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You Can't Ride Around With A Tiger On Your Bike One man-cub, one motorbike. And a tiger-striped poncho, just in case.

The Bike?

UNITED KINGDOM | Tuesday, 20 September 2011 | Views [913]

Middleton Cheney church. Pri. Ti.

Middleton Cheney church. Pri. Ti.

Sonofabitch! Y'know how you have a great idea for something, and it's so fantastic that you think to yerself 'How could I possibly forget this, it's so great!' and so you don't write it down, then you end up forgetting what the idea was, only that it was brilliant. I just had one of those moments, it proper sucks, but the moment is good enough for me to start my next journal entry with.

Took the bus to catch a train to catch the tube to catch a train to catch a bus to see a man about a motorcycle. Hi London, bye London. I'm extremely low on cash, so had to walk through the city streets with eyes to the pavement lest the irresistable lure of booze ensnare me in its cold, creamy mmmm... I made it though. Better to be rich and unhappy than poor and content huh? Mm, whoever said that alcohol was a depressant has never been Wilski-drunk.

The train journey to Banbury was nice, it gave me some time to write a few more postcards to my friends and family overseas. Hehe, I can't believe I'm overseas! Alas, I got to Banbury a tad too late, it was raining cats n' kittens, no time for sight-seeing or whatever, and the bike store had closed for the night so I set up camp in the field behind (it was actually a proper campsite, luckily enough) and waited til morning. Lying curled up in my tiny tent, in the rain. Biding my time. Patient, like a tiger waiting for... Yep. Screw this, I need a drink.

Fantastically, there's a lovely lil English pub seven minutes walk away (and fifteen minutes back) that a fellow camp chap (camp as in tent camp, not man-love camp) told me about. I made it there in three. I wonder if they have English pubs in Ireland... Mm, food for thought. I had the BEST English brektus I've ever had (in England of course, no one does proper English brektuses like the Aussies), made friends with some of the locals, drank about five pints of cider, forgot all my new friends names, then stumbled into town to sleep. Then stumbled back the other way where my tent was parked. To sleep.

Waking up in the morning, in a tent surrounded by lush green grass, it's a great feeling. The smell of sheeps and cow poo, the rumble of traffic on the motorway just over the hedge, and the English hangover I got, ruined the moment. Nothing could possibly make me feel better! Except perhaps a half-hour shower (one thing I love about this country, no water restrictions! Not that this ever stopped me back home...) and getting to see my motorcycle for the first time. And coffee. Coffee and cigarette. And maybe a Bloody Mary, but that'll never happen, not in England.

My bike, my beautiful desert-camo, 380kg, £9995 bike! I'm so HAPPY!! Gosh. I couldn't stop grinning. Wasn't a great first impression for David Angel, the bike store owner. Unshaven, hungover, terrorist-y looking man-cub swaying gently at the doorway. I probably smelled too. Dave was an ace chap though, spent the better part of the morning chatting about bikes and electronic cigarettes and English wildlife. Nothing in England that could really harm you. They have adders here but no one has ever seen one.

"A badger could give you a nasty nip. Two hedgehogs, feasting on honey, could fall in your eyes" ~ Bill Bailey :)

Dave made me a coffee, a proper plunger coffee, not that freeze-dried crap. Why extract all the water and flavour out of it, only to put water back in again and ugh yuck. He'll also hook me up with a helmet. Safety first. So I've seen my bike, all that remains is for me to wait for the rego papers to arrive. Hopefully by Monday. Lots do do here in the village til then though. Like umm drink. Or umm walk. But never both at the same time. It's been many a mans downfall. Haha.

Crumbs, it's pretty here! I mean, gosh, my word it's pretty. Everything's thatched and stoned. Went for a bit of a walk to the outskirts of town, sorry, village, through a field (there are signposts saying 'footpath' and they point off the roads across field and grass and... everywhere but a path. Make yer own way I guess) that led into a little forest, that crossed over a small stream, then around a pond with an island in the middle, then through a tunnel of trees to a small stone-walled alley way to a gate at the end that I climbed over, and ended up behind an ancient church. It was all really serene, really lovely. If I actually appreciated this sorta shit, I'd be in heaven.

Haha, naw, it was great :) The town of Middleton Cheney, sorry, village, looks like it did four hundred years ago. But probably a few more teenage mums pushing babies about in prams these days. The houses all have charming names, like Manor Cottage, Fair View Cottage, Private Drive No Parking Cottage.. My favorite is definitely New Inn Pub Cottage. In fact, I'll end this now and go over to bask in the errm history of the place. Mmm, history...

Grrr, it was some sort of song reference I wanted to start the journal entry with... It'll come to me eventually. Good things come to those who pay for it.

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