GiJoe comes back to haunt

Being single has its perks. And then it doesn’t. Last evening, I ‘went out’ with a gorgeous woman, who, apart from being a freak, gave me the worst headache I’ve had in three hundred years. One moment, I saw her waiting for me with a smile and a little wave. Dressed in Burberry, with Fendi sunglasses, and a Louis Vuitton handbag, she was worth a million dollars, and quite literally at that. So I drove her around, made conversation; I even did a bit of a ‘Jesus loves you’ driving impression which got her red in the cheeks (anger or embarrassment, I know not). And then, we headed home. Drink in hand, sunset in my window, the evening breeze, Café Del Mar providing the background score; it was just, what you’d call, perfect. And then, things started to go a bit wrong. See, very soon we were in the same room, ahem, within inches of each other. And soon the inches vanished. Then, suddenly, William (libel laws prevent me from using biological terms) felt a bit funny. As if Spearhead from GiJoe was trying to feel him (it) up. It was true. I lost my voice, and then my breath, as I saw a plastic claw wade its way through my Gas denims. She had an artifical hand; and the next few moments will be etched onto my memory for very, very long. The rest of it went quite well, fortunately. And I came home and drowned myself in beer to manage a good night’s sleep.

It is this artificial hand that kills it for the Yamaha Fazer too. It looks just right. Oozing flamboyance, with meat in just the right places, it is really a beautiful motorcycle. For eighty grand, you get Angelina Jolie’s breasts, legs off Halle Berry, and Claudia Schiffer’s silhouette. But it really still is Salman Khan with a breast enlargement job. It’s the go-anywhere sort; wide handlebars, beefy suspension, twin headlamps, the works. Essentially, an FZ with lip-gloss and a Revlon eyeliner. But, like all glam dolls, it misses one thing. Power. Im not saying this should have been a hard hard. No. But she doesn’t like the BeeGees. And chocolate, to her, is hateful. F*ck!

For the first three days I had the Fazer, I’d been riding it all wrong. I’d worn those all-purpose one-million pocket military green trousers and semi-off road boots, and I went out thinking I’d sail through the twisties, and return home to catch some crisp afternoon beer. But I came home dissappointed, and I wrote a column so full of hatred, the laptop caught fire. Basically, I thought the Yamaha was rubbish, and that it was made in the Annual Business Agenda Room, than in a room with little people in coveralls smelling of grease. And dog. It really did feel like someone smeared it with lip-gloss, and an expensive perfume, but forgot to put in something called a sex drive.

In my anger the next day, I began riding it like my pants were on fire, and to be honest, I had the most fun I’ve had on a motorcycle in a long time. It was ballistic, and it really came into life in the top end of the powerband. The handling package is better than Jolie’s in The Original Sin, and grip is just there all the bloody time. But back to a more normal riding style, and there it was – The Artificial Hand, in all its glory. It is that one element that would make me afraid of going out and buying one. She really is very good in bed, and loves me too. But she has a GiJoe and hates chocolate. Dear Diana, please help…