Disclaimer: This trip was another epic failure, just like last year. And it wasn't, unfortunately, a very long trip either. This is more of a short, black novella. I've thought about whether to bother posting it or not, but I am a great believer in admitting to defeats as well as successes. In any case, there may be some useful info in here to anyone thinking of travelling to these parts so why not. And, in my current mood, I cannot stop myself picking at my open mental sores.
Now ..
I have a very very difficult admission to make. Something I’ve spent the last few years burying and denying to myself. Something that, I suppose, comes to us all in the end. Something that I have to face up to and come to terms with. The truth is that I am finding these journeys ever more difficult to do. I’m genuinely beginning to struggle with the relentless pursuit of foreign horizons. The long days chasing across the land, the daily pummelling and punishment, fighting the weather, racing against the traffic and just pushing through the tiredness and pain. I am battered and bruised. I get funny turns and brain farts and I’ve started to worry that I just won’t make it home. I have had many many adventures that very few get the opportunity to experience. I’ve been places that few will see. Places that have scared me shitless. Places that have overloaded my senses. Places that have exercised all my abilities and experience just to survive the journey through them. I have had an absolute blast and I’ve enjoyed every single minute but now it’s time to admit to myself that this is probably it. Finito. The end. My last hussar. So come with me one more time. Indulge me. This is probably my farewell tour after all. Here we go again.
We’ve almost certainly met before at one point or another. You might have seen me kicking about on the road, maybe in a fuel station, maybe a border, or maybe you’ve caught sight of me in some dark car park you’ve walked past at night. So let me introduce myself. My name is Katy, but you might know me better as “The Bitch”. Yes. It’s me. Her Highness. The woman behind the man. The one who’s carried the travelling tosspot round the globe for the last 8 years. It’s time for me to have access to the keyboard and let The Twat on my back take care of the pictures.
Am I ready for this? Probably not. I was taking His Twatness to London a couple of months ago to apply for our Russian visa when I suddenly came over all feint and started stuttering and jerking like I was having a brain haemorrhage. Running along through some shit London Traffic I just passed out. I came to on the pavement with The Twat fiddling with my rear ABS sensor that had come adrift. What the fuck just happened. One minute I was fine, the next I was out of it. That sensor hasn’t made me feel much better but I manage to get going again and I crawl through the west end with lights flashing in my head and my vision all blurred. I feel like shit but I manage to drag my arse to the Visa agency and promise myself that a couple of hours sleep will make everything better again.
I’m mounted before I’ve even woken up. An unfortunately common occurrence with The Twat, and he’s immediately demanding I perform for him. We all know what that’s like right ladies .. anyway I do my best but I’m fucked. Absolutely wankered. I can just about manage to stagger about half a mile before I just pass out again, usually in the middle of an underpass or with a police car trying to pass me. It takes me an hour to pull us out of the mire and down to a shitty lay by under a bridge by the Westfield shopping centre. I’m out. I’m done. I’m on my knees and I can’t get up. And I’m scared. I’m absolutely shit scared.
The Twat called an AAmbulance for me. The petrol paramedic can’t do anything to get me going, despite being young and fit and desperately good looking, and so he loads me onto a stretcher and yellow lights me back home. By the time I’m there I can just about to manage to run for about 10 seconds before dying. I try my best to give The Twat some clues. I flash all my warning lights and flicker my instrument’s eyelids but I don’t think he understands. He thinks changing a sensor will miraculously cure me and bring me back to full health but he’s wrong. I’ve got something fundamental wrong. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I’m suddenly aware of my own mortality. Fuck.. not now please.. I’m not finished yet.
Lord Twattery orders a load of cables and fiddles about but he’s bloody clueless and it’s making absolutely no difference. I can see the disappointment building in his eyes. I can see the cogs moving. Slowly. And it’s not looking good for me. Not at all. He’s got a trip coming up and I’m not looking like I’m going to make it so rather than sit by my bedside day and night and get doctors to run every test they know to get me back to full health he does what every selfish Twat does. He goes and gets himself a younger model with a bigger pair of bangers and a smooth, tight trim saddle and then he dares to move her in next to me on my death bed. I’ll be honest. I’ve had better days…
But all is not lost. I think he found The Tart on Auto Tinder and it turns out she’s not quite as virginal and tight as he initially thought. In fact it seems she’s been regularly brutalised and battered by someone whose idea of fun is to jump on, pull back her bars as hard as possible, ride her as fast and hard as he can then put her back away wet with no thought for her at all. Under all the makeup and fancy clothes she shows all the signs of an abusive relationship. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost .. But life is a game, and I want to win.
The Twat comes out to the garage late one night and decides to fiddle with me one last time. Just for old time’s sake. He decides to check my pulse and finds that it’s way too high. He adds this fact to his tiny brain and comes up blank but the internet is his friend and points him in the right direction. One eBay transaction later and he’s removing something lodged inside my left hip. He’s pulling and swearing and suddenly it pops out in his hand. Just like a cave man he stares at it, and at the multi-plug connector and even his basic intelligence can tell him what’s happened. One of the 5 connectors has corroded to the point it has sheared off as he’s pulled the unit out. He gets the tweezers out, removes the broken blade, plugs the new unit and turns the key. Fuck yea.. FUCK YEA.. I can think again. Hoooo fucking RAAAA.. I feel fantastic. I feel amazing. I feel like a new woman. I’m ready to conquer the bloody world! The Twat, he just smiles at me. He gently pats me on the chest. He whispers “good girl” in my ear and I know I’m back. I’m still No 1. Fuck The Tart. This is my trip and she’s not going to take that away from me. I was hoping the Twat was going to contact the Ktm mother ship and order me a brand spanking new and 100% reliable unit but such is his twisted soul, he’d much rather keep this one of unknown provenance and so introduce a soupçon more risk to make our journey more “fun”. What an absolute prize knobber.
Now ..
I have a very very difficult admission to make. Something I’ve spent the last few years burying and denying to myself. Something that, I suppose, comes to us all in the end. Something that I have to face up to and come to terms with. The truth is that I am finding these journeys ever more difficult to do. I’m genuinely beginning to struggle with the relentless pursuit of foreign horizons. The long days chasing across the land, the daily pummelling and punishment, fighting the weather, racing against the traffic and just pushing through the tiredness and pain. I am battered and bruised. I get funny turns and brain farts and I’ve started to worry that I just won’t make it home. I have had many many adventures that very few get the opportunity to experience. I’ve been places that few will see. Places that have scared me shitless. Places that have overloaded my senses. Places that have exercised all my abilities and experience just to survive the journey through them. I have had an absolute blast and I’ve enjoyed every single minute but now it’s time to admit to myself that this is probably it. Finito. The end. My last hussar. So come with me one more time. Indulge me. This is probably my farewell tour after all. Here we go again.
We’ve almost certainly met before at one point or another. You might have seen me kicking about on the road, maybe in a fuel station, maybe a border, or maybe you’ve caught sight of me in some dark car park you’ve walked past at night. So let me introduce myself. My name is Katy, but you might know me better as “The Bitch”. Yes. It’s me. Her Highness. The woman behind the man. The one who’s carried the travelling tosspot round the globe for the last 8 years. It’s time for me to have access to the keyboard and let The Twat on my back take care of the pictures.
Am I ready for this? Probably not. I was taking His Twatness to London a couple of months ago to apply for our Russian visa when I suddenly came over all feint and started stuttering and jerking like I was having a brain haemorrhage. Running along through some shit London Traffic I just passed out. I came to on the pavement with The Twat fiddling with my rear ABS sensor that had come adrift. What the fuck just happened. One minute I was fine, the next I was out of it. That sensor hasn’t made me feel much better but I manage to get going again and I crawl through the west end with lights flashing in my head and my vision all blurred. I feel like shit but I manage to drag my arse to the Visa agency and promise myself that a couple of hours sleep will make everything better again.
I’m mounted before I’ve even woken up. An unfortunately common occurrence with The Twat, and he’s immediately demanding I perform for him. We all know what that’s like right ladies .. anyway I do my best but I’m fucked. Absolutely wankered. I can just about manage to stagger about half a mile before I just pass out again, usually in the middle of an underpass or with a police car trying to pass me. It takes me an hour to pull us out of the mire and down to a shitty lay by under a bridge by the Westfield shopping centre. I’m out. I’m done. I’m on my knees and I can’t get up. And I’m scared. I’m absolutely shit scared.
The Twat called an AAmbulance for me. The petrol paramedic can’t do anything to get me going, despite being young and fit and desperately good looking, and so he loads me onto a stretcher and yellow lights me back home. By the time I’m there I can just about to manage to run for about 10 seconds before dying. I try my best to give The Twat some clues. I flash all my warning lights and flicker my instrument’s eyelids but I don’t think he understands. He thinks changing a sensor will miraculously cure me and bring me back to full health but he’s wrong. I’ve got something fundamental wrong. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I’m suddenly aware of my own mortality. Fuck.. not now please.. I’m not finished yet.
Lord Twattery orders a load of cables and fiddles about but he’s bloody clueless and it’s making absolutely no difference. I can see the disappointment building in his eyes. I can see the cogs moving. Slowly. And it’s not looking good for me. Not at all. He’s got a trip coming up and I’m not looking like I’m going to make it so rather than sit by my bedside day and night and get doctors to run every test they know to get me back to full health he does what every selfish Twat does. He goes and gets himself a younger model with a bigger pair of bangers and a smooth, tight trim saddle and then he dares to move her in next to me on my death bed. I’ll be honest. I’ve had better days…
But all is not lost. I think he found The Tart on Auto Tinder and it turns out she’s not quite as virginal and tight as he initially thought. In fact it seems she’s been regularly brutalised and battered by someone whose idea of fun is to jump on, pull back her bars as hard as possible, ride her as fast and hard as he can then put her back away wet with no thought for her at all. Under all the makeup and fancy clothes she shows all the signs of an abusive relationship. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost .. But life is a game, and I want to win.
The Twat comes out to the garage late one night and decides to fiddle with me one last time. Just for old time’s sake. He decides to check my pulse and finds that it’s way too high. He adds this fact to his tiny brain and comes up blank but the internet is his friend and points him in the right direction. One eBay transaction later and he’s removing something lodged inside my left hip. He’s pulling and swearing and suddenly it pops out in his hand. Just like a cave man he stares at it, and at the multi-plug connector and even his basic intelligence can tell him what’s happened. One of the 5 connectors has corroded to the point it has sheared off as he’s pulled the unit out. He gets the tweezers out, removes the broken blade, plugs the new unit and turns the key. Fuck yea.. FUCK YEA.. I can think again. Hoooo fucking RAAAA.. I feel fantastic. I feel amazing. I feel like a new woman. I’m ready to conquer the bloody world! The Twat, he just smiles at me. He gently pats me on the chest. He whispers “good girl” in my ear and I know I’m back. I’m still No 1. Fuck The Tart. This is my trip and she’s not going to take that away from me. I was hoping the Twat was going to contact the Ktm mother ship and order me a brand spanking new and 100% reliable unit but such is his twisted soul, he’d much rather keep this one of unknown provenance and so introduce a soupçon more risk to make our journey more “fun”. What an absolute prize knobber.
. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice that. He”s been complaining the last week that my clutch isn’t as tight as it was. I’ve been clutching him for years and this is the first time he’s complained. Well I’m a woman of a certain age and my clutch isn’t going to be quite as smooth and gripping as it was when I was a teenager FFS. What does he expect? But he’s not happy, already. The slave sounds like squeezing a rubber duck with a hole in. Still. It gives him something to think about
. Sometimes he’s only happy when he’s unhappy
. I feed off pain!
