A VERY SOFT LANDING - by John Phillips

I stood there, slightly apprehensive, alongside my newly built trike awaiting the arrival of the SVA inspector when my world suddenly took a unexpected turn, for approaching me with clip board in hand was a figure from my past, none other than Cuthbert Alexander Turndingle.

Now I had known Cuthbert in his youth, and he was a plonker, not just your ordinary plonker, but a dyed in the wool out and out plonker.  If plonking ever became a international sport then Cuthbert could win gold medals for England.  He had one redeeming feature (apart from that is, his mother loved him) and that was his love of motorcycles.  His father though, knowing he had a plonker for a son, was not too keen on the mix of Cuthbert and motorised bicycles (as he quaintly called them) particularly after the autobyke in the farmyard incident.  Oh! You haven’t heard about Cuthbert and the farmyard debacle, well it went like this…. Cuthbert’s first bike was a Brown autobyke, 98cc Villiers, (no hill that it could not climb… providing you could pedal fast enough) and he was about to start his first part time job at Simpson’s farm, although his mother thought it was a far to dangerous place to work "All those big rough animals" she would say, "not the kind of place for someone as delicate as our Cuthbert" while his father (convinced his mother had a pre-birth premonition and that is why she named him “Cuthbert”) thought that a little graft never hurt anyone, while Cuthbert thought the farm a bit smelly but was planning to put any money he earned on one side to buy an ex-army Norton.

So Saturday morning came and Cuthbert donning his ex-RAF officers mackintosh (bought by his mother at the local Army and Navy store) and his Tuffnut helmet (given to him by his uncle, the one with the very large head) mounted his trusty steed and with a quick pedal (hanging on grimly as the full power of the engine came in) headed off towards his first day at Simpson’s farm.  The country lanes were fairly easy traveling, the odd big pothole or large lump of mud left by a tractor coming off the fields, but by far more dangerous were the sheep and horse droppings, these got very slippery especially after a drop of rain, so carefully picking his way through the hazards Cuthbert arrived at the lane that led to the Simpsons farm, now this was an army built concrete track that led to the old airfield outbuildings and was straight as a die and as smooth as silk compared with the local country lanes so Cuthbert pulled the throttle lever right back to the stop and crouched down over the handlebars.

The speed soon built up to a point where Cuthbert started to imagine that the uncontrollable wobble developing in the front wheel was the pressure wave forming as he was about to go through the sound barrier, but having noticed the slight buckle in the rim I would say it was more likely he had just exceeded 35mph.  The hedgerows flashed passed at alarming speeds (well alarming for a autobyke with a dodgy front wheel) and Cuthbert still crouched over the handlebars, intent on setting a world record plus the fact that the Tufnut being one size too big had slid down partway over his eyes, failed to notice that he was getting to the spot where the farm lane veered to the right, leaving the concrete road to disappear between the outbuildings.

The farm labour working at the end of the concrete road, hearing the sound of a fast approaching two stroke, scraped the last of the trailer load of cow dung of his shovel and looked up just in time to see Cuthbert heading towards him frantically trying to close the jammed throttle and could hardly miss the look of horror on his face as he headed at speed directly for the largest pile of cow dung in the area.  The front wheel dug deep into the pile before collapsing, the autobyke stopped dead and the rear end in a gallant attempt to keep going flipped over the front, catapulting Cuthbert head first and with mouth wide open in a scream of disbelief into the deepest part of the heap.  Luckily the farm labourer managed to stop laughing just long enough to rush over, grab Cuthbert by the only clean bit left (his ankles) and extract him from the mire.

The rest of the story was gathered together in bits and pieces, as the farm labourer’s version got slightly more outrageous every time he told it, plus it is very difficult to understand someone who burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter every few words, but it went something like this….

Due to the state of both Cuthbert and the autobyke the only way to get them home was on the back of the farmyard trailer (well would you have wanted him in your car) then arriving at home after being publicly paraded through the village, (a bit like one of the local carnival floats) Cuthbert’s mother would not allow him into the house until he had been taken down to the garden shed, stripped and hosed down, after which he was allowed to sit in the bath full of hot water and a mixture of various bath salts and Jeyes Fluid in a futile attempt to reduce the pungent farmyard smell, and remove the dark brown stain that covered his hands and face, in the meantime Cuthbert’s father had slipped the tractor driver half a crown to drop the remains of the autobyke off at the local rubbish tip.

Things were very quiet in the Turndingle household for the next few days as both the reservations of Cuthbert’s father regarding "motorised bicycles" and his mother’s of dangerous smelly farms had both been proved founded, and we saw very little of Cuthbert at our usual haunts until one evening when after a run out on the bikes we popped in to the Fox and Ferret for a quick half to find Cuthbert lurking in the corner of the bar, looking none the worse for his experience except for the remains of the staining on his now very light brown hands and face.  Barry with his usual tact (or should I say lack of it) could not resist and in a fairly loud voice remarked "hello there it’s Cuthbert “Turd”- dingle isn‘t it? We haven’t seen you about for a day or two, heard you was auditioning for a part in a Bollywood movie", while Max not to be outdone by his brother lifted one boot to examine the sole and chipped in with "has somebody trod in something nasty, there’s a very strange smell in here" and the whole bar burst into fits of laughter.

Little of Cuthbert was seen over the next few years as we all went our different ways but suddenly years later, there he was marching toward me. "Well if it isn’t Cuthbert Turndingle" I said offering my hand and trying hard not to smile too broadly, "that is Senior Inspector Turndingle, if you don’t mind" was the reply as he ignored my outstretched hand and tapped the badge on his dustcoat. Glancing across at the trike he then said "leave it with us for a couple of hours, then come back and we will give you the list of faults".  I made my way down to the local coffee shop thinking little changes, he’s still a plonker, but now a Senior Inspector Plonker, and two coffees later was still smiling at the thought of Cuthbert and the very large pile of manure, but was Cuthbert about to get his long awaited revenge for our lack of understanding and unmerciful mickey taking in those days long gone, when boys were boys and motorbikes were either ex-army or very old and held together with bailing wire. Well I would find out shortly when I went to collect the trike.

     Did it pass you ask?  Well, I’m afraid that’s another story!