Birmingham Post

"Oh," she said, with resigned indifference.
"Oh?" I queried. (Actually, I thought he was dead already, but feigned outrage.)
"Evel Knievel's dead, and all you can say is 'oh'?"
"Yes," she said.
"He knew no fear. He set his chest hair on fire for a bet. He bedded 2,000 women - eight in one day."
As she left the room, she said: "I suppose you're impressed by that."

Unbelieveable. To many of us, by which I mean chaps, U.S. motorcycle stunt king Evel Knievel remains the definitive, all-action hero.

The human embodiment of courage, he wore sexually ambiguous white leathers, he flew through air, and, unless I am mistaken, he usually crashed.

There was an Evel Knievel toy, which comprised a butch, Barbie-style doll sitting astride the sort of plastic bike you might get inside a Christmas cracker.

It was the best toy ever, better than Scalextric. I never got one but was content to watch the telly adverts in awe.

Legend had it that Knievel broke every bone in his body (he didn't) and was so crazy he had to be banned from leaping over the Grand Canyon.

In 1975, every schoolboy held his breath as our idol tried to jump over 13 buses at Wembley Stadium. Inevitably, Knievel's rear wheel clipped the last bus and he suffered a wipe-out - and now he's gone.

There will be no comeback, but Knievel's passing prompted me to do something courageous myself, something I've meant to do for ages: I got rid of my wedding suit.

Compared to my hero's death-defying feats, giving away a dark blue Austin Reed suit (Italian made, mind, lovely piece of cloth) may not seem a particularly dramatic gesture. However, parting with the suit in which I pledged my troth was my own 13 buses at Wembley.

There was so much emotional attachment bound up in that suit. It had done weddings, baptisms, funerals, interviews, posh family dinners. I'd wined, dined, and cried in that suit. I'd become a man in that suit (just less of a one than Evel).

I worked out it was 13 years since it served its original purpose - and, believe me, if I had done that calculation earlier I'd never have parted with it. Get rid of a wedding suit on its 13th anniversary? That's not going to be lucky, is it?

Anyway, it's gone now. With it went the dinner suit I wore only once, to an ill-starred night at the ICC, and the faux New Romantic/snooker player "dress" shirt I was hoodwinked into buying with it - and which left me looking like a cross between Simon le Bon and Terry Griffiths.

I decided to donate the suits to a charity shop. My largesse is small, but I figured someone might as well benefit - but which charity? There are so many to choose from.

I looked at the options in Harborne High Street, and did what any sensible person would do: I worked out which one I would be most likely to need in the future. It meant the People's Dispensary for Sick Animals fell at the first hurdle.

Some people think this isn't in the spirit of charitable giving, but I like to think of it as targeted philanthropy.

If you study the research actuaries pore over, I should have gone to the Cancer Research shop, or the British Heart Foundation.

Penury, however, remains a distinct possibility. I mulled over the implications of rising council taxes, government stealth taxes, a busted pension, the soaring costs of living, rising debt, and the adage of "there but for the grace of God go I," and so it was that I found myself at the door of the Birmingham Settlement shop.

This charity isn't up there with the big hitters, it's not "sexy," it doesn't have a cast of celebrity patrons, but it has been quietly fighting poverty in our city since 1899; and despite what some do-gooders say, there are occasions when charity should begin at home.

So if you do happen to be looking for a "newly-new" formal outfit for an office bash, and you happen to have a 34 waist, take a 40 regular jacket, you could do worse than pop along to the Settlement shop in Harborne.

Please feel free to give that suit some hammer. Just be gentle with my old wedding garb.