My first mechanised mode of transport was a Lambretta scooter (Li150 for the technos amongst you). Bloody good, except it froze the gonads off you if you went any distance in the cool times of year, which in England means most times of year. I also bought a duffel coat, very trendy gear in the early sixties, trust me on this. Not one of the poncy things you buy nowadays: this was ex-Navy stock, designed to withstand Arctic blizzards on the Archangel run. It was so voluminous – as indeed I am myself – that anyone seeing me zooming along the Queen’s highway on me scooter, duffel-wrapped,could only see a seated figure, not the scooter. That must have been disconcerting.
When I moved to Bournemouth, I fell in with the expat Italian crowd – mostly restaurant and hotel workers – and it was a joy to zoom round the Square beduffled and bescootered in the morning to cheers and cries of “Ciao, Professore!”, this being the only time in my life that I achieved celebrity status.
The pillion was a hallowed place, having many times felt the warmth of the lovely bum of the lovely lass who was later to become Mrs Allsop. One winter’s eve, we rounded a corner, hit ice and skidded. I went one way, the scooter went another, and the future Mrs A yet another. I picked myself up and immediately ran to see if my scooter was all right, completely forgetting the spreadeagled lady on her back in the middle of the road. Why she married me after that, I will never know. Love’s a funny thing, ain't it?
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