TALES FROM THE SHED SHOW
There are lots and lots of definitions concerning the arrival of great age. Lots of them begin with ‘I remember when…’ whatever, add your own; Sergeant Pepper came out, Hendrix died, Kennedy was assassinated – that kind of thing. In my case I understood that I was finally and irrevocably past it when I remarked to the Better Third that I remember when the Stafford Show was held at Belle Vue, in Manchester. And yes, if you’re feeling particularly alert you’ll have spotted that it wasn’t known to anyone as the Stafford Show back then. Well done. Have a banana. And heck… I even remember when the Bristol Show was in Bristol. That’s a worry.
Of course I went to all the Belle Vue shows. A curious venue, and a sort-of offshoot of Alan Whitehead’s ground-breaking and always tremendous Bolton Autojumbles, held with dull predictability in Bolton. Which is now part of Manchester, I think. Or maybe not. Age is a great excuse for failing to carry out research.
Back in those days, when the classic bike was freshly minted and you could still buy new T140 Bonnies as well as the occasional brand-new Commando and even maybe a new T160 Trident from the more loyal of the old Brit bike dealers, the jumbles were absolutely bulging with piles of new old stock … ah … vital spares for all manner of elderly British bikes. It was great. I couldn’t believe how many new factory spares there were for my favoured old clunkers – mostly AJS at that point – and
