Well folks, it's all change on the Zaphod train this week. Having been told that after the end of next week I no longer have a job, it's time to get moving. So I'm jumping a cargo ship to Spain and leaving the land of rain, cuppas and the Queen in my metaphoric rear-view mirror (by cargo ship I obviously mean 20 quid flight to Madrid).
The early demise of my thrilling and life-fulfilling career in looking at yellow forms and pressing buttons on a computer means that I may be well short of my expected stockpile of sterling pounds, but money worries mustn't hold me back. No, this is a do or die, kill or be killed dash for nowhere in particular. Where to from Madrid? A Europe-wide railpass will allow me to smuggle onto freight trains and evade the ever-vigilant border patrols, and more importantly allow my plans to be as fluid and ambiguous as my rantings.
So let's see, off the top of my head, Madrid to Barcelona with a mind to stopping in rural Spain to save the inhabitants of a village from a moustachioed villain. From Barcelona I'll hug the coast across the border on my way to Nice, perhaps heading inland for a moment to stop in Avignon. After blowing up a bridge with the resistance I'll need to flee the south of France, so I'll jump a train to the birthplace of the renaissance in Florence. But where from there? Too many options. Do I soak up Italy, sampling Rome, Bologna and Venice, giving the authorities time to regroup and plan my capture? Or do catch those pizza-eating gino's on their heels and hit Venice on my way to seeking refuge on the long train to Budapest? Or do I head north to the wintry heights of neutral Switzerland? Neutral won't stop my ruthless pursuers, I know that much. Either way, by this time money will be short and nerves will be frayed so it might be time to stop running. It will be time to face my enemies and where better to do so than in the Fatherland itself? So I'll join the long list of those that have invaded Germany, whether i come from Switzerland in the south or from Budapest via Vienna, or somewhere else entirely is another matter. The Reich will fall within days, but I won't rest on my laurels. No, my penultimate destination will be the land of windmills, poppies and a young lady called Kara. With my remaining pennies we will brave the snowstorms to get to Sweden in the days before Christmas for festive celebrations in a -30 degree climate.
He's mad you say. He's doing it the wrong way! He's heading north as Europe falls into the freezing pit of winter! You're meant to go south you fool, south! Well you know what I always say, apart from never trust a woman with a beard. Mad is a six letter word (stupid). So wish me luck and send me old newspapers that I can stuff in my clothes for warmth.
