The Tale of the 120MPH Motorcycle Crash and Bad Underwear: Part 1

A tragic tale of humiliation. And epic failure in the wardrobe department.

Not the actual bra I wore that day: that got dumped in some hospital bin. PS: I just noticed the Durex there — it is not, I repeat not, central to the story. Not even peripheral. Photo by Celina Albertz on Unsplash

Dear Devoted Readers (all 3 of you),

The time has come to lay bare my soul and risk your opinion of me sinking from the heights we have enjoyed together into the depths of what-the-fuck territory.

It all happened one sunny day in 1981 when I was racing a policeman on my motorbike: not the one that sounded like wasps in a box, but the far superior Yamaha RD350LC. My pride and joy.

The actual Yamaha RD350LC

First, a minor digression about the underwear malfunction central to this tale of woe. Stay with me; it is crucial to the plot.

Digression #1

Sometime before the fateful day, I had gone shopping for a bra, size 28A. Hardly worth bothering with.

Filled with the kind of shame and embarrassment that can only come from a Catholic upbringing or Boarding School humiliation, I found in M&S (the only place in the UK you could buy underwear in 1981) a box with the requisite 28A label and a picture of a passable white thing with matching knickers (XS). Alas, I…