Really enjoying this…
Farewell Tour
- Thread starter monkeyboy
- Start date
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Loving this twisted love story 
Brilliant, I'm settled in a comfy chair for the rest of this.
Got to agree with the posts above; mi funny bones are making mi hands shake and i'am struggling to hold my ribs together; but we'll get there; onwards dragging yer twat with yer; 
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Bloody genius ....am loving this report
Absolutely brilliant, keep it coming please.
Love it, looking forward to the next Chapter.
Looking forward to the next installment.....
Top notch reading
Spotting another Monkeyboy trip report made me very happy!
Brilliant
Welcome back.....I'm in! 
Dear Katy, I live in the same town as you, howcome we've never met? we could compare notes, my Stupid Twat is just as daft!!
Fickle bastard, he chucked in a sexy strumpet 890SMT at the first hint of Mattighofen's collapse... Drags me round the bloody New Forest thinking i wont notice the lack of Alps?!!!
Anyways, glad to see all is well
mwah, mwah!
Fickle bastard, he chucked in a sexy strumpet 890SMT at the first hint of Mattighofen's collapse... Drags me round the bloody New Forest thinking i wont notice the lack of Alps?!!!
Anyways, glad to see all is well
mwah, mwah!
Brilliant, as always, I’m in, as always.
I am so ridiculously happy to be reading this! And of course the pics.....
Well. That’s a day I’d be very happy to never do again. A day that makes me think maybe it’s not a bad thing that this may be my farewell tour.
I know when The Twat is concerned. I sense his change in mood. I see him delaying and pontificating and dithering. Wasting time and avoiding the inevitable. And that’s what he’s doing this morning. We all know today will be a ball ache, a head fuck and a waiting game. We all know it has the potential for the shit to hit the fan.
They go for breakfast. Waste some more time. He “accidentally” locks himself in the toilet. I know he’s thinking “there is water here. I can survive for weeks. Maybe I can just stay here where it’s safe”, but no, he has to get his shit, take it to the fan and see what happens.
It’s hot. It’s too bloody hot for humans and machines alike. The Twat wears a wet buff and sweat bands to try and stay cool but there is no such relief for me. I’m way too old for this…
They’re about to leave. A woman comes in with a beautiful dog. We met her last night and the dog gave his mate a fantastic uppercut with its nose. Dam near knocked his glasses off. It’s completely out of control. She’s German and only knows a couple of sentences in English.
“Labrador drool is good for your complexion”
And
“I’m sorry Zatan ate your baby”
I know when The Twat is concerned. I sense his change in mood. I see him delaying and pontificating and dithering. Wasting time and avoiding the inevitable. And that’s what he’s doing this morning. We all know today will be a ball ache, a head fuck and a waiting game. We all know it has the potential for the shit to hit the fan.
They go for breakfast. Waste some more time. He “accidentally” locks himself in the toilet. I know he’s thinking “there is water here. I can survive for weeks. Maybe I can just stay here where it’s safe”, but no, he has to get his shit, take it to the fan and see what happens.
It’s hot. It’s too bloody hot for humans and machines alike. The Twat wears a wet buff and sweat bands to try and stay cool but there is no such relief for me. I’m way too old for this…
They’re about to leave. A woman comes in with a beautiful dog. We met her last night and the dog gave his mate a fantastic uppercut with its nose. Dam near knocked his glasses off. It’s completely out of control. She’s German and only knows a couple of sentences in English.
“Labrador drool is good for your complexion”
And
“I’m sorry Zatan ate your baby”
Another few minutes distraction. Another few minutes avoiding the future.
Rumour is Russia has some fuel issues so I down as much of Poland’s finest as I can while the Twat watches someone modelling the latest in High Vis summer clothing.
He knows a lot of hairy arsed docker types that will love wearing that all week, instead of just the weekends.
Another distraction. Another time wasting tactic. I’m fucked off, and I’m hot. I’m not like him. I can’t stand still and sweat. I need the wind to blow through my chesticles and cool my beating heart. I need to FUCKING GO. NOW.
And we’re finally off. There is absolutely nobody about on this road. No other bikes for me to wink at. No one to ask what the fuel tastes like. No one to ask how rough the roads are. Nobody.
Roll up towards the border at 11am. No queue at all. Through the check and into Poland border control. 2 lines of maybe 10 cars. Result. Hallelujah. Yeeeeeee HA. Or should that be yeeeee ha ha. Nothing moves. 6 hours waiting and we’re out of Poland.
Wait an hour in no man’s land and roll up to the Russia control about 5:30pm.
I’m fine at borders. Never a problem. All The Twat has to do is in a form for me and I'm done. I can be very patient. I can be poked and prodded and have unfamiliar hands delve inside my box but there are limits.
The Twat is standing at the passport booth. It sticks a metal tongue out at him. Decision time. He puts his passport in and the tongue disappears. And it doesn’t come back. His mate puts his in, it has a chew and spits it back out to him immediately. Oh dear
It’s 6pm. “Wait here”. A guard takes The Twat to a plastic chair outside an office. It’s fucking boiling, he’s wearing leathers and he’s sweating big style. There are no refreshments here and he’s out of liquid. I can see he’s not comfortable. Not at all. I’m guessing he knows that if you poke the bear enough times it will bite you eventually.
3 hours later he’s led to an interview room by a young lady. It’s 9pm. His mate has gone through and is still waiting outside. The Twat is worried about what happens if he gets refused entry but unbeknownst to him a friendly border guard has seen what’s happening and taken his mate to another guard house and given him a cup of tea, a sandwich and a stuttering chat about motorcycles.
The Twat is giving chapter and verse about his family, his job, his wife’s job, his son and daughter’s jobs. His reasons for being here. His entire trip plan. His views on the conflict. His life story. And then he has to hand over his phone. That’s got to be unnerving. Watching a Russian border guard search your phone. Pictures. Texts. Whatapp…. Hello, she doesn’t look happy now. She’s gone to Whatapp and searched the name of the current leader and it’s got a lot of hits. And they’re not at all complimentary. The Twat has an Australian friend who regularly vents his frustration about the conflict and his views on the personalities involved. And because he’s Australian, his favourite go to word is, of course, ****. Add **** and a certain persons name and show it to a Russian border guard and she’s unlikely to see the funny side. She is screen shotting and translating all the conversations. Reading through. He’s trying to read her expressions. Arse getting tighter than a bow string. Sweat dripping from his ears. Already planning the journey home. He’s using translate to try and mitigate the situation but is only getting blank signals back. And then, eventually, she suddenly goes full Satan. Fuck. But it turns out her computer has crashed and we have to go though it all again
Eventually, whether through boredom, desperation or sympathy she just gets up, takes him outside and gives his passport back to the booth which gives a big smile and slides its silver tongue out with his passport stamped. He and his mate jump up and down, hug and kiss, do a dance and get my paperwork done and we’re set free. It’s 11:45pm. Nearly 13 hours to cross. My new record
But … it’s nearly midnight. We can’t change money. We can’t get insurance. We’ve not got a hotel. The satnav says “niet”. This is when a trip turns into an adventure.
The two bladders can’t see a thing in the dark as we set off. This is where I do my thing. Take responsibility. Take over and take him somewhere safe. I remember a big hotel in the centre from last year and head in that direction. It’s all different at night though and the roads have huge gouges in to watch out for. I’m very keen not to twat my rims so I take it easy and we eventually find our way. The car park is coned off and is being dug up because of course it is. I drive on to the pavement and round to the street. My job done. I’ve delivered my baggage. 10 minutes later and they’re back. Apparently Mrs Hagrid was on reception and rather than deal with 2 foreigners at 12:30am she just told them there were no rooms and to fuck off. Jesus. Can’t these 2 look after themselves for even 5 minutes
. Fuck knows where we go now. We set off in the general direction of the centre and I see a sign on a building. Drop them off again and this time they can get a room but the cost is going to be almost exactly 1p less than the total amount of Rubles they have on them. So that’s lucky then. But they have to share a bed. It’s 1:30am. There is no plan B. Its done. They drop me and Africa in a cold underground car park and walk away. The Twat does at least say “Thanks girl” and gives me a stroke as he goes.
Rumour is Russia has some fuel issues so I down as much of Poland’s finest as I can while the Twat watches someone modelling the latest in High Vis summer clothing.
He knows a lot of hairy arsed docker types that will love wearing that all week, instead of just the weekends.
Another distraction. Another time wasting tactic. I’m fucked off, and I’m hot. I’m not like him. I can’t stand still and sweat. I need the wind to blow through my chesticles and cool my beating heart. I need to FUCKING GO. NOW.
And we’re finally off. There is absolutely nobody about on this road. No other bikes for me to wink at. No one to ask what the fuel tastes like. No one to ask how rough the roads are. Nobody.
Roll up towards the border at 11am. No queue at all. Through the check and into Poland border control. 2 lines of maybe 10 cars. Result. Hallelujah. Yeeeeeee HA. Or should that be yeeeee ha ha. Nothing moves. 6 hours waiting and we’re out of Poland.
Wait an hour in no man’s land and roll up to the Russia control about 5:30pm.
I’m fine at borders. Never a problem. All The Twat has to do is in a form for me and I'm done. I can be very patient. I can be poked and prodded and have unfamiliar hands delve inside my box but there are limits.
The Twat is standing at the passport booth. It sticks a metal tongue out at him. Decision time. He puts his passport in and the tongue disappears. And it doesn’t come back. His mate puts his in, it has a chew and spits it back out to him immediately. Oh dear
It’s 6pm. “Wait here”. A guard takes The Twat to a plastic chair outside an office. It’s fucking boiling, he’s wearing leathers and he’s sweating big style. There are no refreshments here and he’s out of liquid. I can see he’s not comfortable. Not at all. I’m guessing he knows that if you poke the bear enough times it will bite you eventually.
3 hours later he’s led to an interview room by a young lady. It’s 9pm. His mate has gone through and is still waiting outside. The Twat is worried about what happens if he gets refused entry but unbeknownst to him a friendly border guard has seen what’s happening and taken his mate to another guard house and given him a cup of tea, a sandwich and a stuttering chat about motorcycles.
The Twat is giving chapter and verse about his family, his job, his wife’s job, his son and daughter’s jobs. His reasons for being here. His entire trip plan. His views on the conflict. His life story. And then he has to hand over his phone. That’s got to be unnerving. Watching a Russian border guard search your phone. Pictures. Texts. Whatapp…. Hello, she doesn’t look happy now. She’s gone to Whatapp and searched the name of the current leader and it’s got a lot of hits. And they’re not at all complimentary. The Twat has an Australian friend who regularly vents his frustration about the conflict and his views on the personalities involved. And because he’s Australian, his favourite go to word is, of course, ****. Add **** and a certain persons name and show it to a Russian border guard and she’s unlikely to see the funny side. She is screen shotting and translating all the conversations. Reading through. He’s trying to read her expressions. Arse getting tighter than a bow string. Sweat dripping from his ears. Already planning the journey home. He’s using translate to try and mitigate the situation but is only getting blank signals back. And then, eventually, she suddenly goes full Satan. Fuck. But it turns out her computer has crashed and we have to go though it all again
Eventually, whether through boredom, desperation or sympathy she just gets up, takes him outside and gives his passport back to the booth which gives a big smile and slides its silver tongue out with his passport stamped. He and his mate jump up and down, hug and kiss, do a dance and get my paperwork done and we’re set free. It’s 11:45pm. Nearly 13 hours to cross. My new record
But … it’s nearly midnight. We can’t change money. We can’t get insurance. We’ve not got a hotel. The satnav says “niet”. This is when a trip turns into an adventure.
The two bladders can’t see a thing in the dark as we set off. This is where I do my thing. Take responsibility. Take over and take him somewhere safe. I remember a big hotel in the centre from last year and head in that direction. It’s all different at night though and the roads have huge gouges in to watch out for. I’m very keen not to twat my rims so I take it easy and we eventually find our way. The car park is coned off and is being dug up because of course it is. I drive on to the pavement and round to the street. My job done. I’ve delivered my baggage. 10 minutes later and they’re back. Apparently Mrs Hagrid was on reception and rather than deal with 2 foreigners at 12:30am she just told them there were no rooms and to fuck off. Jesus. Can’t these 2 look after themselves for even 5 minutes
. Fuck knows where we go now. We set off in the general direction of the centre and I see a sign on a building. Drop them off again and this time they can get a room but the cost is going to be almost exactly 1p less than the total amount of Rubles they have on them. So that’s lucky then. But they have to share a bed. It’s 1:30am. There is no plan B. Its done. They drop me and Africa in a cold underground car park and walk away. The Twat does at least say “Thanks girl” and gives me a stroke as he goes.
You’d have thought The Twat, given his experience, would have planed this trip to the last detail and have absolutely everything sorted in advance with absolutely nothing left to chance.
Yet here we are. It’s 11am. It’s Sunday. They have about £20 in Rubles and need to check out in an hour. And it’s hot. FUCKING hot. Most the banks are shut and those that are open drop their exchange rates by 50% on the weekend so the baggage wanders about, finds an open bank, put their bollocks in the special squeezers and breath in as some of their precious dollars are converted in small pieces of paper with Ruble/Andrex written on them. Book two more nights in another double bed and agree not to talk about it to anyone.
And his mate is absolutely determined to injure himself at every opportunity which isn’t helping. He’s cut his arm and today he’s stood up while an overhead cupboard door is open. It’s like sharing with Norman Wisdom. The Twat feels like his carer. He could easily become his “don’t carer” though.
This heat is seriously oppressive. 37 degrees, humid, calm. This is sitting in a cool concrete bunker weather but The Twat wants to fight the city traffic and get a lift to the bloody coast so I set myself to “grumble” and thump my way over the rough cobbles and into the countryside. Russia is largely spectacularly dull in the countryside department and it’s the same here. All i have to look at is a fucking crazed lunatic in a black Toyota Land Cruiser overtaking in my own lane between me and the central reservation driven by a man with a weeny penis like the tied end of a balloon.
Get to the coast but it’s totally inaccessible. No parking within 15 miles. An utter waste of time and a total blow out. The heat is starting to get to him now. He’s like a grenade with the pin half out. He’s questioning his options and I think he’s had enough. And to make it even better, Africa and I need feeding. First fuel station, the pumps are all locked. Second one, what’s this? Looks like a tanker is pulling in and like a giant turd it’s attracting flies quicker than you can count. I do a quick u turn and get in line, maybe 20-30 cars in front. Word is out and the queue is quickly disappearing over the hill.
2 hours later, we’re both fed, and the luggage is fed up. We were lucky this time but on the way back we see long long queues wherever there is fuel. Reading about this then sitting in the sun for two hours in 37 degrees in leathers are two entirely different things. Doing that every day just isn’t fun and will make the journey very difficult but as usual, The Twat hopes that circumstances will decide. And walking round with his head up his arse stops him getting sunburn too.
Despite the food shortages for me and my metal mates there doesn’t seem to be any problems for the humans. The supermarkets are just like home except for the world’s dirtiest carrots
Yet here we are. It’s 11am. It’s Sunday. They have about £20 in Rubles and need to check out in an hour. And it’s hot. FUCKING hot. Most the banks are shut and those that are open drop their exchange rates by 50% on the weekend so the baggage wanders about, finds an open bank, put their bollocks in the special squeezers and breath in as some of their precious dollars are converted in small pieces of paper with Ruble/Andrex written on them. Book two more nights in another double bed and agree not to talk about it to anyone.
And his mate is absolutely determined to injure himself at every opportunity which isn’t helping. He’s cut his arm and today he’s stood up while an overhead cupboard door is open. It’s like sharing with Norman Wisdom. The Twat feels like his carer. He could easily become his “don’t carer” though.
This heat is seriously oppressive. 37 degrees, humid, calm. This is sitting in a cool concrete bunker weather but The Twat wants to fight the city traffic and get a lift to the bloody coast so I set myself to “grumble” and thump my way over the rough cobbles and into the countryside. Russia is largely spectacularly dull in the countryside department and it’s the same here. All i have to look at is a fucking crazed lunatic in a black Toyota Land Cruiser overtaking in my own lane between me and the central reservation driven by a man with a weeny penis like the tied end of a balloon.
Get to the coast but it’s totally inaccessible. No parking within 15 miles. An utter waste of time and a total blow out. The heat is starting to get to him now. He’s like a grenade with the pin half out. He’s questioning his options and I think he’s had enough. And to make it even better, Africa and I need feeding. First fuel station, the pumps are all locked. Second one, what’s this? Looks like a tanker is pulling in and like a giant turd it’s attracting flies quicker than you can count. I do a quick u turn and get in line, maybe 20-30 cars in front. Word is out and the queue is quickly disappearing over the hill.
2 hours later, we’re both fed, and the luggage is fed up. We were lucky this time but on the way back we see long long queues wherever there is fuel. Reading about this then sitting in the sun for two hours in 37 degrees in leathers are two entirely different things. Doing that every day just isn’t fun and will make the journey very difficult but as usual, The Twat hopes that circumstances will decide. And walking round with his head up his arse stops him getting sunburn too.
Despite the food shortages for me and my metal mates there doesn’t seem to be any problems for the humans. The supermarkets are just like home except for the world’s dirtiest carrots
Today he’s in that mood again. The “this isn’t going to work and it will all go to shit but I suppose I’d better try” mood. He wants to get a SIM. No data roaming here it seems, or at least he can’t get it to work. No WhatsApp either, or Instagram, Telegram, or YouTube. There is a process but it involves him putting on his armour plated swimming trunks and diving into the giant bureaucratic Russian governmental pool. Before he left he, at great personal expense, he obtained a Russian translation of his passport and had it Notarised by the Russian Consulate in London. He also downloaded the Russian Gosuslugi app before he came. He does, sometimes have these moments of clarity, but only very occasionally.
But first, breakfast. They went somewhere yesterday that seemed to include a cat sick garnish, but in the name of Entente Cordiale he let it slide. Went back today, more sick, fuck their cat must be really ill. He’s actually developing a taste for it though
Eggs and sick consumed they set out on foot to find some government offices hidden inside a shopping centre. He needs a СНИЛС which is like a national insurance number. You need the number to register on a government app, and you need the app in order to have your biometrics taken, and you need your biometrics taken before you can get a SIM card.
So pretty well the same process as in
then
He can’t find the office. He thinks maybe the supermarket can do it. Or possibly that shoe shop. Maybe the barista does СНИЛС on the side. He decides that Cheese Photo would probably be the place. Fucking idiot.
A kindly security bloke takes them to a lift and up to a floor of offices and points them in the right direction. The receptionist points to No5 and you just cannot believe how happy No5 is to have the two tosspots plop down in the seat in front of her. She’s made up. She’s laughing and smiling like she’s won the lottery. Behind the concrete stare he’s sure that’s exactly how she’s feeling. But she accepts his translation, starts pressing buttons, prints something he blindly signs something that probably says he agrees to donate his arse to the local prison if he as much as thinks any naughty negative thoughts about the Russian Federation, and then she just prints out his СНИЛС
. Result! Stage 1 of 40 complete. He’s in the system.
He can’t get into the app without a confirmation code from a Russian phone number. You see what they’ve done here. Tears come to his eyes but there is a woman in No4 that can’t bear to watch men weep and she steps in to help, in English thank God. She tells him that he needs to get biometrics, then he can get a SIM, then he can come back here to get the app verified. Simples. He doesn’t care. He’s like a simple single minded dog. As long as he has a scent to follow he’ll just follow it. She waves her bank card under his nose and he’s off. Seeing a grown man on all fours sniffing his way out of the government offices doesn’t phase these ladies. They’ve seen it all before.
15 minutes later with filthy hands and dirty knees he crawls into the bank, licks the big screen and immediately gets a ticket to see a nice lady who can help, or at least take him for a walk in the park.
He hands over his СНИЛС and she asks if he has registered on the app. She’s obviously got a good sense of humour. But it turns out she also has a plan. Apparently the bank does a service where you deposit £40 and they will do your biometrics then give you a bank account and a SIM card, and do your app registration too. The Twat starts furiously wagging his tail like he’s getting his favourite treat and she starts tapping away. Until she stops. She’s trying to send him an email and her screen is showing a big red symbol, technical difficulties. Surprise surprise. Who would have thought it. The Twat’s tail falls between his legs and Brian leads him out. She’s told him to be a good dog and come back at 5. Brian puts him back on the lead and takes him to sleep under a tree.
But first, breakfast. They went somewhere yesterday that seemed to include a cat sick garnish, but in the name of Entente Cordiale he let it slide. Went back today, more sick, fuck their cat must be really ill. He’s actually developing a taste for it though
Eggs and sick consumed they set out on foot to find some government offices hidden inside a shopping centre. He needs a СНИЛС which is like a national insurance number. You need the number to register on a government app, and you need the app in order to have your biometrics taken, and you need your biometrics taken before you can get a SIM card.
So pretty well the same process as in
thenHe can’t find the office. He thinks maybe the supermarket can do it. Or possibly that shoe shop. Maybe the barista does СНИЛС on the side. He decides that Cheese Photo would probably be the place. Fucking idiot.
A kindly security bloke takes them to a lift and up to a floor of offices and points them in the right direction. The receptionist points to No5 and you just cannot believe how happy No5 is to have the two tosspots plop down in the seat in front of her. She’s made up. She’s laughing and smiling like she’s won the lottery. Behind the concrete stare he’s sure that’s exactly how she’s feeling. But she accepts his translation, starts pressing buttons, prints something he blindly signs something that probably says he agrees to donate his arse to the local prison if he as much as thinks any naughty negative thoughts about the Russian Federation, and then she just prints out his СНИЛС
. Result! Stage 1 of 40 complete. He’s in the system. He can’t get into the app without a confirmation code from a Russian phone number. You see what they’ve done here
. Tears come to his eyes but there is a woman in No4 that can’t bear to watch men weep and she steps in to help, in English thank God. She tells him that he needs to get biometrics, then he can get a SIM, then he can come back here to get the app verified. Simples. He doesn’t care. He’s like a simple single minded dog. As long as he has a scent to follow he’ll just follow it. She waves her bank card under his nose and he’s off. Seeing a grown man on all fours sniffing his way out of the government offices doesn’t phase these ladies. They’ve seen it all before.
15 minutes later with filthy hands and dirty knees he crawls into the bank, licks the big screen and immediately gets a ticket to see a nice lady who can help, or at least take him for a walk in the park.
He hands over his СНИЛС and she asks if he has registered on the app. She’s obviously got a good sense of humour. But it turns out she also has a plan. Apparently the bank does a service where you deposit £40 and they will do your biometrics then give you a bank account and a SIM card, and do your app registration too. The Twat starts furiously wagging his tail like he’s getting his favourite treat and she starts tapping away. Until she stops. She’s trying to send him an email and her screen is showing a big red symbol, technical difficulties. Surprise surprise. Who would have thought it. The Twat’s tail falls between his legs and Brian leads him out. She’s told him to be a good dog and come back at 5. Brian puts him back on the lead and takes him to sleep under a tree.
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