The Wispit. By Andy Sanson

Another satirical article in the series by Andy Sanson. A diversionary and humorous look into years gone by from the retired Dental Technician. Andy tells us of his boss’s attempt at becoming a motorcyclist.

Long before Greenpeace activists began wearing collars and ties, back in the days when they preferred to draw attention to their issues by rowing up to billion ton Japanese and

Russian whaling ships in rubber dinghies and wondering why they got run over, the Boss decided that he was going to enter into the spirit of the embryonic Planet Saving mood and buy himself a motorbike. By doing this, he reasoned, he could leave his gas-guzzling

Mercedes at home and feel better about himself having done his bit for the environment.

When I say ‘motorbike’ I am using the broadest sense of the word. What, I hear you ask, was his machine of choice? The great names of the day were the BSA Rocket 3, the Gus Kuhn Norton Commando. Triumph’s Bonneville was still a great stalwart and, in a move that would eventually turn the tide and see the demise of the once great but now outdated and stuck-in-the-past British Motorcycle Industry, the likes of Honda, Yamaha and Suzuki were just beginning to wriggle their way into the consciousness of the discerning rider. So did he choose one of these super beasts? Of course not. He disappeared one lunch time and returned several hours later with a garish yellow motorised stick insect which he told us, as he stood proudly beaming by the side of the thing, was a Raleigh Wisp, or, as he decided to call it, The Wispit.

There are no words to describe this abomination so I won’t even try. It weighed about an ounce and, with its rather portly owner aboard, had a top speed of about ten miles an hour and the handling of a drunken duck. When it started up, after a pantomime that could last anything up to a quarter of an hour, involving our erstwhile employer pedalling like a lunatic and perspiring violently, it gave off a cacophony suggestive of somebody having poured petrol into a beehive, and belched out clouds of blue smoke that could block out the sun for days.

Despite his insistence that it was a splendid little machine he began to turn up noticeably later in the morning so that one of The Buggers would have to get out the coffee stuff for a second time. He would explain it away by saying that he had things to do at home and anyway it was none of our business, grumbling the while about being compelled to wear a crash helmet whilst ‘buggers’ on pushbikes hurtled past him, laughing, poking fun amidst half-heard comments about monkeys on wheels and silly old something or others.

The Wispit had a Perspex screen that purported to keep the rider shielded from the elements but in truth acted as a massive wind trap that resulted in the whole shebang falling over if a canary flapped its wings within half a mile, bending levers and shattering the screen itself. I would be sent to the bike shop to procure another one and would have to spend the afternoon fitting it ready for the next reenactment of the launch of the Cutty Sark. It became such a regular occurrence that I proposed he ought to get a few in and keep them in the shed in readiness. Or maybe see if he could buy a pack of twenty at a discount which latter remark provoked a reaction that led me to conclude he considered my expression of concern neither helpful nor relevant. Some people have no grasp of the meaning of the word ‘gratitude’.

Rubbertrap, The Boss’s blue-eyedboy and resident apprentice bullyer, would sometimes borrow the Wispit if the Boss didn’t need it to go home at lunchtime. What a shame it was when he split his upper lip wide open with a poorly secured bungee strap whilst trying to debauch it beyond all of its limits in order to secure a box the size of Pluto to the rack. Apparently it slipped at full stretch and took him up the gob with such force that a keeper at Chester Zoo went to check that one of the elephants hadn’t fallen into the ditch round its enclosure. The poor chap needed eight stitches and several patching up trips to Outpatients caused by ‘certain’ wags amongst us pulling out all the stops to make the rotten so and so laugh, causing him to split them all wide open again. As we were all a bit older and bigger now and not so intimidated by him, I’m afraid we were rather merciless in our revenge, even to the point where we found ourselves discussing, over cider and chips one evening, whether or not we should ease off and hadn’t we got our own back enough and taught him a lesson. The unanimous decision was, “Stuff ‘im”. With sniggers.

The Wispit remained an incidental, yet ever-present, part of my working life for about three years if my memory serves me as I would hope. One day I foolishly mentioned that I was thinking about buying another motorcycle to replace my aging BSA C15. With impeccable timing I did this on the very day that the Boss, unbeknownst to me, decided to sell it. He only wanted £50 and very kindly offered to deduct it from my wages. As I was earning about twelve pounds a week at the time the suggestion was impractical at best yet I detected a distinct coldness for several months afterwards, particularly as he eventually had to pay a scrappie a fiver to cart the desiccating heap away. When I turned up some time later on my sparkly new 250 Honda he glowered at me and it and said “What do you want to go and buy a load of bloody foreign rubbish like that for when you could have had The Wispit? I fought that lot in the War for you, you know.” I said I was very grateful for his selfless act but wasn’t one of the reasons he did so (actually, he didn’t. He and a chum ran a mobile dental lab in the Army which ensured that they kept well away from any likelihood of getting involved with any skirmishes other than perhaps in local bars of a weekend) to preserve future generations’ right and ability to do enjoy the freedom to make such decisions?

Apparently, that wasn’t the point, and I was a young bugger and an ingrate.

The

Wispit

By Andy Sanson