One hot, genuinely steamy June night, in 1976, the early hours of the morning found me outside a take-away ‘hole in the wall’ type place, in the middle of Boscombe, Bournemouth.
My motorcycle was parked (as ever) sideways-on, back wheel to the gutter, side-stand out – and as for all of us those days, your bike was so individual – it would serve as an early marker as to your presence anywhere, inside or out.
It must have been around 2.30am, I was the only customer – no other traffic.
A single vehicle approached along the otherwise deserted Christchurch Road and as it neared the takeaway it started to slow.
The windows of the car were all down (hot night) –and as the car drew level with the takeaway the driver leaned out.
A single word rang-out across the deserted scene, echoing back and forth between the shop fronts.
The vehicle never stopped, and soon was out of sight, and out of ear-shot.
Dave Shead was on his way home, and thought he’d hurl good-natured abuse at me.