The Garden Gate
Leaning o’er t’garden gate chatting to a pal, he asked me whether I’d ever done any good. “What at? The Horses? Life?” “Nar,” he said, “that racin’ stuff you used to do.”
Ah, that. “Well, I vividly remember sitting on my Rickman Triumph in the warm-up area at Crosland Moor when the exhaust note changed and it felt a bit lumpy, looked down at the motor that I had lavished many an hour on to see that
