Farewell, my fine and faithful tash
I WAS asked to do a bike-related photoshoot for a national magazine the other day, as you are, and at first I thought the ensuing fame and glory would have huge benefits, such as naked women chasing me down the street screaming.
Even if all they were screaming is: "Geoff, for God's sake lend me your
duffelcoat: it's bloody freezing!"
However, what I didn't realise was that fame and glory comes at a price, and that I was to be asked to make the greatest sacrifice of all.
I was sitting in an armchair with Moggin the Mog on my lap, reading a flying magazine and having a nice cup of tea, when the phone rang. It was the magazine's photographic editor, who I shall call Zachary to disguise the fact that his real name is Adam.
"Geoff, this may sound like a really stupid question, but, er, how, er, attached are you to your moustache?" he said.
I tugged at it just to check.
"Fairly firmly at the moment, Adam. Why do you ask?"
"Well, the boss thinks that clean-shaven would look better.
And he is the boss. He'd also like some shots of you in a Steve Van
Zandt-style biker bandana."
"Well, I just hope you realise that shaving off my moustache will get me banned from the flying club, and that bandanas are supposed to be worn with Zapata moustaches according to Subsection Three, Rule 48 of the standing orders of Sons of Santa, the Belfast Hell's Angels chapter for dyslexic journalists. So I hope you realise the sacrifice I'm making."
"I do, I do. What we need is a small set of friendly but serious pics, then a change to maybe more biker-type gear, with a leather jacket and the bandana.
"Any motorbike-related props you may have easily to hand would be good, like a map, big spanner, a tyre or wheel, helmet, or maybe some handlebars? Anything you can think of."
"Grand job. I'll shave over theweekend and get my legs waxed just to be on the safe side. What about maybe a Golden Pineapple and a Cabbage of Doom for a laugh, in case you're featuring really good or really bad bikes?"
"Sounds great. Go for it."
"OK. There's a handy little fruit and veg barber and waxing emporium on the corner, and since the owner is dyslexic, he also sells bunches of bandanas, so that's sorted."
"Very funny. You should be a writer," he said.
An hour later, courtesy of Sainsbury's, I had a pineapple waiting to be sprayed gold for the Golden Pineapple, and an organic Savoy for the Cabbage of Doom.
Now all I needed was gold pineapple spraying paint, and some bandanas.
I parked the car downtown, and strolled into Craftworks in Queen Street.
"Have you time for a stupid question?" I said to the pleasant girl behind the counter.
"Always."
"I need to spray a pineapple gold."
"As you do. This should work," she said, producing a can of gold paint, examining the label carefully for small print saying Warning: Do not use on pineapples, and finding none.
"There you are. Just don't eat the pineapple afterwards."
Right. Now all I needed was a bunch of bandanas. Then I remembered a shop called Fresh Garbage that I hadn't been into for years.
"You don't have any bandanas at all, do you?" I said to the cheery chap inside.
"Sure do, bro. We have every bandana known to mankind. They're over there under that large sign saying Bandanas."
Five minutes later, I walked out with eight bandanas variously
decorated with Smileys, skulls, the Stars and Stripes, the Confederate flag, peace symbols, a chequered flag, assorted daisies, burning motorcycles and the King of Spades.
Then I phoned Sam McClurg at Phillip McCallen Motorcycles and asked him to dig out every giant spanner, wheel and set of handlebars he could find, and drove home to fill in my expenses to send to the
magazine.
a) eight bandanas, assorted: 25
b) commissioning solid gold
pineapple from Faberge: 56,000
c) shaving off moustache in midwinter: priceless.
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Tuesday 14 February 2012
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