Author: Buck

I watched a clip via Twitter last night and they mentioned Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), which reminded me of my army days. I got sent to the shrink due to issues and a panel of them interrogated me. They sent me back to my regiment with a letter for my army doctor. The doctor’s was closed so I had it overnight. Curiosity got the better of me and I steamed it open. It was 27 years ago but I know it involved Personality Disorder, I think it was Borderline. Nearly 30 years I’ve dismissed it. Borderline makes it sound like barely a consideration. It turns out that’s just the medical term for an exact condition. One that is characterised by anger, risk-taking, drink/ drug abuse, self-harm, suicidal thoughts and a lack of self esteem. Fuck. 27 years. All the bikes I’ve crashed, the wilful disregard for life and limb, the years and years of alcohol dependency, self mutilation, mental anguish, anger and self loathing. All. A. Fucking. Condition. I thought the individual bits were normal. I thought everyone else was a pussy because they saw a gap that was so tight that if *anything* went wrong they would die and they backed off. I did it anyway. The bleeding I’ve done to try to atone for the unconscionable deeds of my past. Slipping into overdose unconsciousness knowing I might not wake up. If that’s how you are, you rationalise it. Everyone get’s stressed, the self mutilation is a release valve. You’re going to die anyway, why not have some fun on the way? If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention. Etc. All. A. Condition. The whole of my life is a lie. I’m a tad upset, as you can probably guess. I’m going, in another case of hope over experience, to see the doctor. Most of it I don’t actually mind, but there are some aspects from which I’d give anything to be free. Buck.

It’s been eventful. I said last time that my black bike had blown over. A horrifying picture to be sent when you are 5 hours away. At first I didn’t believe it was the wind, thought it was the kids messing about. But for some reason our house gets the wind howling across the front. We have to bungee the bins to out awning thing to stop them blowing into next door’s car. So OK, wind. I changed the lowering kit thing, fixed the snapped fairing and carried on. Then I looked out of the window last week to see my red one on it’s side, which had toppled the black one, which had smacked into the car. *weeps* I ran outside, dragged the covers off the bikes and the locks and stood them up. Not easy. The red one got off with a graze to the bar-ends as the black one cushioned it’s fall. The black one had the red one’s handlebars smack it in the fairing. Smashing a lump out of the side that hadn’t been damaged last time. Super. The car too the black one’s handlebar to the (rusty) wing. Buggery bugger. For the time being I’ve stopped using the bike covers which are obviously catching the wind like a sail and I’m putting the bikes on main stand every time (instead of side stand). So far, so no worse. You can’t get replacement fairings for love or money. Mainly money. But you still can’t get them. I’ve found this product that you mix up and pour in and it set as plastic. I just have to take off the fairing, tape it perfectly and pour it in. Easier said than done. I’ve bought a new wing and been spray painting it. I’m waiting for it the clear lacquer final coat to dry. Tomorrow I have to take the grill, bumper and wing off to replace. Super dooper. It was near dark when I finished but it totally looked the wrong colour. I’m hoping it dries right, because I’m not doing it again. What else? Oh yeah. To deter thieves I put a disc lock on my red bike (on top of the engine immobiliser and alarm). This slots through your front brake disc and locks, making it impossible to ride the bike away. I forgot to take it off. Rode forward a foot then slammed to a stop, nearly falling off. I thought nothing of it, took the lock off, rode to work down the motorway. And back. Giving it beans. I stopped outside our house as usual, started walking the bike back into the parking spot, touched the front brake, nothing. What?   Bad picture, but if you look at the bottom of the brake calliper (black bit with “Nissin”) you can see the brake pad dangling down. That is supposed to be in the calliper. Part of the calliper where a bolt goes through has snapped off. I’d just ridden like a dick along […]

I got a really shitty cold, back in March, since then I’ve lost a lot of my taste. I used to love cream, now it is meh. I can sort of taste it, but mostly meh. I warned Wendy off a cream cake the other day saying it tasted like cardboard. She ate one anyway, said it was gorgeous. One of Marks and Sparks special range, apparently. I had a hankering for chips. We’ve not had a chip pan for at least 10 years. I bought a deep fat fryer with a lid and a filter to keep the smell down. My Swedish chum put me on to a top tip, pre-boil the chips. 5-6 minutes pre-boil, drain well, straight into hot oil. I reckon I’m at the peak of my chip game, they are fluffy on the inside, crisp on the outside, perfect. And tasteless. I bought proper salt (as opposed to the grind-it-yourself sea salt rocks) and proper chip vinegar, not the tons of fancy white wine vinegar and such we have in the cupboard. About all I can taste is the butter on the bread. Butter and chocolate are about the only things I can still properly taste and enjoy. Which is just super for a lardarse. But now it’s going from irritating absence of taste to false tastes. I had to throw the egg component of the classic British delicacy, chips and egg, away. It tasted of garlic. I know there’s no garlic in the pan, the oil or the egg, but bugger me I can taste it. And now my sense of smell is getting in on the act. Our washing powder, which we’ve used for years, is starting to be repulsive to me. And my leather jacket. I washed it and conditioned it with leather conditioner. A honey and jojoba thing that makes the leather supple and waterproof. It’s a proper product, as recommended by a proper biker site. But for the past few weeks I’ve noticed a disgusting smell that has just been getting worse. There isn’t one. I’ve asked Wendy and Lisa to smell it and they say it smells of leather and vaguely of  patchouli oil (I tried to mask the smell but the oil has lost it’s potency). There is no disgusting smell. But when I put it on I’m nearly heaving. I already had some specialist leather cleaner so I’ve given it all a couple of coats today and I think I’ve got rid of some of the stench. I’ve ordered a conditioner made from other stuff. And some new, very stinky, patchouli oil. If I can’t sort it I may have to mothball my leathers and buy a new coat. It’s making me gag. My only consolation is no-one else can smell it. If I thought everyone else was smelling it I’d have binned it already. Another bloody annoying thing, I think I’m starting to get tinnitus. I use silicon ear plugs at night to get to sleep […]

I’m still in a transitional phase. Work is long hours so good money, but it’s killing everything else. I had an upbeat day a few days ago when I decided to get back to my running and sax, but I’ve not, yet. The only thing I’m keeping up at the moment is my painfully slow learning of the Spanish language. I’ve put all the lessons on my ‘phone so they shuffle up randomly. I was struggling over one lesson and not moving on until I’d mastered it. This way, I’ve found out by accident, is more like natural learning. I think. You are bombarded with stuff, most of which you don’t get the first time around, but by constant repetition you learn it. Which makes other bits fall in to place. Anyway, I’ve finally finished the introductory course and I’ve just started on the language builder. It’s not like I’m in a rush. And if Theresa the Appeaser does bollocks Europe up for us I’ll just go back to learning Russian, but with my new approach. That’s it. Work, a vague desire to return to saxing and running, and plodding on with my Spanish.   The only other thing is bikes. Glorious bikes! The VFR750 (black one) didn’t sell, even at a £300 reduction. Bugger ‘em. I’ve stuck a new back tyre on it as the tyre on it, although it still had loads of tread, kept spinning up in the wet. I did it today. The guy at the tyre place said “That’ll be why, this one is from 2005.” A 12 year old tyre! With tons of tread! What the actual hell is wrong with people? Even running two bikes I’m not expecting to get more than two years out of a tyre. Once I knew there was a way to find the date of tyres I googled how and checked my other tyres. I’ve only just changed the front one on the VFR800 (red one) the back one is 2014 and quite surprisingly worn. I noticed a small groove in a flat spot on the centre of the tyre. A strut that was supposed to support the hugger (mudguard close to the tyre) had snapped and was rubbing against the tyre! I took the strut out. The hugger is supported everywhere, it obviously doesn’t need it. I’ll be using the black one as a winter hack to I’ll easily get another month or two out of the red one’s back tyre, then replace it next year. It was £143 for the black one’s tyre so I’m in no rush. That just leaves the black one, front. It wasn’t alarmingly old (forget exact date) but I’ll be keeping an eye on it. First signs of dodgy front end and it’s getting replaced. Seeing as I can’t sell it I’m getting the black one ready. I’ve changed the back tyre and the footrest (which had been welded, frightening off one potential buyer) and I’ve booked it in for a […]

I’ve made it. Full time gig, ideal bike, money pouring in.   The taxman finally contacted me to say as I’m paying them the money my accountant stole from me (instead of paying to HMRC) they couldn’t refund me. After 8 weeks 3 days of sitting on their arse. I had to cancel the direct debits, but then they paid it straight to my bank. So they say, not appeared yet. The good news is; my last accountant, the not robbing-bastard one, said they’d calculated it  to be £850 HMRC owed me but HMRC made it more, I’d have to wait and see which amount they paid me. I looked online while chasing it all up today, HMRC are refunding me £1.235.59! Ker-ching!  That’s a bit better than £850.   If my first week’s wages are representative (my second week was virtually the same hours, so probably) I’m now on £40K p/a. for a 5 day week. Including bonuses and bank holiday pay. I’ve said it before, but when you’ve walked around with a safety pin in your fly because you couldn’t afford a new pair of jeans, this is minted. Proper rich. I say that. We’ve still got a big loan to pay off, Wendy is constantly thinking she’s going to lose her job (not her specifically getting sacked, more the whole bureau shutting) and there’s the looming threat of Stobarts, but for right now, things are peachy on the money front. The trade off is it’s long hours, and starting at 11.00 I don’t see Wendy except in passing, and I have no life other than work and sleep. I’ve not got time to do anything before work, and it’s far too late when I get back. It’s like the “dead man’s shift” of 2-10, but with 3 hours tacked on the start and usually a bit on the end for good measure. Don’t get me wrong, this is still the best job I’ve ever had, and loads of money. But the money is because of all the hours.   I’m in a state of flux. I am seriously thinking about selling my sax. And the other one when the HP is clear. I had a bad day a week back. I was struggling with some new-ish tunes and I suddenly thought “I’m just not getting better.” It’s been ages, off and on, and I’m still crap. And it’s a pain in the arse lugging a sax back and to to work. And the running. I just haven’t got time to train. It’s not that I want to give up running, but if you can’t run regularly you get big injuries when you do. And you are always at the ‘painful/ crap’ stage, never at the level where you are fit and pushing hard and really improving. Which leaves me with work, the glorious ride to and from work, and sleep. It’s a nice position to be in financially, but everything else is dying on its arse.   […]