who was this wench with lips so willing,
Wearing a frock by Karen Millen?
But even as his eyes did feast
The vile cacophony did cease.
He heard, though he was full of swally:
“Give us the Internationale!”
Poor Jim was rapt and all at sea;
He’d lost himself in this melee
With salty tears his eyes grew dim
At this long forgotten hymn.
Suddenly he lost his bearing
Sensing they were snarling, swearing
Upon him their stares now harsh
He scarce had time to save his arse.
In vain he looked for a way out
And loud they all began to shout
“Into this body we cannot allow
Those who failed to keep The Vow.”
Yet fear ye not for our Good Jim
We had not heard the last of him
Was this not Jim, the Tory basher
Who made East Ren a Red Rose
smasher?
Stood by the wall a 10-speed-racer
To outstrip any wicked chaser
And when he reached the River Clyde
He knew in his own bed he’d bide
The cyber swarm hate running water
They’d rather lumber Auld Nick’s
daughter
Thank you Art for that fine contribution. We are mightily glad that the fine Laphroaig does not cross our threshold;)
Faggots - we’ve forgotten about those, must try some again soon.
For Ian - we did pass through Princess Risborough on the way home - pity we didn’t have your address, we are sure Mrs I must have a tin of biscuits and a few teabags spare …:Whistling:
Oh yeah…I was actually hoping to catch you before you went!
You guys are Always welcome will email you address and phone number.
Twas good to see the jets and sundry before they went out to play … has been a while and frankly i was in no fit state to ride so my chauffeur was kind enough to escort me in her trusty automobile … having been under a general anesthetic on friday for 14 teeth/roots to be removed i was still a bit subdued but hopefully wont be.long until i can join and play …