London to York 2025 day 2 - This flat Earth

Why do I write a blog when cycling?  

Well, if you have read my previous blog entries you will know that some time ago I cancelled my TV license simply because I was fed up of shouting expletives at the screen.  

For example last night after peeling the sweaty gear off I slumped my carcass on the bed and started to hunt around the ‘in room entertainment’ TV channels for something / anything worthy of my intellect to watch.  So it can be quite low brow really.  

BBC1 - Pointless.  Correct.  It was.  BBC2 - some shitty selling of old tat programme.  Next.  ITV - adverts.  Flip them feckers off.  Channel 4 - something for the non binaries.  Not me.  Etc.  I flipped sequentially through every damn channel all the way past 100 with me muttering - no, crap, no, nothing, nothing, no, crap, crap, old 70s sitcom no - nope GAAHH!…. You get my drift.  

Somewhere in the dead air past channel 185 I decide to start again.  No, nope, crap… and so on.  Oh God help me!  There is no reason on this earth why I will ever own a TV license again.  

So back to the blog which for some sadistic reason I enjoy writing.  And I’ve got a lot of spare time in the evenings so… 👍🏻😊 

Go on guess. Just guess what I’m having for dinner tonight. 

But before that and by popular demand.  Southside Mark would like to know what today’s breakfast was like.  John (sorry Mary Jane) is concerned about my mental ability not to find crap places in which to stay and Mr Chopper (Darren) for some reason is concerned about my nads 🤔.   All will become clear as I write …

Breakfast.  I managed to kinda sleep last night.  Head under my pillow.  A couple of times I awoke cos of the feeling of suffocation which is quite concerning without having an active sex life.  I was down in the dining room prompto for 0730 with my gash wide open and my gnashers on display cos the plan was to have eaten and be away for 0830.  

I place my order whilst getting stuck into the toast and watch, as I munch, the much bigger / more rotund old gent in front of me with a dragline jaw capitulate into having bacon and eggs.  Go on then he says with a cheery grin as he swings his head to and fro with a happy Hm! Hm! Hm! 😊

There’s me, him and one other in the dining room.  20 minutes later his order is plonked in front of him and I politely ask if mine is on the way cos time is now running short.  I figure they’re waiting for the pub cat to produce another egg.  Of course my dear says the elderly lady as she slowly scoots back into the kitchen with soup bowls in hand.

It’s another 10 minutes before the pub cat is squeezed out. With great fanfare my breakfast is lovingly placed front of me.   

It’s raw.  Well most of it.  Kinda has been ceremoniously shown the pan as though gas is £10 per unit in these parts.  I know it’s not an electrical problem cos the lights are on.  I recon the delay was caused by the chef who's nouvelle cooking technique includes sitting on stuff for long periods to heat gently so as not to ruin its sweaty texture.  You should see his pancakes.

I give up.  I eat only the clearly cooked bits.  😬

I look up and the old gent has gone. Obviously disappointed cos his 4 rashers of bacon are laid ceremoniously on the edge of his plate waiting to be buried.  Whilst waiting, Audrey II had unceremoniously hit the greek airport baggage carousel start button to dump the orrid remains of yesterday but I’m determined not to move until I’ve eaten so sit nice and still with the bomb bay doors firmly locked.  For the first time ever I don’t eat everything at breakfast and with the stringy bits stuck between my teeth I’m away pronto like to my room trying like hell not to accidentally spring the bomb bay doors open and spread the loose baggage all over the floor.   

Aaaahhhh.  Now I really wont regale you of my toilet routine.  Suffice to say I did a great impression of a strangulated pussy without the gargling.  Nonetheless I’m in a rush and moving now without due care.  I turn to the sink and notice a nutty smell whilst cleaning my teeth.  Aw God!  We’ve all done it haven’t we?  No?  Only me?  Damn. I recon they're still getting through their single ply weak as sh1t COVID toilet paper here.  I’m not coming back!

I’m away before 9. Straight - into - the - fecking - hills.  Gahhh!  Now it’s not quite Cornwall here - more like the Yorkshire Wolds back home.  Nonetheless a bad start today on a belly full of sh1te and wearing knees that haven't fully recovered from the previous day’s ice bath.  I’m overtaken by a skip truck on a sharp incline who then suddenly stops and blocks the road whilst waiting for oncoming traffic before turning sharp like into a shitty lay-by.  That or he's trying to run me over and win his bet.  The fecker.  

The hills abate as though watching a sinusoidal oscilloscope’s waves gently flatten after dropping a cymbal on the floor.  The chill is lifting - although the air still cuts me deeply in all the road cuttings and on the north sides of the hills having been bereft of sunlight since September.  

Before I know it the first 25 miles are done and I’m in Cambridge.  A huge university with a little city centre bolted to its side.  It’s full to the brim with students and has a cycle network that Amsterdam would be proud of.  A city also with bus lane tentacles that spread far and wide.  Guided bus routes that is. A poor mans version of a tram network.  Nonetheless with cycle lanes attached so its dead easy to get across the city and into the Fens.

Now I like hills.  Hills I like.  I don't mind at all the slow metronomic grind in the saddle cos for sure my boys have disappeared somewhere or have dropped off and Balloon Dog is curled up tight in the undergrowth trying to keep warm.  Other than selecting the right gear (and I don’t mean in a non-binary way) then getting up and over them can reward you with some spectacular views.  

However, I’m now on the north side of Cambridge deep in the Fens.  And I mean deep as in 30 ft or so beneath sea level.  And there’s that bloody skip wagon again.  He’s following me!  All I can think is he’s planning to pounce when theres no other witnesses about then take me and my bike to Norwich’s shit pie recycling centre and so win his bet.  

The guided bus lanes cut deep concrete furrows through the wetlands.  To my surprise the cycleways are littered with folk walking zombie style across this flat earth.  I’m struck by how barren the land is.  A place likely to become the final destination for the poorest illegal immigrants; all then praying for their asylum cases to be quickly rejected so that they can be sent back home.  

There’s a collection of black and grey new build houses in the middle of nowhere across the field adjacent to the bus track.  Resembling that cinematic view of the town in the film ‘Shane’ - resplendent with muddy drives but sans the beautiful Tetons in the background.  If yer depressed and at risk of committing suicide then this is not the place to be. 

This flat earth is also covered with more grey scum than there is in my shower tray back home.  Yes it’s that bad.  The fields resemble black and green basins a mile on each side.  The earth is dark, with potato plants just starting to reach for the sky.  None are destined for dinner plates in this part of the world cos most of that crap comes direct from some Norfolk based plastic recycling factory.

The crap nav says there’s 8.88 miles to go.  I’m not a betting man but I’ve binned the ride to Peterborough to lose the skip driver and anyway all the accommodation there on Booking.com looked crap.  So I’ve detoured and am now on my way to a hotel in March.  Yes I know it’s January.  Don’t get all Abbot and Costello with me!

This is a great way to travel.  Not booking in advance means I can decide where to go, dependent on B&B availability and wind direction, normally at midday over a plate of lunch.

Magically a garden centre appears. Time for afternoon tea 😋.

It’s full of women.  I order a lurvely fruit scone with lashings of jam and clotted cream.  One of the women, who has been furtively glancing across the tables at me wanders over just as my tongue is deep into the pot of clotted cream gently licking every morsel out.  I look up as she says excuse me, are you that fat gent who set off from London yesterday?  

Yesh I say still with my nose buried in the dangerous zone.  Ah just askin cos we've all got bets on that you're gonna drop dead before the last fence and so just wondering how ya doing and if yer feeling a bit unwell at all…?

Well, I explain that I’m OK. Somehow the conversation switched to the contents of the garden centre.  I look at a privet hedge and say how, like her, I’ve got one of them at home and tell her that I have recently been investigating just how the South Americans best keep their privets tidy.

I enquire have you tried a Brazilian or do you just let your bush grow?…

Wow!  She must be the head gardener.  Hands like shovels for sure.  I’m still trying to find my nose which is somewhere at the back of my head so as to avoid having to put my cycle helmet on backwards for the rest of the journey. 

Tonight I’m staying in Ye Olde Griffin Inn and it’s time to freshen up.  My room has a bath.  I’ve not had a bath for many a year.  There’s loads of water in this neck of the woods so I fill it to the brim with the hot stuff and pour in half a bottle of shampoo to help me smell nice.  I slide in like a happy hippo!  

Hello boys!  Welcome back!  Where have you been?  I thought I’d lost you on that icy stretch just outside of London.  Good to see you again 😊.  And in a similar way Balloon Dog, overcome by the sudden tropical heat, flopped out of the bushes.  It’s nice to have the family back together again. 🤗

I’m wallowing in a contemplative mood and recall how last night I accidentally watched a Pure Cremation TV advert - of a wife chatting about his plan with her smiling husband who likewise was in a bath.  But so fat that he filled the tub like he was wearing his own personal jelly mold with absolutely no room for the water.  There’s no way he’s long for this planet and for sure his first question to his wife should have been are the doors gonna be big enough.  

I mumble a muted laugh thinking how his wife just canna wait for the day… and that he’s probably gonna be cremated with the bath stuck on his back.  LOL 😊

It’s time for me to get out of the bath.  Oh dear.  Oh dear oh dear oh dear!…. Too much fecking soap Wayne! 🤨

And finally.  Tonight's dinner.  

Ive decided I’m gonna do a review of all the places that offer a meat pie.  The chicken starter this time is wings but it’s meat pie and mash and peas again!  Bring it on!

Oh dear.  I still get the plastic lava mash but this time a pie that, well, looks quite nice and flakey.  I dig in to the pie.  I keep digging and digging and digging - eventually exiting the other side without hitting the good stuff  Gawd!

As for the chicken… It was served with a dark Bombay sauce sprinkled with crumbled poppadoms.  To all intents it just looked like it had been lifted from the kitty litter…

And finally, finally to answer Mary Jane’s concerns.  Of course I look at the on line reviews before I select a place and will often avoid the crap stuff wherever possible. It’s just that when I write …. I’m prone to an ickle bit of exaggeration 🤣

Tomorrow I’m aiming for Lincoln, about 70 flat miles away… hopefully no fences..

And if you want me to stop writing this tripe then please send all your complaints to the BBC. 

Ciao for now