'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that some presents soon would be there;
Colin was nestled all snug in his bed;
While visions of racing danced in his head;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from his bed to see what the fuck was going on was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave lustre of midday to what lay down below
When what to his wondering eyes did appear,
An RG500, some fags and a beer,
A leathered up rider with helmet to carry,
He knew in a moment it must be St. Barry!
More rapid than Vincents his teammates they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Ago! now, Hailwood! now Rutter and Read!
Rev up your engines and show us some speed!
To the edge of the gravel and inflatable wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle - highside to the sky;
So up to the housetop the riders they flew
With the sleigh full of bike parts, and St. Barry tooâ
And then, in a twinkling, exhausts spitting fire,
The howling of engines and squealing of tyre,
As Col drew in his head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Barry did come with a bound.
He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his foot,
And his sliders all tarnished with scrapemarks and soot;
A big number â7â he had placed on his back,
Stains of oil and petrol all over his pack.
His eyesâhow they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
As he lit up a Woodbine and drank all the sherry,
With an unshaven face and a zip to his belly
That sparkled like silver, just like on the telly,
He was skinny and lean in his all-in-one suit,
And around him there lingered the great smell of Brut,
A wink of his eye and a twist of his wrist
Soon gave me to know he wasnât half pissed;
He spoke not a word, but was nimble and nifty,
And produced in a moment a Suzuki JR50,
Then laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his bike, âStart your engines!â, he booms,
And away they all flew trailing old two-stroke fumes
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sightâ
âHappy Christmas to all, and to all a new bike!â
And thatâs how Colin Edwards got his first motorcycle on Christmas Day, 1977.
