A cumbersome 17 digit VIN has been issued in place of the six digit original, which is to be stamped on the chassis and on a plate which must be fixed to the same. Once this has been completed and the dating officer has obliged with the required statement about the frame, a registration number will be within my icy grasp.
Unsurprisingly my enthusiasm has waned a little. It all looks so simple, why make it so complicated? Man gets old bike, fixes old bike, has old bike tested for roadworthiness then surely man gasses up and rides out, no? No. Old bike might wake up one night possessed by the ghost of Christine and break out of the shed to wreak havoc abroad. Oh no, who can save us? Why DVLA Man, I guess. Presumably by focussing his VIN ray, calibrated with the required unique vehicle identification number, the rampage of the Black Bullet (and Christine) may be thwarted.
I suppose it’s for my own benefit if the cycle gets nicked, but it’s hard to see it. Number stamping kits are available on eBay for under twenty quid - it just seems like a load of overzealous bureaucratic hassle to me.
In the meantime my attention has wandered to other things. I found the guitar I’ve been looking for (another thing strictly controlled by serial number). It’s bought and paid for and should arrive sometime next week, if I haven’t been had by an evil eBayer. I hardly sleep for the anticipation of it, thinking; ‘shit, I finally bought a Gibson Les Paul. Wow!’ It’s probably the longest unrequited material desire of my life. When I get it, I’ll stand it up against the bike, get Jane and Poz in there, our home behind, and take a picture of all the things I ever wanted, together in one place.
This momentous event coincides with that archived demo from the 80s being re-mastered by the bass player, who I haven’t seen practically since we made it. I played a black Saxon Les Paul copy back then, it was a terrible plank. Maybe that’s why I played so hamfisted. I have been instructed to search out any old pictures/artwork to add to the record and this afternoon I dug around in some old boxes, which is always fun, and found a few creased photographs. We were beautiful, dude. Scruffy, stoned, hungry and cold, but cool like rock and roll.
Photo: Ade, Me, Jim & Aidan (click on the photo to get the music)
