Time for the Big Trip Report 2008

[Rsmacker]

Oh yes, it's time. With the 2009 installment approaching fast, I thought I'd better get my report done from last year. So hear it is, in all its glory.

It's going to be a pic-heavy long thread. Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.........

September 2008.

Set off from home nearly a week later than planned, thanks to tossers at work etc, early in the morning. The previous day had been dry, and at 5pm I had decided that I did need some waterproof over-shoes and mitts, zipped over to Cov and grabbed some just before closing. Good call, the rain was pouring when I left the house…..

And it poured. And it poured.

I headed South, towards Dover and on to the Channel Tunnel. The return ticket would have been loadsamoney for some reason, so I decided to get a 1 way and book another 1 way online for the return leg.
Calais – rain. I jumped onto the toll road and headed South.


And it poured

And it poured.

Darkness was falling as I reached Troyes, I trundled around and found the Municipal Camp Site, very clean and tidy, and as I pulled in, the rain stopped!!!! I set up the hammock and was out like a light.

Next morning the skies were looking brighter, I was full of hope. Should I put the rainsuit on? Naaaaah, I’ve left all that behind, surely?


Five miles later I’m stopping to suit up.

And it poured.

And it poured.


Obviously speed had to be seriously reduced, the spray was like nothing I have seen in this country. Quite scary. I could feel the water seeping into everything, the inside of my lid was irritating my face, it was uncomfortable. I pressed on, surely the weather would break soon? I’ll keep going until the rain stops.


And it poured
And it poured.

By now I’m getting pissed off. Why had I considered this to be a good idea? Why not just fly somewhere nice and sunny? I texted home for a weather report. Around this time I thought the brake lever was pulsing when I braked. Was it, or was I just latching onto something, a symptom of a tired brain? Nope, something not right, the wheel is black with brake dust. Shite. Bike stops OK though, so I press on, nothing to do anyway by the side of the road. As I approach every hill, every forest I pray that I’ll crest it and see clear skies. No such luck…..

And it poured.

Darkness is falling and I am determined to keep going until it dries.
I reach Montpelier before the rain ceases and I can feel the air is warmer. I decide to press on to the coast, dry out a bit. I head to the Cap D’Agde, because of, ahem, its reputation for y’know, “fun”. I’ve seen my mate’s photo album, I want some of that filth.

Pulled into the campsite at 11pm, told exactly where to set up, alas next to a load of French kids partying. Now in the UK, they wouldn’t have given a flying fuck about me, but they sent someone over to ensure that their music wasn’t going to piss me off! Once they found I was English, I was reluctantly dragged over for a drink. You can guess where this is going, can’t you?

Anyway, some days later, I am fully dried out, but my face is swollen from where I passed out pissed on an ants nest. Nice.
Around this time I realised that my new buddies were all seriously younger than me, and that I might have been caning it a bit too hard. I think they were a little bit frightened of me……but they always greeted me with the call “Apero?” , which evidently means, “Would you like to get blind drunk again?” Does the Pope shit in the woods?

Still, they were a nice bunch, mostly French, but a gorgeous Swiss girl was with them, who I took a shine to. (In a fatherly protective way, naturally.) What I did next wasn’t fatherly, unless your father is Michael fucking Jackson. Sweeeeeeeet.

There were a couple of innocent Belgian girls huddled together, now they were terrified of me. I tried to placate them by telling them all I knew about Belgium –
1. Chocolate.
2. Sprouts
So far so good, they nodded and smiled.
3. Leon Degrelle
4. God of Rhythm, Lars Ulrich’s personal bum-sniffer lives there.
Hmmm, no, losing them here, I could tell they were unfamiliar, never heard of him. I explained, but they still had no clue. I mean, you think they’d know who Leon Degrelle was, wouldn’t you?
5. Paedophile rings.
No, that was it, I think the mime I did to explain that one freaked them out. Never mind.
Fucking hell, if only I’d have mentioned mad Ade and Blazer, they MUST know them, surely they are legendary ambassadors for Belgium, kind like Borat is to Kazakhstan?

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that I represented my country in glorious style – completely arseholed, puking, singing, waving my knob at people, mooning. I even stopped a fight between my new French chums and some beastly other Frenchies, the exact cause of which I know not. Suffice to say, my chums were fearful of getting a fucking good kicking from this other crowd who were demanding the booze we were lugging to night-time beach party. Well, until I lurched out of the bushes, cock in hand, spraying piss and expletives about and demanding to be taken to see their leader so he could sign the document of surrender. This naturally confused the shit out of them and when I downed the bottle of Manzana and asked if they had any bum-sex women for sale, like maybe that nasty tattooed one, I could actually see the fear in their eyes. Well, like the whiff of some young filly’s dirtbox on my fingers the day after a shagathon, the realisation that these hard men were fucking soft Frenchies spurred me on. Naked in a trice, I wanted to know who wanted FUCKING. Evidently none of them, they were off like…..well…..like a load of Frenchies running from a scrap. Even the nasty tattooed one, who, it transpired, wasn’t actually a chick. Hey ho!
I roared after them to come back and submit to my English Cock of Destiny, but they were having none of it. My chums cheered and plied me with more booze, it had been worth them tolerating this pissed-up tramp, like someone’s embarrassing Dad, because he had saved their bacon. No point in considering how much of a royal kicking we’d all have got if one of the other lot had decided they were going to have a go, I was hardly in any state to fight anyone. Hurrah for alcoholic stupidity!

Incidentally, what they say about the Cap D’Agde is true – it’s a den of depravity. Not much shocks me, but to see people openly having group sex on a packed beach in broad daylight very nearly did. Unbelievable. I was going to complain to the appropriate authorities……but ended up porking an old French bird on the beach instead. Result!!
My only complaint is the amount of erm, “nice boys” mincing about. Each to their own, but every time you go for a piss in the bushes and someone’s head pops up staring at your weeny it gets a bit wearing. I get propositioned 3 times one night, all 3 times by men. Must be the leathers. Um, yep, own goal that, wearing those clothes at night.

I know you are all looking for pics, but you're out of luck. Understandably they are very sensitive about cameras down there, and I didn't want to get kicked out.

After a week or so of lazing about, I’m getting itchy feet, and the weather isn’t so good. Rain is forecast, and the breeze is cold. I hit the road East, towards Italy. Through Provence, I can fully understand why Brits fuck off to live there, it’s magnificent, captivating. The scenery makes you want to just settle down somewhere quiet and drink wine. Whilst getting a BJ, probably.
I get as far as Monaco the first day, you can smell the money. There are super-hot chicks wandering about. I stop to consult my maps, a stunning girl walks past like a model on a catwalk, she is immaculate, high heels, she just looks classy. Obviously loaded, she’s way out of my league. She looks at me coyly. I scratch my beard, leer and watch as she walks towards a row of expensive cars. She’s my dream bird, she’s gorgeous AND loaded. With stonking tits. I prepare to throw my bike keys away and jump in the passenger seat to be driven off to her luxury apartment for a life of leisure and hot sex. She walks past the cars, jumps on a shitty step-through moped hairdryer and it put-puts up the road. Fuck that, I’m not going anywhere near a chick who rides a moped.

I lay my head down for a nap on the seafront wall, no danger of any stuff getting stolen from my bike, there’s a police car driving by every couple of mins keeping an eye on me. A very close eye. Can’t say I blame them, I look like something out of Mad Max. After 40 winks, I feel refreshed enough to press on, even in the dark, but only to find a place for the night. What are the chances of finding a Travel-lodge or Formula 1 hotel in Monaco? Correct, none, but unbelievably there is a camp site just over the border in Italy. I spend another short, but pleasant night there.

Onwards into Italy next day, the coast roads are great, there’s plenty to see and the sun is warm. I’m relaxed, actually practising my “comedy foreigner” voice out loud as I’m going along, composing a prank phone call I’m going to make complaining about waitresses “that-a wont-a suck-a ma pay-nus”. OK, OK, but it sounded fucking funny as I was motoring along, I even laughed out loud. To my own jokes. I need a rest.

Suddenly, I find myself approaching the end of a tunnel and realise that there are barriers across the end of it and arrows pointing left. WHAAAAAATTT????? WTF? Jamming on the anchors (doing 70mph) I soon realise I’m not going to slow to be able to nip into the gap the roadworkers have made in the central reservation for the detour, it’s locked up already. I brace for impact, or rather, release the brakes and aim for a gap between the barriers. I clang one arrow on the way through, the bike wobbles, I’m losing it……no I’m not, I hold it and stop, in control. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I rejoin the road. That was either me getting complacent or twatty Italian workmen. Bit of both, I reckon.
The weather is threatening rain, surprise surprise, but I have already decided I’m going to Greece, it’s bound to be hot there……

The roads through Italy are lovely, there’s the odd twat driver to contend with, but nothing serious. Fantastic scenery, just really great roads, long sweeping curves leading into the mountains and the tight hairpins. I’m happy by now, it’s warm and I’m singing along to my MP3 player – Johnny Cash.

I headed across the country, and then North for a while, towards Bologna. Catching the main motorway, I turn South towards the ferry port of Ancona. Darkness is falling when I hit Rimini to camp overnight……………

Anyone who knows Rimini knows it is another party town. My “overnight” was extended somewhat. Not much to say about it, I remember handing my passport to the old boy at the camp-site, he eyed me suspiciously. “English eh?”
I nod, but decide against telling him my granddad was in Italy during the war…
I set up camp, and head for a little bite to eat and maybe just a small drink.

Several days later, seriously hungover, I manage to get the remaining 90 miles to Ancona, on the boat, and away.

There are lots of fucking noisy German kids stomping about the boat. When some of them vacate the area of deck I had decided to sleep on (because I’m too tight to pay for a cabin), I jokingly say to an attractive young lady on another table: “Fucking hell, let’s hope the Hitler Youth don’t return shall we? I think they are off to invade Poland, someone ought to tell them it’s the other way!”

A tumbleweed blew across the deck of the boat.

It turned out they were off on some educational trip, and she was one of their teachers. Miserable bitch! I bade her Heil Hitler and jumped into my sleeping bag. I did get an undisturbed night’s sleep though, none of the noisy bastards came near after that.

Greece approaches. Um, well, the boat approaches Greece actually, meh.

To Be Continued.....(with pics)

[Rsmacker]

Soooooo, Greece, Igmounitsa. Sunshine, right? Wrong. Clouds and rain, no sun forecast. Fucksticks! I have to have sunshine, so I head South again, down the coast to Lefkada. Once again, stunning scenery, my photography skills are shite, but trust me, it was wonderful. Many miles of open road, going into mountains, going into valleys etc. It was dry, intermittent sunshine, so the ride was enjoyable, plenty to see…….







A castle. No shit, Sherlock. No other details, signs, just a castle. I park up , walk about, take a few pics, there’s a young couple ahead. I think I may be disturbing them, ahem. Naturally, I move for a better view. They leave. Bollocks.







I notice another castle across the causeway. I’ll give it a try too. It's mental, there are piles of cannons just lying about. In the UK they'd have been swiped by pikeys long ago.




Guess who I bump into? Yep, the couple, Slovenians, it transpired, who after a long chat and a pleasant afternoon invite me to share their hotel room, better than sleeping under canvas. Too fucking right!!! No pics of that, you dirty bastards…….I did think about asking but had my hands full.

A couple of days later, I’m off before my nuts implode, heading across the country to Athens, Piraeus. Great ride again, boring I know, but just wonderful things to see. Look at the mountains in the background!


Anyway, into the shithouse that is Athens, onto the ferry to Crete, along with hundreds of Bulgarian gypsies. I decide to keyster my money roll, if they are desperate enough to go there for it, they are welcome to it. I have to tell them to fuck off, in no uncertain terms, when they try to sell me some counterfeit phone or something, but I get left alone. Perhaps I stank more than they did too.

[Snoogans]

Thanks for brightening up a Monday morning!
Eagerly awaiting the next instalment.

[Rsmacker]

Well thanks for that Snoogans, and since you asked.......


Crete, an island I am seriously in love with, dawn breaks, the weather is unsettled. This has got to be a fucking joke. All I want is a lay down on the beach. I hit the road from Heraklion South across the rural part of the island. If I say the scenery was spectacular, would I be repeating myself too often?


Well it was, so fuck off. Just look at that view, I've just ridden across that, and barely seen a soul. I really get out into the middle of nowhere, the roads turn to dust tracks into the mountainous spine of the island. Being a thick twat, I press on, I can see blue skies over the ridge, that’s what I want!!!! No idea where I was, just heading for sunshine. There are vultures and ravens circling above me, awesome. Suddenly I’m onto a ridge, and I’m above the vultures, who are circling on thermals on the cliffs. It’s a loooong way down, if I drop the bike here, I am doomed, literally. There’s nothing between me and a scree slope, then a sheer drop down to the sea. You can see the path I've taken.





I’m on a dusty goat track, and my anus grips the seat. One slip…….I take it steady, and get to a more stable bit of path.

I have this strange feeling, that I'm sitting in a fucking great nest, like in Jason & The Argonauts or something.


I keep on going, past long deserted farm buildings, the sun is beating down by now. I pass the odd farm dwelling with a pickup truck outside. In my head I can hear Duelling Banjos. I practice squealing.

Mind you, the roads aren't much safer than the dirt tracks, look at the pickup sitting on the mountain-side and the chapel a loooooong way down. That's not a little hill!



Then common sense reigns and I head towards civilisation and camping at Aghia Gallini right here on Google Earth (oooh, get him and his fancy Interwebs toys): 35° 5'59.35"N,Lat 24°41'38.58"E Long.

I eat out (steady) that night, but the service is so shite that I fall asleep between courses. No, they didn’t get a tip. Next day I saddle up and head up the coast to Plakias, overland, guess what, fantastic scenery. By now the weather is finally what I’ve been looking for – fucking hot. Perfect.

Check out these twisty roads too, which bikers among you wouldn't cum in your pants to scratch round them?


That evening I happened to voice my displeasure about seeing yet another Amy Winehouse video in some bar which was serving me the most delightful Mojitos. A group of blokes decided to take offence. OK, so I may have called her a fucking horsefaced smack-head cunt, but you know how it is. Apparently they are related to her, that’s why they are playing videos non-stop. Like I give a flying fuck, I go for a piss upstairs. The hardo gang decide it’s time to give me a stern talking to. Alas, the staircase is wide enough for one person at a time and I’m at the top, doing up my fly. I deduce they aren’t coming for a wee wee so opt for booting the first one in the chops sending him downstairs like a comedy skittle. Just like in the films where all the people behind fall down, these cunts do the same. Possibly because I am howling like a Berserker and promising to bugger anyone who tries anything with their own ripped off arm. It has the desired effect, they retire with their fallen comrade, who has blood pissing over his white shirt. I decide to stay in the upstairs bar and await my ejection.,……it doesn’t happen. Surely there’s a team of big Cretans coming on their mopeds to kick me out? I’m pissed, but resigned to it, my adrenaline has ebbed, I’ll try and slur my way out of trouble. Nothing. No cops, no bouncers, no locals. Another Mojito arrives, not ordered by me.
Barman winks “They fucking idiots” he says “they gone now”. Wha-hey! Cheers!!

[Snoogans]

Great stuff - keep it coming!
The BBC needs you. Kind of like Ewan and Charlie, but with extra sex and alcohol.

[VitaminG]

great update. And great pics (despite your photographic skills)

[Jayster]

Quite entertaining Rsmacker, good read!

[Spivonious]

Anxiously awaiting part 3....


Just curious. Do you have a plan when you go on these road trips, or is it just "I'll head south"?

[Rsmacker]

Thanks for the comments chaps, nice that someone's reading my little tale.
Yes, Spiv, I did just head South last year. I kind of knew I wanted to go to experience the Cap D'Agde but hadn't really planned anything. The weather was so shit here all last Summer, I just needed to see the sun, needed a Summer, so simply headed for where the sun should have been. It's the same this year, the shit weather is really giving me itchy feet, but I don't know where I'm going to go. This year will be tricky, the pound has plummetted against the Euro, and times are hard anyway, so that might limit my wanderings. We shall see.

Anyway, back to last year.......

Next day I sleep the hangover off in the sun, have another ding-dong with the campsite owner who fucked off with my passport and left me sitting there for an hour to get it back, and move up to Chora Sfakion. This is where the final Commonwealth troops were evacuated by sea, mostly ANZACs, in 1941 after the Kraut invasion. It’s small, quiet, nice. Hard to imagine thousands of troops retreating from the small quay all those years ago (not the one in the background, that's modern)



I walk round, eat then ride out only to feel a red hot pain in my chest. Fuck it, I’ve been stung by something. I pull over, screaming “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!” and tear at my jacket. The locals watch, bemused. I didn’t discover what tagged me but it lit up like a beacon and swelled up. By now I’m over the lethargy, I decide to move on.
It gets worse.
I stop to take a pic of the view......


.......and drop the bike because of the camber. Like a big fucking Wendy, I can’t pick it up, I have to wait until some friendly dagoes come along and help me lift it and unblock the road. Oh the shame.



Out into the wilds, and I need to lay a cable. The Great Turtle is licking the back of my leg, I need to unleash it and soon or I'll give birth in the saddle. I stop in the middle of nowhere and waddle across to a stone wall in some gorse. Checking no-one is around, I deliver the parcel, narrowly missing crapping in my own pulled down pants. Blokes are just not made to squat and shit whilst wearing bike trousers. All the while I’m grunting and parking the steamer, I can hear a loud rattling. Strange. After a quick de-contamination session with the wet-wipes, I’m good to go and set out to find the source of the noise. Turns out it’s an old bridge, and the noise is cars going over it.



This is the scariest bridge I’ve ever crossed. The base is old railway sleepers which aren’t fixed down, so they clatter as you cross them. Not only that, but they don’t butt up to each other, there’s huge fucking gaps. I cross, then discover I’ve reached a National Park, the Aradainas Gorge, and I can’t go any further. I have to recross the Bridge of Doom.


So now I’m facing crossing to the North of Crete because of this huge National Park.



Look at those roads! They are lovely black and sticky, begging to have a GSXR1000 hooned up them........until you come to the parts that have been washed away during the Winter. One minute you are on road, next you are on gravel. No signs, no warning.




Stopped here for a swim!


Even after dropping the bike I still haven't finished making a tit of myself. I decide I want the bike in a pic in front of the scenery, climb up a cutting.....a rock gives way and I' sent tumbling about 12'. I strive to protect my camera, but smack my head on a massive rock. Amazingly, when I had dismounted the bike, I'd kept my lid on to take the pic. Just as well, I'd have been fucked otherwise. Nice mountain though!




I make it as dusk falls, and it’s Hell. All the package tours and nasty tourist scum (like I’m not scum, fighting in bars etc, but hey) go there, it’s just commercialised shite. It’s also teeming. I stop at a store and get chatting with a man with a Honda 50 moped. Not usually something of note but this is absolutely immaculate, even though it’s 30 years old. The chap tells me he’s off round the world next month. On that thing? Naaaah, on a big Kwak 1400 muscle bike. I dunno, I reckon the Honda 50 would be more comfortable. I bid farewell and he drops a bombshell – there is no petrol anywhere. Apparently the Crete tanker drivers are on strike from Thursday to Monday and most places have sold out thanks to panic buying. I’m running on empty anyway, shit. So, I resign myself to staying in the North overnight, but can’t find anywhere to stay. At 11pm I find a campsite and I’m running on petrol fumes. Oh well.

[toxikdeth]

Wow you didnt mention wilkinsi

[Rsmacker]

Next day there’s a garage just up the road and unbelievably he has some petrol. I fill up and head South to Paleochora. I’d been there on a previous visit and loved its sleepy atmosphere, the clear blue water. The roads are winding and clear, perfect riding. All over the island there's this kind of stuff lying about, left from the Battle of Crete.


Spot the mistake


Yep, the Battle of Crete was 1941, the plate on it says it was made in 1942. Doh!
They are fond of putting chapels all over the place in Greece, seemingly no reason why they should be there:

Luckily I've got a great map:



Suddenly there’s a geezer in the road holding up a stop sign. I duly halt and up ahead there’s a JCB knocking a cliff down, from above! No H&S bullshit, just stop the traffic, knock down some huuuuuge boulders and let people past. Incredible. They are straightening the roads out so more coaches can use them. This is bad, this means the Sleepy South will become Chav Hell.



So, I get to Paleochora, a sleepy fishing type village. I’m sitting in a café keeping out of the midday sun when the funniest thing I have EVER seen rocks up.
Picture it : a moped chugs up the street, it’s old and shitty, the bloke on it looks about 130. Now that’s normal for Greece, but he’s got his dog, like a Setter, but grey and white rather than red, sitting on the seat in front of him. And I mean sitting, like a person, arse on the seat, back legs hanging down, front paws on the handlebars. Can you picture it?
Now that’s quite amusing, but there’s more. As it pulls alongside the café, I can see the dog has a blissful look on its face, its ears blowing back in the breeze. That’s when I notice it has a massive hardon. That’s it, I collapse, howling. I try to get the camera but by the time I pull myself together it’s gone. Everyone in the café is staring at me, and it’s so frustrating trying to mime a dog with a hardon sitting on a moped. I think I failed.


Anyway, I go and find a camp site and set up. Some time later, an Italian pulls in on his brand new BMW. We chat, he’s pretty cool, bit of a hero, is a semi-pro road racer. He’s rugged and handsome, I know he’ll be fighting off the chicks with a shitty stick. I cunningly decide to go for a drink with him and catch the cast-offs. Now, things went a little wrong from here. I meant to have one drink, then eat. Alas, it didn’t happen, I drank and drank and forgot to eat. Result: telling the campsite owner that we were going to spit-roast his daughter, assuming his English was poor. Whoops. Trying to pull some Czech waitresses who weren’t allowed to talk to us after a while. This made me even more lairy, loud and obnoxious, I accuse their boss of being a people trafficker. And a homo. The Italian is totally pissed up, like a girl, I think he’s going to start crying. We mock some fat English chicks (OK, OK, I mock them) and I agree to leave before we both get killed.

By now I’m sort of out of control, I tell him I’m actually Satan’s emissary and ask him if he wants to come and fuck a goat. He fails to see the funny side and accuses me of leading him into the wilderness to kill him. And bum him, probably. I refute the accusation and lead him into the campsite. He staggers off, I collapse. I wake up having yakked my guts out, it’s luminous yellow. There’s a cat licking at it. “Fuck off cat, that’s mine….” I have a couple of laps and then it all goes dark…..

Next day I hear the BMW start up, I peep from under the tarp, my new buddy doesn’t even wave. Miserable cunt.

I, however, have other problems to worry about – the Worst Hangover of ALL Time (as per Guinness Book of Records). Oh, and fucking hell, it hurt. I did manage to get out of hammock once and the site owner heroically took pity on me and went out on his ancient moped to get me some hangover medicine. I still couldn’t function till the sun went down.

After dark I gingerly limp into town. I only sip water and have some bread and fish. I’ve reached my limit, and I know it. I really have to wind it in, I’m a grown man, I can’t keep this up. Anyway, worse, I’m getting frantic calls from home. I have a massive job starting in the following month and the client wants to discuss details. I don’t think they appreciate me sitting in a hammock sleeping off a hangover. I promise them I am working on the project. Apparently the tanker drivers are back at work so I ship out, back to Heraklion, and the ferry back to Athens.
I’m going home.

But the adventure is far from over.......

[Rsmacker]

Wow you didnt mention wilkinsi

The cunt didn't thank me for the postcard either. He knows I was thinking of him as I wanked myself to sleep.

[Reverend Timmy]

Great story,you crazy fukker..................

[Rsmacker]

So I'm homeward bound, the time I have been spending drinking and sleeping on the beach has eaten into the time I had set aside to prepare the job I have booked in for October. I should actually be at home now, but meh, fuck it. My phone is going mental, I ignore it.

Athens, what a shit-hole.

I arrive early on a Sunday morning and decide, on the spot that I still haven't seen the fucking sites of antiquity and it's the 4th time I've passed through the city. I decide to make the effort figuring it will be quiet on a Sunday. I stop and ask a policeman where the Pantheon is. He has no idea, thick twat. I roar away convinced he is taking the piss.........which is when I remember the Pantheon is in fucking Rome. Bollocks. I find a sign to the Parthenon and decide to go there instead.

The streets are filthy, graffiti everywhere, and all along the streets are homeless people. I pass loads of antique shops opening up, there's piles of interesting swag that I can see as I pass, but I daren't pull up and go and have a look. The vultures would have my bike stripped in seconds.
I ride up a cobbled street and find myself below the Parthenon. There is a kind of jumble sale going on, just loads of people flogging all sorts of shit all the way up the street. I mean shit too, stuff like odd shoes and broken VCRs. It's sad to see, these people haven't got a pot to piss in.

I stop to try and see how to get my bike up near that pile of old stones, a cop pulls over and goes to get food. Unbelievably he's riding an Africa Twin, a bike they stopped making in 1992. I quiz him about it, why isn't he riding some brand new BMW or something, like the filth do at home. He explains it is a perfect bike for nipping off-road or for zooming through traffic, and that there isn't really anything as good on the market today. I don't need him to tell me that, I've heard it all across Europe, along with people trying to buy mine off me.



The cop explains he should nick me for riding in a restricted area, I won't be allowed to get the bike anywhere near the Parthenon. He would have ridden up there with me but there was a van full of other cops (some sort of paramilitary police force) up the road and they would nick us both.

Time is getting on, the traffic is getting heavy and I need to be on the ferry to Italy tonight, so I have to give up on the touristy shit and hit the road again. My ferry is going from Igmounitsa rather than Patras, which is further North, I have to give it some stick to cross Greece. I stop at a layby for a rest, and see the same Spanish truckers who were there when I stopped there going the other way. They are ripping off stuff out of the back of their trucks, just like they were before. Thieving cunts.

Anyway, I get to the port in plenty of time and whilst waiting for the boat to arrive a coach full of Albanians pulls up. They mill round me, all smiles, jabbering away. This I do not like, they are invading my space, touching the bike and the luggage. I'm trying to watch all of them at once, I trust them about as far as I can shit sideways, and tell them so. They explain they are pilgrims going to Lourdes.

I don't give a fuck, they all look like cut-throats and I can see it in their eyes they just love this plump rich Englander, they'd make mincemeat out of me. They also want to come to the UK, they have been learning English from TV. They want easy life, big moneys, girl thank you please, high five. I tell them that British people really don't like Albanians and that the law has just been changed to allow us to shoot them. Perturbed, they believe me and leave me in peace. Thank fuck, they haven't got my wallet or my passport (they wanted to look at my passport, to see what a UK one looked like. I fucking think not!)

A day later I'm in Italy, the phone is red hot with people wanting to know where the fuck I am. I zip up to Milan and try to find a hotel. I'm trying to decide where to stay when two geezers clock me and make a bee-line. I think there's going to be trouble.
They turn out to be Aussies, bikers too, on a road trip through Europe. They are completely arseholed and want me to stop at that hotel and talk bikes with them. Astoundingly, my sense of self-preservation kicks in and I know if I stay there, I'm doomed. I will end up getting wasted.....
I bid them reluctant farewell, they are calling each other homos really loudly, then one bellows "Quick, to the Chopper" in an Arnie voice. I realise I've had a lucky escape, I'd have ended up in jail, they were fucking nuts.

Instead, I go to a municipal campsite. It's full of luxury motors with UK plates, but something's not right, I can't explain. It hits me, they are Pikeys, hundreds of them. Too late to find somewhere else tonight, I just doss down, and head out at first light. The Pikeys are already up, it seems they are resurfacing the roads around Milan.

A wierd experience that night though. I wake up hearing a noise (I'm on edge because of the Do-as-you-likeys) and look out of the hammock to see a fucking huge rabbit, it's the size of a dog. No way, I'm having a flashback or something. I look again, there's two of the fucking things now. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck, I've done it now, I've pushed it too far this holiday and gone mental. I fall asleep anyway.

Next morning as I leave I see there's loads of these big rabbits about, and they are absolutely massive. I'm glad I'm normal. Mostly.

I'm cold though, the weather has definitely changed whilst I was away, a definite nip in the air. I'm planning to go up through Switzerland, but I know I'll freeze my tits off, I need a better jacket. Where better than Milan to get kitted out right? Wrong, what a runaround! I spend the best part of a day driving round trying to find somewhere to get a jacket that isn't 500 Euros. I ask a biker at some traffic lights, he says follow me......
and then guns it down the main street on the back wheel. Fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound, I follow (no wheelie though). Two mins later we are outside a discount bike clothes shop, he has to go to work so waves me off and burns up the pavement scattering pedestrians. What a hero!

Windproof jacket bought, I head North again. I slip through Customs without buying a Carnet for the Autoroute. Yeah, I'm a master criminal, and stop at a service station. I have a little kip, dusk is coming. Just as I'm about to leave, a little blonde chick comes over and asks if I can give her a ride to Zurich. My head says no, my balls say go. Guess which one I listen to?

I tell her I'd love to but have no spare lid. She is despondent and I feel concerned for her welfare, she's just run away from a trucker who was giving her a ride but had scared her. Being a heroic type, I sit down and she tells her tale of woe. It's soon glaringly obvious she is batshit crazy, her stories has more holes than Swiss Shit. She is obviously very clever, speaks perfect English, and has escaped from somewhere. A church, a cult perhaps, maybe even a loony bin. She has a huge chip on her shoulder about men for some reason, she pours out how much she feels she has been downtrodden by men and how her life would have been far better if she had been a man.

Now at this point, a normal sensible person would have nodded and agreed with her and slid away. But I'm not normal or sensible, am I? Nope, not a bit of it. I try to be clever and tell her to make me a cup of tea whilst I go for a piss, and then I'd book us both a hotel room so we could discuss things further. She looks at me like I've just shit in her handbag, this look turns to fury, part of me is regretting saying it, part of me is filling with blood, I can't decide which way this will go - will she flip out or succumb to my wit and cheeky banter? She fucking flipped, obviously.

I decide there's not a hope of porking her, so when she is stomping round the service station screaming "Un-believable! Men! Zey are all ze same!!" I take the opportunity to escape. I feel a twinge of regret, she has no money and is stuck there. Then I decide she probably brought it on herself. If she'd been sweet and helpless, undone her top button, she'd have been given a lift anywhere. Being a psycho feminist gets you nowhere, she's probably still there to this day.

By now it's late, I spent too much time trying to be a suave bastard and lure her onto my dick. I bite the bullet, stop at the first hotel and pay for a room. Expensive, but fuck it, I at least have a good breakfast.

The phone is still going mental.

I'm still ignoring it.

[GodOfRhythm]

God of Rhythm, Lars Ulrich’s personal bum-sniffer lives there.

Sounds like one fucking awesome trip!

And Blazer's from the Netherlands! Thank fuckin god