Veterans Build “The Old Manor House” HQ: Studio, Motorbikes & Live Show

British Army veterans, a brand-new home base, and a mission to tell real military and life stories. In this episode, we move from yacht to The Old Manor House—our purpose-built HQ near the Solent—kitting out a NASA-level studio, launching a bar/venue called The Salamanca Club, and assembling a veteran crew to make it all run: RAF Master Chef in the kitchen, Royal Navy Warrant Officer stewarding service, and ex-Int Corps talent in our control room. Expect authentic military storytelling, veteran humour, and plenty of motorbike and sailing action.

We pick up a Mercedes Sprinter and custom bike trailer, ferry Ducati race bikes into the workshop, film Riding Through History segments, and rehearse our first live show with multi-camera production, graphics, and viewer phone-ins. It’s part memoir, part build-series, part behind-the-scenes of a veteran media outfit.

If you love real life military stories, rugby banter, skiing grit, Cold War/BAOR nostalgia, and travel from postings in Germany (1970s–2010s) to modern adventures on two wheels and at sea, you’re in the right place.

Subscribe for weekly episodes, live streams, and honest chat about service, resilience, and life after the Colours.

#BritishArmyVeteran #MilitaryStories #Veterans #Motorbikes #Sailing #RidingThroughHistory #Solent #StudioBuild #LiveShow #BAOR

Transcript

“The décor was finished, the furniture was all in place, and the studio downstairs glowed like NASA Mission Control. All that was left was to bring over our own bits and bobs from Hitchin.”

“Easy, right? Just the combined clutter of four lifetimes—military kit, gadgets, motorbike leathers, and at least thirty photo albums we kept promising we’d digitise one day.”

“Yeah, and knowing us, we’ll promise it again. And again. Until the kids do it out of sheer desperation.”

“Naturally, we weren’t about to haul all our worldly goods in some old banger. Oh no—we treated ourselves to a brand-new Mercedes Sprinter. Long wheelbase, high top, double cab, the full works. Still had that ‘factory fresh’ smell. We were more excited about pickin’ it up than most people are collectin’ a new puppy.”

“And hitched to it, our pride and joy—a sleek custom box trailer, built to carry four motorbikes with room left over for helmets, leathers, spare wheels, tools… and maybe even a collapsible espresso machine. We do have standards, after all.”

“As for the old van—faithful as it’d been, it was finally put out to pasture.”

“Well, not completely. It still had enough life in it for backup jobs, the less glamorous duties. Like a retired general shuffled into the House of Lords—still useful, just not running the show anymore.”

“Meanwhile, we headed back to Salamanca—our beloved yacht—for one last tidy-up before her well-earned rest. She deserved nothing less than the full treatment.”

“Deck scrubbed, lines coiled, stainless polished ‘til you could see your own soul starin’ back, and every bit of kit stowed away neat as if the Navy themselves were due for inspection.”

“Harry arrived right on cue, just as reliable as ever. We loaded the first of the gear into the van and stood for a moment, waving goodbye to our floating home.”

“Yeah, hearts full of gratitude—and I’ll admit it, a touch of smugness too. She’d carried us far and earned her stripes. The drive back to Hitchin was a mix of nostalgia and giddy excitement. Felt like kids on Christmas morning, headin’ home to unwrap a life-sized present.”

“The very next day, keys janglin’, new wheels gleamin’, we set off with a convoy that looked more like the openin’ scene of a Top Gear special than a house move.”

“Two vans, two trailers, and both cars packed to the gunwales—motorbikes, helmets, leathers, framed photos, treasures, and every odd little thing that hadn’t already migrated across.”

“By 0900 sharp we were rollin’ into Gosport, grins plastered across our faces like kids at Christmas. Only difference was, this time the presents were ours.”

“Charlie was waitin’ at the door, champagne bottle in hand, grinnin’ like the proudest man alive. Same pride we felt, really—it was as much his masterpiece as ours.”

“And then, because subtlety has never been our style, Johan and Stephen each scooped us up piggyback and carried us straight over the threshold. The neighbours clapped, the builders cheered—it was raucous, ridiculous, and perfect.”

“We popped the cork right there in the entrance hall. First toast in the new house, bubbly fizzin’ in the glasses, paint still fresh enough to sting the nose.”

“And together we christened it The Old Manor House. Dreams? We’d built them. Brick, oak, and sheer bloody determination.”

“The next two weeks blurred past in joyful chaos. More bike runs, more boxes, more gear—until, bit by bit, the whole gang had migrated south.”

“Each load felt like a parade of our own history. One van stuffed with Ducatis, another with memorabilia, a whole trailer just for boots, helmets, and twenty-seven chargers—none of which we could remember buyin’, let alone what they belonged to.”

“And then came the final invoice. Just over five million pounds.”

“We blinked. Then we laughed. Worth every penny.”

“Because in the end, it wasn’t just a house. It was our forever HQ.”

“It didn’t take long to clock that keepin’ The Old Manor House in order was gonna take more than a quick tidy-up and the odd takeaway night.”

“With all its grandeur—and our habit of inviting half the world in—we knew we needed proper help. So, we set about recruiting a housekeeper and a cook, with a plan to call in extra hands whenever we hosted big functions.”

“Picture Downton Abbey, but with less silver spoons and more medals. Same polish, just a bit more parade-ground grit.”

“From the very start, we were determined to employ veterans wherever we could—give back to the community that had shaped us.”

“And the very first person through the door? Doris. And let me tell you, she walked in and stole the whole show.”

“Former Master Chef in the RAF—twenty-two years’ service, twelve operational tours. She’d fed troops in every condition imaginable, from Afghan Fob's to NATO exercises where morale rose or fell on the success of her custard tarts.”

“But then came the dreaded ‘Pay As You Dine’ system, and contracted out catering, just like that, Doris was made redundant. Since then, she’d been stuck in some soulless pub kitchen, flipping frozen chips and wrestling spreadsheets instead of whipping up bastions of béchamel.”

“She was brilliant, slightly terrifying, and absolutely perfect for us.”

“We didn’t just strike gold—we struck solid platinum, wrapped in a pinny.”

“The second she said yes, we handed Doris a company credit card. Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“‘Buy whatever you need, Doris,’ we told her. ‘If it chops, sautés, simmers, steams, or just makes your life easier, get it. Price is no object—this kitchen is your war room now.’”

“By the end of the day, we had confirmation of two pallets inbound—professional-grade knives sharp enough to split a hair, a copper pan set that could bankrupt a small country, and something called a salamander broiler.”

“None of us even knew what that was, but Doris leaned in, eyes blazing, and declared it ‘non-negotiable.’”

“And we weren’t about to argue.”

“The next morning, while Doris launched her culinary conquest of the kitchen, we marched into John Lewis like generals preparing for battle—intent on arming ourselves for the dining room.”

“First order of business: a full 30-piece dinner service, good for everything from a casual cuppa to a full-blown state banquet.”

“Then came the glasses—two complete sets, Edinburgh crystal and Waterford, because obviously one simply wasn’t enough. And not just wine glasses, either.”

“Oh no—water glasses, reds, whites, champagne flutes, whisky tumblers, port goblets, brandy balloons big enough to drown in, and more decanters than the Royal Navy’s got ships.”

“The salesperson leaned in, whispering reverently, ‘Are you hosting the Royal Family?’”

“We just grinned and said, ‘No—but Doris’ll be cooking like we are.’”

“For The Salamanca Club—our subterranean den of mirth and mischief—we went all in. Ordered enough glassware to host the United Nations and still have spares for the after-party.”

“Beer tankards big enough to double as flower pots, wine goblets fit for Dionysus himself, and more cocktail glasses than even James Bond could make use of.”

“Didn’t matter the drink—gin, rum, whisky, vodka, espresso martinis—if it needed a glass, we had the exact one for it.”

“And it didn’t stop there. A battalion of ice buckets, a cavalry of cocktail shakers, muddlers, strainers, and enough bar gear to make a Soho mixologist weep with envy.”

“Our rule was simple: if it couldn’t help us run a world-class bar, it wasn’t comin’ in.”

“When it came to hiring a housekeeper, we saw half a dozen candidates. All perfectly nice, but not quite what we needed.”

“Then came Wendy. The moment she walked in—regal posture, blouse ironed sharper than a bayonet crease, and an air of command that could silence a drunken fleet—we knew she wasn’t just qualified. She was naval royalty.”

“Twenty-five years in the Royal Navy, finishing as a Warrant Officer (Steward). She’d even served as Chief Steward on the Royal Yacht Britannia. Honestly, we should’ve saluted when she crossed the threshold.”

“Best part? She lived less than a mile away. And as she told us—‘sick to the back teeth of hotel execs who thought silver service meant plonkin’ the fork on the right side.’”

“We hired her on the spot.”

“And then opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate our luck.”

“Naturally, we handed Wendy her own credit card—labelled ‘Her Majesty’s Linen Fund’—and told her to go wild.”

“Bedding, towels, dressing gowns, slippers, guest toiletries—spare no expense. If someone wanted to sauna, shower, or sleep like royalty, we wanted them to feel as if the Queen herself had just popped out for tea.”

“Summer-weight, winter-weight, hypoallergenic—you name it, she found it. Thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, hand-loomed towels thick enough to pass for duvets…”

“Wendy sourced it all with the precision of a Quartermaster prepping for a Buckingham Palace sleepover.”

“Best of all, Wendy didn’t come alone—she came with reinforcements. A group of girls from the local college, handpicked and personally trained by her during her hotel stint.”

“She described ‘em as young, sharp, and not afraid of a starch bottle. And she wasn’t wrong. They could silver-serve like they’d been born on the Royal Yacht.”

“Beds made with military precision, glassware polished until it gleamed, and the kind of poise that let them carry soup across a room without a single ripple.”

“Honestly, if the guests didn’t behave, I reckon these girls could form up as a strike team and take over the house without breakin’ stride.”

“It was perfection.”

“Tom and Jimmy—absolute legends in the control room. Fresh out of college, diplomas in one hand, hangovers in the other, and they still graduated with flying colours.”

“They joined us full-time and immediately took charge of the tech like they’d been born in a broadcast booth. Camera angles? Cinematic. Sound levels? Butter-smooth. Lighting? Fit for Vogue.”

“They took our amateur dreams and wrapped ‘em in professional polish. And the editing—blimey. They could trim hours of footage, even Johan’s endless waffle, into something sharp, snappy, and watchable.”

“And as if that wasn’t enough, they brought in their classmate Mary. A graphics genius with an eye sharper than a Gurkha’s kukri.”

“Mary wasn’t just any graphic designer—she was one of us. Ex-Intelligence Corps sergeant, twelve years served, five tours of Afghanistan. She’d even worked with Special Forces, same as Marlin and me.”

“The three of ‘em clicked instantly—over tea, war stories, and a shared hatred for PowerPoint. Bonded faster than Araldite.”

“She’d gone on to join Tom and Jimmy in a digital production course at college, where she impressed everyone by casually building a mission-grade infographic while the rest were still dithering over fonts.”

“Hiring her was a no-brainer. The only question was whether our fire alarms could cope with the sparks when that trio got creative together.”

“To support the team, we splashed out on a Mac server so sleek it practically purred. Linked the whole place together—studio, control room, study, workshop, even the garage if we fancied a live feed from the bike shed.”

“Everything backed up and synced in real time, running on full-fibre internet fast enough to stream the Moon landing in 4K without a hiccup.”

“The study itself looked less like a reading room and more like a NATO ops centre. Eight fully loaded workstations, a sixty-inch monitor on the wall for collaborative editing, and enough pinboards, whiteboards, and red string to make any conspiracy theorist cry with happiness.”

“Even the bookcases joined in—stacked with our usual mix of military history, motorcycle manuals, spy novels, and the odd Delia Smith cookbook, just to keep us grounded.”

“A month in, we hosted our first official dinner party—a thank-you soirée for Charlie and the team of master builders who had turned a muddy patch of earth into our dream estate.”

“They came with wives, partners, and just the right mix of curiosity and pride about what we’d actually built. The house sparkled, Doris laid on a five-course banquet fit to shame Buckingham Palace, and Wendy’s girls glided about like they’d trained under Michel Roux Jr.”

“It wasn’t just gratitude—it was a rehearsal. A warm-up for many grander evenings to come. But that night belonged to them.”

“The lads beamed at every oak panel, every tile joint, every custom light fitting. One even went glassy-eyed in the wine cellar. We said it must’ve been the clever lighting.”

“He swore it was the Bordeaux.”

“The girls arrived early that afternoon—neatly dressed, a touch nervous, and more than a little curious about this mysterious ‘Old Manor House.’”

“Wendy swept in, clipboard in hand, full Chief Steward mode engaged, and introduced them like a proud mother hen showing off her brood.”

“We all sat down for coffee and a chat—well, we chatted. They mostly sat there wide-eyed, staring at the enormous chandelier and those faintly ridiculous portraits of us in mess kit.”

“Once the caffeine kicked in, it was time for The Grand Tour.”

“We started by showin’ them the appliances—dishwasher the size of a tank, industrial washers that roared like they were about to take off, and dryers with more buttons than the flight deck of a 747.”

“Wendy, ever the magician, opened cupboards and drawers with a flourish—cutlery drawers that seemed to run for miles, crystal enough to make the Queen blink, and the precise placement of every plate, napkin, and soup spoon.”

“Then we led them down into the jewel in the crown—The Salamanca Club.”

“There, they learned the ropes: how to run the bar, set the lighting, control the music system, and—most importantly—how not to knock over the priceless single malt display.”

“By the time our guests started arriving, the girls had transformed from giggly students into a crack hospitality unit—Wendy’s Angels, if you will.”

“And the evening? In a word, superb. Doris rolled out a five-course dinner so good it actually silenced our master builders. No small miracle, that.”

“The girls floated between courses, topping up glasses, whisking away plates, smiling like seasoned pros. It was seamless.”

“The table itself looked like Sandhurst had set it—crystal glasses lined up with drill-parade precision, cutlery gleaming like it was under regimental inspection. For centrepieces, we’d used our Sergeant’s Mess presentation statues—quirky, meaningful, and just the right touch.”

“A table fit for heroes, indeed.”

“The next mornin’, the girls popped round to collect their wages—half-expectin’ some awkward student gig money and maybe a leftover slice of toast.”

“When they opened their envelopes and saw £250 each, the collective gasp nearly shattered our Waterford crystal.”

“‘Are you sure this is right?’ one asked, eyes like dinner plates. Another nearly dropped her phone—‘That’s more than I make in two weeks!’”

“We told them there’d be more dinner parties, and even weekend stays where we’d need silver service and housekeeping. Their enthusiastic yeses nearly shook the windows.”

“As they left, one whispered to the others, ‘This is better than Vegas—and there’s no roulette wheel.’”

“With the house humming and our staff sharper than a Royal Marine haircut, we finally turned to our first creative venture—our very own in-house chat show.”

“The studio was perfect, lights bang on, and our heads were bursting with ideas—sailing mishaps, rugby debates, travel yarns, motorbike maintenance, and the odd rant about the state of the world. Unscripted, chaotic, but always honest.”

“We kicked off with motorbikes. Filming servicing sessions in the workshop, walk-arounds on our favourites, prepping for track days, and even on-bike footage at Brands Hatch.”

“Tearing round like pensioners on a sugar high. And wouldn’t you know—it was a hit.”

“We already had hours of sailing footage—serene sunrises off Madeira, mildly panicked reefing drills in the Bay of Biscay, you name it.”

“Jimmy, ever the archivist, dived into the unseen clips like a pirate rummaging through a chest of VHS tapes. He swore there was treasure in the B-roll.”

“And he wasn’t wrong. Bit of clever editing later, and he’d whipped up a fresh batch of sailing videos that kept the channel’s wind in its sails.”

“Meanwhile, we took Salamanca back out onto the Solent and beyond—camera drones buzzing, mics clipped, GoPros rolling—determined to show why these waters are the most exciting and unpredictable in the UK.”

“One minute it’s paradise, the next it’s like tryin’ to sail through a bouncy castle in a hurricane.”

“Back in the studio, we cooked up our next madcap idea: a live phone-in talk show.”

“The vision? Somewhere between Top Gear and Have I Got News for You—only with less swearing and a lot more technical diagrams.”

“We already had the kit: multiple cameras, boom mics, a perfectly tuned autocue—well, once we stopped the comedy malfunctions—and Mary, our undisputed queen of graphics.”

“She conjured up titles, overlays, and visual effects slick enough to pass for BBC primetime.”

“We even rehearsed it all: dramatic close-ups, flawless segues, and the noble art of not collapsing into giggles when someone mixed up Biscay with Bisquick.”

“To add some rev-happy spice, we’d just picked up two new beasts for the garage—a Ducati 11 9 9 and an 8 9 9. Fire-breathin’ Italian stallions, both of ‘em.” Along side the 10 9 8 and 7 4 9 made a quad of Italian stallions.

“Our first track day with the new bikes? Pure comedy chaos. The plan was simple—everyone gets a turn. The reality? Marlin and I claimed the big bikes straight away, leaving Stephen and Johan standing there like two boys clutching stabilisers.”

“We didn’t argue. They looked like Valkyries on red rockets—arguin’ would’ve been suicidal.”

“We strapped on half a dozen new cameras—helmets, fairings, tail units. Tom, Jimmy, and Mary came along too, grins plastered across their faces, cameras in hand.”

“Their version of a field trip—only with high-octane speed, flying gravel, and the constant risk of someone misjudgin’ a corner.”

“Inside our helmets, we had the comms wired up with directional mics. What came out was a stream of half riding tips, half utter gibberish.”

“Things like, ‘Stephen just got undertaken like he was late for a cocktail party!’ Or, ‘Marlin’s line through that chicane is so tight it could file taxes.’ It was ridiculous—and brilliant.”

“We kept takin’ turns filming each other, weaving in and out like a synchronised Ducati ballet. By the afternoon, we were ridin’ so close I could read Johan’s speedo without squintin’.”

“Jimmy later said editing it was like juggling flaming chainsaws in a hurricane. But the final cut?”

“Pure gold dust. Our subscribers couldn’t get enough—and truth be told, neither could we.”

“Back at the studio, we were gearing up for our first live broadcast extravaganza. Weeks of prep had gone into it—trailers, teasers, social posts, even a blooper reel that made us look like startled meerkats under the lights.”

“Jimmy and Mary were on fire, pulling together promos so slick they looked like we were launchin’ Top Gear meets The One Show… at sea.”

“Finally, the big night arrived. We suited up—best ties, polished shoes, even hair gel—and took our seats behind the anchor desk.”

“Looked like a pair of retired MI6 agents moonlightin’ as yacht brokers.”

“The format was simple genius: short sailing and motorbike clips, plenty of cheeky banter, and a working phone-in line.”

“And would you believe it—the phones actually rang! Six real callers. We’d half expected it to be our mums and one wrong number, but no—real questions, and we even answered ‘em without cuttin’ ourselves off.”

“Victory.”

“Ridin’ high on our ‘live success,’ we went again a few days later—only this time, talk-show style. The suits were binned, chinos and open collars on. Proper casual.”

“The couches came out, coffee mugs in hand, and we leaned into a relaxed, sofa-surfing vibe. Think Sunday Brunch meets Clarkson’s Farm—only with fewer croissants and a lot more outboard engines.”

“We kept the phone-in line open and threw questions into the chat: what did people want more of?”

“The replies came thick and fast—‘More sailing!’ ‘More bikes!’ ‘More YOU!’ Apparently, people enjoyed watching us muddle our way through oil changes and sail trimming.”

“Fair enough. We took notes. We had ideas.”

“The People had spoken.”

“Thankfully, we weren’t short on content. Sitting in the editing queue were our restoration escapades—Johan wrestling a 1981 Ducati back to life while I tried to coax a seized rudder bearing into cooperation.”

“We had footage of us servicing the race bikes too—grease up to our elbows, gigglin’ like teenagers the whole time. Plus a handful of calm, collected how-to guides on boat maintenance, for when we fancied lookin’ professional.”

“Our boat tour video, shot with cinematic flair and far too many outtakes, picked up great traction.”

“Turns out people love a peek behind the curtain—even if the curtain hides a drawer full of mismatched fuses and emergency chocolate.”

“To show our appreciation for the finer things—and the fine people who provide them—we invited Claude and Henry, our legendary vintners, to spend a week at The Old Manor House.”

“They came with their wives, Edith and Marie, and we gave them the full ‘Downton Abbey meets Monte Carlo’ treatment. Cocktails in the courtyard, candlelit dinners, cellar tours, even a spin in the sidecar of one of the vintage bikes.”

“They adored it. We reminisced about harvests gone by, bottles we’d hauled ourselves, and vintages we’d proudly picked with our own stained fingers.”

“Some of those bottles were now laid down in our cellar—vintage treasures with a story behind every cork. Perfect way to thank old friends… and maybe hint that we’d be needin’ a few more cases come next season.”

“Claude and Henry were beaming the whole week. Every glass we raised, every cork we pulled, you could see the pride in their eyes—like watching their children take a bow on stage.”

“Claude laughed louder than anyone when we retold the story of our first ‘assault’ on his cellar. Said he’d never seen two lads so keen to carry crates, even if half the time we were wobblin’ under the weight.”

“Henry, ever the gent, just shook his head and smiled, saying we’d matured almost as well as the wine—though maybe not quite as gracefully.”

“They both agreed, sittin’ there with Edith and Marie, that seeing their vintages laid down in our cellar, ready for another generation, was worth more than any ledger or balance sheet.”