Rupert Goodwins' Diary
To Sendo, where the company's sponsorship of the Ducati motorbike racing team is being celebrated with beer, dolly birds and the bikes themselves. I have little interest in motorbikes, although I must admit that the specimens on display are quite beautiful in their gawky functionality. As for the Grid Girls, also known as the Brolly Dollies, they are charged with holding umbrellas over the racers as they wait for the off: at the party, they sashay around in tiny skirts and dispense free VIP invites to see them perform at their other job -- dancers at the world-renowned Spearmint Rhino gentlemen's club. Alas, my interest in such matters is on a par with that I have for the bikes, so I give my VIP passes away to freelance hackette Hilda Breakspear. She exclaims that she knows just what to do with them. I forebear to ask.
The evening proceeds and everyone looks forward keenly to the denouement, when a draw will be made of business cards and one lucky punter will get a Sendo X. Cooo! There's also a selection of other goodies -- hats, spangly crash helmets (very posh crash hats, according to experts), T shirts and so on. I of course win nothing, and fellow ZDNetter Jonno Bennett has to be content with a baseball cap and a female-cut T-shirt (which he promptly gives to Hilda, who is doing well so far). Dan, from What Mobile, wins a helmet -- which he looks at bemusedly -- and the lucky winner of the Sendo X is.. is… Tony Dennis!
Now, Tony is the last person on earth who needs a Sendo X. He's not called Tone the Phone for nothing: he already *has* a Sendo X (unlike certain people… sniff) as well as three other phones, and those are just the ones he's carrying around with him this evening.
But he also has a past. One of the things he used to do in it was write about motorbikes -- and he covets the helmet that Dan has won. A quick swap later, and happiness reigns. However, does he also have a bike? He does, but it's in bits in his garage -- a condition it's enjoyed for nearly four years. Hilda and I extract from him the promise that he will rebuild his steed and take to the roads once more in two weeks' time.
Will he make it? Will we be treated to the sight of his leonine figure roaring around town in a cloud of burning rubber? Will the streets of London be safe with a raddled old comms journalist in leather?
We shall report back in a fortnight.