I am a Mod

Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

The Who  

A hush fell on my fellow secret addicts and you could have heard a pin drop in the room as I made my ritualistic confession: "I am a Mod!"

I'd said it. There was no going back.

For many years I have harboured a desire to ride a Vespa scooter and wear a Parka jacket.

Early this year I finally succumbed and bought a Vespa PX125, a Mod scooter model that Italian manufacturer Piaggio has been making since 1977.

Since then, metaphorically, it has not been an easy ride.

My father, bless him, has always been an anxious chap, even in his prime.

When my brothers and I were growing up, he relentlessly drummed into us the extreme dangers of motorcycling.

It left a mental block, I guess.

And so it was that at the age of 52 that I first took to two wheels, at first having to negotiate myself through a hellish ordeal known as the CBT - not Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, on this occasion, but Compulsory Basic Training.

I can honestly say that my CBT was the most terrifying day of my life. I will not describe the horror of that experience in detail - I will leave that for another occasion.

Suffice to say, it was a miracle - or at least an extreme combination of diplomacy and spin - that the motorcycling instructor in Eastbourne reluctantly awarded me (and the other candidate that day) our certificates so we could ride.

As we left his workshops, he turned to us and said doubtfully: "You are going to be all right, aren't you?"

Unfortunately, I could only get through my CBT on an automatic machine. I just could not master the gears. I must have stalled a hundred times. (The other guy was better but had no road experience whatsoever.)

And, yet, my PX125 has manual gears.

For the first few months I found it so hard that I never left the conclave of my 'hood: a little circuit of Brunswick Street East, Lower Market Street and Waterloo, almost bereft of traffic.

The regulars at the Bottom's Rest public house were amused and then grew tired of me passing every five minutes at speeds between five and 11 miles per hour.

I never got out of first gear!

My Mod career would have been doomed if it were not for the intervention of Mr Cheeky (who else?)

Mr Cheeky had befriended Django, the local black cat, and it was because of this I met Nick, Django's owner, who was also embarking on life as a biker, albeit on a 125cc motorcycle rather than a scooter.

Nic, an urbane, young VATman and musician from Isle of Man, offered to take me out on a motorcyling trips to build up my confidence. He has been brilliant.

A few months on, I am still a little nervous on the bike, but I get around and was confident enough to join the thousands of other bikers at the Brightona rally last weekend.

I hoped to hook up with brother Mods but, on this occasion, they were in fairly short supply. The August Bank Holiday rally is their big day.

However, I take the view that all motorcyclists are my brethren and confidently nod to Hell's Angels and generally talk to anyone on two wheels.

Everyone is very friendly.

Nick and I met some very pleasant Harley Davidson riders including one gentleman who was almost seven foot tall and showed me his massive bike.

A lot of these guys ride 1,700cc machines - bikes with much larger engines than many motor cars.

Despite my Parka, one biker even let me sit on his new Harley. It was incredibly comfortable and heavy. Like a mobile sofa.

I liked the way that the stages at Brightona alternated between rock music and ska - to please both the rockers and the Mods.

In reality, there is no war between them any more.

They get on like a house on fire when they meet.

There were so many amazing, beautiful machines at Brightona.

Bikers are incredibly creative and hardworking at customising and preening.

You could spend the whole day just admiring other people's motorbikes.

I rode back in the rain, which I hate. It is uncomfortable and you have to keep a constant eye out for manhold covers that can unmount you in an instant.


I loved the day, though. I need to get more experience on the Vespa.

My mentor Nick has driven more than 1,000 miles on his bike in the time I have clocked up 100 on mine.

Scootering is also economical. Much less expensive on fuel that driving a car - very useful at this time of personal austerity.

I also love the sound of the two-stroke engine and the clunk of the gears that the 1970s design still makes - authentic signs of having achieved Mod-dom!

On The Dole

The dreaded moment finally arrived. The money stopped coming. . . I was officially jobless.

Being short of money and not having received to date as much as a single penny in compensation from my former employer, I had no choice but to sign on to the dole.

It was strange.

On my first morning of joblessness, I tried to cycle to the local Job Centre on my mum's old bicycle (it has a useful front basket), and spent a good hour trying to find the place.

It turns out it is on a road which has a different name either side of the street! So, I could not see the road name that I expected when cycling from the Hove side.

When I finally arrived, bathed in sweat, the big guy on the door simply gave me a slip of paper with the address of the Government's website and told me to enrol online.

So, I went home and, after lunch, tried to sign up.

The Government's website soon told me to phone up instead. I did this and was told by numerous automated messages to sign up online!

Eventually, I talked to a human - a very pleasant chap in Derby - and begged him to fill in the form for me over the phone, which he kindly did.

He made a Job Centre Plus appointment for me and I soon received a text reminding me of the appointment, asking me to create a curriculum vitae and to sign up for a website called Universal Jobmatch. All of this I did almost immediately.

On the Monday, I felt somewhat nervous about my interview at the Job Centre.

I have not been through this process since 1980 when I signed up for the dole in the holidays as a student (which you could do in those days).

I well remember the Labour Exchange in Poole, Dorset, as being a spacious premises with a lot of boards with postcards pinned to them: Sous Chef, Poole, £18 per week; Hardware Stockman, Bournemouth, £26 pw; Shop Assistant, £21 pw.

That kind of thing. Money went a lot further in those days!

I do not recall what the amount of my weekly dole money was but I do remember I was put under no pressure to find employment.

Now signing on is a much more involved business. I was taken through at my initial interview by a charming guy called Steve, grey-bearded, coming up for retirement, he said.

He said it was mainly a matter of signing pieces of paper and looking for work.

Fair enough. I rather enjoyed chatting to him. He said most of his career had been spent working with the disabled which he preferred.

Steve got me to sign manifold documents and said my signing-on day was Tuesday - the following day - when there would also be a 20-minute induction session.

I returned the next day to be shown into a large room by a Scot. Another Scot asked me to sign my name and wait for the others to arrive. Eventually, there were 15 or 16 of us. Apart from me, they all looked miserable and disinterested. Quite a few of them were late.

The Scottish woman went through a presentation entitled "JSA Conditionality Group Information Session" at a cracking rate.

It was full of acronyms and jargon. I was the only member of the group to take notes. I suspected the others were not even trying to follow.

After around 35 minutes, it was over. I'd say the key themes were you have to turn up at the right time and on the right day to sign on, and in between you need to spend your time looking for work.

As I was leaving, the Scot gave me a leaflet about retraining as a lifeguard!

In my "Signing On" folder, I also have "My Claimant Commitment", which I have signed, and "My Work Plan", which I have aleady started filling out in green ink.

Every fortnight, I need to go to see my adviser or "Coach" to discuss how it is going. My first, 20-minute appointment with her is on Tuesday, 5 August.

I hope she is as friendly and laid-back as Steve was.

As I mentioned in my last posting, I am in a strict routine. Wake up at 7am, shower, breakfast; Walk lovely girlfriend to the bus stop at 8amish; walk along the seafront, visit Pic-nic cafe, chat to staff there, buy £1.30 cup of tea to take out; take a few photographs (some of which illustrate this posting); 9amish return to flat and look for work until lunchtime.

Sometimes, I am distracted by a bit of legal work connected with my situation or make cups of tea or play with Mr Cheeky who keeps me company, either stretched out on the guest bed (in my study) or the window sill, watching the world go past.

At 1pmish, I make a sandwich for lunch and play basketball with the youths on the seafront, then more looking for work until my girlfriend returns at around 6.15pm. We try to relax in the evenings.

I am yet to receive my first dole payment - it goes into your bank account these days. I am told it is only around £70 a week, circa £300 a month.

I have no idea how people can live from this.

Three hundred quid a month comes absolutely nowhere near covering my mortgage and bills. It might pay for my food and drink, if I am careful, which I am being.

It represents a take-home pay cut of around 90 percent, so I need to be a bit careful, while not economising on looking for work. Speculate to accumulate!

I wonder what my old mucker, Work Secretary Iain Duncan Smith, who gave me the exclusive interview when he was sacked as Tory leader, would make of me signing on at one of his houses of unwork. 

Maybe, I will write to IDS asking for gainful employment!

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I am afraid I owe Mr Cheeky and his friend "Miss Sleeky" a sincere apology.

The other day I got chatting with Nick, the biker across the road, who turns out to own Miss Sleeky.

It seems she is really a boy cat called Django.


"Don't worry," Nick said, "Everyone thinks he's a lady."

All the same, it is good Mr Cheeky has a playmate who keeps him out of serious trouble.