The contents of this page is likely to be considered offensive by everyone who reads it. Therefore in the unlikely occurrence where you voluntarily landed in this page looking for something be advised that you will not find it here and you arrrr invited to leave in a peaceful way before I unleash the brain damaging dogs.
If you so choose to continue reading you will be offended and prosecuted to all the extent of the rage of a Neptune god gone beserker.
In the unlikely event were you survive the reading of this page you will become addicted to it and will be in the constant crave for more at least a little update, which I’m sorry to tell you it is very unlikely to ever happen, thus you will suffer and die of content deprivation and solitude.
If you are still reading this disclaimer you arrrr an idiot who should be getting a job and a life. If you still insist in being here then I want to thank you for your commitment towards my silliness and your patience. Now I’m bored and you may notice that the already low quality and lack of redaction skills is wearing off towards the utter nonsense, and this whole thing is becoming absolute crap.
So now with you…
Biker Pirate Chicken, The captain log.
It has been a while since I set sail to England arrrrrr
Even thou most pirates carry a parrot, me being of poultry like kind, have adopted a ship rat that has been trained in oxford to sit in my chickeny shoulder. This rat as I do, used to love baconish looking stuff and other sorts of stripped pork products.
I was never able to teach my rat to speak as parrots do, so it never got a cracker and instead of naming it Polly I named it Ratta.
But wait a minute, I’m rambling again let me get on with the reason I sailed to England this time.
Every now and then once a year or whenever they fancy; the NABD (National Association of Bikers with Disabilities) organize a bike rally to collect funds for boozing out disabled bikers. Attending this has become an important ritual since we attended to this event after the tragic loss of our push-it-to-the-limits-and-then-a-bit-more pal Ewe in a lonely road up there Aberdeenshire.
This year also was of utter importance to attend as McGuirke is fucking out to South Africa to get married thus it was a good opportunity for both a memorial and farewell meeting for the crew of our gosh ship. Arrrrr
The beginning of the trip was really stressful not knowing in advance if I would be allowed to enter, over the years these little escapades have become a pressure relief making my exile in Paris more bearable and since last year I had this right removed by a usual irresponsible screw up of me company.
The night before the trip was a white one, rolling and stumbling in my cot. But after several delays, and all the inconveniences associated to taking a plane. I was granted entry and the adventure begins.
When we finally landed Iain was at the airport waiting for me; none of us had an idea of how much punishment and abuse we would inflict in this weekend if we would have known we may have refrained of doing it for fear of breaking it.
What you arrrr about to read may appear to be the ramblings of a mad man and in some (several) occasions will only make sense if you were there in the heat of the bike rally avoiding the kicks on the head of the Fish Rollers MC. Arrrr
…A new Beginning
It all starts with a gash in me forehead and ends wearing a Henry Blake 4077 hat in a Days Inn 4 days and several pints of cider and JD later.
On Friday 8am we set sail from the port of Romford in Essex to the atoll of west London, we had to dodge on the way several sea districts renowned by their violence, crime and utter lack of respect for private property, the cannons on our ship remained silent as we slipped away from the crowds thanks to the inconspicuous look of our ran down State Astra skipper and our ragged looks. While holding in our booth a cargo of: 6 pillows, 3 sleeping bags, 2 tents, 20 sneakers (the chocolate bars), several bags of chips, a few clothes and in our secret compartment 32 cans of strongbow, 2 bottles of JD, 24 real ales, and a cartoon of Marlboro reds.
Once in the atoll of west London we picked up the 3rd member of our crew, an outlawish Czech red head with a raving for American bacon and other greasy spoon delicatessen.
Having manned all the available positions on the ship we set our sails to the general direction of Manchester to the pirate/biker infested waters of Cheshire, close to Jarrol Banks. With our booty secured on the ship’s holds we were cleared to moor in the camp site and proceeded to rig our tents in order to have some living quarters to unload our smuggled-in booze.
I could tell you of all the fancy encounters and general adventures during this first day of the NADB rally; unfortunately the next thing I remember is waking up the next morning in a pool of my own blood with a nasty looking gash in me forehead (which proved later not to be that bad).
So after cleaning the blood and brushing our teeth we were ready to assault the closest town (Knutsford or as we called it: Nuts-for-hire) in the outlook for our fix of Bacon, 2 sausages, black pudding, eggs, beans; all washed with an excellent instant roast in a baconish looking café.
In the mean time in the depts. Of Scotland Billy was rigging a makeshift mast to his BMW to escape the rains and the gusts of the fiery Scottish weather… We received this information by messenger pigeon from a soaked Billy and departed to explore the “PIGS district ” (a range of mountains in a national park west of Sheffield that for some reason Iain kept calling the PEAKS District).
In this park we took a French made telecabin and crossed a few mountains to have a wonderful view and visit an ancient mine cave; while in the rally several drunken bikers were concentrated in bike city national sport; “Midget Tossing”. (Tossing as in throwing let me clear that for you)
There Arrr no words to describe the beauty of the landscape nd the boredom of the cave visit that drove us to the colorless pictures in the cave and the Ice-cream wars later on on the telecabin back to lowlands, as Iain posed for a picture he was aggressed by me for no apparent reason by stabbing his eye with a greenish pistachio cone.
One can only imagine the horror of the other people in the telecabins while about 400 pounds of mad biker made the cable jump and juggle all the way down engaged in a nasty fight; our combined weight had the cabin bouncing in all possible angles while we fought for the control of the ice-cream cone, until it ended up splattered in the floor and the rage subsided.
The panic and horror endured was engraved in the others people faces and was a poem only comparable with the relief of knowing that;
A) there was no more pistachio cone
B) We finished the descent without the cabin falling into the void.
In the mean time, our friend Billy kept fighting the elements and courageously pushing his bike south under 100 m/h winds and heavy rain. Soaked to the bone marrow when the rain overcame the protection offered by the weatherproof jacket he was wearing. Keeping his course south and his eyes closed; our estimations made us wonder if he had not decided; “fuck this” and ridden back north.
But with unheard of determination, finally he called when were on our way to take some steaks by surprise and eat them.
Wet as a rat we found him at the gates of the rally waiting for us as we had his entrance ticket (LOL) ! changed and camped, Billy, later he joined us in the State Astra skipper and we all headed to the town of Knutsford to resume our attack to the steak’s insurrection.
After decimating 4 steak leaders to some leftovers in our dishes we returned to the camp site in order to get severely drunk. As you may remember when the crew was selected i s was composed basically of a bunch of drunks with a bike and bacon problem; now we had perfected it to an art and we could safely assume that we will never have enough booze and Bacon.
Upon arrival the we saw with sadness a bunch of the renowned bad boys MC (which we call the Fish Rollers to protect their privacy and the integrity of our face) as our American redhead apparently had an skirmish with one of them once (or so I understood in my severely inebriated state) and therefore that could mean trouble to our crew.
So then, when we could not set ARH (American ReadHead) to shut-up and stop bitching about their presence we asked to call them the fish rollers which was lately changed to the pirates for the sake of being able to remember as apparently fish rollers doesn’t makes much sense.
Later on when we got hold of the pirates signaling device from an old wizard in one of the stalls, we had no way of knowing that it and the fish rollers would save our lives from the fangs of a river serpent in the Bacon Breakers.
But more on that later as I just realized that Easyjet discovered a way to remove the button that makes possible to recline your seat for extended discomfort while flying (Vive the marketing guys which will come up with a way of convincing us that this is indeed a feature of their planes and we should pay more for it).
Dear reader of the log, at this point you must be really wishing for a break and I cannot write anymore anyway, but wait because in the next episode you will see:
20:40, the Bacon breakers, in the black pudin in Wales; “Look the road goes up the mountain arrrr”, some famous last words while discussing midget porn and being rescued by the pirate signaling device…
Look at the sunset, it looks so baconish!
Later on when it was pitch dark we had to resort to our superhero abilities and drink all the Jack Daniels in order to survive. Arrr
- Mr. Stoned aka Mr. Zipper: ‘I know there is a river crossing somewhere, nooooo, I don’t want to be crossing any rivers…’
- Musk Thistle which do not look like the Mario bros flower
- Let’s Sign a Beaver!
- The Welsh whorehouse
- I’m gonna pukka your pie!
- How the rat was lost in a storm at sea and replaced by a small human (no, not a midget)
- Oh! No! turn around the little road… I’ve lost the captain’s log! No, no wait I have it!