Self-immolation appears to have become all the rage amongst the hurdy-gurdyists, so I thought I'd give Broadstairs a miss today and pilot the TT over to Margate instead. Here's my report.
1. Parked up in 'Rendezvous' car park. Car park full of architects' Bentleys. Occupants gazing wistfully at where the old Anthea Turner Centre might have been, wondering how they will spend the twelve million smackers on offer to build the new Anthea Turner Centre. (Answer: by converting the lifeboat station into a multi-storey car park and pocketing the other eleven million).
2. Walked up high street to find a hole in the wall. Plenty of holes in most of the walls.
3. Passed by a public house called The Waverley. Two tattoed men outside screaming at each other: "DO YOU WANT SOME?" Assume this is how the channel dividing the Ile from the rest of Kent derived its name.
When I dined with Ronnie Biggs in Rio in the 90s, he told me that what he missed most about Blighty was the smell of Margate, and that it was his dying wish to be given the opportunity to savour it again.
Well, even though he's now banged up in Belmarsh, 70 miles up the road, I think I can say with utter certainty that Ronnie will have at last attained his heart's desire.