No Go, No Show by Mark Williams

'Blimey,' I find myself spluttering into only my second Martini of the morning, 'it's that time of year again.' And what's more, it is. After a few weeks' richly deserved R & R, not to mention quite a lot of S & M (that's Spiritualism and Meditation, you foul-minded lot) for the first time in ages my new personal assistante, Lorna Doome, has just alerted me to the state of my executive diary, and it's not a pretty sight. Not one, but three motorbicycle shows have been pencilled in for the next month and, if I am to honour all my other commitments (Polo with the Nabob of Punjar in Kashmir, a romantic weekend with the Sultana of Kiripwana in Qatar, the annual celebrity ice-racing championship with the Penthouse Pets in Reykjavik etc., etc.), I really don't see how I can attend them all. 'It really is getting a bit silly,' I tell young Lorna as she buffs my toenails, "when the adverts for the Dirtbike Expo at Telford resort to dissing the competition at the Dirt Rider Expo at Stoneleigh - a few weeks later - with jibes about their 'chicken sheds' and marketing 'lies'. 'I've done a bit of lying in chicken sheds myself,' smirks Lorna, who's from yeoman stock in the Cotswolds, 'and it was quite fun. You should try it sometime,' she winks. Chance would be a fine thing, I think silently. Knowing her father to be a top man on a grouse moor with a brace of Purdeys, I decide to keep schtum at this stage. Anyway, it might be fun to visit both off-road Expos just to see who, quite literally, puts on the best show and whether there's really enough punters out there who're keen enough to visit both of 'em..., though I cynically suspect not. And there might be fisticuffs between rival promoters, which could be fun. So, sandwiched between the two, is the Motor B2004ke Show - as it's rather awkwardly called on the posters this year (except in Trader of course, where it's called the 'International Motorcycle & Scooter Show', as indeed it should be). And quite apart from the fact that it clashes with an invitation to judge the Pole Dancer of the Year Awards in Grimsby, I must weigh up the pros and cons of making my usual, much-fanfare'd appearance on Trade Day. Looking on the negative side, I reckon the reasons for not going this year are:

The traffic jams on the M42 queuing to get into the NEC, as the Zongella V24 overheats and I discover that Lorna has failed to replenish the mini-bar with Mumm; The interminable wait, in the rain, for the bus to transport me from car park to exhibition halls or alternatively; The interminable walk, in the rain, getting from the car park to the exhibition halls; The last two, in reverse; The inevitable spat with men, and sometimes women, who menace me with their walkie-talkies, clipboards and curt manners and, having failed to recognise Who I Damn Well Am, are obliged to summon Charlie Harris away from his usury in order to effect my entry; The perma-tanned, whispily-clad leggy lovelies on the Superbike Magazine, Suzuki Biker Babe and any other stand I can find 'em who fail to recognise Who I Damn Well Am and, more to the point, scoff at my invitation to cocktails in the Zongella when the show's over. (That's if you can scoff in a broad brummie accent); The large numbers of very fat people with lank hair and B.O. who certainly aren't members of any trade I'm part of, who roam round the show looking bemused and insisting on having their photos taken with the leggy lovelies who, unaccountably, smile indulgently if disingenuously at them. Which is more than they did at me; The dread greeting from venerated but of course very real members of the motorbicycle trade, who grip my hand in the holy sanctum that is the Trader Business Lounge with the salutation 'Didn't you use to edit MCN?', or 'You're Mike Nicks aren't you ?'; Trudging around the stands, ears battered by crap discoid muzak to view no new models (apart from the leggy lovelies) that haven't already appeared ad nauseum in MCN, and/or at INTERMOT (which of course I was transported to like a hero in some potentate or another's private Learjet);

Alcohol poisoning; So-called motorbicycle journalists I used to work with, or even employed in a previous life, showing off smart haircuts and sharp suits they've acquired as adjuncts to their new careers in P.R., where they earn a king's ransom; Being threatened with physical violence by persons who've taken my advice for saving the motorcycle trade quite literally, yet have somehow, and unaccountably, ended up bankrupt; Warren T. Klame offering to sell me some of his shareholding in EMAP for a 'mere' five figure sum 'if I act quickly', i.e. before my sixth large gin'n'tonic; The buying-and-selling horror that is the retail marketplace, where shoddy kit is sold for silly prices to gullible geeks, of whom I am all too often one - after that sixth g'n't; Meeting the few genuine old friends that don't mistake me for Mike Nicks or the ex-editor of MCN but still assume I know what I'm talking about industry-wise, thus cruelly exposing my abject ignorance when they insist on discussing floor-planning and trade-in deficit swaps; So there we have the downsides of attending Her Majesty's International Motorcycle Show, but 'what about the upside?' you may ask. Er, erm, well... Free, supersized, overfilled baguettes and gourmet-style coffee, courtesy of Motorcycle Trader and, therefore, of the steamed ed. of this mighty organ. And whilst mournfully realising that I can't really add to this tawdry validation for visiting the Show, I am also reminded that there is in fact no such thing as a free lunch. So, see you at next year's shindig then? Maybe.

The above article is from the November 2004 issue of Motorcycle Trader
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