What is it about the fucking French?
Why is that they flaunt the smoking ban with absolute total abandon, it means precisely fuck all to them. I've watched some dirty bitch this morning in a cafe smoking behind the counter, before she prepared someone's breakfast. Dirty cow. They just don't give a toss, people smoke here ANYWHERE, regardless of what the law says. Restaurants, bars, whatever, they still hand you an ashtray when you sit down, there's always some wanker sparking up when you are trying to eat.
There's only one kind of woman that smokes in my book, and she stands on street corners calling you dearie and asking if you'd like to do business.
And yet, try getting a plastic carrier bag out of the bastards to carry your groceries outside to your vehicle. Nooooooo chance, too risky, against the rules you see. You have to pay. It means people don't want so many plastic carrier bags, thus meaning the French are striding ahead in their efforts to halt the global climate catastrophe (regardless of any nuclear tests they may be carrying out in the Pacific, requiring the sabotage and sinking of vessels belonging to hardcore terror groups. Like Greenpeace.)
And why, if the Euro is such a cum-in-your-pants-brilliant idea, after so many years, do they STILL put the prices up in Euros and the equivilent in Francs? This must mean that some twat must be working out updated exchange rates for currency which no longer exists, and if we believe the fat pigs in the European Parliament, never will exist again. SO why do it? Is it to humour old people? Or are they holding onto the sliver of hope that they may bale out, despite telling everyone else how fucking fantastic it is?
I can guarantee one thing, if Cyclops Brown and his crew of cocksuckers conned us into joining the currency, the pound would be forgotten about within 30 days, guaranteed.
What a shower of cunts. (all of the above)
Still, had enough of this place, off to Andorra tomorrow......
Sunday 20 September 2009
Saturday 19 September 2009
Scary Stuff
Well, the past day and a half have been bloody strange, and could have had serious implications.
So, I've porked a Swamp Donkey, waved goodbye to a nice couple of Brit bikers across the way as they head back to the UK and I'm confined to barracks (well, hammock).
That must be the end of today then, the thunder and lightning is monumental, the rain is coming down like stair-rods. I doze...........
An hour and a half I wake up and the sun is shining, the wind is still ferocious, but it's distinctly beach weather. I grab my book and MP3 player and head off. Now, because of the wind, it is at times chilly, despite there being brilliant sunshine. I think that saved my bacon, because it meant my shirt was on for most of the day.
You see, the previous day had been a real scorcher, and like every other British twat, I roasted under the sun. I don't normally burn, I try to keep an eye on things, and I slap on the cream, but that day got me, I was lobster-like. Not a problem, I know I'm burned, I'm not going to repeat the error, I'll take it easy and slap on the after-sun. The thing is, by the time the thunderstorm hit next morning I was feeling just a tiny bit ill too. When the weather cleared up and I hit the beach my doom was assured. By that afternoon, I was feeling seriously ill, and I mean ill. As I say, luckily I hadn't exposed too much skin to the sun, but enough.
Yesterday evening I was feeling pretty rough, I went out to eat, had justone beer and went to a club. There were plenty of women there up for it, even one brave soul who took on at least 30 young lads, some soccer teams I think, here for a tournament. As they jockeyed for position, some of them were coming round for seconds before others had had their first go. I thought the woman would be still there tomorrow!
Anyway, this is how ill I was feeling - I didn't feel like steaming in for a portion myself. Yep, that's when I knew there was going to be problems.
I retired to the hammock, by now feeling like a truck had run me over. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I speak in tongues when asleep, even more so when ill, it's almost like a delerium. This is how I found myself conversing with my parents in the dead of night, begging them to come and fetch me. Really. I yakked up till there was nothing left, just over the edge of the hammock (not clever, I can't get away from the smell then, can I? Duh), but again, a measure of how ill I felt.
Once again, anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a complete pussy when it comes to illness, I summon the family to the bedside whenever I get a sniffle and divide my guitars up amongst my 3 young nieces (who have no clue what I'm talking about), I tend to over-react. However, I thought I was dying this morning. At one point I couldn't move, I couldn't get out of the hammock. I knew I needed a drink, that dehydration was a real issue, but couldn't do anything about it. I lay there as the sun rose and proceeded to bake me under the tarp. Damned scary stuff. There are people walking about outside, but I can't call out to them, they are all bloody foreign anyway - how can I explain that it's not a hangover, i really really am having difficulties?
I lay there for hours, feeling myself getting weaker, moaning and calling out to people who just ignored me. I can see me dying there, with no-one realising until afterwards. No-one knows where I am, I have no friends here, no-one to even speak to. Eye-opening stuff (or closing, depending on your outlook).
Finally I know I am in serious trouble so roll out of the hammock onto the floor. I lay there and people walk by and see me but don't even ask if I'm OK!!! With a supreme effort I get to my feet and stagger off to a cafe across the site and get some juice inside me. Immediately I feel better, but still not right. I guzzle more and even wolf a packet of fig rolls. Now, at 8pm, I finally feel human again, though I don't think I can face going on the pull.
This afternoon I was praying to feel good enough to ride home, determined the trip was over here and now, but I feel different now. I'm going to leave this Sodom (I have seen what Hell will be like for me, and will elaborate later) and go to Andorra, get myself along some of those twisty roads, the perfect therapy.
(Percy is looking at me though, I may well end up taking him out for a dip in a while. When at an oasis............)
So, I've porked a Swamp Donkey, waved goodbye to a nice couple of Brit bikers across the way as they head back to the UK and I'm confined to barracks (well, hammock).
That must be the end of today then, the thunder and lightning is monumental, the rain is coming down like stair-rods. I doze...........
An hour and a half I wake up and the sun is shining, the wind is still ferocious, but it's distinctly beach weather. I grab my book and MP3 player and head off. Now, because of the wind, it is at times chilly, despite there being brilliant sunshine. I think that saved my bacon, because it meant my shirt was on for most of the day.
You see, the previous day had been a real scorcher, and like every other British twat, I roasted under the sun. I don't normally burn, I try to keep an eye on things, and I slap on the cream, but that day got me, I was lobster-like. Not a problem, I know I'm burned, I'm not going to repeat the error, I'll take it easy and slap on the after-sun. The thing is, by the time the thunderstorm hit next morning I was feeling just a tiny bit ill too. When the weather cleared up and I hit the beach my doom was assured. By that afternoon, I was feeling seriously ill, and I mean ill. As I say, luckily I hadn't exposed too much skin to the sun, but enough.
Yesterday evening I was feeling pretty rough, I went out to eat, had justone beer and went to a club. There were plenty of women there up for it, even one brave soul who took on at least 30 young lads, some soccer teams I think, here for a tournament. As they jockeyed for position, some of them were coming round for seconds before others had had their first go. I thought the woman would be still there tomorrow!
Anyway, this is how ill I was feeling - I didn't feel like steaming in for a portion myself. Yep, that's when I knew there was going to be problems.
I retired to the hammock, by now feeling like a truck had run me over. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I speak in tongues when asleep, even more so when ill, it's almost like a delerium. This is how I found myself conversing with my parents in the dead of night, begging them to come and fetch me. Really. I yakked up till there was nothing left, just over the edge of the hammock (not clever, I can't get away from the smell then, can I? Duh), but again, a measure of how ill I felt.
Once again, anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a complete pussy when it comes to illness, I summon the family to the bedside whenever I get a sniffle and divide my guitars up amongst my 3 young nieces (who have no clue what I'm talking about), I tend to over-react. However, I thought I was dying this morning. At one point I couldn't move, I couldn't get out of the hammock. I knew I needed a drink, that dehydration was a real issue, but couldn't do anything about it. I lay there as the sun rose and proceeded to bake me under the tarp. Damned scary stuff. There are people walking about outside, but I can't call out to them, they are all bloody foreign anyway - how can I explain that it's not a hangover, i really really am having difficulties?
I lay there for hours, feeling myself getting weaker, moaning and calling out to people who just ignored me. I can see me dying there, with no-one realising until afterwards. No-one knows where I am, I have no friends here, no-one to even speak to. Eye-opening stuff (or closing, depending on your outlook).
Finally I know I am in serious trouble so roll out of the hammock onto the floor. I lay there and people walk by and see me but don't even ask if I'm OK!!! With a supreme effort I get to my feet and stagger off to a cafe across the site and get some juice inside me. Immediately I feel better, but still not right. I guzzle more and even wolf a packet of fig rolls. Now, at 8pm, I finally feel human again, though I don't think I can face going on the pull.
This afternoon I was praying to feel good enough to ride home, determined the trip was over here and now, but I feel different now. I'm going to leave this Sodom (I have seen what Hell will be like for me, and will elaborate later) and go to Andorra, get myself along some of those twisty roads, the perfect therapy.
(Percy is looking at me though, I may well end up taking him out for a dip in a while. When at an oasis............)
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Day whatever
So, I have interweb access now, hence the posts. I'm in Cap D'agde, just about to seriously misbehave. Alcohol and minge, my favourite flavours........
GOd I love it here, it's filthy!!!
GOd I love it here, it's filthy!!!
Day 3 + a few
Onwards I plunge, further into France....
Day 3 brings me into the Ardeche region, unsurprisingly beautiful countryside, but there's something not right about it for me. The reason becomes clear, and despite what I said the other day, it's down to greedyfuckers putting houses everywhere. The Ardeche is one of those traditionally rural places with picture book cottages.......owned by cunts with loadsamoney.The terrain reminds me of North Wales, and just like North Wales, I'm sure it's full of cunts who live in big cities and only go there at weekends. I feel sure the locals, born and bred, are being priced right out of the market, whilst some fat cunt comes in and flogs off parcels of land for development.
The trad look Gites are springing up here, and there's For Sale signs everywhere. They've obviously not cottoned on to the fact that the reason there's so many places with boards on, that have obviously been there for a long time, is because they aren't selling - SO STOP BUILDING MORE.
Fucking idiots, you can hear the cash tills ringing in their heads - I know, let's buy some land in the Ardeche, lob up a few Gites and we're sorted! Utter tossers. Just like the lake District, Cornwall, or Wales, you can tell it's been ruined. All the old buildings, the ones with character, have been re-pointed and have double glazing. I bet they are owned by cunts called Rupert who spend the odd weekend there whilst nipping to do a bit of watersking in Geneva. I bet the traffic here is horrendous during Peak season. I feel impressed by the landscape, but also feel it has been sullied by greeed. The charm has gone, and I bet Rupert is looking to buy somewhere else now, somewhere for peanuts because too many carpet-baggers like him have fucked this place up. Still, the ride was great.
Bizarrely, I'm looking at some of these great old gaffes, thinking to myself that I bet there's alll manner of cool old loot in them. You know, things like Willys Jeeps and Kubelwagens left from the end of the war. (Well, there might have been 20 years ago before Rupert & Co arrived. First thing they did was scrap it all, to get the Audi in the shed.)
Anyway, I'm in the middle of nowhere, like the road to Royston Vasey, and there's a huge farmhouse selling antiques by the side of the road. Seems like a good idea to stop and have a look.
Well, no luck with war loot, but this place was incredible. Not what I expecteed, which was some City Slicker selling HQ shit at top Dollar. No, this was an old-stylee junk/antique shop. They had obviously been doing local house clearances, there were piles of just "interesting" old shite, pictures of long-dead families from 1909, curly moustaches and all (that was just the women).
I spent ages in there, rummaging about looking for something interesting. Cut-throat razors, baccy boxes, all that sort of shite, along with loads of good solid farmhouse kitchen tables and sideboards. Not stupid money either, it was a real gold mine. Or would have been to someone who knew their stuff.
I was looking at a pile of crucifixes, looked up at a model car with the licence plate 666, when in bowled a fucking nun! By now I'm thinking I mnay have dozed off on the motorway, but nope, all real. She didn't flop her tits out and give me a BJ, but I was still hoping. You just never know, do you? I saw it in a film once, they are all filthy, no matter how pious they try to appear......
Anyway, I pass through the region and roll up to a campsite at dusk. The owner lets me camp for free! Small victories, my son, small victories.
The one thing is that it is getting cold. Not fun. The next day I hit theroad for more of the same, and it's nagging me.
This is just like being at home - I could be in the Lake District, clouds and cold wind and all. I drive on, not far or fast, and stop after another pleasant day in the saddle, at a campsite by a lake called Lake Nutsac, or something. It's grey, cold, very Autumnal, and there's abpout 3 people in the whole campsite. The owner takes my E8 and fucks off, closing the office up. The silence and blackness at night are bottomless, and what's more, it's FUCKING FREEZING. AGAIN.
I end up digging the thermal long-johns out, and more socks, and a shirt. Still I can't sleep. Not good. I'm seriously contemplating going home, I've left it too late this year, Summer has gone.I'll head home and fly somewhere warm for a holiday, like normal people.
However, I crest some mountains and see blue sky. Things may be looking promising. The roads are still fantastic, sweeping curves, tight hairpins, total biker dream. There are many bikes from all nations on the roads, I relax a little.
Soon the sun has warmed me and I ditch the shirt.Then the over-jacket. Then the Summer gloves come back out. I even have to stop for a kip because of the heat of the sun!Maybe I've been too hasty.
I drive deep into Lanbguedoc, and the sun is blazing. Game on!!!
Day 3 brings me into the Ardeche region, unsurprisingly beautiful countryside, but there's something not right about it for me. The reason becomes clear, and despite what I said the other day, it's down to greedyfuckers putting houses everywhere. The Ardeche is one of those traditionally rural places with picture book cottages.......owned by cunts with loadsamoney.The terrain reminds me of North Wales, and just like North Wales, I'm sure it's full of cunts who live in big cities and only go there at weekends. I feel sure the locals, born and bred, are being priced right out of the market, whilst some fat cunt comes in and flogs off parcels of land for development.
The trad look Gites are springing up here, and there's For Sale signs everywhere. They've obviously not cottoned on to the fact that the reason there's so many places with boards on, that have obviously been there for a long time, is because they aren't selling - SO STOP BUILDING MORE.
Fucking idiots, you can hear the cash tills ringing in their heads - I know, let's buy some land in the Ardeche, lob up a few Gites and we're sorted! Utter tossers. Just like the lake District, Cornwall, or Wales, you can tell it's been ruined. All the old buildings, the ones with character, have been re-pointed and have double glazing. I bet they are owned by cunts called Rupert who spend the odd weekend there whilst nipping to do a bit of watersking in Geneva. I bet the traffic here is horrendous during Peak season. I feel impressed by the landscape, but also feel it has been sullied by greeed. The charm has gone, and I bet Rupert is looking to buy somewhere else now, somewhere for peanuts because too many carpet-baggers like him have fucked this place up. Still, the ride was great.
Bizarrely, I'm looking at some of these great old gaffes, thinking to myself that I bet there's alll manner of cool old loot in them. You know, things like Willys Jeeps and Kubelwagens left from the end of the war. (Well, there might have been 20 years ago before Rupert & Co arrived. First thing they did was scrap it all, to get the Audi in the shed.)
Anyway, I'm in the middle of nowhere, like the road to Royston Vasey, and there's a huge farmhouse selling antiques by the side of the road. Seems like a good idea to stop and have a look.
Well, no luck with war loot, but this place was incredible. Not what I expecteed, which was some City Slicker selling HQ shit at top Dollar. No, this was an old-stylee junk/antique shop. They had obviously been doing local house clearances, there were piles of just "interesting" old shite, pictures of long-dead families from 1909, curly moustaches and all (that was just the women).
I spent ages in there, rummaging about looking for something interesting. Cut-throat razors, baccy boxes, all that sort of shite, along with loads of good solid farmhouse kitchen tables and sideboards. Not stupid money either, it was a real gold mine. Or would have been to someone who knew their stuff.
I was looking at a pile of crucifixes, looked up at a model car with the licence plate 666, when in bowled a fucking nun! By now I'm thinking I mnay have dozed off on the motorway, but nope, all real. She didn't flop her tits out and give me a BJ, but I was still hoping. You just never know, do you? I saw it in a film once, they are all filthy, no matter how pious they try to appear......
Anyway, I pass through the region and roll up to a campsite at dusk. The owner lets me camp for free! Small victories, my son, small victories.
The one thing is that it is getting cold. Not fun. The next day I hit theroad for more of the same, and it's nagging me.
This is just like being at home - I could be in the Lake District, clouds and cold wind and all. I drive on, not far or fast, and stop after another pleasant day in the saddle, at a campsite by a lake called Lake Nutsac, or something. It's grey, cold, very Autumnal, and there's abpout 3 people in the whole campsite. The owner takes my E8 and fucks off, closing the office up. The silence and blackness at night are bottomless, and what's more, it's FUCKING FREEZING. AGAIN.
I end up digging the thermal long-johns out, and more socks, and a shirt. Still I can't sleep. Not good. I'm seriously contemplating going home, I've left it too late this year, Summer has gone.I'll head home and fly somewhere warm for a holiday, like normal people.
However, I crest some mountains and see blue sky. Things may be looking promising. The roads are still fantastic, sweeping curves, tight hairpins, total biker dream. There are many bikes from all nations on the roads, I relax a little.
Soon the sun has warmed me and I ditch the shirt.Then the over-jacket. Then the Summer gloves come back out. I even have to stop for a kip because of the heat of the sun!Maybe I've been too hasty.
I drive deep into Lanbguedoc, and the sun is blazing. Game on!!!
Fucking hell, me being a smug git, setting out on my Big Trip 09, checked all the important shit on this here sooper-dooper Netbook, namely that it will connect to the Interwebs and that I can view um, "art" on it should I find the urge, but didn't check that Microsoft Bastard Word was on it.
No, is the answer to that, leaving me to type this in Notepad, the biggest sack of shitsince Hugh Hefner was changed after along weekend. But still, I'm soldiering on, in the fucking freezing cold on this French campsite near Chalons-sur-Saune. Up till now things haven't been so bad, but the cold is getting to be a problem. I'm a big Wendy, obviously, and I don't like being cold, so ner. The sun has been shining, but the wind has been terrible, the wholejourney thus far has been hard work, huge gusts of cold wind taking the bike on exposed stretches of road, which, let's face it,is quite a lot of France. It's a HUGE country, vast stretches of agricultural land which make East Anglia look like a window box.
From Dover I jumped across to Calais (on a ferry dumbass, I'm not Evel Knievel) and headed straight down the toll road, away from the gloomy North......towards the gloomy Centre. I've not been hooning it, no point really, so trundled down to Reims yesterday, overnighted there and trundled down through Champagne. Beautiful country, wonderful, but you'll just have to take my word for that, I went to switch on my other new toy, my Helmet Camera (oo-er!) but the bastard battery was flat. Ho hum.
The worst thing about travelling through foreign lands is seeing exactly how shit your home is. France, as I say, is huge, so that'sprobably why the population has plenty of room to live and breath, without feeling the need to stick four fucking bungalows ona piece of land where there has previously been one old farm building. That's something I've never been able to understand - why would anyone want to move to the countryside then buy a house which is cramed next door to a load of the same sort of scum you moved there to get away from? If I move to the countryside, it's because I want to be left alone and whenever anyone approaches my gaffe, I can see them coming for 2 miles. Anyway, France is not trying to fill every last inch of free space with coookie cutter houses or Barrat Homes.
Driving through the cities like Dijon, you aren't thinking you have been transported to Lahore, no Onions glinting in the sun as you approach (like happened to me as I neared Warwick the other day. No view of the castrle from miles away, stern and imposing,oh no, the first thing you see is a gleaming white temple dome. WTF? How has it come to this?) The French would eat them alive, I'm sure there are mosques and temples here, but they aren't EVERYWHERE, and the medieval churches still dominate the skyline here.
I did see some pikeys though, fucking hell did I?! Of course they are not like the homegrown (Irish) gyppo scum we have, these are traditional swarthy pikeys. It appears you have to own a Mercedes Sprinter to become one, and had 20 kids in the back. And the strange thing is, these pikey bastards appear to be earning their living, not stealing anything not nailed down, dealing drugs and swindling old ladies like our domestic vermin. Of course they are picking the fruit, good honest work, so fair play to them. I have no doubt they would steal the shirt off my back, but at least they are appearing to work, not just cruising around in the latest model Range Rover (untaxed), looking for crime to commit. (Just how many drives do you need to resurface before you can afford one of those anyway? And what about the rest of them in the family, what about their luxury motors, where did the cash come from for those? What? It's racist to ask those sorts of questions? Oh, silly me, of course....)
So, back to the plot, what else have I seen of note? Weeeeell, apart form stunning scenery, not a lot, still early days. There was an awful amount of French military vehicles on the road yesterday, along with low level fighter jet passes. Considering the French aren't exactly noted for their military prowess, not since Mr Bonaparte had his stubby little arse kicked, they seem to do an awful lot of "exercises" (ie. driving about their own country). I bet they have about 12 troops in Afghanistan total, the cunts. Or maybe they just knew I was here, and though they'd show some muscle to show what will happen if I decide to unwind with a little drinkie here before dinner......
Today, on towards Lyon and beyond, far too mippy here even in the sunshine. Looks like Spain will be seeing my hairy arse very soon.
No, is the answer to that, leaving me to type this in Notepad, the biggest sack of shitsince Hugh Hefner was changed after along weekend. But still, I'm soldiering on, in the fucking freezing cold on this French campsite near Chalons-sur-Saune. Up till now things haven't been so bad, but the cold is getting to be a problem. I'm a big Wendy, obviously, and I don't like being cold, so ner. The sun has been shining, but the wind has been terrible, the wholejourney thus far has been hard work, huge gusts of cold wind taking the bike on exposed stretches of road, which, let's face it,is quite a lot of France. It's a HUGE country, vast stretches of agricultural land which make East Anglia look like a window box.
From Dover I jumped across to Calais (on a ferry dumbass, I'm not Evel Knievel) and headed straight down the toll road, away from the gloomy North......towards the gloomy Centre. I've not been hooning it, no point really, so trundled down to Reims yesterday, overnighted there and trundled down through Champagne. Beautiful country, wonderful, but you'll just have to take my word for that, I went to switch on my other new toy, my Helmet Camera (oo-er!) but the bastard battery was flat. Ho hum.
The worst thing about travelling through foreign lands is seeing exactly how shit your home is. France, as I say, is huge, so that'sprobably why the population has plenty of room to live and breath, without feeling the need to stick four fucking bungalows ona piece of land where there has previously been one old farm building. That's something I've never been able to understand - why would anyone want to move to the countryside then buy a house which is cramed next door to a load of the same sort of scum you moved there to get away from? If I move to the countryside, it's because I want to be left alone and whenever anyone approaches my gaffe, I can see them coming for 2 miles. Anyway, France is not trying to fill every last inch of free space with coookie cutter houses or Barrat Homes.
Driving through the cities like Dijon, you aren't thinking you have been transported to Lahore, no Onions glinting in the sun as you approach (like happened to me as I neared Warwick the other day. No view of the castrle from miles away, stern and imposing,oh no, the first thing you see is a gleaming white temple dome. WTF? How has it come to this?) The French would eat them alive, I'm sure there are mosques and temples here, but they aren't EVERYWHERE, and the medieval churches still dominate the skyline here.
I did see some pikeys though, fucking hell did I?! Of course they are not like the homegrown (Irish) gyppo scum we have, these are traditional swarthy pikeys. It appears you have to own a Mercedes Sprinter to become one, and had 20 kids in the back. And the strange thing is, these pikey bastards appear to be earning their living, not stealing anything not nailed down, dealing drugs and swindling old ladies like our domestic vermin. Of course they are picking the fruit, good honest work, so fair play to them. I have no doubt they would steal the shirt off my back, but at least they are appearing to work, not just cruising around in the latest model Range Rover (untaxed), looking for crime to commit. (Just how many drives do you need to resurface before you can afford one of those anyway? And what about the rest of them in the family, what about their luxury motors, where did the cash come from for those? What? It's racist to ask those sorts of questions? Oh, silly me, of course....)
So, back to the plot, what else have I seen of note? Weeeeell, apart form stunning scenery, not a lot, still early days. There was an awful amount of French military vehicles on the road yesterday, along with low level fighter jet passes. Considering the French aren't exactly noted for their military prowess, not since Mr Bonaparte had his stubby little arse kicked, they seem to do an awful lot of "exercises" (ie. driving about their own country). I bet they have about 12 troops in Afghanistan total, the cunts. Or maybe they just knew I was here, and though they'd show some muscle to show what will happen if I decide to unwind with a little drinkie here before dinner......
Today, on towards Lyon and beyond, far too mippy here even in the sunshine. Looks like Spain will be seeing my hairy arse very soon.
Wednesday 9 September 2009
And so, it begins.....
Weds 9th September 2009, bright and early, the weather's looking good, and I'm ready for the off.
Bike's packed and ready (1994 Africa Twin XRV750) all I need do is collect my funny money from the Post Orifice and I'm offski, time to find some sun, fun, shagging and drinking.
Look out Europe, I'm on my way..........
Bike's packed and ready (1994 Africa Twin XRV750) all I need do is collect my funny money from the Post Orifice and I'm offski, time to find some sun, fun, shagging and drinking.
Look out Europe, I'm on my way..........
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