Cheltenham - Back In The 'Nam

 

Cheltenham or "'Nam" is a dreamy Regency town which advertises itself as the "heart of the Cotswolds" and perhaps it is. I've always thought the center of town was like a park, with Montpellier and the Promenade running through the midst of it, surrounded by Georgian town houses and substantial villas. What's not to like, in a rus in urbe kind of way and that's where I went after the RSC and good old Edinburgh.

First things first, catch a cab from the station to Hotel 131, which is across the road from the Queens Hotel, facing Imperial Gardens. 131 is new and occupies three substantial buildings which would once have been owned and lived in by people of quality. It's a hotel now and not a bad one, despite annoying dance music being played on its otherwise pleasant terrace. Get over that and the fact that the place is like stepping into a Soho nightclub in the late '90s and you're ok.

Nostalgia for central London 30 years ago aside, step out onto the Promenade like a boss and make your way down the leafy, almost ritzy Promenade to the High Street. It hasn't changed all that much since I lived there back in the mists of time apart from restaurants, which seem to be everywhere, annoyingly. Ignoring them, head to the Cotswold Inn to meet an old friend.

Now the Cotswold is, I think, the last biker bar in central Cheltenham, favored by what used to be the Wolves Outlaws and now simply the Outlaws. They dropped the Wolves thing and rolled into a greater transatlantic beast, at least that's my take. 

Whatever the case, they seem to like me there and it was all very, "Alright, Padre!" I've become, curiously, an unofficial chaplain, and I told one of the probationary Outlaws that the Cotswold was the last biker bar in town. He looked at me and exclaimed, "Tradition's important!" So it is, they train them well there. You'll be pleased to know I stuck to traditional Outlaw MC Padre rig, a single breasted blazer, open neck shirt, smart trousers and loafers. Gotta show respect, don't you think?

A few pints later, it was time to head off for Moroccan food, and man was it tasty. Who knew, right in the heart of the Cotswolds, delicious, and it was great to catch up with my old friend. He's had a hard time but hasn't sunk beneath the waves, sort of thing.

The next day, a friend came to visit from Hereford and we had fun strolling around the pubs and leafy boulevards of the place. I cut to the chase, "Tell me, PHA, is this country Communist?" He looked at me with apocalyptic folk music wisdom and asked, "Does it look that way?" We glanced over at a Lexus, a Mercedes and several BMWs, "Yes, if the Politburo's anything to go by."

Someone else's photo of Imperial Gardens

My pal, in fairness, is probably mostly a Commie, even though he's a bell ringer, and doubtless thinks England isn't Red enough. I dispute this, believing it's far too Bolshevik already, but we didn't argue and enjoyed our pints as we walked this incredibly beautiful country town. Go there if you can.

Next evolution? Back to London and then home to the great state of Texas.

Cheers,

LSP

Thank Christ For The Bomb

 

All hail TS McPhee,

LSP

Lest We Forget

 

Just keeping it real.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

We Live Vicariously

 

Well, sometimes. An old friend's busy doing some sound magicke at London's famous RAK studios and sent me this:

Caption, "Look who lives on the wall here." Hey, let's hear it for Lemmy. Dam straight.

Your Pal,

LSP

New Years Challenge

A few years back and there you have it, I was in 'Nam, Cheltenham. It being New Year's Eve it seemed right to visit some friends, regimental tie and blazer no less. And there we were, "Happy New Year, fella," I offered some massive biker, "Is it, F***r?" came the electric synapse, ultra dopamine quick response.

I looked at the offensive mountain of oily denim, leather, hair and worse and said, "Devil take you and twice as fast." He didn't, fortunately, because the owners, ahem, of the house broke in, "Leave him alone, he's Adolf." And so he did.

Funny thing, I was the last man standing at that biker event, at 4++ in the morning. Lightweights, obviously.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

SMOKE OUT

As you were.

Your Pal,

LSP

Wolves

 

There we were, in some kind of biker go-down in 1996 and it was New Years Eve, high spirits, right? And there I was in a blazer and regimental tie, pretty snappy. So one thing leads to another, "Happy New Year fella!" And enormous 8' tall biker bloke replies, "Is it, fkr!"

We look each other in the eye, me staring upwards, obviously, and there's a moment of, what can we say, friction. Will this end well or not? And it does. "Errrr, leave 'im alone, he's called Adolf, he's alright." And so I was. Curiously, I was the last man standing at that party, tie and all. Can't let the regiment down, what?

Cheers,

LSP

Hippies Are Rubbish - A Cautionary Tale

 

Hippies start off well with love, peace and save the planet. Good call, who wants hate, war and a ruined ecosystem. Then they hold a festival, aka freak fayre, and throw all their trash around, wrecking the park. Not so green, but some of them are politicals. Here's a quick real world example, from long ago 'Nam, Cheltenham:

Bullsh*t Nige: "I ain't part of no system!"

LSP: "But Nige, don't you collect a giro? (welfare)"

Nige: "I does."

LSP: "That makes you part of the system, right?"

Nige: "Errrrr... But I got a workshop outside Swindon!"

LSP: "What?"

Nige: "Makes howitzers, nuclear howitzers! And a UFO."

To be fair, Nige wasn't so much a hippy as a lower order biker who lived with Big Frank, a prospect, at the time, for the Wolves Outlaws, or "Wolfies." A friend, PA, said one morning as we srolled through the Regency streets of England's premier spa town, "Imagine. Nige wakes up, 'Frank! I can't tie my boots!' Wheels turn, 'Fkn eat them then!'" I had to laugh.

Well, PA went blue not long afterwards, followed by FT, S, K, SB and others. What a waste of young life! I rebelled, joined the army, left the Glorious Glucesters and became a padre. So there you have it. 

I hope Nige is lording it over copious pints somewhere in 'Nam right now, when not gunning his hog past Imperial Gardens. And yes, hippies are and produce rubbish. They don't wash, either. Just stating the obvious.

Cheers,

LSP

****

BONUS LIVE HIPPY INFOVIDEO

Lock Her Up

Yes, please.

LSP

Biker Eschaton

It's all about motorcycles these days, on this transport blog. There's Lukeya's Norton, LL's Ducati, Fredd's Kawasaki and lots more. This puts me in mind of a biker party I went to, many, many years ago.

There I was, on New Year's Eve, at a party. They were a mixed crew, a couple of Wolf's Outlaws, maybe a Bandido or two, perhaps a Desperado, and there I was, regimental tie, blazer, the whole, "I say, you men, carry on," type of thing.

As the New Year struck, I congratulated the assembled outlaws with a hearty "Happy New Year!" including one ne'er do well who was at least 8' high and 5' wide. "Is it? F***er?" he asked me. I didn't reply, but I stood up (even straighter), looked that ruffian right in the eye, and prepared to die like a soldier.

The leaders of the party saved me, fortunately. "Leave him alone!" they said, "He's Adolf! And he's alright."

And that was that. Why did the outlaws call me Adolf? I'll leave you to ponder that.

Born to ride,

LSP

Putin v. Obama

Vladimir Putin makes an entrance.

So does Barack Obama, or is that an exit?

One leader hits the wilderness on an ATV.

The other hits the links.

Vlad's a biker.

So is our ruler.

Vicious rumors that our national debt is somehow unsustainable and that BHO is nothing more nor less than an NWO Bilderberger shill are entirely without substance. 

LSP