As if by magic, the beer truck appears We hadn’t camped up long when, whilst I was lying half in me tent, a voice quizzed “are ye bikers1”?, guessing it was unlikely to be the taxman, I confirmed his fears, it turned out to be Mac in Fife who by some amazing feat had recognised me boots, great observation skills mate. Mac camped up with us, never having met this rabble of random particles of wierdness before. By the end of the weekend we felt as if we’d all known each other for years.
Surprising, not least due to the fact that I had in fact known most of the company for years. For me at least, this is why I love the Farmyard, six thousand folk, but so laid back and friendly, ye always meet new mates here. Of to claim my beer tokens courtesy of my “Flexible Friend”, i.e my MAG memebership card, eight quids worth of beer tokens, ferchrissakkes, so £18 quid pre book and eight quid back, by my arithmetic that means me ticket actually cost me nine pounds four and thruppence ha’penny, result ! I hadn’t made it out of the MAG tent when Pugwash introduced himself.
His loverly bandit chop is featured here, he’d ridden 250 miles north on his hardtail, to get to the party, might have been more comfy on his bike methinks 😉 Folk from all ends of the country here. Deciding that these pricks were too much bother we got the dragstar started and limped off making it to the “Punch Bowl Inn” by Borrowdale Beck. Where Andy (a biker) and his missus made us most welcome despite us unloading gallons of water on their carpet, big thanks to them for the hospitality and coffee and a big thanks to the car transporter driver who gave us a can of WD40 and told us to keep it, cheers, both extremes of humanity in the space of fifteen minutes.
On the subject of the better side of humanity, more big thanks to Sue and Chris for their kind offers of floors and to Mags (aka Harleybint) cold and wet and went to bed, leaving me FJ motor stuttering along on two cylinders.
One of Annie’s dragstar’s coils decided it too needed it’s kip and gave up. The 650 motor don’t climb hills so well on one cylinder and decided it just couldn’t be bothered too climb the hill up out beyond Brough. This is where It all turned surreal and we passed into a parallel universe and entered a scene straight out of “Deliverance” ! on the A66? Annie’s bike finally died on the roadside outside a house with a yard and a couple of JCB’s in it.
I figured we might score some WD-40 from the natives, no fucking chance, four inbreds appeared, one wielding a spanner and another rolling his sleeves up, now, how did it go ? “get yer f*ckin’ bikes away from here you b*stards, go on just f*uck off, get to f*ck or I’ll kick your f*ckin’ bikes over, go on f*uck off you c*nts, there’s a f*cking layby a mile up the road, get to f*uck” Despite our protestations (and unholy ability to hold our tempers) the tirade of redneck abuse continued, “just f*ck off, we’re waiting on a delivery” get to f*ck”, hmmmm methink thou protest too loudly mate, what was the delivery, several pounds on uncut heroin?. Never mind, karma, they’ll get theirs. Well it’s that time of year again, ninth to be precise, load up the bike, take far too much shit and head south for the best bikers party goin’.
This year we left on Thursday to stay in Yorkshire, pity it was flash floods, pishin’ rain like the clouds had saved it all up for a year just for us and shit their load on the A66. Ye know when ye can’t see a thing through yer visor, and ye don;t see the six foot wide, four inch deep flood on the road wot neatly delivers four million gallons of water over yer coils and para boots , the latter which had held up stoicly against the rain all the way down the ’74 refusing to let the worst of the elements engulf me socks, finally surrendered, decided they’d had enough, rolled over and submitted, lovely !
ye know how para boots hold water in as well as they hold it out, about 2 pints in each. As if to add insult to injury one of my coils decided it was too
Friday saw the steady stream of bikes arriving, which turned into the near legendary Farmyard Party Queue. The site had been extended this year with bars and covered drinking areas at points along the site, niiice, not so far to walk for a beer 😉
Firewood was piled along the site, no bark this year, proper big logs, speaking of which there were lots of bogs which appeared to get cleaned and emptied every ten minutes.
Steph erects his new garage for his trike Saturday morning, ugh!, way to much Jack last night, sun’s lightin’ up me tent, it’s at gas mark 9 and me eyes are burnin’, christ it’s 7:30am, fall out the tent , grab a coffee, half a dozen cigs and make like a bear 😉
Saturday it’s customary for many, including oorselves tae go of into Helmsley for a Bikers Breakfast at Mrs Tiffins tea shop, ah more coffee, cigs and a bloody great fry up, all four food groups covered (well three, bit too early for the beer), good healthy livin’ don’t ya know. The square in Helmsley fills up to burstin’ on the Saturday, the sun was blazin, burnin’ us Scots “Blueskins” tae a crisp, a steady stream of bikes off to Scarborough or somply to the square then off tae the pub.
The lovely Sue and me mad missus
Lookin’ like lobsters just out the post we wandered back to the site for the afternoon entertainment, the Extreme trials had moved this year into the main arena, which meant that I actually saw it.
Wandering off to the outer field for a shot of taking pot shots at flying dinner plates and target shooting with an air rifle, none of yer old webley hawk, breaking it over yer leg stuff (erk showin’ me age again 😉 no this was a pukka target rifle, I couldn’t get me missus away from it. Click Here For Page One Click Here For Page One Click Here For Page Three
I didn’t get a chance to look at who built this ‘un but top marks, I think this ‘un won “Best In Show”, by this time in the afternoon one has imbibed a few ol’ sherrys m’lud, and reading the info sheets was gettin’ too hard.
I haven’t a clue who and what won everything else, I’m sure someone somewhere will have posted it up. Saturday evening was the meet up with the “Chaos Crew” at Tig’s stall. It was hoachin’ wi’ folk, and some ungodly sights ;-), the lass from the PILRC leading her man about by the knob on a dog lead was erm, um, different? Or as Ann said, “He’s got ‘is Albert Pierced” Managed to get a blether with Shadyfax, Cloud, Esri, Kinky Jezebel (hmmm), Abb, Lesley, MarkGSXR, Alien .
‘pologies to those who’s names I’ve forgotten, it was late, ah wiz drunk, what can I say.
The Custom Show, The standard of bikes that get show at the Farmyard never ceases to amaze me, quite a job to pick winners in some cases. Plenty of chops, fighters, rats, trike and classics. One of me favourites was Vic (Destiny Cycles) bandit? engined beauty, the quality of work and sheer engineering imagination sure wasn’t lost on me, unless ye build bikes yersel, which for me sins I do, I don’t think ye can truly empathize with the pain, blood,sweat and tears that goes into building a chop, eh Pug 😉
Another blisteringly gorgeous bike was the wee blue Triumph triple. Stand a shedload of chops together and scan ’em quick, one’ll always stand out coz the proportions and lines are just right I was so busy bletherin’ keech I missed most of the bands, I caught the Rhythm Bandits who had stood in as the headliners had to cancel.
The crowd was fair enjoying themselves as I tried to squeeze through the folk jiggin tae get some photies, they wound up the crowd with a set of well played covers. ’bout this time of night it was time to wander back to the tent and the fire,
this is the magic of the Farmyard, as ye clear the stalls and all ye can see in the solstice moonlight is miles of tents and bikes with plumes of wood smoke rising in the still air like an indian encampment, taking hours to get back to yer tent, stopping off at fires along the way tae blether with mates, old and new. Finally returning to our fire, and our twin saltires, a steady stream of folk stopped by, we were entertained by the mystery baritone bloke’s voluminous rendition of “Hi Ho………………” followed perfectly timed by various voices around the site.
A rather cheery Odge (I’m not english I’m a eorkshirman”) stopped by for a blether, then promptly produced a pork sausage from his pocket and enquired “Ah’ve got a sossidge, anyone got a stick”, who could refuse him, so he set about cooking his sausage on the fire, then predictably dropped it in the fire and failed miserably to fish it out with a six inch log. His long suffering son Lee appeared who was on “Watch Dad Duty”.
He got his marching orders, took two steps and legged it big style. Saw his boy in the morning, he never found him 😉 So, another Farmyard over for another year, big thanks to Pete, Mags and the crew for their hard toil and organisation, and understanding when Marty lost his wrist band, we’ll staple it to his head next year 😉
Thanks to all those whose company we enjoyed, we had a ball, see yers all next year.
Words and Pics By Al