Foggy by Carl Fogarty

Author:Carl Fogarty [Fogarty, Carl]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780007381449
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2012-07-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Reaching my Peak

Being world champion had increased my bargaining powers. Neil Tuxworth was still desperate for me to be back on a Honda and approached me again at the end of 1994. Doug Polen had under-performed that year but was on a two-year deal, so Honda were looking for a way out for the following season. This time it was very easy for me to say no. I had already negotiated a very good deal with Ducati with good bonuses. My new leathers and helmet contracts were also in the bag at decent money.

All this meant that I had been able to buy a few new toys, including a brand new red BMW M3. I soon found out that there was more than just the cash price to pay for owning a few luxuries. I always parked the car on the drive next to the house at night but one morning it had disappeared. After ringing the police, I contacted my insurance people, who asked if it had a tracker system. At first I told them that it hadn’t, but later remembered the salesman telling me that the tracker could be activated any time I wanted and had a 98 per cent success rate in finding stolen cars.

Within a couple of hours the garage told me that it would cost £60 to have the tracker reconnected. ‘I’ll pay it,’ I said, although I thought that the car would be on some ship to Holland by then. Five hours later the police located it, being stripped down in a barn in nearby Bolton. The bastards claimed that they were just doing some work on it for another guy who had dropped it off. And, as usual with the British legal system, they got away with it and are probably out there nicking more cars today.

Meanwhile the animal sanctuary was still in full swing. The first of the pigs had arrived the previous year. Unusually for a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, it was pink. Most of them are black so we soon decided to buy a normal coloured companion, as the first one was really clean and didn’t need much looking after. It never once shit in its hut and, during the day, was happy to roam around the half an acre in which it was penned.

We needn’t have bothered about it being lonely because, unknown to us, the neighbour’s pig had escaped and shafted ours before being caught. We weren’t even sure whether it was pregnant because it was so fat – until all hell broke loose when Michaela was out with some friends one night. Piglets were coming out at all angles. I needed help.

One of Michaela’s mates, Mandy Wrigley, who later took Bridget the Great Dane off our hands, had just bought a pub in a dodgy area of town. I rang the Elma Yerburgh pub and asked them to stop the live music to get an urgent message to Michaela. ‘You’ve got to get home quick,’ I shouted. ‘She’s giving birth.

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