So, Friday 31st May is the first leg of the Tour de Sausage (pronounced to rhyme with Farage of course) took me from home to Seaways Cafe near Driffield in the Yorkshire Dales.

However, today was not about getting to Seaways. Today was about enlightenment – a days’ motorbike training with the i2i Motorcycle Academy up on a roped off section of taxi-way at Rufforth Airport outside York – so it was a case of getting there quick and easy to preserve my powers of concentration for the wisdom that Tom Killeen (our host and trainer) can dump into me.

Tucking into my breakfast in preparation for the day I could not have known how Tom was about to mess up my brain and transform me from an unconsciously competent rider into something much closer to a consciously incompetent rider. In a good way.

Another thing I could not have known was how hilarious that little fella from the Emerald Isle made the whole day.

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Here’s a close up of Tom, plus, being from Ireland, there’s a more likely pose just after he’s stolen something and is about to runnoft – maintaining that ever-present cheeky grin.

Unlike his fellow countrymen, Tom really did know what he was talking about though – and he made me laugh all day long whilst explaining and then ably demonstrating a) the physics of a moving motorcycle, and b) that everything I knew to be true about a moving motorcycle was in fact just fake news. He convinced me to take my hands away from the handlebars and the clutch and feet away from the gear shift and the rear brake pedal, ignore advanced teachings and commandments about what thou shalt do. Who’d have thought that these simple changes could transform (in a good way) my control over the machine? Most excitingly I can now stop the bike from high speed so quickly it consistently makes snot fly out of my nose.

I left the airfield that afternoon determined to put my new knowledge into practice and that’s what I did for the next 1,000 miles: some of it is now second nature whilst other bits still need some effort (and faith)… every time I don’t get it right I am reminded of my incompetence.

Wholly self-conscious of my new style of riding and increasingly annoyed at my constant mistakes I get myself to Seaways Cafe – my first stop on the MCN Top Ten Biker Cafes list – ranked on that list at a perplexing sixth place. I may express some thoughts about the MCN assessment methodology later.

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Not to be confused with a prolapse, this prologue introduces a truly sausage-shaped adventure of monumental proportions. Not sure I’ve cleared that one up.

The Holy Motorcycle News has, for some time now been sending undercover reporters out across the Unified Kingdom to sample, review and, most importantly, rate biker cafes. Each week a new greasy emporium is uncovered – each nominated by its fans (a clever system designed to naturally exclude those establishments that, whilst offering tasty morsels, fail to avoid serious poisoning).

I have been reading the reviews with great enthusiasm and then, a couple of weeks ago, the TOP TEN list was published!

An interesting list – surprisingly nothing made it in there from the infamously fry-happy Scots. Similarly the plane-dwelling Lincolnshire folks appear to have missed out too, content only that their eponymous sausage lives on in the better quality establishments. At least, that is, until climate change brings a swelling of the seas and causes the Lincolnshire Sausage to sink, Atlantis-like into the grey/brown East Coast sea. East Coast Farmers will be gone forever. Swings and roundabouts I suppose.

For Archie Crack there was only one thing to do. The words of the late, great, mean-spirited and ruggedly handsome Norman Tebbit rang in my shell like – I needed to get on my bike. Get on my bike and try each and every one in a non-stop 1,000 mile long orgy of offal.

And so it begins, 1,000 miles, at least four days, and ten cafes sprinkled with mountain passes, rolling hills, twisty lanes and taking in the beauty of HMP Dartmoor, the East End of London what I was born in, and Peterborough.

Before I slip into a processed-meat-induced coma and die I will attempt to document, for future generations, what I discover (on the plus side I will have consumed enough preservatives that my shiny pink body will out-last Trump Towers on Mars) .

For those blessed with nature’s bootilicious bounty the home and family can be a place of sanctuary and joy. Some of us, though, also have children, and that raises all sorts of problems.

Fortunately children elect an authority which takes a mature, considered and evidence-based view of the world and makes decisions and commitments that are in the best interests of the Family in the short and longer term.

That elected body is me, their father. Now I’m not trying to be sexiest here so let’s just say “Parent” shall we.

In a healthy household one insists on a thing called Parental Sovereignty where the children are compelled to do as I say on pain of, well, pain. Parental Sovereignty stands in the way of complete anarchy in the home and it should probably be important that the Parent in question has a modicum of intelligence, compassion, thoughtfulness and courage. I know I do, that’s how I got elected to the job. Modesty is not an essential requirement but comes in handy if you want to sound good at awards ceremonies and that.

The Parent then, and I use that word to include all three sexes collectively and severally, has been democratically put in place to steer a safe and prosperous course for the Family and if some ungrateful children don’t like it, well they can just elect a new Parent – one that is more aligned with their inclinations. And that’s the way it has been since a reliance on divine intervention was recognised as a bit of a lottery.

I must say that in my experience it works absolutely perfectly. As a Member of Parent I work selflessly with my honourable friend (occasionally opposition) and Good Lady Wife to maintain an overwhelmingly happy Homeland. All of the children have voted time and again, unanimously, to show their appreciation and trust. In return the Parent body does a bloody brilliant job for them.

Just the other day, for instance, me and my two bouncing bags of derived DNA (not to be confused with just “bouncing bags of DNA” – something quite different) decided to fill our Friday evening with a film from the internet! Yes, it was film night. Unfortunately, this delightful treat has been somewhat dirtied of late because my two lovely little children have been arguing about the kinds of film entertainment service they’d like to use and it was really getting on my tits.

No matter how many times I explained that we were getting wonderful films from Netflix they just kept bickering about being free to stream whatever they wanted from pirate sites and saving the £350M per week subscription fees to spend on popcorn. More than just the fees, they also insisted that being in Netflix meant that there were loads of unwanted programmes slipping in and taking up our valuable TV space.

“Last week”, my daughter insisted, “an unwanted Dream Boat landed in the TV!” She claimed it was full of shifty looking men who whilst appearing quite fit they just weren’t interested in working honestly. Although to me it did sound like they did a few jobs.

Anyway, completely out of character for me I just couldn’t make up my own mind what to do. I think mainly I realised that whichever side of the fence I came down on, one of the damn kids wouldn’t like me as much, at least for a bit. So I had a brilliant idea – I decided to hold a referendum!

I told the kids that as Parent I really do know best and that sometimes I have to make tough decisions that they may not like, but to be sure these decisions were always right and in their best interest.

However, when it comes to really, really important decisions that may hold me personally up to account it really shits me up… so I’m going to properly ask them what they want to do, finally, once and for all, and whatever they decide I will honour! Because that’s how I roll.

The referendum process itself was not without a little fruitiness. I like Netflix a lot so I tried to explain to the kids how staying in there ensured great films and TV series for years to come, how we’ve really enjoyed Stranger Things and A Series of Unfortunate Events, and that it really was excellent value for money. Yes, there might be a shed load of content that you personally don’t want to see but on balance the good stuff outweighs the less go stuff. A rather compelling argument.

Then again, some rumours were going around that out there on the high seas of the internet all the good Netflix stuff and even much better artistic content could be accessed via the Dark Web. It was suggested that coming out of Netflix would actually put our Family back in charge of our entertainment choices – the way it used to be, before Channel Four.

Now my kids can’t remember what it was like before Channel Four so helpfully those rumours illustrated the incredible opportunities that we enjoyed back then and that we are missing out on now. Like the complete absence of foreign material on the airwaves – except for Manuel who was from Barcelona (a city close to a wonderful summer holiday destination in Spain).

Eventually we got to the day of voting – which went very smoothly – and if you include me and the two kids almost 70% of the population cast a vote. Unprecedented! The question “Do you want to stay with Netflix?” will finally be answered.

Just one minor point to note: due to Parental Sovereignty the referendum must legally remain a consultation exercise – it can never actually dictate the actions of Parents, merely be an indicator of popular opinion.

So, finally, when we counted up the votes I was delighted to announce that 51.9% of the votes said “No” to Netflix.

I was devastated. I never imagined, not even for a second that these two children, the fruit of my very loins, could have voted so decisively against Netflix.

My son, a devout Leave campaigner, was so delighted he immediately opened up a bottle of fizzy pop and declared that the will of the children must be obeyed.

My daughter was a bit subdued (as was I). She belly-ached a bit about how my son had not only made unsubstantiated and populist claims in support of the Leave vote, but that as it turned out his friend from School had given him a load of sweets to dish out to swing voters to try to influence their vote at the last minute – something I had prohibited: but what can you do?

Now, dear reader, I can sense some furrowed brows. Three voters and an almost 70% turnout with a very clear and decisive result of 51.9% Leave to 48.1% Remain? Could that be right? Accepting that any measuring system contains systematic and operational errors one can never guarantee a 100% exact record, so there has been a tiny whisper that this result actually might be a tie. In other words the voting on both sides were so closely matched that there was no measurable majority on either side.

In other words, if you can only accurately measure something to, say, within a 1-2% error then that means you really cannot draw any conclusions if you need to rely on a measurement of less than 2%.

Thus, in the very unlikely event that not every single one of the pieces of paper could be recorded without error, a referendum could only indicate an outcome that showed a larger difference than that error.

I can assure you however that my referendum contained zero measurement error. I am so sure of that in fact that I simply cannot consider the possibility that it did. Both votes were recorded correctly and thus the 51.9% to 48.1% Leave majority is a significant and decisive expression of the democratic will of the bloody kids.

It would be ludicrous to suggest that the result of the Referendum was actually inconclusive. Just think about it – the Parent body would be forced to declare its own preference and be held to account for it. And besides, one or other of the kids would be really angry with me. I just couldn’t win!

Nope, democracy has spoken. The kids overwhelmingly want to leave Netflix and that’s that.

Of course I never wanted to leave Netflix so at this very conclusion I leave the room and want no more to do with this bloody mess. In my place I leave my lovely wife, another Member of Parent, to sort it all out. It’s amusing to note that both my daughter and my wife have the same incredulous expressions on their faces as I wave, smiling from the living room door. They’re funny.

This departure is allowing me to concentrate on writing my memoirs, but the NetflixExit saga had more surprises in store! At least for the Sovereign Parent.

Part Two coming shortly.

These delicious edible versions (see pic) depict the most searched for health term in 2012 was “Haemorrhoids”: endearingly referred to in my own home town of the East End of London as Nuremberg Trials – or simply “piles”.

Now, I have never suffered with the Sieg Hiels myself of course, my prison purse is as clean and smooth as a baby’s whistle, but (excuse the pun) they remain a keen source of fascination for me and many thousands of others.

Emmas are particularly pertinent during this Christmas period because their sole cause is lifting things for too long – Christmas Shopping being the trigger for a swaggering 70% of all cases of Farmer Giles.

“Emerods” here should not be confused with “stair rods” which is a serious, even fatal occupational hazard for those seeking advantage in the bodybuilding/carpet fitting game. No, Emerod is the Olde English spelling for the Fruits of the Loo. My own father-in-law told me that and he still pronounces it this way.

And so it was, this afternoon had me doing a spot of Christmas shopping and taken with an overwhelming sense of weariness I took a seat at the pharmacy counter in Boots the Chemist – for that was where I happened to be browsing. The seat was no doubt intended for the elderly or vegan customer but neither seemed to be present – so I dropped my sweet derrière onto that softly beckoning velour.

Relieving my plates of meat (did I mention I’m a Cockeknee?) my mind and eyes wandered to the shelves in front of me but something just was not right.

At first I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, ironically a common difficulty for sufferers, but then the dangling little bulb came on! Take another – closer – look dear reader…

Creams and lotions abound for both the “haemorrhoid” (presumably for those lucky enough to only express a single bud) and “piles”. To the left of the House we have those with affinity for haemorrhoids and to the right of the House we have those more inclined towards the piles. Far be it from me to draw political analogies but could it be this sloppy thinking that has brought us to the rim of the EU conundrum?

I thought about this situation for a moment and even checked some of the packaging to see if an explanation could be found – but no clarity emerged.

I had to speak to someone. Rita, the pharmacist, was evidently highly trained and she really knew about the Darling Buds of May – she called over the store manager.

I put it to him directly, no beating about the bush. “Mike”, I said, “it’s about haemorrhoids. Can you help me clear something up?”. He got the wrong end of the stick completely but he quickly recovered his composure although his discomfort was soon as plain to see as nipples through a cheap dress shirt.

He had to admit that the two terms referred to the same condition and he could not apologise enough. I told him I’d be writing to Head Office. And I will! 

They do say that everyone should try it at some point, just to see what it’s like. I’m talking of course about the so-called Harley Davidson so-called Motorcycle so-called Company (HDMC) range of so-called products.

Part of my journey to the bikers’ shack involves me getting inside the head of my potential customers – and it is possible that a Harley rider might take the bike out far enough to reach me one day.

Until last week I had only ever sat on my heating engineer’s Harley and marvelled at the sight of my toes set out on a plate in front of me (not to mention the inordinate amount of cash he had to spend) – but I had never actually ridden one of these things.

It all changed when I was checking the weather. I love the sheer excitement of the Met Office app especially when you switch from the “precipitation” to “feels like” view and there’s a kind of thrill unlike any other… which brings me right back to the Hardly Dangerous.

 

The Met Office, bless them, sell adds and today the HDMC got there first with a stonking offer:

Essentially, HDMC were offering a free prize draw to win seven days at their 115th anniversary bash in Prague with bike hire and hotel! All you had to do was book a test ride – what did I have to lose man?

Well, have I ever mentioned that there’s no such thing as a free lunch? It’s true. Whilst on the face of it, going out for an hour’s ride on a Harley in return for a chance to win 7 days in a Prague hotel with a bike thrown in simply did not seem to have a downside… I actually thought I had a free lunch!

 

Another one of my favourite sayings is “the answer is in the question” and as usual the cost of that lunch was staring me in the face: I actually had to spend an hour riding a Harley Davidson.

I did get an opportunity to pick my model and I chose the one at the top of this blog – the Roadster with a 1200cc Harleyengine* but they subsequently phoned me a downgraded me to an Iron (see below) with an 883cc Harleyengine – the excuse being that the local store (Robin Hood) doesn’t have the Roadster as a demo machine.

Hey, look at it, looks pretty good and you know what? An almost-900cc engine is pretty big in the bike world. Right? My Z1000 is only just a bit bigger and that’s a beast. Plus both the Roadster and the Iron are both from the Sportster range so come on, exciting yes?

If I had closed my eyes then this is the iron I thought I was sitting on. Or at least is would have been but for the noise.

 

 

Harleys make a great noise. At least I used to think they did and at this point in the journey that was still my belief. It would change.

My first shock was seeing something completely alien to my senses. As I pulled out onto the main road and revved that burbling earsplitter I watched a van pulling away from me up ahead. “Can’t be” I said out load (although you would never have heard me). I gave it more welly but, well, there was less welly available than at a cut-price welly stall at Glastonbury after a wet weekend. It did cross my mind that the 883 was Iron-ic (get it?) and that in fact it was a 388cc engine. Nope – it was a great big Harleyengine*.

Another catch phrase I like to use was picked up from a South African who, upon opening a Christmas present to discover a battery-powered head massager, switched it on and exclaimed with child-like wonderment “It really vibrates, hey!?” (you need to say it with the accent).

The sound and feel of the Iron 388 really made me consider swapping it for a more sophisticated ride. This one, for instance, has all the styling of the Iron but with more horsepower and slightly less vibration. It can also cut grass.

Less than half a mile up the road it crossed my mind that I could just turn it around and take it back… but I thought better of it and decided to give it a proper chance. So that I did… for an hour I rode it around out in the countryside on some of my favourite local roads.

It was pretty much bang on one hour. About half way though I overtook a car. A little while after that the vibration shook the left wing mirror lose and I had to let it just flap around for the rest of the journey.

I have discovered the correct way to ride a Harley. After pulling away (gently) get into top gear (avoiding tendon damage on the left leg whilst hefting the clutch lever around) and just stay there. Doesn’t matter what your speed is, what the road or other traffic is doing – just don’t change gear or, if you can manage it, don’t even try to accelerate or decelerate. Just sit there.

This has also made me realise who would want to ride a Harley Davidson. That would be a person that doesn’t really want to be bothered riding a proper motorcycle.

After what seemed like about two years, I pulled back into the shop car park and gratefully stepped off the Iron 833. The sales person asked m how I got on and I really thought that he needed to know.

I told him that there was not a single aspect of the test ride that I could speak positively about:

• the power is, well, absent,
• the brakes are terrible (in fact I told him that they might as well know a few hundred quid off the price and remove the ABS because there’s no way you’re going to lock those wheels),
• the clutch and gear changing was horrendous and explains why Harley “riders” have surprisingly muscular left legs,
• the vibration was almost unbearable (explaining perhaps why the Hells Angels so often give the bird with their stubby middle fingers… they are not trying to be offensive but instead attempting to stave off vibration-white-finger).

Without a word of a lie or paraphrase he said to me in a quiet voice “Yeah, we get that a lot”. He explained why he became a Harley rider – he used to ride superbikes but got old and worried, not about injury to his person but about getting speeding tickets. Yes – he became a Harley Davidson motorcycle fan to avoid going very fast (see, I told you).

All of this leads to the conclusion that the noise of the engine is no longer a good thing. It’s like pulling up at the lights with a machine that sounds like a very hungry lion only for everyone to be bitterly disappointed to watch an arthritic warthog lumber off – it’s just embarrassing. Of course, if a hungry lion really did stop at the lights next to you then this turn of events would be far from disappointing. But I’m relying on metaphor not natural selection – which incidentally ought to have eradicated Harley Davidson “riders” by now.

My conclusion – Harley riders spend their money and time avoiding having to expend effort and energy riding a motorcycle hence they would be highly likely to stay for an extended period in my cafe to avoid going out again: welcome you lot!

 

*I use the term Harleyengine because HDMC appear to have invented a very special engine, unlike any other I’ve ever come across. Thye seem to be able to create massive capacity engines whilst still avoiding any actual power output: a kind of reveresed perpetual motion machine – I don’t know how they do it.

A resounding success down at the Child Market where I got top dollar. Admittedly I had to include some equipment and a cabin case but a great deal nevertheless.

Fingers crossed – the returns policy is quite generous so I’ll give it a few days before spending the cash.

In my first political comment I would like to point out one thing from the Vote Conservative leaflet that I received today.

It strikes me that Theresa’s plan is in fact the absolute bare minimum that any government could be expected to achieve.

Thanks Mrs May, your enticing offer is decidedly unimaginative, unambitious and eminently declinable.

Howzit

I popped in for a bacon sarnie and came out with a full mental upgrade.

No one else but me has put any miles on it!