C2C - The Self Preservation Society

It's the day before we are due to set off.  South Side Mark, my blues brother, greases up onto the drive in a rather swanky Bluesmobile; well a black three litre BMW slippery thing with go faster stripes and an old Prospect Police Precinct M Sport badge on its side.  Quickly followed by London Alan in his champagne cocktail Audi TiTtieS special fanny magnet which is splattered with dead minges drawn to his car during the long journey north.

Mark takes his super lightweight bike off the back carrier and I swear I hear his greasy BMW let out a gentle 'aaahhhh....'.  Nice.  London Alan, being a Londoner, stares at his fanny, pulls down hard on the peak of his flat cap, rips open her boot and un-sexily proceeds to perform what must be the equivalent of pulling a camel through the eye of a needle.  AAAAGGGHHH!  You have to feel sorry for his fanny as that's no way to treat a lady.  

Nonetheless, he says again that his bike 'has been fettled' by his local shop.  Oh yeah?  Words that are as memorable to me as 'We will fight them on the beaches' once said by another fat bloke without a bike, and probably again by us when we arrive in Blackpool.  After mucho 'effing and jeffing his heavy breach birth of a bike is out of the car.  London Alan is keen to show us his new lower geared cassette on the back wheel which he proclaims with a big grin will help him from now on and forevermore to cut an easy pathway to the top of every hill.  Yeah?  We're all really happy for the old boy :-)

Mi Casa is still only part built but at least it has a roof and the weather is set fair for the next few days so no worries about draughts.  Alan gets the same small double room as last time.  It's painted yellow with yellow curtains and bedding.  Yes, I've just put him into custardy, well that's my name for that particular room.  South Side Mark, being fresh out of Prison slips easily into the box room.  A wee cell of a thing.  It's impossible to lift never mind swing a cat.  Well, he is fresh out of Joliet so I'm just trying to make him feel right at home.  

I ring the dinner bell.  Chow time!  South Side Mark, being keen to get out, has replaced his stripy underwear with a set of fresh black lycra shorts and a slippy spray on top.  Oh dear, I had forgotten from the LEJOG thing that South Side Mark is in fact a very slippy racing snake.  Yes, that explains the car.  And his slippy dog, Finn, who is so named cos apparently he holds the world record for the fastest doggy paddle ever across a shark infested pond.  And oh dear wot of his wife?  Well, all I can say is he’s very happy with her since she started working at the local greasy spoon.  If it's slippy he will no doubt have it.  Don't ever get a shower with him cos for sure you will find it impossible to pick the bar of soap up from off the wet floor.  Don't forget, this particular snake has done time.  

Some wine later the old cine-projector is wheeled out into the darkened room.  I show the lads the possible routes for this caper - projected onto the new unfinished extension wall.  Hmmm, not bad.  Perhaps there will be a short throw 4K projector in this room some time in the near future.   How we laugh and joke about days past when once upon a time we undertook the biggest of jobs, to break into the South Side Gateway, a huge portal to a world of hitmen's contract money that would satisfy our undoubted avarice for mullah.  And of the late late nights as we waited for the ‘we come in peace, shoot to kill!’ application non-support group to finish cutting a new hole into its concrete and steel lined vault before the gold and diamond packages were moved out the next day.  

There are several options to ride but we concentrate on the routes around Preston, Blackburn and Burnley - a place famed and so named for having many cremations for folk who attempted but failed to complete the coast to coast ride from Blackpool to Scarborough.  It boils down to two options.  Either take the snakeish route following the Leeds to Liverpool canal in the wrong direction so as to keep as much of the ride 'flat' for this particular group of ageing criminals.  Or to take the most direct route which will take on on all manner of back roads and cross country bridleways which will have plenty of upsey downsey stuff.  South Side Mark is in like a flash and demands that we take to the hills cos if we are gonna be chased then he knows of a particular hole in the wall which will be impossible for any posse to find.  London Alan, who is still sweating after having what looked like rather deep cunnilingus with his fanny, capitulates and me, well OK then.  Don't worry lads.  The hours, nay days spent trying to find a flat route across the pennines for you old geezers doesn't really matter to me cos we're gonna have a profitable time anyway aren't we??

Oh dear.  This is not looking good.  A self preservation society we are not.  I'm probably gonna watch from afar as London Alan explodes whilst trying to chase South Side Mark up to the top of a hill.

Tomorrow we set off.  Bikes are in the garage ready to go.  The boys are locked into their cells for the night.  I patrol the corridor one last time before shouting 'Lights OUT'.

Which didn't matter in the slightest cos I couldn't sleep a wink. 

Am gonna have to confiscate that bloody harmonica off South Side Mark in the morning...

Ciao for now.