Some more of my holiday tales...

[Rsmacker]

Sitting here, I realised I didn't put up an epic post of my 2009 holiday to Europe, let alone the one for last year. And here's me planning this year's Summer Offensive. This is simply not good enough.

Stay tuned, I'm racking my brains trying to think what I did, to whom, in what place, and how much trouble I got into. It's not easy, I just have snatches (steady!) of events that generally involve me thinking "Fucking hell, how am I going to wriggle out of this one...?"

Some great pictures to show though (and absolutely every one of them totally Safe For Work. Boring, I know, but such is life, sometimes)

[Scooter]

[Alvin_Wilson]

i would prefer NSFW pics, please.

[Twitch]

Ditto^^^^

[atomic charvel guy]

the lurid tales of Smacker's latest sortie. Let it rip.

[Nightbat]

Rs,..

Your tales are horrid, sexistic, degrading and tasteless


So hurry up and post them!

[Rsmacker]

Ok, sitting comfortably? I'm sure I've recounted this somewhere before, but perhaps not. Enjoy...

Sooo, September 2009, off I trundled into Europe again on my trusty Africa Twin, seeking action and adventure…

Now, this account is a fine example as to why one should write things down as they happen, or soon afterwards, as I’m fucked if I can recall most of it. Some of this is inevitably due to alcohol, some of it is intentional (gotta keep some secrets..!) and some is just old age. Anyway, it might come back to me as I type, we shall see…

I started off on the ferry to Calais, as per, and headed South, avoidng hitting the Autoroutes. Right now I’m fucked if I can recall which way I went, but think I stopped near Reims, at Chalons-en-Champagne. From there, through Champagne, heading to the South coast. I do remember I went down through the Ardeche region, what a wonderful place! The only problem was that all the old rustic cottages and farm buildings had a smell of money about them. I could see that there were nice cars parked outside some of them, all the windows were new and the pointing had been done on chimneys - obviously the place has fallen prey to that parasitic species, the Urban Wanker.

Urban Wankers are called things like Rupert and Chloe, and work all day in cities, then at weekends, load up the Cayenne with their mountain bikes and fuck off down to their country gaff, which they've had renovated at great expense. Of course, this means Pierre & Co, whose family have lived in the region for generations, cannot afford to buy houses and have to leave, which means the region stays a kind of theme park for UWs to go and play at being "country folk" every few weekends, but a ghost town during the week. This leads, of course, to local businesses closing down, and before you know where you are, the UWs are complaining the place has lost its character. Yeah, no shit, you shower of cunts. The same thing has happened to many rural areas in the UK, and it's criminal. Of course, it's difficult for anyone to turn away the money that Rupert & Co bring in, I'd sell my shitty cottage for megabucks too, if I was offered the cash, but it's where the rot sets in.



Anyway, as I rolled through this wonderful semi-mountainous region, I passed these lovely cottages etc and thought to myself how much interesting "stuff" would have been cleared out of them when Rupert & Co arrived - they buy a place, put a skip outside the garage and get the builders to clear it, they need to park their fancy motor up, they don't give a toss about any funky junk that might be about. What I'm banging on about is that no-one like me is going to uncover any Panzers or Willys jeeps that have been sitting in Grandpa's shed for the past 70 years - Rupert will have told someone to just clear the shed, asap. Someone somewhere might just have loads of stuff sitting about. One man's junk (oo-er, calm down WB, I don't mean that kind of junk) is another man's treasure.


Then, out of the blue, I spied a farmhouse ahead, with "Antiques" painted in huge letters on the side (I suppose in French, but I knew what it was!). Bearing in mind there wasn't a soul about, this was on some moor, I took it that God had been pre-warning me by planting the seed about Rupert & Co, and pulled over. The farmhouse was a typical French affair, massive, and outside stood all manner of proper, solid farmhouse tables, and dressers and sideboards. Just the kind of stuff that Rupert would clear out so that Quentin, his homo associate, could replace with modern shite from Ikea or glass and metal crap with LEDs inside.
This place was incredible, I was enraptured. The stuff had prices on, it was cheap, really cheap. I mean, a proper farmhouse table, made of proper timber, not fucking Far Eastern shit with a veneer, will last generations, literally. They do fetch quite a bit of cash now at home, because Rupert & Co who live here have finally fucking twigged that the "nasty old table" they disposed of when they bought their holiday home was actually far superior to their Ikea tat.

I was stunned, the prices were stupidly cheap, but this place was bursting at the seams. The owner had obviously done lots of house clearances, it wasn't an antiques shop run by a sharp businessman who knows the value of his stock, this was like an Aladdin's Cave of junk! I called hello - no answer. Upstairs, someone shuffled about. I crept inside and mooched about. Finally, someone appeared and greeted me. I asked if he had any War souvenirs, but to no avail. No problem, OK if I look around? With a cheery wave, he left me to it and disappeared upstairs again. Now that wouldn't happen in an antique dealer's place! Mind you, I was hardly likely to steal loads of stock on my motorbike.

So, there were pictures, chandeliers, bedsteads, knick-knacks blah blah, all dusty old stuff, I was in Hog Heaven. Paintings and photographs of Victorian families, the Father with his big moustache - fantastic stuff, I wondered at the history of pics like that, what had happened to lead to a family photo ending up in a junk shop?
There were buckets of horseshoes, agricultural tools, and boxes of crucifixes.

As I rummaged around in the crosses, thinking of carrying out some idle blasphemy, I looked up and nearly shat myself. Bearing down on me, habit billowing around her, was a nun. Fucking hell, I thought my time had come - she looked really old fashioned, wearing one of those habits with the long head-dresses! She had to be a vengeful ghost.
Perhaps not, she breezily greeted me and shouted to Monsieur Shopkeeper, who was rummaging about somewhere. He shouted back. Thank fuck for that. I went out for a breath of fresh air and there were about 6 of them, they'd pulled up in a VW camper van unseen by me.

You'd think a fright like that might reel me in a bit. No fucking chance. I actually looked back at the nun, who was bending over something in the shop, and wondered if she was wearing stockings and suspenders, in the few seconds as she arrived, I'd already clocked that she wasn't an old trout nun, she was youngish, vigorous and Amazonian in stature. WTF is wrong with me? She's a NUN! This, I took as yet another sign from God - get on your bike and fuck off before you ask if they really are nuns or strippers, or mention "le bumsex".


Onwards and Southwards....

[Rsmacker]

Onwards to the coast, the Cap D'Agde draws me like a magnet. It's just the most hedonistic place I've ever been.

I mean, how could I possibly NOT stop there. It blew me away AGAIN, absolutely FILTHY – hundreds of people fucking on the beach in broad daylight, incredible. Well, I too had some fun, made some friends, etc etc. You know the score…!
Met a particularly nice British couple, both bikers, although they’d driven down in the car. They kept me company, got me into swingers clubs as their guest, laughed when I porked a French Swamp Donkey, that sort of thing.



The Swamp Donkey episode was amusing, but not for the people in the static caravan next to the tent in which I was putting this chick to the sword, apparently they complained about the noise. Ha, they should have seen the view! The Swamp Donkey got plenty of icing on her face, her hubby couldn't speak English, but mimed what he wanted me to do to her, he he, so it was all good in the end. She had pink hair. Jeez, do I have no standards? I got the impression as I sipped cheap nasty whisky with them beforehand that she might not have been totally up for it, she hissed and argued with her hubby, then bang, she was on her knees, gobbling me. Ding fucking Dong. She went like a steam train (disguised as a Swamp Donkey), a real case of lighting the blue touchpaper and retire to a safe distance, as her hubby certainly did. She was more than keen, she was fucking nuts for it. I was happy to oblige her)



Oh, back to the English couple - they suggested that I might want to try Andorra for some great roads, maybe buy some cheap stuff. It's a possibility, I haven't made up my mind where I'm off to yet...


The day they left I think I got sunstroke. All I know is that I couldn’t get out of my hammock, I was delirious, raging thirst. I could feel my strength ebbing away and genuinely thought I was checking out. Scary that, when there’s not many people about, let alone anyone who speaks English. As I lay there groaning, I was praying for someone, anyone, to come over and say “Are you OK mate?” , so I could say "No, I am not, fetch a doctor" , but all to no avail.


Summoning every ounce of strength left, I tipped myself out of the hammock and set off to look for something to drink. It only took a couple of bottles of fruit juice and I felt miles better, I couldn’t believe how bad I’d been feeling. I think others thought I might have just had a hangover, but I’d not been drinking. This illness coincided with a massive thunderstorm – not fun when you are at death’s door under a tarp, in a hammock.

Seeing this as a sign to GTFO, I packed up and headed South.
I headed through Cathar country, through Perpignan, the journey was pretty uneventful, (apart from some dumb French cunt missing me by a gnat’s chuff when he blasted through a red light . That made me shake, I can tell you.) The weather wasn’t good, it was cold at night, it was cloudy with sunny spells during the day, distinctly Autumnal. Being in the hammock, I needed sunshine. I’d taken to waiting till the sun actually rose high enough to warm me before getting out of bed, where I was already dressed because it was so nippy. That wouldn’t do.


Into the Pyrenees, cold, rain, not happy.

Yes, the mountains were great, but it just looked like Wales, and was just as fucking cold. At this point I'm sure I had some photgraphs, but they are mysteriously absent from my PCs. I'm going to have to try and find out what's going on. Anyway...


I rolled into Andorra in pissing rain, freezing cold. I then made the decision to abort my trip, this wasn’t any fun at all. I did some shopping, bought a cheap Action Cam, then went back into the fog and murk, a hotel was at the top of the road, I’d stay there overnight, dry out, then go home. Game Over.


However, as I reached the summit of the mountain, I could see, just below me, a hint of sunshine. I went past the hotel, on the decline into Spain. There are little LED displays at the roadside, telling you the time, date and temperature, and as I passed each one, I could see the display reading warmer. I could feel it. The breeze began to get warmer. I sped up and felt the life coming back, mental and physical vigour. I found a camp site and bedded down. (Oh yeah, there may have been an incident in a pizzeria when some filthy fuckstick Dago decided that it was OK for him to light up his Cancer Stick whilst I ate on the next table. Suffice to say the police weren’t called, but it was a close call.)

[Inazone]

Swamp Donkey?! WTF?!!

I hope you have more posted soon, as reading the forums is the extent of my entertainment while at the office.

[Rsmacker]

Anyway, next morning, I hit Spain and it was Scorchio, cloudless skies!

First impression of Spain – what a shithouse. It stank. They must lace the fields with raw sewage (and then wonder why E-coli thrives), it was vile. Not just a bad cowshit smell, I could taste the turd in my mouth. I’m used to country smells, but this was something else, I was yakking inside my lid, I didn’t want to open the visor, but with it closed I felt trapped with a turdmonster with halitosis.

I had made no plans to come into Spain, it had been advice that “it’s always sunny in Spain” that decided it for me, so I didn’t know where to go. I had to escape this stench though, so HAMMERED through the Spanish countryside, skirting Barcelona and heading to the coast. At this point I should say that the idea of the Costa del Shite fills me with contempt, but needs must, I had to look for somewhere to camp near Salou. My idea of hell, British people wandering about speaking English, with The Sun tucked into their shorts. Cunts.


While I was there an English woman, probably in her 50s, came over and introduced herself, we were having a right old chinwag, with me thinking "I'm in here", then her hubby appeared and she scurried back to her caravan like a scolded cat. Strange.

Later on, when it got dark, I watched her sitting outside her caravan (which was incredible, it had bits that popped up and out, it was fucking huge), she was sitting there with her leg up, flicking her bean. She MUST have known I was watching, dirty minx. Of course, I couldn't exactly wander over and pudslap her, not with the vibes her husband was giving off, so I pitched a tent of my own...

Anyhow, next morning, I rolled out of the hammock, bollock naked, as the sun peeped over the horizon, having had a great night’s sleep, the first one of the trip I hadn’t been fucking freezing. Things were looking up.

Back on the road, headed South, starting to really enjoy the trip by now. The roads were good, the traffic light, the sun was shining, and I got my camera out.



As I trundled down a long straight highway, I spy a castle – I’m fucking going there, I love castles. It took some cheeky riding, some of which may have involved going off-road and over fields. (Hey, that’s what the AT is designed for), but I got there in the end. I’d passed a couple walking their dog on the road, but not a soul in sight, so bollocked through the "No Vehicles" sign.


I rolled right up to the castle, ignored the Closed sign, and um, broke in, through the side. Come on, if they don’t repair the walls, what can they expect?
Alone, there, with eagles circling overhead was fantastic. I leaned against a wall and noticed my shadow in front of me. Then it clicked…how could I have a shadow when I was in the shade? The figure, which was obviously on the wall above me, disappeared, as I leaped out to see who it was. No-one there, I was alone. OooooOOooooh! A spook? Maybe, I was wearing my Tilley hat, and the figure had a hat on too, that's why it had taken some seconds to twig it was someone else. I was leaning against the door in the centre of the pic, you can see it's well in the shadow.



I wasn’t perturbed, just walked round the ruins. At length, the dog I had passed scampered up beside me, followed by his owners. Fuck me, they were British, great. I travel all this way to escape Britons and they are even in the middle of nowhere! Anyway, I'm a polite person, most of the time, so I exchanged small talk.

They lived locally (Alcala de Xivert), had retired there from the UK, and were in their 50s I guess. Now, this is where being a sexual deviant and Libertine is a choker - I'm used to meeting couples and porking the wife with/without hubby's assistance. So, when a couple invites me back to their place for a cold drink, what should i think? You know what I was thinking, and it was expanding in my trousers.

Luckily, common sense prevailed, I declined their offer, picturing me the "Motorbike Sex Beast - Caught In Sleepy Spanish Town After Trying To Bum Nice Ordinary Friendly Folk". That's the problem, when is an invite, an invite? At least in swingers' clubs you know exactly where you stand!


Meanwhile, this is the view from the walls of the castle, you can see why it was there, it dominates the valley...










The town below the castle:




So, slapping my pud down, and acting on their tip to visit the local church, I headed down into the town. It was mid-afternoon by now, the town was deserted. I parked up by the church and an olive tree which was reputed to be 1000 years old. From a bar in the corner of the square, I could hear the sound of AC/DC’s “High Voltage”, so fuck it, I headed over for a drink. Inside, it was full of old people, and I mean old, sitting around knitting, playing dominoes, and singing along to Bon Scott era AC/DC! I did think for a moment that perhaps I'd fallen asleep on the bike and was about to hit the central reservation, but I had a coke, then headed to this church.


Walking round looking for a door that was unlocked, an old guy hailed me and asked if I was German. Fuck no, I replied, English. Ah, English, he was happy with that, but couldn’t speak the language. I speak no Spanish, so we mimed and chucked words a teach other. I understood Guerra – War, and gradually began to build a picture of his tale.
It seemed he was a baby during the war (Spanish Civil War, I assume) and lived in room overlooking the church square. The Germans had rounded up some people, parked a tank in the square, and someone chucked a grenade, knocking a chunk out of the tower. The people had ended up getting machine gunned, and the bullet marks still were visible in the church wall, the similarly damaged doors only being replaced about 10 years ago. He insisted I photograph the pock marks, then left, satisfied. I just wish I’d had the facility to record his story, that’s gen-u-ine history right there.


So, some pics of this little church in a little town, just look at the statues, they are fantastic, plenty of violence and skulls going on! I was told that inside was spectacular, but it only opened in the evening and I was keen to make tracks back to the coast, so didn't get to see the interior. Next time...













The bullet pock-marks:

[Rsmacker]

Is there anyone paying attention? Oh well, I've started now...



Southwards I trundled, I had been in touch with an ex-pat British chick who was well into BDSM…so damned right, I was going to pay her a visit! I’d not have bothered if I’d known how much of a ride it would be, but I had nothing better to do, and headed inland and down to Murcia.
We had a drink, she decided I wasn’t a serial killer, and she said I could stay at hers. Game On!

I had an interesting couple of days there, she was seriously into pain! The thing that put me off her though was that her 13 year old daughter lived with her and was at the stage where she was really gobby and wouldn’t do what Mummy told her. She was also really clingy and stuck to Mummy like a limpet, I think she knew that I was a nasty man who was waiting for her to clear off so he could do unspeakable things to her Mum.
Also, and this was far worse, the lady in question looked just like one of my mates. And had the same mannerisms. That really puts a wilt in your meat, I can assure you. They both drink like fishes, and this chick was one of those types who has a massive “medicinal” glass of brandy when she gets up “to help clear her cold”, the cold that rattled in her chest. Nothing to do with the 40 fags she smokes per day.
Well, in town, I saw her hailing the locals like they were the foreigners, not her, and decided I was baling out. She was just the kind of Brit I hate, one who lives in an ex-pat community and complains about the way they do things over there. If you can’t deal with corrupt public officials, don’t go and live in Spain, it’s part of their way of life, it’s simple. If you want British standards, you have to stay at home, I’m afraid.
Anyway, the next day, I was on my way South again, it had been raining anyway, and I don’t do rain on my hols!

So, cruising down the coast, and once again, I curse my countrymen. All along the roads there are Union Flags, English pubs, chip shops, golf courses.
I decide that since I’ve come this far, I’m going to Gibraltar – somewhere it is perfectly acceptable to be British! The strange thing is, there are no real signs, no hint of where it is, just little insignificant signs. I know kinda where it is anyway, I just need to follow the coastline until I find it, shouldn’t be too difficult.
Then, I crest a hill, and there it is, and it’s breath-taking.
I’m sitting on a sunny strip, where strangely everything is very Spanish, no English signs or businesses at all, and there’s the Rock, brooding, totally out of place, with a ring of cloud round the top. It’s awesome, the Spanish must HATE Britain for hanging onto it, and it must have irked them for centuries, a real thorn in their side.


I cross the border, a proper border crossing, and switch to riding on the left hand side of the road. The feelings were incredibly emotional, as much as I believe in doing in Rome like the Romans do, I felt that Gib was a comforting part of home, many miles away. There’s even policemen with tits on their heads!

It’s a tiny place, but Britain has clung onto it for so long, it’s OURS, so they can fuck off! The military history is evident wherever you look, from UK warships in harbour to the thousands of iron rings set into the rock all over the place – they were used to haul cannons up the side to emplacements before the internal combustion engine was invented. The place must have been bristling, no wonder the Spanish have had no hope of taking it back. It’s what Britain did best – steal something and make it ours, and if you didn’t like it, well, fuck you.
I have a little drive about, I watch dolphins out at sea, and then decide I’m going up into the mist and cloud. The guard cheerily waves me through the tollbooth, result! I park up and encounter the Barbary Apes.



These fucking creatures are the smartest animals about. I walked up to wards them, this one looked me in the eye, and when I lifted my camera, it looked away. There was no way it was looking back at me, I squeaked, clucked, pleaded, threatened, but no, it was going to look down or to my side. Fuck me, as soon as I lower the camera, it looks straight into my eyes again, as if to say “Fuck you buddy”. Quick as a flash I get the camera up, but it’s looking away again. This carried on for some time. In the end, the dumb animal lost…and the monkey won, I gave up.


I know just how this one feels, don't you? Lying there, massive balls, in a pool of your own piss, we've all been there.







I get back to the bike to find it some monkey inspecting his balls on it. Nice. He clambers about, looking for stuff to steal or wreck, then catches sight of himself in the mirror. He can't quite figure out where the other fucking monkey is...









Now, this cheeky little fellow reminds me of someone, but I can't think who...


Ah, I know. If he had a USA Warrior in his paws, guess who he'd look just like? Beefier, obviously, but the likeness is definitely there.

Down there is the runway for Gib airport, they stop the traffic, the planes go past, then traffic starts up again.



That's Africa over there on the horizon.


And that's Spain



And that's a British gun. Just you remember that Pedro.


Alas, it was too late in the day to go into the tunnels that wind around the rock, where British troops have stashed guns and ammo for centuries to repel invaders, but I'd had enough anyway, I’d had my shot of home, time to hit the road, back into Dagoland.


Fucking hell, despite the rest of Spain being ground down by the British invasion, that area is fiercely Spanish, they do NOT want to help anyone like me find somewhere to camp, they will NOT speak English. The result of this was that it was starting to get dark and I had no idea where I was, or where the nearest campsite was. I knew I was at a place called Aljezera (sp?), and it was the shithouse of shithouses. It’s where the immigrants live, and I don’t mean the civilised ones from the UK, I mean the ones with no pot to piss in.
I pass some blokes sitting on a porch, they watch me with interest, I can feel the menace. I am just riding, no idea where I’m going, so find myself in a dead end. I pass the blokes again, this time they are standing up. Fuck me if 2 minutes later I find myself on that same street, passing them yet again into the dead end, which means I’ve got to turn round to get out. I felt sure I was going to get stopped, robbed, bummed and possibly killed, they were in the street now waiting for me. I do my best Evel Knievel, visor down, loadsa revs, and stonk past them at about 70mph, they wisely jump out of the road when they see I aint stopping. This time I make sure I get back onto the main road and plough on in the dark, looking for a campsite. Finally, at nearly midnight, I convince a dumbass Dago security guard to let me into one, promising not to do a bunk without paying.

[rdamaral]

more, more, more!

[levantin]

And pictures of the swamp donkey please Mr. Smacker!

[QuantumRider]

Never thought of you as an animal (as in non-human mammal) photographer before.

On a side note, I noticed that you use the word "Dago" and "Dagoland". In American English, "Dago" is a derogatory term for Italians. Does it refer to Spaniards in Britain?

[Rsmacker]

Round here, yes, Spanish, who are obviously Spicks too. The Italians are Wops, or "cowardly white-flag-waving tossers", according to my Grandad.
In some quarters, it matters not which part of Europe someone is from, they are all Johnny Foreigner. The feeling is that "the Wogs begin at Calais". Any of those swarthy types could be called "greasy Dago".

Not me, of course, I'm far more modern and cosmopolitan than that... ;.)