peter the postie

Wer'e not really here
The story continues...The gapped tooth guy
And continuing again from Here

The gapped tooth guy

Steve was a strange lad who I met at the tail end of ’74 on a frigidly cold morning. For reasons I can’t now explain, on this particular icy Thursday I’d decided to ride the mighty Fizzer to Lyme Hall and take a snap of it outside. In those days, my winter riding gear consisted of a pair of un-lined, ex-army gauntlets, quilted jacket, bright yellow, Everoak, open faced lid and the complimentary purple loons with the mandatory 24” flare. In my eyes, I thought I looked like a cross between Jason King and Sean Connery although, looking back at pictures of myself I looked more like Yootha Joyce on a bad hair day. Anyway, I digress. I was waiting at the High lane junction for the traffic lights to change when I became aware of another bike pulling up beside me and then revving it’s nuts off in an apparent attempt to attract my attention. Of course, I did what all 16-year-old Jason King look-a-likes did and ignored the interloper. But, this guy was insistent, and started beeping his mouse-like horn. More out of embarrassment than anything else, I turned around to tell the noisy sod to shut up and found myself looking into the smiling, gapped tooth face, of a guy about my age astride the dirtiest moped I’d ever seen. In fact, it was the dirtiest anything I’d ever seen. Over the noise of his revving engine and beeping horn, he nodded at the mighty Fiz and shouted, “Nice bike, man.” Now, this may have been only 4 years after the flower-power 60’s but, even a self-respecting bong-smoking hippy wouldn’t have used the word “man” in modern 1974. Besides, the gap-toothed guy was dressed normally, if quite scruffy. I gave him a tight smile and then prepared to ignore him again. Thinking I was being friendly, he pulled along side me, still beeping his incredibly annoying horn and shouted, “Fancy a brew?” I shrugged and thought why not?

I followed the grubby moped rider to a greasy spoon a mile or so along the road. When we parked up our mopeds. I now had the chance to get a better look at him. He had not only jagged, and obviously unloved teeth, but also an acne infested face. He wore a greying white jaytex shirt, and grey crumpled trousers which bore oil stains at the bottom of one leg. His bike, the like of which I’d never seen before. I could just about make out the legend “Puch” under the crud on the tank and it had pedals but, apart from that, it could have been anything. The guy, who’d introduced himself as Steve Gregg, rummaged around in his pocket and yanked out a crumpled box of Carlton and offered my one, which I took despite not being a regular smoker, but I was a 16-year-old man of the world. In-between coughing fits from the strong tobacco fumes, I asked Steve about his moped and was told it was something called a Puch JPS. He went on to give me the full SP, which I must admit sounded very impressive when compared to the mighty Fizz. Of course most of the spec he'd relayed to me was'nt true.
The bizarre thing was how dirty his bike appeared despite being less than 1 month old; imagine a large lump of bovine excrement with two wheels and a couple of pedals sticking out and I think you’ll get the picture. Over a cup of tepid tea, Steve explained he was concerned about his new moped getting stolen so, he decided to camouflage it as a crud covered old Brit’ bike that no one would possibly covert and he suggested I do the same to the mighty Fizz.

Over next few months, Steve and I became firm friends. He was without doubt one of the ugliest people I’ve ever met but, boy could he pull girls. Ironically, Steve’s mucky moped was stolen in February of 1975 after we’d parked our peds outside The Arcadia to go skating. The philistine crooks obviously preferring a filthy Puch to a pristine Fiz. With the insurance payout, I managed to persuade Steve to buy a brand, spanking new Honda SS50, which, of course he immediately took home and covered from head lamp to tail pipe in a thick mixture of sump oil and gardeners’ peat.
As my mate Gary now had his Garelli back on the road, I took Steve over to meet him so we could go for a ride-out. Of course, Gary managed to crash his freshly repaired Garelli into his delightful mother’s Allegro while he was riding it out of the garage which, in turn, caused her to come running out of the house, which was nice as she was in her usual bra-less and bouncy state. Gary picked up the Garelli and, after seeing the damage was minimal, fired it up and off we rode while his mother shouted after us accusing me of leading her lad astray once again.

our inaugural ride was a short one. We’d only gone about 2 miles when a chunk of muck detached itself from Steve’s SS50 and hit Gary squarely on the chin. Gary, of course, promptly crashed into a lane-dividing bollard and bent the Garelli’s newly straightened handle bars. Shortly after this incident, Steve had his mucky SS50 stolen after he’d popped into a Wimpy for a cheese burger. This time the insurance company were a little less keen to pay out quickly, so Steve was relegated to walking and using a bus for the next 4 months. Inevitably, we drifted apart, although I did subsequently go out with his sister a couple of times.

At the tail end of ’76 on a dank, grey Saturday morning in down-town Salford , I was astride my gleaming Suzuki TS125, waiting for the lights to change. My winter riding gear now consisted of a pair of thermal gloves, with integral waterproof mittens secreted in a little pouch on the wrist, a metal flake, airbrushed, Centurion full-face lid and a leather jacket. I thought I looked like a cross between Barry Sheene and Brian Connolly from the Sweet, although looking back at pictures of myself, I looked more like a tall Charley Drake. While I was waiting for the lights to change I took the opportunity to leer at a couple of nice looking female Punks in bondage pants waiting at a bus stop. I then became aware of car pulling up beside me and revving it’s nuts off in an attempt to attract my attention. Of course, I did what all 18-year-old Barry Sheene and Brian Connolly look-a-likes did, and ignored the interloper. But, this guy was insistent, and started beeping his horn. More out of embarrassment than anything else, I turned around to tell the noisy sod to shut up and found myself looking into the smiling gapped tooth face of a guy about my age sitting in the dirtiest Cortina 1600E I’d ever seen. In fact, it was the dirtiest anything I’d ever seen since Steve’s SS50. Over the noise of his revving engine and beeping horn, the guy nodded at the Suzuki and shouted, “Nice bike, man.” It took a while for me to recognise the gap-toothed guy smile because most of it was now covered with a huge porn star moustache. Still beeping his incredibly annoying horn, Steve Gregg stuck his head out of the car window and shouted, “Fancy a brew?” I shrugged and thought why not?

R.I.P. Steven Gregory died april 2009 Lung Cancer
 

babsgood

Deemon in disguise
The story continues...The gapped tooth guy
Fabulous! takes me right back, my first bike was a TS125
 

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