Don't know if anyone will be interested in this. It's an article I wrote in 2001 (hence some of the details may be well out of date) and is probably a bit longer than most posts on here but feel free to comment and correct me if you wish.


TT CHANGES

by

ANDY SANSON

Nineteen seventy six. A quarter of a century ago. Have you ever felt old all of a sudden? The first time I crossed the Irish Sea to that magic that is the Isle of Man and the TT Festival (or plain TT Races as it was then) was four years after the last man walked on the Moon, a year before the Silver Jubilee and three and a half years before John Lennon signed his final autograph.

This was a time when Douglas Promenade was made up of Victorian boarding houses and hotels and Bushy's was a Yates' Wine Lodge. There were few Indian Restaurants; even fewer finance houses, and the thought that one day there would be a tented village at The Grandstand would have been something quite alien to the Triumph and Norton enthusiasts languishing in their guest house bars until four in the morning.

The Douglas Bay Hotel still stood on Onchan Head at the north end of Douglas prom, with its late bar, snooker room, three belly-busting meals a day and Irish chambermaids. Many of the riders stayed there because of the well-equipped garages (and Irish chambermaids) on the premises. I remember complaining that lager was 38p a pint - 10p more than in the pubs. The hotel was run by Les Rainieri, had been for many a year, and was a priceless gem. I stayed there in 1977 for the entire fortnight at a full board cost of £7.50 per night. Of course, it was demolished. At first the story was it would be converted to apartments with "stunning views" and every modern facility. Last time I was in Douglas it was a bomb site, the only sign of what it had once been, the weather-beaten "Douglas Bay Hotel" carved in stone at what used to be the entrance to the car park.

The Villiers Hotel has gone, admittedly because it was falling down; Steve Gibbons had to find somewhere else to belt out his excellent rock and roll. The Highlander pub on The Course is now an overpriced restaurant and the exquisite Dog's Home a ******* car park.

Mention has to be made of the Palace Lido; that magnificent relic of Victorian Dance Hall Extravagance that sat behind the Palace Hotel for many years before it too succumbed to Douglas Corporation's "Modernisation and Improvement" policies. The place was the size of a small cathedral and probably saw more decadence and heresy than it had any right to. In later years it wasn't uncommon to have to wade through rivers of stale lager and over copulating couples in order to reach the 4-pint Jug Bar whilst avoiding falling drunkards who had failed to reach the balcony by way of the human pyramids that grew spontaneously from the dance floor during the livelier sessions. The toilets were an invitation to disaster being, as they were, in the cellar with only one way in and out. It was a truly wonderful place and is sadly missed.

Changing tastes over the years are illustrated by the acts that appeared at the Lido the first and last time I visited. In 1977 the pinnacle of thrash and heavy metal mayhem was represented by The Dallas Boys, an entertaining but not exactly radical bunch of clean cut fellows who specialised in popular song and comic interludes and were, for the want of a better description, very safe. In the last year of its existence, the Lido treated us to five nights of The Hamsters, the final night of which they supported their erstwhile chums and sometime colleagues, Dr Feelgood, shortly before the amazing Lee Brilleaux selfishly elected to deprive us of his company. It was a sweaty night.

Bushy's Ales were a long time in the future. All that was available was Okells or Castletown, two fart-tasting slurries which were eventually amalgamated into one even fartier-tasting sludge. You could buy lager and Guinness and this was the advisable choice unless you wished to resemble a barrage balloon full of methane for a fortnight and beyond. Some swore by both brews. I just used to swear about them.

Part of the pleasure of going to the Isle of Man in those days was the fact you could have an excellent, unhurried three-course meal in a wood-panelled restaurant during the boat trip from Liverpool. You needed some kind of relaxation in those pre-Ro-Ro days when thousands of quid's worth of bikes were unceremoniously craned on and off the boats at certain states of the tide, their frantic owners gawping helplessly as the precious machinery swung from side to side thirty feet above their heads. Once in the safety of the restaurant you were served by predominantly Irish or Liverpudlian waiters or waitresses who were not concerned if you spent the entire four hours of the voyage over your meal and there was a plentiful choice of decent wines with which to despatch your roast beef, lamb or chicken and what seemed like a hundredweight of spuds and vegetables. You could not get microwaved Tikka Masala. These days the luxurious cafeteria of King Orry will, if you're lucky, hurl a few blackened fries and a burger that might do service as a poker chip at you and charge you a week's wages for it, inclusive of a leaky pot of lukewarm tea or a cafetière of axle grease and mud. However, the bar is open throughout.

On the subject of alcohol, as is the case at home, attitudes towards drink-driving have changed over the years. It was once possible to get blind drunk on the boat and ride off to your hotel up the wet tramlines on the back wheel, swigging whisky out of a bottle as you went, without attracting too much attention. Only when you were involved in an "accident" would the full weight of the white-helmeted law be visited upon you. Two weeks in Nobles Prison and a stern talking-to from a frowning Deemster would normally be sufficient to ruin your TT for you. Although I have seen people riding past the policeman at the landing stage in recent years with a deal more than the legal limit in them, it's neither socially acceptable nor prudent and pretty well asking for it. And they have the breathalyser. You can always leave your bike at the quayside and come back for it "when you're sober" .

And of course bikes are and always were the main reason for the TT being in existence at all. The major difference today is that they go faster, come in pretty colours and tend not to spew oil all over the place. The ratio of British to foreign motorcycles has plummeted. There are still the enthusiasts who travel hundreds, or even thousands, of miles on ancient machinery; vintage Vincents, archaic "Ajays" and prehistoric Panthers, but twenty five years ago the four-stroke single and twin-pot rumble was the predominant sound around The Mountain. Today this is provided by Ducatis and BMWs (which have been around for ever, of course), whilst the majority hurtle around The Course on Fireblades wondering why it takes two and a half times as long to do a lap as the slowest competitors in the Races. Open-face and pudding basin helmets were the norm - and goggles!

There have always been stalwarts and barmpots. There's a story about one guy who used to travel each year from Switzerland on a Honda 90 and sleep under the covered walkway by the Villa Marina. He must have gone home after Race Week, had his lunch and turned straight round for next year. I don't know if it's true but it certainly wouldn't be beyond possibility and each TT veteran has his or her own evening's worth of yarns to tell.

So some things haven't changed. You can still be banged up, deported or both for bringing a micron of cannabis on to the Island. The trams and railways are still functioning (although I think it's some years since Jimmy Saville last pulled a toast-rack tram along the prom) and most of the pubs on The Course, except The Ballacraine, are still there, albeit changed beyond recognition. I'm given to understand that The Keppel Inn at Creg-ny-Baa is an "eating house".

The TT is now a two-week bacchanal that just happens to have a the added attraction of motorcycle racing. No change there then. If you've been to the TT you'll know all about it. If not, then sadly you'll have to wait til next year. Without wishing to comment one way or the other about the Manx Government's dithering decision to cancel the races this year (remember, this was written in 2001, the year of the foot and mouth outbreak) I have to say that it's in line with the way they do things over there. Nothing is ever hurried. The unofficial motto is Traa-da-looar, which means "Time enough" - nothing that can be put off until tomorrow is done until the day after.