Istan-Bullseye!

'And the end of all exploring will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time'
T. S. Eliot

So I made it. One side of Europe to the other - the gateway to Asia, the end of the western world. And, as you may have gathered from the Eliot quote above (sorry to be so pretentious, but it's one of my favourites) it's now almost time to come home.

I've seen a few things over the last 2 months. I've been chased by angry dogs, I've been threatened by angry Romanians with large farming implements, and I've nearly been flattened by some terrifying driving on pretty much an hourly basis. Riding into Istanbul in particular was a festival of death-defying feats. If you're tired of life at any stage, get a bike and ride in and out of Istanbul until a murderous bus-driver finally finishes you off. It will definitely happen sooner or later, and you'll enjoy the adrenaline rush during your final moments. It surely beats jumping off any roof.

But anyway, I was looking back at my account of a typical day cycling in Germany, and I decided that it left a fair bit to be desired in terms of adventure. (Haribo? Fuck off!) For sure, cycling in Western Europe is very similar to cycling in Eastern Europe in some ways (you turn the pedals round, the bike moves forward, you get tired and the traffic tries to kill you). But the experience is also vastly different as well. So, for your edification, I will now recount the experiences of a typical day cycling in Romania, so you can see the difference for yourself.

7am: You wake up to the sound of a truck pulling up nearby, and frantic barking of dogs. You no longer wonder where you are upon waking - the smell tells you everything you need to know. You're sleeping in a tent next to a petrol station forecourt.

7:10am: Open the tent and climb out. Say hello to the manager of the petrol station, who is standing by one of the pumps smoking a cigarette. You recall his warning last night ("No smoking here. Benzine. BOOM!") and wonder why the basic laws of combustion don't apply to the proprietor as well. Take a piss behind the pumps and say hello to the horse, which is eating some suspect looking grass growing next to the petrol-stained concrete. You no longer question why a petrol station would need a horse. They all seem to have them. It's normal.

7:30am: You pack up your tent, while being occasionally bothered by the petrol station's five resident dogs, which only leave you alone in order to chase the cars that pull in and out of the station. When there are no cars to chase, they circle around you growling and occasionally nipping at the fabric of the tent as you try to roll it up in the breeze.

7:40am: You discover that the front tyre of the bike has gone totally flat overnight. There is no logical reason for this. Pump it up and pray that it stays inflated. It does. This is an omen that augers well for a good days riding.

8am: You're now riding. It's still quite cool but there isn't a cloud in the sky, so you know that in about an hour the temperature will be in the 30s, and rising. You press on - it's crucial to cover distance early as it'll only get harder as the heat builds. The road is quiet, but liberally garnished with large cracks and potholes, which turns the ride into an exciting slalom course.

8:20am: Overtake a horse and cart. The driver looks grimly at you until you wave, at which point his face bursts into a smile and he shouts something loudly at you. Respond with a 'Alright mate, cheers for that!' or something similarly English. When communicating here, a shared language is completely optional.

9am: It's getting hotter, and the sweat is now running freely down your face and saturating an already pretty ratty t-shirt. You pass yet another dead dog next to the road. This one is particularly grisly. It's insides are on the outside, it's mouth is open in a grimace of agony, and it smells like Satan's christmas dinner.

10am: You reach a village. There must be a circus passing through this particular village, because people are running onto the road, shouting and waving. You realise that you are the circus. A man bellows something at you that could have been an insult, a greeting or a threat - but it's doesn't matter because you're already past him and pedalling hard. Kids run out, pointing and laughing, and put their hands up so you can high-five them on the way past. A man driving an old Dacia blasts his horn as he goes past and waves out of the window. An old lady with no teeth is the only person not interested in the spectacle you're creating - she sits in the shade and observes the goings-on with a tired frown and an obvious lack of interest. You're hungry, but there's no way you're going to stop to visit a shop in the middle of this furore. You decide to press on to the next village.

10:40am: The next village is exactly the same.

11:05am: And the next one.

11:15am: It is now seriously hot. When the road doesn't pass through villages, the road cuts through vast expanses of farmland with no shade. The farmers are burning the old straw, which creates plumes of smoke that blow across the road. The temperature is maybe 37 degrees, but as you drive past the fires you can feel the heat on your face. You can't see though, because the smoke is thick and black. You try to hold your breath and cycle simultaneously. This is impossible, so you inhale deeply halfway through the smoke plume and then suffer a coughing fit that lasts the next 5 minutes.

12 noon: You run out of water. This is a problem, so you strike up a conversation with a driver of a horse and cart. The conversation is conducted in Romanian on his side and English on yours, but you say 'Apa' a few times and show him your empty bottle, and he gets the gist. 2kms down the road, he pulls in at his farm, takes your bottle and goes to fill it up. While you wait, his dog barks and growls at you. When the bottle comes back, it's full of cold water. It tastes kind of slimy, but you don't care.

12:30pm: Pop into a shop to get some lunch. Most villages have one small grocery shop, and the items the stock varies immensely. In this one, you manage to find some kind of questionable cheese, an old hard loaf of bread and an icecream that looks a bit like a cornetto from the 80s. When you leave with your treasures, there are another 2kms to pedal to get out of the village and under some shade. The days of benches are long gone - now you're just trying to find somewhere to sit that isn't a dead dog. While you look for somewhere to eat, the retro icecream turns to mush and the bread turns to stone. You improvise by shoving the gooey icecream into the middle of the bread to make an icecream sandwich. The cheese tastes salty and strange, but probably won't kill you.

2pm: The road decides that it's tired of being made of tarmac, and starts being made of sand and small rocks instead. It also decides that this is a good time to head uphill. After 3 kilometres of this, you wish the road would just sod off. You tell it this, so it does. You follow a track made out of bumps, rocks and ridges for another 3 kilometres. You start pleading with the road to come back to you, but it has taken umbrage and remains resolutely absent.

2:30pm: The road reappears, but it is mainly made of holes. The sun is like a furnace, and concentrating on the road surface becomes very difficult. While wiping the sweat from your eyes, you hit a huge pothole which almost throws you off the bike. You get off and sit under a tree, smoking a cigarette and glaring at your bike which you've left lying in the road. You pray for a truck to come and flatten it, but the only thing that goes past is an old woman driving a herd of geese.

3pm: You ride through another village. A group of teenagers run out and stick their hands out for the now standard high-fives. As you slap one of them, he graps your wrist and tries to pull you off the bike. Sadly, he's a skinny lad and he's underestimated the speed and weight of the bike, so he's jerked forward instead. He tries to let go, but you're not having that. You hang on to one of his fingers for as long as you can, because fuck him. He wriggles free and yells something. One of his mates throws a clod of mud that hits your rear panniers as you cycle off.

4pm: You've probably done about 110kms now. Approaching a cart with 3 Roma gypsy women in it, you wave politely. They respond by all sticking their middle fingers up and laughing. It's unclear whether this is a friendly gesture or not. Certainly, as you pull out to overtake the cart they suddenly stop laughing and gesture frantically at you. You pull back in just in time for a truck to hammer past with a blast of horn and a cloud of dust and fumes. The gypsy women resume their laughing and all stick their fingers up again. You grin, wave, and pedal past.

5pm: It's time to start looking for somewhere to camp. It doesn't seem to matter where you camp in Romania, but it's best to try and find somewhere nicely out of the way. There's a good spot in some tall grass just behind a small copse of trees. Get the tent up and try to find a spot to hide from the sun. You're soaked in sweat, and your knees hurt like hell, so you curl up behind the tent in the grass and wait for the sun to drop far enough for it to be bearably cool enough to walk around.

5:30pm: The dogs arrive. They come over a nearby rise and bark at you until you crawl into the tent. Then they sniff around for a while before becoming bored and racing off somewhere else.

6:30pm: Stick some food on the stove. It's tuna and pasta. Some things just don't change.

7:30pm: Make a little fire, just for fun. Nobody cares - the whole country seems to be on fire anyway, and at least it'll keep the dogs away.

8pm: Read a book, listen to some music, write up your journal. Whatever. Enjoy the fire, enjoy a cigarette, enjoy the sunset.

9:30pm: It's basically bedtime now. Watch the fire die and turn in.

2am: Wake up to footsteps and rustling outside the tent. Immediately awake and alert, and busy constructing a large poo in the depths of your bowels. Open the tent to find a large doggy face staring back at you, with a mangled tin of tuna in its mouth. Shut the tent and go back to sleep. It's normal.

Tomorrow: Do it all again.

Buried in Pomposity is brought to you by Dan, who is very sad that it's all over. For now.

I got Serbed

Hello! After 3,350 kilometres, I've made it to Belgrade from England. Which I'm really quite pleased about! Below the waist, I now look like some kind of sculpted Greek god (plus nimble like a tree-frog). Unfortunately, above the waist I have retained my usual peculiar fun-house-mirror physique, but with the addition of a pair of very tanned arms. Needless to say, the combined effect is... peculiar.

Anyway, some notable events...

• Shortly after leaving Vienna, I bumped into Julien and Tarek on the road. They were both very pleased to see me, and they both had a striking black eye each -a souvenir from a drunken fight in Passau. Can't say I'm too disappointed I missed out on that. Anyway, it was good to see them again and we have ridden together right up to this point, where we are now going to go our separate ways.
• Riding into Bratislava, we got very lost and found ourselves on a tough mountain-bike trail. The path was mainly wet mud, rocks and steep slopes, and the area was infested with mosquitos. My tyres are fat but quite slick, and my bike is about 45 kilos, so I was powersliding round most of the corners and down most of the slopes. Which was pretty fun. Caked in mud at the end of it.
• Got to Budapest after 3 days. Went to the thermal baths, which were amazing, apart from the fact that nearly every pretty girl (and there were many) was laughing openly at my hilarious white torso/nut-brown arm combo. I didn't care. There were whirlpools and everything. It was too fun for looking sexy.
• Rode out of Budapest into a thunderstorm, where I got to try out my brand new expensive waterproof gear (my old jacket was completely un-waterproof, which I considered something of a design flaw). This was the last time I saw rain, so maybe the expensive gear was a total waste of money.
• We camped secretly one night in a private orchard. I didn't sleep very well, as my head was busy concocting crazy scenarios involving angry farmers, guns, dogs and bullet wounds. It didn't help that Tarek and Julien chose to camp under a massive silver tarpaulin that you could easily see from space, so it didn't feel very secret at all. But nothing happened, of course.
  
• We paid a guy about one pound fifty so we could camp on the grounds of some building. He was ridiculously grateful, and not only gave us beds, but also some disgusting wine from a plastic bottle, and a lengthy and incomprehensible Hungarian history lesson conducted only in Magyar (the local language) and numbers scratched in the dirt. As a result of this, I can now tell you that something very exciting happened in 1560 somewhere in Hungary, but I couldn't tell you what it was.
• I should mention the cycling, I guess. We cycled a lot. A real lot. It was hot, and tiring, and occasionally quite funny, particularly because I managed to crash my bike twice. Once in slow motion down a steep embankment, which wasn't too painful, and once on a gravel track (hit a rock and went straight over the handlebars), which was. My gloves and helmet (which I was wearing for once, luckily) took the brunt of the punishment, but now one of my gloves is worn through to the palm. But hey, I probably won't crash again.
• I got my first puncture just after entering Croatia, and just after boasting how I'd gone almost 3,000kms without one. Bloody thorns lying around on the road. It's criminal. Something should be done.
• We camped in a family's vineyard after asking them politely if we could (while their two dogs growled and barked angrily at us). They gave us some homemade wine, and some homemade raki. As we were enjoying this, we were interrupted by a loud explosion nearby. It was probably a deer stepping on one of the many landmines that litter the countryside. We discussed going out in the dark to look for venison steaks, but decided it was maybe a bad idea.
• And finally, I rolled into Belgrade, which is a very beautiful city. The third hostel we tried had enough beds, and as soon as I got upstairs I was offered a beer by some very friendly travellers. It turns out this hostel has something of a party reputation, so tonight I am going to get SMASHED. 20 days to Istanbul, hopefully. But we will see...

Buried in Pomposity was brought to you by Dan 'Thunder-thighs' Gregory. He likes to ride his bicycle, and he likes to ride it where he likes.

Every Day's a Dan Day

What follows is a typical account of a day spent cycling solo...

7am: Alarm clock goes off. Wonder why the hell my bed is so hard and why it smells of plastic, stale tuna and feet. Remember that I'm in a tent somewhere. Wonder vaguely why the hell I'm in a tent somewhere. Hit snooze violently.

7:09am: Hit snooze violently.

7:18am: Hit snooze violently.

7:27am: Decide I now need to get moving because I need a piss. Hit snooze.

7:36am: Get out of tent in a mood, bleary eyed. Do a piss. Find my cigarettes and light one. Stare at the horizon, then at my bike, then at the horizon. Then at my bike. Then at my tent. Eat a cereal bar. Eat another one because cereal bars are a pathetic joke of a breakfast.

7:45am: Start packing up my tent. Wonder how so much stuff could have been spread so randomly in such a small space of time in such a tiny area. Retrieve my phone from one of my socks and my cooker from up a tree. Pack it all up and swear quite a lot. Roll up my tent and stowe it on my bike. Realise that my ipod is still in my tent so unpack everything and retrieve it. Pack it up again.

8:10am: Put on my gloves. Get on my bike. Look at my compass. Start to pedal.

8:11am: Realise I haven't put my speedometer on. Stop the bike, dig it out from somewhere implausibly inaccessible, put it on, and start riding again.

8:15am: Immediately get lost. Try to remember which way I came when I arrived yesterday. Invariably get it wrong and cycle 5 - 10 completely pointless kilometres while I get my bearings.

9am: Wonder why it seems so hard this morning. Realise that, like every morning, I have forgotten to top up the slow puncture in my front wheel. Consider changing the tube, but, like every morning, just top up the tyre with my pump instead. Because that's easier.

10am: Hunger starts hitting pretty hard after 20-40km. I start looking for somewhere to buy food, because I have nothing in my bags suitable. (Tin of tuna in oil for lunch? Sod that.)

11am: Find somewhere to buy food, just as I'm losing hope of ever seeing any kind of shop for the rest of my life. Become so insanely excited that I only buy chocolate, sweets, fizzy drinks and cigarettes. Come out and realise I've spent a fortune on a load of crap. Go back in and buy sensible food.

11:30am: Start looking for somewhere nice to have lunch. Inevitably find myself in the middle of an industrial park, next to a motorway, or in the vicinity of a smelly sewage works at this point. Cycle at least 10 kilometres to get back to the countryside. Ignore several benches on the basis that they don't face the right direction, they don't have a bin, or they're underneath the wrong kind of tree.

Midday: Find the perfect bench for a nice lunch. Swear silently at the people sitting on it. Cycle onwards.

12:15pm: Have lunch at an inferior but adequate bench. Wonder why I care so much about what bench I sit on. Wonder why I bought the crustier rolls instead of the soft bread. Wonder why I'm here in the first place. Wonder why I'm wondering about everything instead of just enjoying myself. Stop wondering.

12:45pm: Finish my second cigarette, stick my headphones in, and start grinding out the kilometres.

1:15pm: Plunge down an exciting downhill road at 55-60kph. Get to the bottom and realise I've gone the wrong way because my camera case was under my compass and north is actually south. Get a bit angry. Ride back up the hill.

1:45pm: Album finishes. Have cigarette. Eat some haribo, but furtively, to ensure not being spotted as a grown man eating Haribo on a bicycle. I shouldn't care. Haribo are good.

3:pm: Near 100km mark (on a good day). Celebrate by stopping exactly when the milometer clicks over to 100. This will usually be in the middle of a motorway, or on a narrow section of path next to a huge pile of cowshit. Smoke a cigarette.

3:15pm: Start riding, and think about looking for a campsite.

3:45pm: Start actively looking for a campsite.

4:15pm: Start beseeching random deities to present me with anywhere safe to camp that isn't in the middle of an army shooting range or a crack den.

4:30pm: It starts to rain.

5pm: Boots start to fill with water. Toes submerged. This makes for a pleasantly squishy sensation, which soon becomes quite unpleasant quite quickly. Wonder if it's possible to get trench foot on a bicycle.

5:30pm: Find a campsite. Act overly friendly with the campsite reception due to relief. Get some funny looks. Wait until someone comes out who can speak a little English. Explain that I want to camp (which should be patently obvious, since I'm at a campsite, wet and talking at reception). Pay whatever they ask.

6:00pm: Finally finish putting my tent up. Put all my wet stuff into the tent, therefore negating the waterproof properties of the tent. Get out my cooker.

6:10pm: Smoke a cigarette while I wait for the water to boil. These two things take exactly the same time, which is nice.

6:30pm: Tuck into a delicious steaming hot meal. This will probably be a bowl of pasta with an oxo cube, and either tuna or some kind of dried sausage.

7pm: Wonder what the hell I'm meant to do now. Probably read a book, or listen to something. Adam and Joe podcasts are a favourite. Smoke several cigarettes in my tent. Try to avoid burning the fabric. Occasionally burn the fabric.

9pm: Try to go to sleep. Eventually go to sleep.



Repeat.


Buried in Pomposity is brought to you by Dan, who is actually genuinely enjoying himself, despite what the above may indicate.

Viennese Whirlwind

Hey there. Thought I'd do one of these blog things again, since I've now almost ridden 2000km (mainly) on my lonesome and have finally made it to Vienna. Quite a lot has happened since Luxembourg, so I'll give you a few of the highlights...

• One of my favourite parts of the trip so far was meeting Tarek and Julien, a couple of guys cycling to the Black Sea. Being the friendly types that they are, they saw me riding past (as one of them was making an arboreal toilet) and thought that I looked like someone who was going somewhere interesting, so they chased after me to find out. We spent a couple of days together, drunk a few beers and generally had a great time. They were both ex-French Foreign Legionnaires, which made their camping style quite different from mine. Basically, they just rigged up a tarp and lay under it, open to the elements. I thought this was pretty hardcore. It was a shame to split off from them in the end, but I'm meant to be doing this on my own, which doesn't really work if there's more than one of me riding along. That sentence didn't really make sense. Ah well, I'm probably still drunk. What else good happened...?
• I saw a snake! It wriggled across the cycle path as I was riding along. It's probably not that big a deal for most people, but it totally kept me happy for the next 20km.
• My bike went swimming. Yesterday riding to Vienna, a 100-metre section of the cycle-path was completely submerged in waist-deep water. Not one to backtrack and find another way around, I took my boots off and plunged in. My bags have now been thoroughly waterproof-tested, since they were quite definitely underwater for some time.
• I rode my longest day so far, which was 132km. This is quite a long way to ride, but at the end I found that my average speed was 20km an hour. Which is fast, for me. I think this is due to a secret fuel I have discovered - a combination of Red Bull, Haribo and Snickers bars. An extra incentive is to deny myself a cigarette for stretches of 40 kilometres. This somehow induces my legs to magically find some extra power when I'm nearing the end of the stretch. Weird.
• I also did possibly the stupidest thing I've ever done. One evening, my tent was being mobbed by flies. I was pissed off anyway because I hadn't hit my daily target due to rain, so the flies were the final straw. Enraged, I got my Deet spray out of my bag (100% Deet mossie repellant - real nasty stuff) and angrily decided to spray it at the flies as they flew past. This was the idea, anyway. But you know the bit in Anchorman where Ron Burgandy and the woman - Veronica Thingybob - are having a fight, and he gets her pepper spray and accidentally sprays himself in the face...? Yeah, exactly what I did. Eyes full of Deet are probably the most painful eyes I've ever had in my head. It was lucky I'd left my waterbottle by my tent, because I literally couldn't see. Splashed water in my face (and consequently all over myself and my sleeping bag and everything else), and eventually sight returned. Leaving me the problem of how to deal with a soaking wet tent that was still full of flies...
• And finally, the thing that can still make me laugh even now when I think about it. I was having breakfast with some Finnish girls, and one of them said something and the others started laughing. I assumed it was because I had toast stuck to my ear or something similarly stupid, so I asked what was so funny. One of them leaned over to me, ut her mouth to my ear and very quietly whispered, 'The guy next to you... he is eating only jam!' I looked round and sure enough, there he was shovelling jam into his face with a spoon like the most natural thing in the world. I think maybe you had to be there, but it still cracks me up to think of it.

Some thoughts on riding a bike in general.

At the start of this trip, I thought I'd coined a phrase that seemed like a pretty good philosophy, but which irritatingly turned out to be printed on the waterbottle of the very first cyclist I met. The phrase was, 'If you don't know where you're going, then you can never get lost.' And I stick by it. It's a good way to stay sane after several days of waking and not knowing where you're going to sleep that night, or even which direction to start pedalling.

However, after a while of this riding, I started to question why I was doing it. Why, in this era of planes, and cars, and other wacky modern inventions, did I still insist on dragging myself painfully slowly across the face of the planet? So I thought, maybe a more pertinent question would be this: 'If you don't know why you're going, can you still get lost?' And I think the answer, mentally-speaking, is yes. Yes you can. Let me explain.

Our daily lives, for the most of us, are based on repetition. We do the same things, see the same people and visit the same familiar places. This means we tend to use the same bits of our brains all the time, which makes for some very well-trodden neural pathways. But when you take all of this routine away, then it's very easy to get lost in yourself. To start thinking differently, to start feeling differently, and to start looking at things differently. Now, I'm (clearly) not a doctor or neurologist, so this is just based on my own observations, but it seems to be the case. I feel very lost inside myself a lot of the time right now, while my legs keep mechanically pushing myself along. There is a strange disparity between the physical repetition and the mental meanderings. But yes, I'm often lost.

But we assume to be lost is a bad thing. Maybe it's good to get lost now and then. Think to yourself, when last were you lost? Getting lost means you can discover new things - things you would never have discovered were you on familiar ground. So for now, alone in Vienna with nothing familiar around me (apart from the ubiquitous MacDonalds' everywhere), I am very happy to be lost.

Buried in Pomposity is brought to you by Dan, who is clearly going crazy out here on his own...

DeLuxemBirthday!

Hello all. First blog of the trip. I was going to put some pictures up but they're mainly of hills, or drunk backpackers, or a bicycle, or me looking sweaty and tired and grim. All of which you have probably seen before. So maybe I'll do this tomorrow.

Anyway, I've been going on my own for five European days (it turns out that European days are exactly the same as English days, just one hour earlier. Or later. Basically, five days...), and I have to say it's been better than I expected. I don't want to bore you with an overwrought flowery diary in which I honk on about how hardcore I am, so I'll condense the last five days into bullet-points. In which I will honk on about how hardcore I am.

Before that though, I should say thanks to Ed and Tom who did the first 450km with me. We went to Amsterdam, and Brussels and there was a thunderstorm, and all was a lot of fun. If you want details on those days, track one of them down. They will bore you with the tales like some ancient mariner (but a mariner who traded his ship in for a bike and then drank a lot in Europe for 10 days).

Anyway, over the last 5 days I have...

• Ridden my way out of Brussels, with a tailwind, heavy traffic, no sense of direction and a stinking hangover. That was pretty easy, actually. No exciting happenstances. Sorry. I am too amazing for this to be an interesting story.
  
• Ridden 100km into the Belgian countryside. Failed to find a campsite, then been surprised by another thunderstorm. Pleaded with some cyclists who let me put my tent on their son's lawn. The mum went and made me a toastie and brought me a beer and some icecream. She also insisted I do a poo in her house. In the toilet, I mean, not just anywhere. They were strange, but very nice.
• The next day I did 100 more kilometres. Oh yeah. Like nothing. Like falling off a rock. I met a Belgian cyclist who refused to believe I would ever make it to Istanbul. He's probably right.
• Camped at a campsite, where some children insisted on using my tent as a kind of central column to chase each other round. They ignored me, so I ignored them
  
• The next day I found myself in the Ardennes. I had not really heard of this place, but it turns out it's Belgian for 'Land of the fucking steep hills and forests that go on for miles without so much as an ice-cream stall but full of horseflies who treat you like some kind of buffet service'. I did 85km. It was really really hard work. If you don't believe me, try this simple exercise. Tie a tractor tire to the back of your bike, then ride up and down a footpath in a nearby wooded area for 6 hours, with a sunlamp tied to your head. Drink 2 litres of water, but no more because the stingy owners of a cafe wouldn't let you fill your water bottles up. After that, put up your tent next to a motorway and then put a Belgian sitcom on your iPod and listen to it for 5 hours. Eat a bowl of pasta with an oxo cube in it.
• The next day I crossed into Luxembourg. Luxembourg is not small. It is huge and hilly. My back chainguard broke in the middle of nowhere and I had to cut it off with a penknife to free up the freewheel, as I do not have the tool to get the cluster off. It was bloody hot too. I cycled down a dual carriageway to try and make it to the capital (which is also called Luxembourg - imagine!) but I almost got smeared onto the crash barrier by a truck. I then pedalled like mad, shaking legs and poo-stained gusset and all, for 4 kilometres to the next exit, and went back on the country roads. Which were too steep and didn't ever go in the direction I wanted. So I found a campsite, had a beer and ate some chips.
• This morning, I woke up in my tent and it was my birthday. I got myself the best birthday present I could think of. A train ticket for the 40km left to Luxembourg city for 1 euro and 50 cents. I am not ashamed - far from it! The hostel was fully booked, but the girl called all the people who hadn't yet shown up and got me a bed. I am now going to have a well earned birthday beer! Next up... Germany and beyond!
  

This is my bicycle. There are many like it, but this is mine.

Hi all. Welcome to the second part of the 'How not to cycle round the world' series. Pull up a cup of tea and let me make you a chair.

Below you will see a picture of a bicycle. Her name is Heristorsen, because that's what I called my rocking-horse when I was 3.



Now, some of you may not be so au fait with bikes as your able narrator, so I'll take you through some of the notable features.

Wheels:

It's got 'em. Two of them, to be precise. To be honest, this was a cause for concern for me in the shop, as I was unsure how two wheels could possibly remain upright when travelling along. In fact, I'm still not sure. However, my requests for 4, 6 or perhaps even 8 wheels were greeted with a disdainful tut and much shaking of the head from the long-suffering shopkeeper. So two wheels it remains.

Saddle:

It's got one of them too. As a responsible customer, I was sure to check that one was included before I rode off. The saddle is made of leather, and is slightly harder than a comfortable anvil. I am assured that after 200 or 300 miles it will break in and mould to the shape of my rump. I am more inclined to bet that my rump will be doing the moulding, until I have a perfect saddle-shaped impression where my anus used to be.

Frame:

This is the bit of the bike that stops all the other bits of the bike from simply being bits of a bike, and turns them into a bike by holding them together. It is made of steel.

Bags:

I have various bags hanging offf the bike. There are three at the back, two on the front wheel and one on the handlebars. I put them all on myself, which pretty much guarantees them to fall off every five miles. Inside, there is a tent, a cooker, a sleeping bag, a few clothes, a medical kit, some spares and tools, and a penny whistle. And a multitude of other crap that is surely destined to find a final resting place on some roadside verge as soon as I get tired of lugging it around.

Deck-chairs:

These will not be coming with me.

Various accesories:

In addition to the above, I have also put a number of other things on to the bike, all of which I am assured are crucial, and none of which I am sure that I need. There is a bell for tinging pleasantly every 3 minutes, a speedometer to see exactly how slow I'm moving, bar ends to give my hands yet another uncomfortable position to hold the bars in, lights which I will use when I intend to cycle at night (which is never), a pump to hit aggressive dogs with in Romania, and brakes. Because what I really, really want to do after struggling and slaving with my poor legs to pick up enough speed to actually get anywhere, is to squeeze my hand effortlessly and come to a standstill. Fortunately, I don't intend to stop, so I can use my brake-levers to hang windchimes from. Which will be nice.

So anyway, that's about it. I leave on Monday, and will try and keep this updated reasonably frequently. Until then, enjoy the sun!

Coming soon...

...to all good cinemas on the Norfolk Broads.



Since leaving regular employment, I've found myself very easily distracted.

How not to cycle round the world

Coming soon to BiP - performed and then written by Dan 'Not again' Gregory.

In July 2010, an unremarkable man will leave England with a bike, a half-baked idea, and an uncharacteristically short haircut. His mission - to cycle from Ipswich UK to Ipswich Australia, something that he's always never dreamed about doing for his entire life. With no experience, insufficient preparation and a super-human ability to make a terrible hash of everything, he will foolishly set off to tackle this insurmountable challenge.

He will almost certainly fail.

Dan will leave with his former bandmate and good friend Tom Askew for a couple of weeks cycling round Holland/Belgium, before being unceremoniously left on his own to head towards Istanbul. Tom has the utmost confidence in Dan's ability to utterly break down at this point, and will be greasing his lower legs to prevent Dan from pathetically clinging onto his ankles as he boards the Eurostar home. Tom has also suggested a number of blog entries that you may well see in the future, such as 'How I raised the bar (and then ran straight under it)' and 'Riding a bike - you can forget.'

Dan hopes to raise money for a charity, but he hasn't decided which one as a lot of them seem just as good as the others but for different reasons. It may well be for the Make-a-Wish Foundation, or it may be for Medecins Sans Frontieres. Now that he's mentioned both of them, it might now have to be both out of politeness. But the main thing to remember is - whoever wins, he loses.

In summary, over the coming months this blog will chronicle Dan's day-to-day trials and how he's unable to overcome them. Read of colourful local cultures that he never experienced, exotic locations he failed to notice and dangers that inevitably got the better of him. A life-affirming and heartwarming read, Dan Gregory's experiences will convince you that yes - you really could have done so much better than he did.

Critical reception:*

"I've never laughed so hard at someone else's expense in my life." - Time Out

"Truly emotional stuff. At one point I felt that I was really there with him; hungry, terrified, and crying in a tent." - Sara Flimsy, London Review of Blogs

"What a tool." - Nuts Magazine


*These quotes are made up. Time Out have never heard of me. There is no such person as Sara Flimsy. And I bought Nuts Magazine once in order to find a recipe for Pecan and Macadamia Pie, and feel that they should probably change the title to something a little less misleading.

Dan's Winter Driving Tips

1 - Pulling away:

Use the highest revs possible. Engage first gear and release the clutch swiftly. Make sure that you keep accelerating. This is the only way to break free of the snow's icy clutches.

2 - Stopping:

Your brakes will definitely stop you if you need them, so always drive confidently and with this in mind. After all, they've never failed you before...

3 - Cornering:

Corners should be taken at a reasonable speed and with decisive confidence. If you start to spin, relax. You will probably go all the way round in a minute.

4 - Motorway driving:

Change lanes as often as possible to keep heat in the tyres. Drive at 70 mph regardless of conditions, visibility or traffic jams. After all, the speed limit is there for a reason - to stop people going too slow.

5 - Parking:

Leave your car anywhere. If the conditions have got the better of you and you have slithered into the middle of a busy intersection, just give up. Leave your vehicle there and walk the rest of the way. It'll still be there when you get back.

6 - Hills:

There are two ways to tackle hills. Technique (a) - Approach cautiously at 5 mph in 1st gear. You will crawl steadfastly to the top like a tortoise, and if you begin to lose traction, simply rev harder. You'll get there in the end, champ.

Technique (b) - Accelerate to at least 45mph. Select top gear. Charge blindly at the hill with your eyes shut. You'll be over it in seconds. Easy as that.

7 - Pedestrians:

They are more scared of you than you are of them. Exploit this fact. Old ladies are remarkably sure-footed when crossing icy roads, whereas your car is a potential catherine-wheel of automotive death waiting to happen. As this is the case, make sure you do not adjust your direction or speed for anyone, as this could result in catastrophe. Ignore the children throwing snowballs in the middle of the road. They're young... they'll heal.

8 - Other road users:

...can be trusted implicitly. After all, they have a driving licence, don't they? Drive as closely behind them as you can, and let them plough a path for you through the frozen wastes. If anything happens, they'll bear the brunt of it, and you will be able to stop safely behind them.

9 - Cyclists:

Treat cyclists in exactly the same way as you do in clear conditions. By ignoring them.

10 - Precautions:

To ensure that your car is warm in the morning, leave the radio and sidelights on overnight. The gentle glow and soothing late-night jazz will stop it from freezing. To defrost the windows, pour on warm bisto - nothing melts ice quicker. If you are only going for a short journey of less than 3 hours, don't bother bringing a coat, gloves or shoes. After all, you'll be in the car. If you begin to feel chilly, turn the heater up.

If you do become stranded, try eating the foam out of the car-seats. It is an excellent natural source of fibre and poly-urethane.

Dan's Winter Driving Tips were brought to you by Dan. He had a car once, until he crashed it.

Posting Strike

Yeah. Any regular followers of this blog will have noticed that there has been nothing new on here since January 2009. Although if you have been checking regularly since then in the vain hope of coming across some new inane ramblings, then there is probably something a bit wrong with you.

Anyway, during 2009 I have been doing all sorts of other things that haven't involved posting nonsense onto the internet, such as growing my hair, endlessly walking back and forth to work (forth and back, surely?) and shedding my hair. So, this blog is on hiatus until something happens that I deem worth writing about. Watch this space but don't hold your breath. Something almost happened a few months ago, but then it didn't happen. That was the last thing that almost happened. Since then, nothing.

Finally, the much-vaunted late noughties super-group Buried in Pompeii is now sadly no more, due to a lack of interest from the musicians and pretty much the world at large (and also because Steve is selling our synth on ebay because he needs money). We may reform one day, but only when the world is finally ready.

Anyway, until something happens... stay alive, be happy, and try not to cause too much trouble.

Buried in Pomposity is infrequently brought to you by Dan Gregory, disenfranchised synth-player and second-rate citizen.

Shameful advertising

No funny writing today, I'm afraid - but I will try and get a blog up by the end of the week. In the meantime, here's an advert for a gig, happening tomorrow, featuring the much-vaunted Buried in Pompeii. Come see us!

Tales from the Orient Episode 1 - Dan and the Case of the Dire Rear

Well then. Christmas has been summarily despatched with a bullet straight between its dewy little festive eyes, and New Years was last seen being loaded into an ambulance after drinking the stuff under the sink. I hereby pronounce the festive season dead. Hooray!

That done, I suppose I'd better get on with doing a blog of some kind. So I'm going to tell you a story that happened over 2 years ago, to a man very much like me. A man so much like me that even his closest friends would have difficulty telling us apart. Assuming of course, that his closest friends knew me too, which they would have done, seeing as this is actually a story about me and the last few sentences were merely a misjudged attempt at setting the tone. Well done Dan, you ham-fisted dork.

Anyway, the tale I'm about to relate began many miles from here, in a hot and dusty land, on a bus. A sleeper bus, to be precise. Now the first thing you should know about a sleeper bus - especialy a sleeper bus in Kazakhstan (which is where this particular sleeper bus was) - is that they are absolutely impossible to sleep on. They come with bunks, sure, but what if the only bunk left to you and your travel companion was the big quadruple one at the back? What if that bunk already had a large kazakh woman in it? And what if every two minutes the bus went over a pot-hole and catapulted the three of you into the air and then back down on top of each other? What then?

Well, the picture pretty much sums it up. We'd bounce in the air, fall back down, burst out laughing, and repeat. The bus we were on was the direct bus through from Almaty - which is the former capital of Kazakhstan, to Urumqi - which is the largest city in Western China. The journey was scheduled to take about 24 hours, half of which would be on lumpen Kazakh tracks and the other half on lovely smooth Chinese communist roads. Which meant for 12 solid hours we were bouncing into the air, laughing, and accidentally molesting the unfortunate woman on the other bunk (who took it all in very good grace).

Unfortunately, after all this physical exercise, we'd worked up quite an appetite once we'd crossed the border. Not having had the presence of mind to bring any Chinese money with us, we were forced to accept the generous gift of a dubious-looking goat kebab, at a fly-blown rest-stop, from a man with gold front teeth. Now, he was possessed of a generous, 24-carat smile, which is probably the only reason we felt obliged to eat the knobbly, undercooked meat from the skewer. He looked on, occasionally encouraging us wuth the words 'Yum yum', like some terrifying Central Asian gremlin. And we both polished off the whole thing.

I imagine you can guess where this is leading by now.

After a strange half sleep as we clunked through the Chinese night, we awoke at 5.30 in the morning in the middle of Urumqi. Our map was 7 years out of date, neither of us could speak Chinese, and we didnt have a hotel booked. However, all of these problems paled into insignificance when weighed up against the strange churning sensation that we were both experiencing deep down inside.

But the kraken sleepethed - for now anyway - so we set about finding some lodgings. We both knew it was only a matter of time before the tide would turn, so to speak.

Fortunately, we were aided in our search by a man who wore pinstriped trousers, pointy shoes, and bounded up to us demanding to know whether we were American. We told him that we weren't, and he warmed to us immediately. We both came to the conclusion that he was either a used-car dealer, a pimp, or both, so we sensibly got into the taxi that he hailed for us and went with him to find a hotel. And not a moment too soon.

I would estimate that from this point, me and David (my travel companion) expunged our bowels regularly every ten minutes for two entire days. Occasionally Dos (the pointly shoed car-saleman pimp who turned out to be neither - just a truly nice person) would come to our room and stop in for a chat, and more regularly one of the hotel's numerous prostitutes would try to muscle in to give us a 'massage'. Dave took it upon himself to remove these bodily and place them protesting outside the door, while they ran their fingers over his blond eyebrows and I desperately tried to stop myself pooing the bed.

Eventually the flood abated, leaving Dave with no ill effects, and me with two large, rather painful hemorrhoids.

This is not a story that shows me in a particularly flattering light.

It was at this point that I became concerned. I hadn't been very concerned before, when I was pooing, because I knew how that went and was pretty certain it would stop. But now I was in over my head. I couldn't go around with these... things, irritating me indefinitely. So I did what any sane man does. I decided to go to a pharmacy and get something to fix them.

This is where I ran into a snag. All the nearby pharmacies were Chinese. In fact, there wasn't a non-Chinese pharmacy for hundreds of miles, because I was in China, which I was soon to find out is the home of the Chinese pharmacy. So the pharmacies were Chinese and I was clearly not. All the pharmacists spoke Chinese, and I did not. This, it seemed to me, would make ordering pile cream pretty damn difficult.

But then I hit upon an idea. And this is really what the whole story has been leading up to. I decided to draw some cartoons. Some simple doodles which would explain my predicament in a language so universal I couldn't help but be understood. And while I was going through some of my stuff the other day, I found them.

So, here for you, in a cut-out-and-keep fashion, are Dan's 5 Must-have Cartoons for Ordering Hemorrhoid Cream in a Foreign Country.

#1 - The Basic Strip

A simple one, this. Lack of artistic skill notwithstanding, even an idiot could clearly see what I need from this simple cartoon. Frame 1 depicts the cream, frame 2 indicates the area of my discontent, frame 3 demonstrates the correct way to administer the cream, and frame 4 depicts my resulting mood.

But, I thought, I'd better have a few more to fall back on if for some peculiar reason this one didn't do the trick. Which brings us to...

#2 - The 'Flaming Obvious'

Again, pretty easy to tell what is needed here. If you're a young Chinese girl working in a pharmacy and a foreign man thrusts this at you, you will surely infer that he is suffering from a 'hot and fiery' backside and requires some cream to ease his pain. You will also take the smiley at the bottom in the way it is intended - as the grateful scrawlings of a desperate man.

You couldn't possibly take this to be some kind of peculiar or obscene come-on, could you? No, of course not. But, to be safe...

#3 - The Empathic Tube

Ok, even I agree that this one is a bit weird. What I was trying to convey was a tube of cream 'thinking' about the purpose for which it is intended. In this case, the tube is thinking of a person, and the arrows indicate the region of the person that the tube is particularly keen to visit. However, to ensure that the pharmacist didn't think I was after a concoction for my cock or a balm for my balls, you can see that I have expertly drawn a nice rounded bottom on the stick man to clear up any confusion.

Ok, thought not. How about...

#4 - The Happy Arse

Look at it. It's as clear as the nose on your face. Angry fire-breathing bottom is calmed by tube of cream and replaced by smiling posterior of joy. The only problem being that I will never be able to hand this to a stranger, Chinese or not, for fear that they would call the authorities.

So, it's all down to this one...

#5 - The 'WTF?'

Right, I'll walk you through it. In the first frame, that's me talking to the pharmacist. I'm the smiling one, she has a question mark of her head (and who can blame her).

In the second frame, I am handing her this cartoon (in a sort of art-imitating-life kind of way), and you can see my discomfort from my frowny expression and exploding undercrackers.

In the third frame, I am imagining a tube of cream. Arrows and explosions indicate the problem region, as in most medical handbooks.

In the fourth frame, comprehension has dawned and she is handing me my cream, while from out-of-frame a giant three-fingered hand has zoomed in to give the whole performance a resounding thumbs-up.

So there it is - five geniune cartoons by my own fair hand, from my days in the orient. The almost unbelievable thing is that I did eventually manage to procure some cream for my maladjusted bottom. But this was after some more adventures, involving horses, nomads and icy-cold mountain streams, and I will have to leave this story for another time. Preferably another life.

In the meantime, watch what you eat!

Buried in Pomposity is written by Dan. He shouldn't be allowed to leave the house, let alone the country.

Journalisn't

Hi. I have for you below two completely different newspaper clippings. One is from top-selling British tabloid The Sun, and one is from the Hindustan Times, an Indian national broadsheet. They are both straight outta 2006.

Here is the Sun's journalistic offering.

So, this is from a paper which has a circulation of 3 million in a country of 60 million people. A paper which is arguably the most popular tabloid in the UK. And a paper that doesn't know how many pennies there are in a pound.

Now allow me to demonstrate why Indian journalism is the best in the world.

The Hindustan Times costs a sixth as much as the Sun, and its circulation is proportionally 36 times smaller. However, if I had a choice between the two, I'd go with the Times every time.

From the joyous headline - 'Cops in a Tizzy', to the first paragraph's hilarious closing sentence - 'The incident had top cops a-flutter for several hours', this article is one of the most cheering things I've ever read in my life.

I'm going to transcribe verbatim the central section of this article, as description doesn't do justice to its sheer brilliance. This leads on from the bottom of the picture.

'When he returned, his heart was in his mouth. The car was gone.

Nervousness soon turned to panic, and Haldar approached a nearby traffic constable. "What? A red-beaconed army car has been stolen? Quickly report the matter to the nearby Hare Street station," the constable said.

The Hare Street police initially suspected that Haldar had a hand in the theft and so they grilled him. But when they realised that the driver was innocent, they thought it prudent to inform the higher-ups. Soon, the home department, the CID, the detective department and senior officers of the special branch all sprang to their feet.'

If only all English news articles were written in such a pleasing prosaic manner, maybe I'd stop seeing newspapers merely as uncomfortably-scratchy emergency toilet paper.

But hang on, that gives me an idea! What's the BBC's top news story today...? Ah yes.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/7787904.stm

Now, all I have to do is channel the power of Indian journalism, and we will transform this dusty, figure-laden borefest into a vibrant piece of reporting poesy! Here goes...

Woolworths Shutting Up Shop

Top bods at Woolworths were crestfallen to announce that come January 5th, every one of their stores would shut its doors for the last time.

Over a thousand-score employees are set to come a cropper if no benefactor can be found. The first shops will close on the 27th December.

Those in the know have mentioned that there's been some interest in the ailing firm, but all agree that no single buyer is clamouring for a slice of the pie.

Businesses specialising in scoff, togs and bargains are all sniffing around, eager to take over the leases of the 300-odd ex-Woolworths. Measures will be taken to keep old staff members out of a pickle by re-employing them in these new outlets.

Creditors and suppliers reportedly kicked up a furore when they found out that they would not receive full recompense for their services.

And there has been a hullabaloo on the high streets as people flocked to the stores nationwide, hoping to snaffle a bargian as Woolworths enters its final death-thoes.

I could go on, but you get the general idea. Despite my best efforts, I'm completely incapable of replicating the pleasing, archaic style of English-language Indian newspaper. Which is a shame, because if all news were reported in this way - with the elegance of Dickens and the language of Austin - nobody would need to buy a book ever again.

Oh, hey, also... come to our gig on Friday in Felixstowe. Hooray!

Buried in Pomposity is the product of Dan. He is not a journalist, and can barely be described as a writer. He is 6 feet long.

Gin 'n' Moronic

Today's blog is a little different, as it foregoes all the usual silliness that I like to smudge all over my small slice of internet. Yes, this entry is 100% SCIENTIFIC AND ENTIRELY WITHOUT RIDICULOUS. Allow me to explain.

Me and my friend Stephen were discoursing on scholarly matters the other night, when we came to the conclusion that Friday nights are boring. They always involve the same melange of drinking beer, joking with friends and staring at unobtainable women in a succession of increasingly dingy nightspots until it's time to stagger home alone.

This, we decided, HAD TO CHANGE. So we chose to make this Friday night into something of an experiment. It started when I idly said 'What do you think would happen if we drunk something that neither of us ever drink for the entire evening, like, I dunno, Gin?'

In that moment, the Friday Ginstravaganza was born. And the idea didn't really evolve at all, until Stephen suggested that he could definitely drink more gin than I could. So, here follows an hour-by-hour, blow-by-blow, Gordons-byGordons account of our Gin adventure. But first, the rules...

• Nothing must be drunk apart from Gin, with tonic if necessary. Ice may be appended, but only if both participants agree to the addition.
• Measures must be identical, and drunk at the same time and the same rate.
• Cigarettes may be smoked, because they make you look cool.
• The first person to drink a different drink, or refuse to drink any more Gin, will be declared the loser.

The time right now is bang on 6pm. I have drunk half a glass of delicious, refreshing Gin and Tonic. Stephen has done the same. Updates on the health, mental wellbeing and amount of Gin imbibed will follow at hourly intervals. Let the gays begin!

7PM
Gin drunk - 120ml per person (5 shots)

At 7 o' clock, I find myself at the end of cooking a rather delicious Chilli con Carne for Stephen, myself, and also Tom, who has chosen to act as an independant adjudicator.

The Gin has made me feel a little sleepy, as well as mildly indisposed towards Stephen. I'm beginning to resent his mindless trivial asides, as well as his excellent bone structure and refusal to help in the kitchen. I also notice that I have spelt Gin with a capital G throughout this article - something that I wish to continue to do.

I'm going to continue with half hourly reports. To summarise my 7pm feelings...
Drunken level 2/10, sleepyness level 3/10, delicious level 11/10.

7.42pm
Gin drunk - 155ml per person (just over 6 shots)

Stephen is hilarious. He hasn't said anything funny, but he exudes an aroma of hilarious that is strangely infectious. Tom, in stark contrast, is rather dull and has said nothing of any note. Only one of these men has drunk Gin. Coincidence?

Query. Is Gin the best thing ever? Find out in roughly 3 hours.

Also. My Chilli. Was incredible. Seriously. I'm so talented I wish there was another one of me, so there were two Dans and both could congratulate each other on how talented the two of them truly are.

8.42pm
Gin drunk - 190ml (almost 8 shots worth)

I got a little sidetracked for the last hour, because I was playing a popular football simulation against Stephen on the PS3. Stephen thinks he's so much better at football than I am, but actually I know for a fact that I am far more adept. The match ended 3-1 to him, but I don't believe that this was an accurate reflection of our performances. Also, he cheats. Oddly, we both hate football in real life.

He is hugging me now. Maybe because I shouted at him, maybe because he has sexual feelings for me - who can know for sure. He just kissed me on the head and then announced 'I'm just going for a dump. The door's open ok, so do not fucking walk in on me.' His words, not mine.

I'm not sure where the night is going to go from here. The Gin has brought out a lethargic, languid, mildly depressive side of my personality that I am unfamiliar with. I think that myself and Stephen are both keen on the idea of going out and having intimate relations with a consenting female adult (one each, I mean. We do not wish to share. Well, he wishes, but I do not wish). But then again, it could quite easily go the other way - with me deciding to go and walk in on Stephen having a dump.

9.23pm
Gin drunk -225ml (9 shots)

Hello, Stephen here.

I'd like to point out that tonights idea has not only been quite pathetic buit it has also left me feeling a tiddlly drunk. For all of those out there who know me, you'll know i'm not much of writer like the boy Danny. (aka my password is angelfire for blogspot). So, I tend to write as i think. So, my feedback so far. Gin is fucking miserable and sharing this occasion with a miserable bastard who just played me the blues on the guitar is the top event of the nght. bravo Dan. Lets make it better from now on shall we...


Shut up Stephen. You will not hijack my blog. You are not a train robber. Or a blog robber. A blobber? No.

Gin is really depressing. Lets drink more.

9.55pm
Din Grunk - 330ml (13 shots)

Right! That seems to have done the job! Stephen is thinking that he needs to change his jumper for a sexier model. I concur. I also suggest that he change his body for sexier model. Stephen suggests that Dan gets a life and doesn't sit around with a bad-tempered Irish guy, making him drink a drink that he doesn't like. Dan doesn't think that this comment was very funny and resents the finger power he used to type it.

The IT crowd is on very shortly, which I will enjoy. My face seems oddly warm. I am also amazed that I can still form such eloquent and well balanced sentences when at this moderately advanced state of inebriation. I guess that is what comes of being fairly gifted in a field that will get me no financial gain or social standing (drunken blogging). But I care not, for Mr Gordon is still almost half full and I will sup from his green teat a little more.

10.38pm
Gin - 400mls apiece (that's 16 shots)

Right. Yeah. Gin. It gets you drunk. This experiment is in danger of deteriorating into some kind of drunken 'let yourself go' fest. Let yourself go. That's the soundbite/jingle from some advert. I forget which, but I'm praying to god it's Tena Lady.

Ok, so the plan now is to head out into town where we will continue to drink the juniper juice, but at vastly inflated pub prices. hooray. Stephen, i have no feelings about either way. He's a man-shaped sack of friend, but I am a friend of his sack, so that's nonsense. Well done Dan. You excel.

Tom wants also to go out - he has returned fresh faced and moist-buttocked as ever. This keyboard is treacherous. There are gaps between the keys. GAPS! Imagine if you fell in... would you ever escape?

Tom informs me that I am wittering bollocks. If only I were located on the left of a world map, then I would be West Wittering bollocks. West Wittering is a place. But its flagship bollocks are owned by another man. This makes me sad.

Tom may have a point. I love him. And his odd face and beard and haircut and choice of clothes and personal hygeine malfunctions and usage of the phrase 'sprouting bollocks'. He's a great great man.

I'm going out now. Wish me luck (except its too late cos I'm posting this on Saturday. Posthumously. Or post-humorously, as Tom would have it. Cos he's such a fucking hilarity.)

2.35am
Gin. lots. 600ml. I kept count. That's 24 shots.

I don;t want to see another glasss of Gin for all my days in china. Apparently, Steve is getting me another one. This is not to my approval.

Gin 635ml.

No. I will not be well. This is what I say. That took me about 2 minutes to write. I am not welll. Steve will take over...

Hello everyone! I'm still swimming in glory. i love G+t. what's the fuss about? jebus fucking creezy. Dan has now settled into a pile of absolue misreable dogshit of misery. Conclusion: Gin is fucking depressing. This is something many of us have already decided and many of us have already done but hey, we're noobies and we wanted to test it out. Try it out folks, i'm sure you already have and you're reading this and thinking "jezus you fcuking panzies, it's fuckin ggin and tonic!" Well to that i (we) say fuck you. It's a drepressing fucking drink. Dan is now on my bed (no) and drinking his remainders.....I think I'll beat him but...we'll see. Stay tuned. PUBLISH.

Actually, i've been given the glory of publishing this. However, we have a indpendant advisory consultant who now has is opinion....

*judge* oh, dear. we have a casualty. man down. can you guess who it is?..... was it worth asking? Of course, it's only our blogonomist. Can i just say this may have been the most depressing night of my life. I've heard stories of breaking up with exes (ex's, exs), hmm spelling to be decided on, career goals we could have made, how ladies prefer skinny jean guys over, you know, us duuuuuudes that like to spend our time writing blogs on our drinking habits, and not only stories but the sound of vomiting too.

As you can tell i've had a marvellous night. i hope you've had a marvellous morning/afternoon/evening/ night reading this.

toodles.

Dan's Final Thoughts

Right. It is yours truly back at the wheel, guiding this blog back home through difficult tides. So I may have expelled some of my innards. So, Steve may have proven he is the more talented drinker. So, Tom has decided upon going to bed rather than, you know, not. But I think we can SCIENTIFICALLY AND NOT RIDICULOUSLY conclude that Gin is, well, alcoholic. Yes.

I need to go and lay down in the recovery position for a while. The time is bang on 3am. I love you all very much.

Danny does Fiction

Dis-pa-rate (Adj.)

1- Markedly distinct in quality or character.

Dan (n.)

1- A son of Jacob and Bilhah.

2- A male given name, form of Daniel.

3- A prolific bloggist and all-round human being.

Welcome to the first in the series of...

Chapter 1: Pussies Galore

I flung myself out of bed and straight into my bespoke trench coat. I paused to remove the spokes, wondering again why I had asked the tailor to put them in. This was the seventh time this week that Tom had roused me before cock-crow, and I didn't even own a cock. I threw myself out of the front door, then clambered off the ground and into my trusty old Austin Max, which started with nary a splutter.

Driving to Howitzer House, I ruminated upon the nature of my job. Being a private dick, it isn't unusual for me to occasionally ruminate upon things, which is probably why I am such a chisel-jawed, trench coat-wearing, cliche-bustingly good one. As dicks go, few are more private than me and mine. I was the best of the best, and nobody knew it. Except I.

I screeched to a halt outside my destination, waiting as the hydraulic door of my Maxi raised stylishly to allow me to exit the vehicle. They'd cost me a months salary, but damn me if they didn't look the canine's cojones. I walked to the door of the building, knocked the secret knock, dinged the secret doorbell, then yelled the secret password through the secret letterbox.

'Lost your keys again, Dan?' laughed Jeanette as she let me in. 'Tom's upstairs. He told me to give you this.'

She handed me a piece of paper, giving me time to admire her buxom hands and wrists. Jeanette was a curvaceous, vivacious and flirtatious little piece, and I'd always suspected that she had something of a hot spot for yours truly.

'I'll just go up then, shall I?' I asked, my voice overbrimming with gravelly husk.

'I'd clear your throat first if I were you,' she winked, flashing a little thigh. I'd always admired her little thighs. 'You sound like you have quite a cold.'

'Ah, this? It's nothing,' I growled, sniffing heterosexually.

'Well, he's expecting you then.'

I sauntered past, pausing only to deliver a firm slap to Jeanette's shapely backside, and received a solid punch to the face in return. I like a woman with a bit of spirit. Ascending the stairs, I could already see Tom's plate glass door winking malevolently at me. Tom Howitzer - Detective Agency was embossed upon it in stark black letters. I paused to read the piece of paper that Jeanette had handed me, then flung open the door to his office.

'What is this pony?!' I demanded, flinging the piece of paper onto his desk. Tom looked up and idly dismissed the pony, which had been grazing on his yucca plant, and turned his attention to me.

'Dan,' he said casually. 'Nice of you to come in. You're bleeding, by the way.'

'Never mind that!' I said, wiping the blood from my nose. 'Jeanette. Flirting with me. Got a bit rough. Its her period, probably.' Tom eyeing the blood on my face with renewed distaste. 'Not this! I meant her temper. You know women. Anyway, what is all this?' I demanded again, stabbing at the piece of paper.

'Put the knife down, Dan,' said Tom, wearily. 'That's your new assignment. Starting today. The usual fee.'

'Lost cat?' I cried. 'This is amateur stuff!'

'Stop crying, Dan. I'm giving you this because of your recent "performances". I think you know what I'm talking about. You've been getting sloppy.'

'Sloppy? What about my last job? The hotel? The luggage full of dynamite? I blew that case wide open, didn't I?'

'And injured two sous-chefs and a kitchen porter in the process, as I remember.'

'If they couldn't stand the heat, they should have got out of the kitchen,' I retorted wittily.

'Enough of your witty retorts. This has got to stop. I'm giving you this case, and you can take it or leave it.'

I had to take it. To put it plainly, I needed the scratch. My cheese was licked if I didn't rustle up the green, and old Bertie would have come a-knocking if I didn't pony up the dough.

'Ok Tom. I'll do the job. But after it's done, I want to leave the kids table. I want a taste of the real action again, Tom, another bite at the cherry.' I stood up to go. 'Oh, and by the way, your pony's upped some dough on your office rug.' I indicated the steaming pile of manure, then turned stylishly and took my leave.

*****

Cats. I hated em. From their bristling whiskers to their fetid feet. I'd never known a cat I could trust, and I didn't want to meet one either. Because I wouldn't trust it. It was a cat that scarred me on the scrotum all those years ago, and I could tell from the glint in his eye that he'd have happily done it again. And here I was, hiding in a dingy back-alley, on the trail of one of his flea-bitten brethren. A quarry I could afford to lose as much as I wanted to catch. Which is not at all. For both.

I'd been to the owner's house, a dowdy old broad with sagging hips and child-bearing breasts. I'd tasted the cat-litter and pronounced it to be clean, at which point the old mare had left me to it. I'd circled the yard on all fours, my backside in the air, trying to pick up a trail. And that was when I found a clue. A receipt for 6 tins of cat-food, purchased from the nearby corner-shop, and signed with a clumsy hand.

I soon deduced that if a cat were to escape, it would want to go straight to the source of its food. I knew the shop in question, as I used to buy most of my pornography from there. The shopkeeper had an unfriendly face and had often warned me against perusing his merchandise before purchasing it - once calling the police when I had become particularly engrossed by a fascinating article in Hot Steamy Jugs and failed to notice my trousers had come adrift. He and me - we were old rivals, and I didn't relish going back onto his turf.

But there I was, in the alley next to the 7-11, ready to go in. I cocked my trusty service revolver, before remembering that masturbating with a firearm was why I had that unsightly scar on my upper left thigh. So instead I straightened my trousers, and stepped up to the side-entrance. From inside, I could hear the treacherous miaowing of my quarry. I stiffened and braced myself against the door.

'KICK!' I shouted as I kicked the door in. The cat - loathsome swine - stood frozen, framed in the splintered doorframe. I dived in upon this feline tableau, grabbing the moggy and shoving it violently into a large hessian sack, which I had had the foresight to bring along.

'Who's there?' came a muffled voice from the floor above, a voice I recognised as that of Mr Gionelli, the stern shopkeeper. I said nothing, but fired twice into the ceiling as I withdrew through the door. I heard a loud cry and a sound like a man dropping a large sack of potatoes. 'Blast,' I said to myself. 'He's dropped his potatoes and is coming down to get me. I've got to get out of here!' I ran helter-skelter through a network of alleys so complex that for a moment I suspected that the city's chief architect might had been MC Escher. The artist, not the DJ.

But then, all of a sudden, I was in the clear. Scott-free. Off the hook. Bang to ri- no, not that one. Free. That's what I was. I was by my car, and there wasn't a soul in sight.

I tossed the cat roughly into the back of my Austin, and hopped in as the sound of sirens started to split the sleeping city air. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Not a muffled chug emitted from the engine, nor a whine from the starter motor, although the windscreen wipers did come on of their own accord. But then they always did that, which was a very handy feature when it was raining. I hammered the steering wheel.

'Not now!' I shouted, raising my hammer again and this time walloping the glove-box. 'Not here!'

I fell into silence when a blue light glanced off my rear-mirror. I turned to see a pair of headlights turn into the street behind me, a flashing blue light above them, and the wailing of a siren emitting thereof. I buried my head in my hands as the car drew up behind me.

To be continued...

Buried in Pomposity is written by Dan. He likes you a lot.

Time Dan-bits

It's been a long day. This, like many other things we say to each other before properly engaging our brains, is a cliche. Except this time it isn't.

I first became aware that something was wrong at about lunchtime. I knew it was lunchtime because I was hungry, and had been working for roughly four hours. However, a glance at my PC clock told me otherwise. It told me that the time was 11.25am.

This, I was quick to bellow, was absurd. I realised that somewhere a mistake had been made. I was even willing to concede that the blame might lay with me (although I knew in my heart of hearts that this notion was as fanciful as it was ridiculous). So I continued with my day, and would have thought nothing more about it had my friend Stephen not sent me an email roughly an hour later.

'Seriously, is it me, or is today going really really slowly?' it read. 'Yes!' I replied promptly 'Yes it is!' Soon after, our friend Tom piped up with his agreement that the day was indeed proceeding at a peculiarly pedestrian pace. He didn't put it like that, of course. Nobody puts things like that.

So here we have three men, in three completely separate locations, all experiencing what can only be described as Perceived Relative Anomalous Temporal Slowdown. PRATS.

Now, I'm sure you've been on the receiving end of a nasty outbreak of PRATS before. Minutes ooze by painfully, like pus from a hippo's blister. A quarter of an hour seems doubled in size. You attempt something that you're sure cannot be done in less than ten minutes (smoking a cigarillo, perhaps, or taking a large dump), and you're finished in five.

This is by no means a new phenomena. Heidegger wrote a book about it - Sein und Zeit - which is widely considered to be his seminal work. I haven't read it, but if it's widely considered seminal then that's good enough for me. It's also in German, which isn't good for me at all. I only know the words 'Schildkrote' and 'Botschafter', and unless the book is about a tortoise who is also an ambassador it'll be lost on me. And it isn't - it's about Being and Time.

Neitzsche also had a few choice words to say about temporality, but these were probably German words too, so he's not much use to me either.

The crux of my problem is this: I'm not getting paid for all the extra time I'm experiencing. Let me cobble together an analogy. I'm buying some fruit in a greengrocers. Strawberries, for preference. The greengrocer puts all my fruit on his scales. Then he turns round, pulls down his trousers and curls out a steaming poo onto the top. He makes a note of the weight, converts it into the cost of strawberries, then carefully removes the poo and feeds it to his cat. I have to pay more for the strawberries, and I also have to eat them knowing that there has been a poo on them, and that nobody in authority would believe me if I told them that I'd paid more money for a poo that I didn't get to keep.

That, in essence, is what getting paid for 7 hours that felt like 10 really feels like. And something has to be done.

However, it's not as simple as that. It's not like getting over-charged for your gas bill. If you do, you just send a strongly worded letter to the gas company. If your electricity is cut off, you call the electricity company. If the space-time continuum goes all to cock, there's nobody who's going to come round in overalls and sort it out for you.

However, I can still try. Arguably, the place with the strongest ties to temporality in England is Greenwich. The home of Greenwich Mean Time. I mean, how many other places have a time named after them? Not lots. And Greenwich was where they invented the first clock able to tell the time at sea, which back then was quite a feat. Basically, Greenwich is in charge of all the time in Britain. So, if anyone's responsible for my inconveniences today, it'll be someone at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich.

So I emailed them.

From: dan'semailaddressathotmail.com (pseudonym)

Sent:
01 December 2008 18:02:19

To:
comments@nmm.ac.uk

Dear Sir/Madam,

I wish to enquire about some recent disruptions to my perception of time and the duration thereof.

As I understand it, Greenwich Observatory is the British home of time and all things temporal. It is therefore to you that I submit my complaint.

Today seemed considerably longer - to myself and to a number of my friends - than my watch would have given it credit. I would estimate (and I have always been a precocious estimator) that each hour was in actual fact roughly 15 minutes longer than necessary.

This would have been all well and good had today been a Saturday, or a religious holiday, but it was in fact a Monday and I was required to work. This meant that I was forced to spend a far greater perceived time in my office with my colleagues - many of whom are bilious and unsavoury - while only getting paid the usual rate.

I understand that this may seem rather outlandish, but then I have never had any problems with time before and was not sure of the correct channel to voice my disgruntlement. In fact, I'm not totally sure that disgruntlement is even a word, but that is the least of my worries right now.

My suggestion, if you don't mind me suggesting it, would be for you to arrange it so that the rest of my working week appears to go by more quickly than usual. I would consider this to be a fair way to reimburse me of the inconvenience caused by the very long day I have just been forced to experience. If you could also see your way clear to making the weekend seem very long as well, that would be very much appreciated.

I'm sorry to take up your time with this, but then there seems to be much more of it about today than usual.

Yours very faithfully,

Dan

I'm very much looking forward to hearing from them.

All Dolled Up

Just a short follow-up to yesterday's shenanigans. Unfortunately I had to go out before 7.30pm - which is when Tim arrived home - so I didn't get to see his reaction.

However, he later informed me personally that it scared the absolute crap out of him.

Inflatably Droll

Hello, and welcome to Dan's Step-by-step Guide to (hopefully) Scaring the Arse off your Flatmate.

I say hopefully, because he isn't home yet. So I will be typing this quickly, and probably not have time to employ all those snazzy little linguistic tricks I know you enjoy. Like correct spelling, for example.

1 - Get your flatmate's hilarious oversized blow-up doll out from under his bed.

2 - Marvel at the box.

3 - Look up the name 'Fatima' on the internet. Learn that it translates to the Arabic for 'she who weans'. Wonder what the hell that has to do with anything. Realise that the manufacturers probably chose the name because it has the word 'fat' in it. Laugh knowingly. Notice you have become diverted and a slave to your own thirst for knowledge. Return to the task in hand.

4 - Inflate doll.

5 - Become dizzy.

6 - Discover several air-leaks, one in the rectal region. Try not to think how this may have been caused.

7 - Shove one sock up doll's simulated anus in order to stifle leak. Realise that at some point in the past your life veered completely off course, and that by rights you should probably be a lawyer or something by now. Try to forget about it.

8 - Tape up other leaks.

9 - Dress doll in your own shirt and trousers, and add a blonde wig for good measure. Try not to imagine what the act of dressing a lifesize doll might look like to a casual observer or the ghost of a dead relative.

10 - Take picture.

11 - Try to hang the doll by a belt from the light fixture in the living room.

12 - Fail. Curse all things light-fixture related. Kick doll.

13 - Try desperately not to think about how good kicking the doll actually felt.

14 - Attempt to suspend doll in the doorway to the kitchen, using first masking tape, then gaffer tape, then lots of both, then staples.

15 - Fail each time. Kick doll again. Consider spending an evening kicking a doll. Remember you have plans, and are not a mental.

16 - Position doll on toilet. Turn off the light and shut toilet door.

17 - Role play. Pretend you are Tim getting home from work and needing the toilet. Open toilet door.

18 - Actually scare yourself, even though you knew what to expect.

19 - Lock the front door with the key, and turn off all the lights. This will make it appear to a homecoming Tim that you have already left to go and watch Dreadzone at the Waterfront, whereas in fact you will be hiding in your room like an elfman. The house will appear empty.

20 - Post blog and shut down laptop, then gleefully await hilarity.

Happy Meal

Now, I'm hungry. I'm usually either hungry, sleepy or horny. I'm often at least two of them at any one time (then the other one straight after if I get what I want, and I normally do, know what I'm sayin' fellas? Yeah you do! High Five! Anyone?). But right now, I'm hungry.

I'm also in a bit of a bad mood, for reasons best left between me and all the dickheads who've put me in a bad mood. Which are everywhere, incidentally, and likely to manifest when you least expect it and shove a shit sandwich down your throat before you can say 'What's your problem, numb-nuts?'. But I digress.

I thought to myself inside my brain (which is colossal, by the way), 'How can I fix my irritation and my hunger in one fell swoop?' And then it struck me. I had it, by George, I had it! And I thought it only fair to share it with you. I give you (drum roll)... Dan's Recipe for the Happiest Meal in the World... Ever!

Ingredients:

100g Happy-Face Luncheon Meat

1 Bag Birdseye Potato Smiles

1 Tin Alphabetti-Spaghetti

Season with Hundreds'n'Thousands to taste.

Recipe

Take the Happy-Face luncheon meat and rub it all over your naked body until thoroughly tender. Once you're feeling tender enough, put it on a plate and dissolve into hysterics. 5 minutes should be just about long enough.

Then, open your bag of Potato Smiles and laugh raucously at their lobotomised grins and dead, empty eyes. Turn your oven up to 220 degrees, and resist the temptation to stick your head in it. If it is electric, you will merely end up with a very hot head. Instead, place the potato smiles on a baking tray and gleefully fling them into the oven using a backhand frisbee throw.

While these are cooking, I like to go and put some clothes on upside down and pretend I have hands for feet and a head poking out of my flies. Of course, this is completely optional.

After about 15 minutes, open up the tin of Alphabetti-Spaghetti. Remove all the letters that are not either H, A, P, another P, or Y. These are the only letters you will be needing. Pour the correct letters into a saucepan and place it on a heated hob. Use a wooden spoon and proceed to stir it up. Little darling. Stir it up. Ohhh oh.

By this time, your smiles should have gone all golden and ruddy-cheeked in the oven, and your luncheon-meat should be on a plate, grinning happily at you. At this point, try and resist the temptation to pop a couple of valium and lie in the bath with the taps running, and instead decant the smiles from tray to plate with a supple flick of your wrists (which you haven't slit yet).

Splat that Alphaspetti-Baguetti onto the side of the plate, and hurl on a handful of hundreds'n'thousands, which will remind you of a time when you were a child and you went to a park to get an icecream with your mummy and daddy and it was sunny and you felt loved by your family and were hopefully going to get a puppy for Christmas if you were a very good boy but that didn't happen because daddy slept with a lady at work and mummy started drinking all the things in the big wooden cabinet and then you got taken away and given another mummy and daddy who were quite nice but definitely not the same as the old ones and you grew up bitter and unable to trust*.

Now eat it, being sure to wash it down with a nice vase of hard liquor whilst staring goggle-eyed at a television that is stealing every precious moment you have on this earth, as you drink yourself into a stupor and eventually shit yourself because you're too drunk to get up.

And all for less than a fiver!

Feel happy and have a great weekend everybody!

Buried in Pomposity is written by Dan, to whom * this never happened. He feels perfectly cheerful, although prone to extreme bouts of dramatic hyperbole, which he insists upon pronouncing 'Hyper-bowl'.