The journal of the Thumper Club Drink Survey Expedition of May 2003. The Survey's destination was the French 'SRX Team' meeting in Britanny.

May 8th 2003, 6.00am
The day dawns as only it can in Great Britain, the heart of the Empire, making a patriot proud to be alive. I wash under a cold tap in the open air as the first rays of sun creep over the hills. I have been performing my ablutions in this manner for some weeks in preparation for the forthcoming trip. As group leader I am aware that I must set a good example to my men, and no sign of weakness can be displayed. After this bracing wash I set off for a five mile run to heighten my appetite for the light breakfast that cook has laid out in the dining room.

After a hurried snack of kedgeree, cold beef and potatoes, kippers and a mug of porter, I make my way to my rooms where my man awaits me with my riding attire. It will be a wrench leaving Evans behind, but this trip will call for minimum excess baggage, so I will have to make do with just my travelling trunk, four suitcases and several hatboxes. The bike has been brought around to the front of the house and, after some bad-tempered wrestling with fixings, most of the luggage is still on the drive and I have to resign myself to leaving several items behind, including my favourite linen suit. I was not expecting the hardships to begin so soon.

1.30pm
My first stop is at the offices of Hayward, Bardzinski and Filch, where I am to meet one of my travelling companions, Steven Hayward. After exchanging pleasantries, we retire to the office yard to smoke a cigar or two. Hayward seems engrossed in my machine's frame.
"I say, Carrick"
"Yes old chap"
"Your frame appears to be holed some way below the Plimsoll line"
"Really, let me see... by jigger, you're right, it's a bally bullet hole. As I rode through the lowlands of Gwent I thought I heard the report of small arms fire, I'd say that I've had a lucky escape from those blasted Newport brigands"
"There's nothing for it," says Hayward, "you'll have to get the spare machine".
And so I ride back home and exchange the damaged motorcycle for my trusty sidecar combination.

7.20pm
Time is against me as I make my way to our meeting place at a little roadside teahouse near Chievely. The roads are now full of clerks and their ilk, in their drab little cars, returning to their suburban homes, and it is with some relief that I find the rest of the group at the allocated spot. Hayward's motorcycle is parked against the kerb, but he is nowhere to be seen. At length, however, he appears from behind some trees, adjusting his jodhpurs.
"What ho Hayward, where have you been?"
"Oh you know, I've been adopting the native ways, I reckon it's better to start trying to get into the habit now rather than suffer later"
"Well quite so old man, but really, do you have to do your business in the bushes, here in Berkshire?"
He seems taken aback. "Why yes, of course, preparation is everything you know. Although I must say that Mrs Hayward has been getting rather iffy about my nipping out to the lawn every night for my pre-slumber evacuation... and the blasted gardener has been less than understanding about it too."
I reflect, not for the first time, that I couldn't have chosen a better technician for the expedition.

With Hayward are our two other members, Brooks the expedition chaplain and Morgan the navigator. Brooks is a stocky forthright fellow, a first-fifteen, pint-of-beer sort of chap. His motorcycle is like him: strong and dependable. Morgan, on the other hand, is a man of faintly Celtic complexion, whose proven reliability belies his Welsh upbringing. However, he exhibits some of the weaknesses of his class by riding a gaudy, high-powered German-made motorcycle. With the team assembled, the time for small talk is past; we don our helmets and point our machines in the direction of Portsmouth.

9.30pm
At the ferry port we encounter our first serious setback, a docker waves us to a queue of ordinary vehicles and vans.
"I say, you." I shout at the fellow.
"Yes guvnor"
"We are the expedition party, surely we shouldn't be on the same deck as these holidaymakers and tradespeople?"
"Just one deck sorry guvnor, all in together."
"Well honestly!"

11.15pm
And so here we are, in a saloon bar of the worst sort, drinking beer and trying to ignore the tuneless din of a ghastly cabaret act. We are looking out for two other chaps who have arranged to meet us on board, Johnson an Australian who has been selected as team cook, and Duncan a Scot who has impressive credentials as a Phrenologist. Any doubts we have about spotting the pair are dispelled when two men saunter by, one dressed in a kilt and the other wearing a hat with corks hanging off the brim.
"I say, Johnson and Duncan I presume?"
"Och aye" "G'day"
"Oh, pardon me, I didn't realise you were French"
"Strewth mate, we ain't French you daft pom, we are Johnson and Duncan"
I can't make head or tail of it and look helplessly from one to the other, until Brooks taps me on the shoulder and explains that he can speak some of their language and that they are the missing duo. We settle down to discuss the expedition and, as we drink more, I find with some relief that Johnson and Duncan seem to become more understandable.

May 9th 2003, 6.25am
We make our way do onto the ship's hold to retrieve our vehicles, where I make an unwelcome discovery. My rear tyre is flat. Hayward is summoned.
"Morning Carrick, you called for me?"
"Yes Hayward, I did, now keep this quiet but I think we've got a saboteur in our ranks"
I point at my wheel. Hayward seems shocked, but he soon sets about inflating the tyre with a can of goo, which he assures me should suffice. This is conducted in the presence of some 70 or so other motorcycle riders, all of whom are mounted on those brightly coloured sports machines favoured by the lower classes and foreigners. We ride to the nearest petrol station, fill up and set off towards the Pont du Normandy, the bridge that crosses the estuary, some six miles east of Le Havre. Just before crossing the bridge we encounter some sort of roadblock at which the locals are charging a fee for using the bridge. I decide to brave it out and make no attempt to slow down for the rabble. Any unpleasantness is avoided when, upon seeing that we are British, they wave us through. However, it becomes clear to me that my rear tyre has deflated again and, with some embarrassment, we have to stop immediately after the booths.

7.00am
The situation seems dire; we have a flat tyre in a foreign land. I decide that my only course of action is to use our radiophone to make a call to the Altrincham offices of Messrs Carol and Nash. I am told that they can arrange a recovery vehicle and that I should wait where I am. This is good news, but the others are starting to complain of hunger, as we haven't eaten for some hours.

8.00am
An hour later and there is no sign of help. Most of the team are faring well, but Brooks has started to complain of dizziness. We must find food soon.

8.30am
Apart from Hayward, who has conducted his business in the central reservation of the motorway, none of us has had the chance to relieve ourselves. Also, hunger is making us tense and some harsh words are exchanged. I decide that we must send out search parties and I nominate Morgan and Brooks to undertake this task. Ten minutes later they return to tell us that the large uninviting building that we are parked next to, that we took to be an administrative building, is in fact a service station with café, restaurant and toilets. This is good news. The team set off for breakfast and I remind them to buttonhole the manager about the fact that he hadn't sent a man out to enquire if we required food.

9.00am
I have to answer the call of nature. I ignore Hayward's suggestion that I use the fire bucket hanging on the toll booth wall, and I make my way into the service station. Finding the toilets, I barely have time to seat myself before the radio telephone rings. Our radio phone is a state of the art device manufactured by Eric and Son, and it weighs a miserly 25lb. Hoicking it onto my knees I answer the call to find that it is Monsieur Sarron, a snooty representative of the French recovery firm:
"Bonjour monsieur Carreeck"
"Yes hello, about time too, when will you pick me up?"
"Ah, first Monsieur Carreeeeck, you must tell me one thing"
"And what's that?"
"You must describe to me exactly where you are"
"What?! Can't a man perform his toilet in peace? how dare you man"
"Pardon monsieur, I meant where is your motorcycle located?"
"Oh"

9.30am
I am back on the radio phone talking to a Frenchman about the fact that I am not on the Peage, so yes, 'Mondial Assistance' can jolly well come and pick me pronto. This discussion becomes too Gallic for my taste so I enlist the help of a local to negotiate for me. Unfortunately, there is no chance of the recovery vehicle picking me up from the bridge and I will have to rely on the undoubtedly expensive bridge recovery vehicle to take me to the next road from which 'Mondial Assistance' can pick me up to take me to a motorbike shop in Deuville. This is becoming absurd so I turn to Duncan.
"Duncan, be a sport and go and ask a local where I can get my tyre fixed would you?"
"Aye"
"Pardon?"
"och, sorry, I meant certainly I will"
"That's better"
For some reason the locals seem to understand Duncan's strange English better than mine, and he doesn't have to resort to shouting at all. He does sterling work in arranging a local garage that can repair the tyre and Brooks offers to take my wheel on the back of his machine. I opt to stay, because I suspect that one of our party may be out to disable my vehicle.

11.30am
We are sat at a delightful café in a small village, drinking coffee and eating croissants. The repaired tyre is working well and because of my vigilance no other 'mishaps' have befallen my machine. We have made contact with our local guide and he has arranged to meet us some 70 miles from here.

1.00pm
We find our guide asleep next to his machine. Birch is a West Country man who has made his home amongst the French and it seems that he has adopted some of their slovenly ways. A swift kick gets him to his feet and we are soon on our way to his farmhouse home. Upon arrival we are introduced to his wife.
"Hello there," I say as I shake her by the hand, "pleased to meet you"
"Aye, 'appen as mebee, it's grand ter meet yer too"
"Pardonez Moi, mademoiselle, I took you to be English"
"Oi am English, yer greet wassock"
I turn to Brooks, "Could you translate old man, my French is very rusty."
After Brooks has made some small talk it embarrassingly transpires that Mrs Birch is in fact a Yorkshirewoman.

We spend the afternoon fettling the expedition vehicles and trying out each other's machines. Hayward asks where the dog does its business and surprises us all by disappearing in that direction clutching some toilet roll. He is taking this native practices thing very seriously indeed.
In the early evening Mrs Birch concocts a welcome BBQ of tripe, black pudding and several roasted whippets, all of which is surprisingly tasty. We drink some beer, discuss all manner of rubbish and retire early to our bunks.

May 10th 2003, 8.00am
Morning dawns in that sulky French way, with a sly mist and a chill. Our foreign friends, Mr Duncan and Mr Johnson show no sign of getting out of their billet so I call for Brooks.
"Brooks, wake them up and teach them a lesson"
"Of course, old chap, but what would you suggest?"
I eye him sharply, "Brooks, they are sleeping under the tin roof of the barn and you are stood in a yard full of pebbles"
"I understand you fully" he replies, with a smile forming on his honest face.

9.00am
All of us, including the lazy foreigners, are on our way to our first destination: 'supply depot number 2', a petrol station in Evron, at which we fill our tanks to the brim. Thus prepared, we set off to Harcouet-le-whatdyacallit to meet the French guides for this stage of the expedition. We arrive at a small café, outside of which are lined up some ten or so Yamaha SRX singles. Typically the French are not ready to depart so we spend some time drinking coffee and eating extravagant food. I've always found it tactful to endure such hardships and to accept that their culture is less disciplined than ours.

11.30am
Morgan decides to entertain the crowd by displaying his exceptional riding skills, including his famed footless wheelie routine, where he adopts the posture of the comic creation 'Superman' as his KTM lurches violently across the road. One Frenchman declares that Morgan looks out of control but I do not acknowledge this slur and make no reply. Eventually, after some more coffee, more food, the perusal of a pornographic magazine and a brief sleep, our chief French guide declares that he is ready to set off. The street fills with the roar of single cylinder engines and the belching of indigestion-ridden Frenchies.

1.30pm
We are stopped at a local beauty spot with views across the estuary to Mont St Michel. One of the SRX chaps breaks his clutch cable so during the enforced delay I volunteer to teach the locals how to ride a sidecar. I ask Duncan to demonstrate some basic manoeuvres and the bloody fool starts spinning the rear wheel and slewing around the car park; within minutes it seems that every damn Frenchie is queuing up to do the same. I will have a stiff talk to that young man later.

2.30pm
We are stopped again at another viewing spot with views across to Mont St Michel. They do seem to be impressed with the fact that they have built a great big church in the middle of the sea. Some photos are taken and we set off for the final visit of the day. After a long slow ride we pull into a dusty car park, across the way from which stand a plywood castle on a mound and a replica of Mont St bloody Michel in a pond. A long bar contains some bowls of crisps and whilst munching away we are approached by a local.
"Would you like something to drink monsieur?"
"That's very civil of you, we'll have some tea please"
"Tea?"
"Yes, six teas please, chop chop."
He looks doubtful and returns with six glasses of sparkling wine, into which he pours some red liquid. Johnson reaches for his glass and I only just manage to knock it out of his hands before he puts it to his lips.
"You bloody fool," I cry, "you've no idea what's in that glass"
"Yes I do you pommy git, it's kir royale and if you don't want yours," he reaches for my glass, " then I'll bloody drink this one instead."
This insubordination is just what I was expecting from the Antipodean. The Australians would do well to remember the fine British stock that helped build their country.

The French start muttering amongst themselves and it is announced that there will be a photo taken of the machines, parked in front of the plywood castle. I don my helmet, but someone taps me on the shoulder and says, "Non monsieur, seulement les SRX." It transpires that only SRX machines can be included in the photo and I notice in horror that Duncan is welcomed into the line-up. I'd begun to question his loyalties and this seems to confirm that he may well be the traitor in our midst. I walk over to Hayward.
"I say old chap, you've an SRX, could you please go and join Duncan in the photo."
"Certainly, old man, I was on my way."
At least with Hayward near him, the Scot will have no chance to get too pally with the locals.

3.30pm
We set off from this alcoholic stopover and ride the 20 kilometres to our evening billet, a solid old farmhouse hotel at which we are to eat this evening. We are ushered into a large room with three large tables with bench seats. This set-up is very reminiscent of the eating hall of a British public school, but in typical Republican fashion there's no head table. Our first course is some sort of indigestible uncooked meat and if it isn't for the free wine and cider then we couldn't finish the following four courses. Eventually the hall clears and only us Brits remain. Steve excuses himself and leaves, and the rest of us settle down for an hour or so of banter and chat. There is no port and no cigars, but needs must.

May 11th 2003, 4.00am
I'm woken by the sound of the dormitory door gently closing.
"Who's there?" I whisper.
"Sssh, it's me Hayward"
"What the devil are you creeping around in the dark for, with an adjustable wrench in your hand?"
"I thought I heard something... you can't be too careful you know, I thought I'd use this as a weapon."
"And the hammer?"
"The hammer? Oh yes that too"
"And the screwdriver?"
"What?"
"The screwdriver poking out of your dressing gown pocket."
"Oh, I wondered where that had gone, well good night old thing."
"Good night, and Hayward..."
"Yes"
"Well done."

8.00am
Morning reveals a room covered in discarded motorcycle clothing, fuggy from the smell of six male bodies. I get up quietly and make my way downstairs and into the yard where I intend having a peaceful smoke of my pipe. My eyes go to where my immaculate sidecar outfit is parked, or rather was parked, because in its place stands a ramshackle eyesore of a vehicle, my machine has been well and truly sabotaged. Soon I am joined by some of the locals, most of whom take delight in scoffing at the embarrassing machine that was once my pride and joy. The other members of the team arrive and stand looking confused.
"Crickey Carrick," says Hayward, who to my disquiet is relieving himself into the farm dog's food bowl, "there must have been someone prowling around last night."
"And yet you said that you didn't see anyone."
"Well no, indeed, they must have hidden when I came out."
I watch for Duncan's reaction and it confirms my suspicions when he regards Hayward with a very odd look on his face. I could kick myself for not having been more vigilant.

10.00am
Breakfast being disposed off and all our kit stowed back on the vehicles, we are ready for departure. Our French hosts make no effort to hide their amusement at the state of my sidecar. Duncan and Johnson are stood talking with some Frenchman and they repeatedly look over at Hayward and myself, this doesn't bode well.
"Come on chaps," I cry, "mount your vehicles, we must depart."

Our first priority is to get some petrol and we head for the nearest large town. Eventually our supply depot is found and we fill up then park our vehicles to discuss our plans.
"Well chaps," says Brooks, "what do we do now?"
"Might I suggest something?" asks Duncan, "Perhaps, Hayward, you can help me demonstrate some of my findings?"
"Yes, of course, my pleasure."
Duncan's speciality is Phrenology, which involves the study of head shapes to determine character and temperament. He continues,
"Yes, you see I have been taking notes throughout this trip and I have reached a startling conclusion. Come here Hayward and take off your helmet." Hayward, complies.
"You see that Mr Hayward's head is distinctive in that he has a larger right-side Mound of Keenan than the left" We nod our agreement.
"And yet Hayward says that he is an ex-Harrow man."
Hayward looks aggrieved, "That's right, I'm a Harrow man through and through."
"And yet," Duncan continues, "no Englishman would have such a feature, but there's more... You have a full head of blond hair, yet your depressed Hilliard's plate and large Region René suggests that you are prone to early hair loss."
All this time Duncan has been probing Hayward's scalp with his expert fingers, and at this last remark he makes a sudden movement to reveal that Hayward is wearing a hairpiece and is in fact as bald as a new-born baby. We gasp in shock.
"Hayward?"
"No I am not your Mr Hayward" he shouts, "I am known as Funduro, the sworn enemy of dirty motorcycles, I am a master of disguise and evader of justice and you..." he looks directly at me, "you and your damnable machine are a disgrace, yes, a disgrace to your club and to your country. You had to be stopped."
"So you were the saboteur?"
"Yes, and all the time you were too blind to see it, it was easy."
"But," continues Duncan, not now in a Scots brogue, but in the clipped tones of an English gentleman, "not all of us were blind, not all of us were fooled and perhaps some of us have been playing some tricks of our own"
"What do you mean?" snaps the bald villain.
"I mean that whilst you were relieving yourself against a Butcher's shop window in St Gemmes Le Robert, we made a little adjustment to your machine." He walks over to Hayward's bike. "We jammed your choke cable open, so you see, you haven't been able to make a quick getaway for days, and you won't be able to do so now."
"Damn you, damn all of you."
"You can swear as much as you like, but I am an officer of the law, sent from Scotland yard, and Johnson and I will be escorting you back to England where you will have to face the music."
Duncan takes his prisoner into custody and we turn to Johnson.
"Are you a part of this too Johnson?"
"Well yes," he replies, not as an Australian but with the drawling tones of a Midlands man, "Oi'm a pleezman too, oi mean, look at me feet"
And for the first time we notice that he does indeed have very large feet.

11.00am
As they take their prisoner into custody, I take Duncan to one side.
"Please forgive me for my suspicions, I've been a fool."
"I'd have to agree old chap, but don't be too hard on yourself, he is a very clever man, but thankfully not clever enough."
With this they depart for the ferry port, to meet the British Prison Service ship that has been sent for them. Which leaves three of us alone, in a state of some agitation and confusion.
"So, you chaps, are you clear where we stand?"
"Yes" says Brooks
"Yes I knows where we're to" says Morgan.
"Oh honestly Morgan, can't you drop that ridiculous Welsh accent and admit that you're in on this too?"
"No Mr Carrick, I cannot, I am Welsh you see and this is how we talks in the Swansea valley and I happen to think I talks right tidy too, now there's lovely... isn't it?"
There is an embarrassing silence after this outburst, but I decide to press on,
"Right, back to your bikes, we have less than an hour until the Café Gatling in Arromanches opens its doors, and I want to buy you chaps some mussels."
And so we set off for Arromanches, arriving in good time and soon settling into a pleasant afternoon of eating and sightseeing.

5.30pm
As the afternoon draws to a close we find ourselves in the pretty harbour town of Honfleur, sipping coffee and discussing the strange events of the last few days.
"There is one conclusion that we must draw from this old chap," says Brooks, "that sidecar of yours is a bloody disgrace."
"Do you really think so? And what about you Morgan?"
"Well I've always thought that it reminded me of home, isn't it?"
"What, it reminds you of the beauty of the rolling Welsh hills?"
"No, it looks like one of the burnt out cars on the Gurnos housing estate in Merthyr."
And with that we set off for our ferry home, our expedition a failure in one respect, but a triumph for British pluck in another.

I hope that you enjoyed this story and I would like to point out that all the characters and most of the events are not fictitious. However, I reserve my right as the storyteller to decline to specify which parts are true and which have been embellished, but rest assured that a scarily small amount of it is made up.

Graham Carrick