Judging by the number of Cream era dads who spent Christmas Eve wrestling a flat pack box from the garage to the living room (and the rest of the night attempting to piece cogs, wheels, mudguards, duralia and brake-cables together into something resembling a Claud Butler six-speed), getting your first “proper” bike was hardly the sumptuous fantasy of a generation of shoeless urchins, more an achievable, almost inevitable, Chrimbo day rite of passage. But why would any child ask for one of these built-for-speed, not-for-comfort bikes, rather than a Chopper or Grifter? Like the man in the Yellow Pages ad said, just look at that saddle. It’d be like sitting on a razor blade.